The Knight's Vow

Remy squinted a look at Beatrice, the light slowly dawning.

“I can expect to live twenty, maybe thirty years as a nun. Alone. Unloved. I would like to know…that is…will you kiss me?”

“He stared at her, silent.

“So that I may know what it is like,” she continued. “And take that memory with me.”

“He shook his head. “I cannot oblige you. ’Twould be more than my life is worth. Your father—”

“He will never know! I promise. No one will know.”

“Nay.” He turned to go.

“Wait! Please. Just a kiss. ’Tis all I ask. I hear most men are willing to kiss maids….”

The Knight’s Vow

Harlequin®Historical #234—April 2008

CATHERINE MARCH

was born in Zimbabwe. Her love of the written word began when she was ten years old and her English teacher gave her Lorna Doone to read. Encouraged by her mother, Catherine began writing stories while a teenager. Over the years her employment has varied from barmaid to bank clerk to legal secretary. Her favorite hobbies are watching rugby, walking by the sea, exploring castles and reading.

The KNIGHT’S VOW

CATHERINE MARCH

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

Available from Harlequin®Historical and CATHERINE MARCH

My Lady English #822

The Knight’s Vow #234

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter One

April 1277

The wind howled and the rain drummed a steady beat against the shutters of Castle Ashton. In the great hall the most privileged knights of the household sat close to a fire glowing in the hearth, wide enough to burn logs the length of a man.

Some of the knights threw dice upon a game of chance, several talked earnestly about past heroics upon the battlefield, two played chess and one tried his luck with a pretty serf who had, thus far, eluded his pursuit.

A door banged above and the wooden stairs creaked as footsteps pounded down from the lord’s solar on the first floor. The knights looked up, expectant, wary.

Lord Thurstan exuded a vibrant energy as he strode across the hall, despite his years of some two score and six. There was a touch of grey at his temples and threading through his thick brown beard, but his heavy body was still that of a warrior—in King Edward’s army he held a high rank.

‘Radley!’

‘My lord?’ Sir Giles Radley, second-in-command, leapt to his feet, his game of chess forgotten.

‘On the morrow you will escort Lady Beatrice to the convent at Glastonbury. Take forty men-at-arms and,’ he paused and looked around, eyes narrowed as he considered his twelve knights, ‘take Grenville, Montgomery, Woodford, Fitzpons, and…Baldslow. Oh, and take young St Leger as well. ‘Tis high time the boy earned his keep. And make haste, for we leave for Wales at the end of this week.’

The knights broke away from their idle pastimes and now crowded around Lord Thurstan, questions tripping eagerly over one another as they begged for news of the Welsh campaign.

‘So Edward is determined to conquer Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, and make him rue the day he ever refused to pay homage?’ asked Sir Hugh Montgomery.

‘Aye.’ Lord Thurstan accepted a goblet of wine, ‘The king has set his sights on Gwynedd and naught, neither reason nor argument, will deter him.’

Their discussion upon the merits and means of forcing the Welsh into submission went on well into the night. Those who had an early start on the morrow drifted away to bedrolls before the warm hearth. One hovered at Lord Thurstan’s elbow—Cedric Baldslow, a man who matched his lord in age, his square, solid frame not yet running to fat, his face well worn and tanned to the hue and texture of saddle leather, his greying head shaved. His thin mouth and narrow eyes reflected the portrait of a hard man, a man Lord Thurstan valued only as a knight who could, and would, fight hard in any battle.

‘My lord,’ said Sir Cedric softly, ‘the Lady Beatrice…’ he hesitated and Lord Thurstan looked painfully away, knowing full well what was to come next ‘…she is determined to take holy vows?’

‘Aye. That she is. The girl would be a nun and there is no one who can change her mind.’

Cedric clutched urgently at his lord’s sleeve, almost desperate, as he pleaded, ‘You cannot sanction it, for the love of God! Persuade her, my lord, to accept me and I will make her a fine husband.’

Thurstan snorted and took a deep gulp of his wine, before slamming down the cup in a way that brooked no further argument. He could not tell Cedric that not only did he neither like nor trust him and would not give his only daughter in marriage to such a man, but that Beatrice herself had made it clear that she neither liked nor trusted not only Cedric, but any man.

‘The girl is twenty-nine years old,’ said Thurstan gruffly. “Tis her own decision. Now, I am off to bed. Fare thee well, Cedric, and I entrust you to deliver Beatrice safely to the Abbess at Glastonbury.’

In her chamber Beatrice knelt upon the floor and carefully folded her garments into a coffer made of oak and bound with strips of iron. Between the layers she slid in her personal possessions: Bible, hairbrush, sewing kit, a brooch, shoes, soap, writing paper, quills and ink.

A soft tap upon the door made her pause, and look up, as her father came in. He folded his arms over his broad chest and surveyed the stripped room and the open coffer, now almost full to the brim.

‘It is done,’ he said, abruptly. ‘Radley will escort you on the morrow to Glastonbury.’

‘Thank you, Father.’ Beatrice lowered her eyes, hands clasped, searching for words.

‘Come here, girl.’ Her father opened his arms and she ran to him, laying her head upon the barrel of his chest, her small hands clutching at his tunic. He stroked her hair, noting that its honey colour was so like her mother’s. ‘I have no argument with your decision. My only disappointment is that you will never know the joy of being a wife and a mother—’ he held up a hand, hushing her protest ‘—but as I am away to Wales, to march with your brothers and the king’s army, ‘tis just as well you go now to the nuns. God alone knows if I shall return, and I would have not a moment’s peace to think of you here alone at Ashton.’

‘Oh, Father, you will return safely! I shall pray every day for you, for Hal and Osmond, and for all our knights who go to Wales.’

With a smile her father smoothed the soft golden-brown head laid against his chest, his other hand patting her shoulder. ‘You are a good girl, Beatrice. Just like your mother, God rest her soul.’ And with that he set her aside and left her alone to finish her packing.

It was her thoughts that occupied Beatrice, more than her packing. She could not deny that she was filled with sadness at the prospect of leaving her home, yet since her mother had died two months ago the empty space she had left only reminded Beatrice more acutely that her life had little meaning and no purpose. How hard it had become to rise each day and trudge through her dreary routine of chores! To deal with petty domestic problems and conflicts between the serfs, when inside of her there ached a loneliness that could never be fulfilled. At least in the convent she would have the company of the nuns, and a tranquil life spent in prayer and devotion to a being whom she loved more dearly than any man.

The morning dawned cold, pearl-white with mist, a soft rain dripping from the trees and rooftops. Beatrice broke her fast early, alone in her room, having first attended mass in the castle chapel. Finishing her last crust of bread and cheese, Beatrice summoned her maid, Elwyn, who came at once and began to brush her mistress’s hair with long, slow strokes, her face glistening with silent tears.

‘Come now, Elwyn,’ chided Beatrice gently, taking away the brush and laying it back in her coffer, “tis not the end of the world.’

‘Oh, my lady,’ Elwyn sobbed, ‘do not go! ‘Tis not right, for one so young and lovely to shut herself away with those old crones.’

Beatrice clucked her tongue in disapproval, ‘I am neither young, nor lovely, nor the nuns of St Jude “old crones”. Be happy for me, Elwyn, for ‘tis a great honour to be accepted and I go to live a life of tranquillity, devoted to our Lord in prayer.’ With a smile she wiped Elwyn’s cheeks with her sleeve, ‘You have been looking after me since I was twelve years old, and well you have done it. But shall you not be glad now for the respite? Mayhap you should marry. Goodness knows Big Al the blacksmith has asked you enough times.’

‘Oh, I am too old for all that nonsense.’ Elwyn sniffed, and with a valiant effort set about braiding Beatrice’s hair, fastening on her cloak and lacing her boots. Reluctantly, she accepted a final embrace, helped Beatrice lock her coffer and accompanied her downstairs to the hall.

The serfs were lined up, waiting, and Beatrice clasped hands with each one, with a murmur of thanks and best wishes for the future, until she came at last to her father. He tucked her arm in his and led her out of the wide main door and on to the steps. Beatrice resisted the temptation to look back, blinking away the sudden and unexpected tears. She had not thought to be so anguished at this final parting; indeed, she had imagined it would be a relief to be leaving after all the long, lonely years, but at this moment she only felt awash with sadness.

In the bailey horses champed on their bits, stamped and snorted, tails swishing as girths were tightened. The air rang with clanking swords, jingling spurs, and the deep voices of men as they made final preparations for an important task—to protect their baron’s daughter from all harm.

For the knights a journey to Glastonbury would take scarce a day, but to accommodate Lady Beatrice they would ride at a more leisurely pace, and spend the night at an inn along the way. Nothing would be left to chance and the knights, well trained and well prepared, took seriously the task entrusted to them.

A groom led Beatrice’s horse forward, a pretty chestnut mare of mature years, dependable if not swift. Beatrice stroked Willow’s soft pink nose, delaying the moment when she must make her final farewell to her father. His hand laid upon her shoulder and she looked up with a wan smile.

‘I can come with you,’ he offered, hopefully.

Beatrice shook her head, flung her arms around his waist and hugged him tight. Tears crowded her throat, but she shook her head again. ‘Nay, Father. ‘Tis far better if I go alone. Otherwise I might never have the courage to leave you.’

‘One way or another,’ he whispered against her temple, ‘you will always be with me. Here.’ His meaty fist struck his heart.

They hugged one another for some long moments, and then Lord Thurstan broke away, cleared his throat with a gruff cough, and boosted Beatrice up into the saddle of her mare. She reached down and clasped his fingers.

‘Farewell, Father. May God be with you.’

‘Farewell, my little Beatrice. Remember, if all is not well, you have only to send word.’

Beatrice smiled softly. ‘I will not forget, Father. And give my love to Hal and Osmond when you see them.’

With raised hands they saluted one another and then Beatrice turned her horse about and followed the seven knights, who rode close about her. Their hoofbeats drummed loudly across the wooden drawbridge, followed by the forty men-at-arms, all mounted and well armoured with swords, bows, spears and shields.

The day brightened and the sun peeped through the clouds, lifting Beatrice out of her sombre mood. She could not recall ever hearing birdsong so sweet, as it came now from the larks and starlings, nor seen elder and hawthorn trees blossom so prettily. The hedgerows were full of yellow pepper saxifrage and evening primrose, interspersed with the bright blue of periwinkle and the ramblings of pink-and-white wild dog-roses. The slope of the land appeared magnificent to her eye as hill and dale spread about her in a great vista.

Amidst the constant creak and rattle of leather and armour, the talk of men all around her, there was little peace to enjoy the beauty of this, her last day of freedom. She admonished herself inwardly, trying to uphold the view that she should not consider her commitment to the church to be an end, but a new and wonderful beginning.

And yet…

Cedric Baldslow nudged his destrier alongside Willow and persisted in his attempts to engage Beatrice in conversation. If her smile seemed more aloof than the smile she gave to others, he did not appear to notice. Arrogantly he was confident of his charms, convinced that the lass needed only persuasion to accept his troth. The fact that she had rejected him three times already seemed not to trouble him at all.

At last Sir Giles Radley, seeing her predicament, sent Baldslow away on an errand to the rear of the column, to check on the cart bearing Beatrice’s coffer. She smiled her thanks as Sir Giles rode alongside, and to fill an awkward moment, she asked him, ‘Who is the tall young man with the ash-blond hair?’

‘That is Remy St Leger, my lady, son of an old friend of your father’s who married a countess of Aquitaine. Both his parents have died recently and his elder brother holds the family estate. He has a reputation in France for being one of the finest swordsmen and has done well, very well, in tournaments.’

‘I cannot say I have ever noticed him at Ashton.’

‘He has been at Hepple Hill, your father’s estate in Wessex, training the new men-at-arms who will go with us to Wales. He arrived at Ashton but two days ago. Besides, with the death of your lady mother only two months past—’they both crossed themselves ‘—I am sure your father has taken great pains to keep a hot young blood like Remy St Leger far distant from his pretty, virg…um…virtuous daughter.’

A flush of pink stained Beatrice’s cheeks, but still she laughed, softly. ‘Oh come, Sir Giles, I am an old maid. A “hot young blood” would certainly have no time to waste on me!’

Sir Giles looked at her, with a frown, once again amazed that she did not know her own worth. ‘My lady, neither beauty nor love knows the limit of age.’

For a moment he surveyed her heart-shaped face, dainty upturned nose, dark brown eyes with thick, long lashes, soft pink mouth and buttermilk skin. “Tis the church’s gain and our great loss tomorrow, my lady.’

Beatrice stiffened in the saddle and looked away. She could not bear any more arguments against the path she had chosen, for she feared that far too easily she could be persuaded to return home. Quickly she searched for another topic. ‘Sir Giles, why has my father taken this Remy St Leger into our household?’

‘Because he is a fighter, my lady, a warrior, and we have need of such men, going into Wales.’

‘I see.’ Beatrice surveyed the broad shoulders of the young man they discussed, a frown creasing her brow, ‘He can surely not be very old.’

‘He is four and twenty and was knighted in his first battle at the age of sixteen. From a distance he may not seem very old, but if you look into his eyes, you will see a man full grown and wise with experience. They say he has killed over two hundred men.’

Beatrice shuddered. ‘I think it is very sad, Sir Giles, that young men have become old before their time because of war.’

”Tis the way of the world, my lady.’ Lest her curiosity about the Aquitaine become too avid, Sir Giles steered the conversation elsewhere and made comment upon the weather.

Later that afternoon Woodford and a party of ten men-at-arms were sent on ahead, with a pouch of silver coins, to secure a room for Lady Beatrice at the Red Lion inn. The men would sleep in tents in a nearby field, whilst the seven knights—Radley, Grenville, Montgomery, Woodford, Fitzpons, Baldslow and St Leger—would sleep in the common room and take turns to guard Lady Beatrice’s door throughout the night. Not for one moment would she ever be undefended.

Storm clouds broke towards dusk and it rained heavily. By the time Beatrice reached the Red Lion she was soaked through to the skin. The downpour was so heavy that the yard of the inn was transformed into a quagmire and the men trudged ankle-deep in mud. There was much shouting as Radley, Baldslow and Montgomery steered the men-at-arms into their makeshift field quarters, Grenville and Fitzpons took charge of her coffer and Beatrice looked helplessly about for assistance. Her eyes encountered a fiercely blue male gaze and, instinctively, her own dropped. But Remy St Leger dismounted and was striding through the mud to Willow. He reached up, seized Beatrice about the waist and hauled her down from the saddle, carrying her easily across the yard to the inn. He slipped once, and with a small cry Beatrice clutched at his shoulders, feeling beneath her fingers the bulk of his muscular frame. His eyes flashed at her, with a mocking smile. He jiggled her weight closer against his chest and held her more tightly as they continued their precarious journey.

Within the flagstoned doorway of the inn he set her down upon her feet and Beatrice had to tilt her head back to look up at him, for he was very tall.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured and, remembering her conversation with Sir Giles, looked into his eyes. And backed away. His features were indeed handsome and pleasing, but Remy St Leger was not the sort of man that a maiden would trifle with.

Despite several attempts by the landlord to ingratiate himself with Lady Beatrice of Ashton, he saw nothing more than the top of her head, as she was swept upstairs to the finest chamber in the house, surrounded by five knights who seemed gigantic and armed to the teeth.

Beatrice breathed a sigh of relief as she was shown into her chamber for the night. It was small, compared to her own room at home, but more than adequate for one night. There was a four-poster bed hung with dark blue damask, a roaring fire, two chairs placed before the hearth, a table set with plates of food and a flagon of wine. The windows were well shuttered and Beatrice flung off her sodden cloak, draping it over the back of a chair. A tap at the door made her pause as she reached to pull off her boots.

‘Come in.’

Sir Giles entered, bearing a large pitcher of steaming water, followed closely by Sir Hugh carrying a bowl. They placed both on the hearth before the fire, checked the supply of logs, food and wine, and then turned to Beatrice with a deep bow.

‘Is there anything else my lady requires?’ asked Sir Giles.

‘Nay, thank you. I have everything I need.’ Rubbing her aching backside, with a rueful grin, she added, ‘I will sleep like a babe this night.’

‘You will not be disturbed, my lady.’

They left her then and Beatrice knew there was no need to bar the door, for there would be a guard all night long. Returning to the hearth, she stripped off her clothes and boots and stood naked to wash. The water was deliciously hot, but the room wasn’t and Beatrice finished quickly, reaching to wrap a blanket around her while she fumbled in her saddlebag and drew out her nightshift. Long-sleeved and tied about the neck with a silk ribbon, she warmed the garment before the fire flames, then slid it quickly on. Sitting in a chair, feet curled beneath her, Beatrice took her time unbraiding her hair and smoothing it out with her fingers.

Then she ate some of the hearty fare laid out for her—chicken and ham pie, roasted capon, fresh white bread and crumbly Leicester cheese, plum cake and spiced apples—but, inevitably, there came a time when she could no longer busy herself. She sat idly, staring at the fire, alone with her thoughts. Very alone. The reality of tomorrow suddenly came upon her and she was swamped with fear and doubt.

Her father’s words echoed again and again within the confines of her mind—’…you will never know the joy of being a wife and a mother.’ With a sigh Beatrice rose from the chair and padded barefoot across the wooden floor to the bed, pulling back the covers.

For a moment she surveyed the broad expanse of mattress, set with two pillows. A bed made to accommodate two people. Husband and wife. Lovers. Tears pricked her eyes. She climbed in and lay down, drawing up her knees into the warmth of her own body and away from the cold linen. After a while she turned on to her back, staring up at the ruched canopy.

Why? she wondered. Twenty-nine years old and she could find no man worthy enough to claim her love, loyalty and respect. Always she found fault with the men who pursued her hand, for there had been no shortage of offers. Of course, now she was too old. Except for obnoxious Baldslow the offers had dwindled away to nothing.

When she had been sixteen she had been betrothed to a young man that Beatrice had found acceptable in every way, but William de Warenne, a respected knight, handsome and brave, had been killed. The pain of his death still ached in her breast and she wondered if she had truly ever recovered from his loss. Her mother had warned her against holding on to a love that was long gone, that its grip would become so fierce that she would never be able to love again.

Many years had passed since that anguished time, but time had not erased the pain completely. It was dull, but not gone. Mayhap she should reconsider Baldslow. He was old, but experience and wisdom were not to be scorned. Beatrice cringed, however, at the thought of his rough, scarred hands touching her, and here she came to the crux of the matter. She could not give her body to a man she did not love. The mere thought made goosebumps rise upon her flesh.

She had raged furiously over William’s death and laid the blame at only one door—God’s. After a time she had been ashamed and guilt-ridden, taking as penance a pious devotion to God and the church that her parents had questioned and misliked, but had been unable to alter.