The Knight's Vow

‘I assume that, if I should not be happy here, and decide to leave, my dowry goes with me.’

A slow smile spread across the sharp features, and the Abbess took a step closer to Beatrice, her voice very soft, yet lethal as a blade. ‘I know your game, my lady. Don’t think I haven’t come across your sort before. Too old to wed, too young to cast off. Families have many ways of getting rid of the burden of trying daughters—’ She stepped back, turned and carried on into the building.

‘But—’ Beatrice protested in her own defence, hurrying after her.

‘Silence! You will not interrupt. Let me tell you one thing only. If you stay or if you go, it is your own choice. But you leave as you came. With nothing. Your dowry belongs to St Jude. Now, ‘tis the dinner hour and the sisters will be waiting to eat. Come along, and I will introduce you to everyone.’ She turned to Beatrice with a wide smile that showed yellow, pointy teeth, her voice over-sweet. ‘Now, we shall pray long and hard, to make amends for our poor beginning. I am sure, dear child—’ this as they entered the refectory room set with two long trestle tables, and bustling with black-garbed nuns as they laid out the noonday meal ‘—that you will be very happy here.’

Lord Thurstan had been drinking heavily since the moment Beatrice had left. In the space of two months he had lost both a wife and a daughter, and both of his sons—Lord Henry, his heir and affectionately known as Hal, and young Osmond—might well be dead as they rode on campaign with the Earl of Chester in Wales. No word had been heard from them for many months. In an attempt to dull the pain their absence had inflicted, he consumed as much red Burgundy wine as his stomach and his head could tolerate.

By the time Sir Giles and his knights reached the castle it was dark, and they dismounted and entered the hall, guided by the light of pitch flares, their mood tired and sombre.

‘What ho!’ exclaimed Lord Thurstan from his chair upon the dais, wiping a hand across his mouth and wagging a lamb chop at his men. “Tis a sorry lot I take with me to Wales. Mayhap I would be better off taking the kitchen wenches.’

The men allowed their squires to come in and disarm them, to wash their hands in bowls of hot water brought from the kitchen, before finding their places at the table and helping themselves to food and wine, all in gloomy silence.

Lord Thurstan sat up as Sir Giles took his place nearby. ‘What of Beatrice?’ he asked, with considerable restraint. ‘Was she well? Did she seem happy? And the Abbess? Was she a good woman?’

‘Aye, my lord,’ replied Sir Giles tersely, ‘Lady Beatrice was well when we left, although the Abbess refused to accept her coffer and she went in with nothing more than the clothes upon her back.’

Lord Thurstan grunted, not pleased with this news. The men chewed upon their meat and bread, gulped deep draughts of wine and eyed one another warily, the truth an unpalatable dish.

It was Remy St Leger who rose from his place and approached their lord seated upon his dais. Some admired him for his courage and others shook their heads over his foolhardiness.

Remy bowed deeply. ‘My lord, I would speak with you. In private.’

Lord Thurstan’s shaggy brows climbed to his forehead and he flicked his eyes about the hall. ‘We are all family here. I have no secrets in my own hall. If you wish to speak, then speak.’

Remy cleared his throat, but to his credit did not shrink. ‘I would ask you for your daughter’s hand.’

The hall went silent. All movement ceased. All eyes were agog.

‘What did you say?’ Lord Thurstan asked quietly, slowly setting aside his meat.

‘Lady Beatrice does not belong in a convent. I ask that you would give her in marriage to me.’

A wordless roar burst from Lord Thurstan as he leapt to his feet, and then one large fist swung through the air and Remy St Leger went crashing to the floor. For a moment the blow stunned him, but none went to his aid. Lord Thurstan stepped down from the dais and knelt at the young man’s side, his eyes cold with fury. He watched while Remy sat up, shook his head and wiped the blood from his mouth.

‘What do you know,’ asked Lord Thurstan quietly, ‘of my daughter?’

Remy did not falter. ‘I know that God did not make her to be a nun.’

‘Is that so? And you know her so well, then?’

Remy was silent, uncertain of the correct answer.

Lord Thurstan stabbed a finger in his chest. ‘My daughter is not for the likes of you!’

He turned away then and went back to his chair, refilling his goblet with wine and chewing fiercely upon his food. Everyone watched as Remy picked himself up off the floor, expecting him to slink away to lick his wounds, and vastly entertained to find that the Aquitaine was willing to provide them with more sport.

Remy strode to the dais and shouted, ‘What sort of man sends his daughter to a convent to rot?’

Lord Thurstan rose menacingly to his feet, quickly followed by Sir Giles and Sir Hugh, who anticipated a brawl. ‘I did not send her. She went of her own choice.’

‘You could have said nay!’

‘Who, I? Say nay to Beatrice when she will say aye?’ Lord Thurstan put his head back and laughed. ‘Indeed, you do not know my daughter very well.’

‘I had thought my pledge was given to the king’s commander in honour, but now I see I serve a man who is no more than a coward!’ Remy leaned forwards and jabbed his finger in Lord Thurstan’s face. ‘I will prove to you, my lord, that I am worthy of your daughter!’

‘Take him away,’ growled Lord Thurstan, ‘before I rip his head off.’

Slumping down in his chair, he watched as Sir Giles and Sir Hugh persuaded Remy to go outside and cool off. The young man reluctantly allowed himself to be escorted from the hall, and Thurstan stroked his beard thoughtfully, a tiny glint of admiration in his eyes as he watched the tall, muscular figure of Remy St Leger retreat.

The bell for Compline rang and Beatrice struggled to extricate herself from the warm cot she had been given in the dormitory set aside for novices. There were only four of them, and most of the time they were too tired and bewildered to talk to each other. The hated bell rang again, and again, until Beatrice wanted to scream.

Throwing back the thin blankets, she fumbled about for her shoes, pulled them on and a plain wool cloak over the grey linen kirtle that was the uniform for novices. She was sure that she had hardly slept in the two days she had been here, and certainly had not changed her clothes nor bathed, apart from washing her face and hands in a bowl of cold water.

It was the middle of the night, and cold, and she found her way out into the passage by running her hand along the wall. They were not allowed a light, an extravagance that was reserved for the chapel only. Fortunately it was not far, and she could see the soft glow spilling out from the open chapel door.

Shuffling in, half-asleep, she knelt down beside Emeline, a novice from Somerton, a simple-minded young girl afflicted with skin so badly pock-marked that no man would look upon her favourably, nor treat her respectably. The church had been her only option. Beatrice glanced at the girl and gave her a kind smile, her knees aching upon the cold stone floor. Indeed, every part of her body ached, her hands were raw with blisters and her face burnished from the sun.

On her first day she had been sent to the vegetable garden to help Sister Joan and she had spent many hours hoeing and weeding and watering turnips, carrots and onions. Today she had been sent to the fish ponds and her arms ached from the tasks she had been set. Never in her life had she been required to work and it was rapidly becoming apparent to Beatrice that her vision of a tranquil life spent praying and gazing sweetly upon the Lord and the Virgin Mary was only a myth. Abbess Huberta would make certain of that.

At last the mass came to an end and they shuffled off to bed. The hard, uncomfortable cot now felt like a bed of swan feathers and Beatrice fell gratefully into it, asleep at once. But not for long. Before she had time to dream the bell was ringing for Prime; afterwards, she was taken out into the cold, dark morning by Sister Audrey to help her milk the cows.

Once a year Lord Thurstan owed the king thirty days’ service. This year his thirty days, probably more, would be spent in assisting Edward wrest control of Brecon and Gwynedd from the Welsh. He set off on Friday. The dawn muffled the ringing cavalcade of twelve mounted knights and a hundred men-at-arms. It was intended that they would march north to Evesham and join forces with the Earl of Hereford.

Two weeks later, having enjoyed several small skirmishes against the Welsh, they camped against the walls of Carmarthen Castle, while the Marcher lords met in council with Edward’s commanders and decisions were made upon deployment.

Seated in a tent round a small fire circled with stones were Radley and Montgomery. These two had become the best of friends and close comrades over the years, and with them sat Woodford, Baldslow and Remy St Leger. They huddled into their cloaks and passed a flask of brandy from man to man, while the wind and the rain lashed outside upon the wild hills of Wales. The remains of a meagre supper of rabbit stew congealed in a three-legged iron pot and their squires sat in corners carefully polishing the rust from swords and armour.

The conversation was largely centred on the coming fight with Welshmen, whom they judged to be short and wild, but courageous in battle.

‘The only problem is drawing them down from their mountain lairs and out into the open,’ commented Radley.

The others nodded in agreement, and after a long moment of silence Radley mused, ‘I wonder how fares Lady Beatrice.’

Remy squinted at him with narrowed eyes, his mouth tightening, wondering if it was a deliberate ploy to draw him into an argument, or whether the good knight was genuinely expressing his concern. Remy decided upon the latter, and took a swig of brandy before passing on the flask to Baldslow.

‘I think Lord Thurstan misses her sorely, although he would be the last to admit so,’ said Montgomery.

‘Aye, more fool him,’ Woodford said, poking a stick into the embers of the fire, “Tis no easy life for a nun, not at St Jude’s. They provide for themselves, with no help from any man, and Lady Beatrice is not accustomed to hard manual labour.’

Remy felt a burning sensation tighten in the pit of his stomach, not caused by the fiery brandy. His fists clenched, and he hid them beneath the folds of his cloak. He could not bear to think of Lady Beatrice with her back aching and her hands chafed by labour fit only for peasants.

”Tis certain even the angels wept when they cut her hair.’

There was a loud chorus of agreement and Remy murmured, staring at the fire flames, ‘Aye, her hair was indeed beautiful. Like honey. It fell in waves to her hips.’

Silence fell over the men, all movement stilled as they stared at him. Remy looked up quickly, suddenly realising his error and making quick amends as he stammered, ‘So I hear. Or was told.’

‘Indeed?’ Cedric Baldslow stared hard at the younger man, his suspicions aroused and spoiling for a fight with this pretty face. ‘Methinks you speak in a manner too familiar. I wondered, that night at the Red Lion…’ He let his words dangle while the others, except Remy, who remained silently staring at the fire, prompted Baldslow to continue. He shrugged, pouting somewhat belligerently, ‘I came up to check that St Leger had not fallen asleep at his post, and he was not there. I thought I heard a sound from my lady’s room.’

At that implication Remy leapt to his feet, ‘What are you accusing me of? What sort of sound?’

Baldslow rose slowly, and sneered, ‘The sound a woman makes when she lies beneath a man.’

Remy swore and swung his fist, but not before the tide of red that stained his face had been noticed by one and all. “Tis a lie, Baldslow! You besmirch the honour of a lady!’

‘An honour you have already taken?’ shouted Baldslow, neatly side-stepping the blow. ‘Come now, Sir Remy, you are sworn by knighthood to always tell the truth!’

‘Have no fear,’ snarled Remy, glaring at his tormentor, ‘Lady Beatrice is still a virgin.’

‘Is she, still, by God? I think I greatly mislike the sound of that!’

There were mutters from Radley and Montgomery, and even Woodford had one or two well-chosen epithets to throw at Remy. Now they all turned to stare at him, as they stood about the fire, and Radley demanded in a voice that was used to obedience, ‘Have you had intimate knowledge of the Lady Beatrice, Sir Remy?’

‘Nay!’ Remy hung his head, hands on hips, staring at his feet, his voice very quiet, ‘I…but kissed her. ‘Tis all. No more, I swear.’

‘You fool!’

‘Idiot!’

Baldslow erupted, but not with words. Roaring like an enraged beast, he charged at Remy, head down, and cannoned into him with his shoulder. His momentum thrust them both through the tent flap and out into the night.

It took only a moment for Remy to recover his wits and he punched back at Baldslow, thrusting his knee into his stomach until the grip that threatened to break his ribs loosened. With snarls and shouts the two men engaged in a fierce fight, smashing one another about the head and body with both fists, slipping and falling in the mud, soaked by the rain, but neither willing to give any quarter.

The fracas attracted attention, and some came out of their tents to stare, to cheer, to exclaim, and one of them was Lord Thurstan. At his furious command it took half a dozen men more than a few moments to tear the two combatants apart, and drag them before their lord for accounting.

‘We are here to fight the Welsh, not each other! What goes on? Baldslow? St Leger? Answer me!’

Both men remained silent, uncertain of the wisdom of truth now, when the punishment could be far greater than the reward. After a few moments, in which Lord Thurstan harangued them with dire threats if they did not speak, Baldslow decided to take the risk—after all, he had nothing to lose.

‘My lord, it came to my attention that St Leger has taken liberties about the person of my Lady Beatrice.’

‘Indeed?’ Lord Thurstan was inclined to be sceptical of any accusation uttered by Baldslow, a man whose own suit had been thoroughly thwarted and mayhap would stoop at nothing when presented with so threatening a rival for his daughter’s affections as the handsome young Remy St Leger. Seeing that this was not a matter to be aired in public, he summoned both men to his pavilion.

Lord Thurstan dismissed his squire, who reluctantly went out into the cold wet night and found himself lodgings with Fitzpons and Grenville. With arms akimbo, Lord Thurstan turned to face his knights and silently demanded their explanation. Baldslow was the first to speak.

‘My lord, I have reason to believe that St Leger entered the bedchamber of Lady Beatrice, when we lodged for the night at the Red Lion inn. There, I believe, he became intimate with her.’

Lord Thurstan controlled his instinctive rage at this accusation. ‘St Leger? What say you?’

‘My lord, I did nought. She asked me for one kiss, as she had never been kissed before. I swear on the Holy Bible and on my oath as a knight that nothing else happened.’

‘She is still a virgin?’

‘Aye, my lord.’

‘Baldslow, you may go. And I trust you will keep your tongue between your teeth.’

‘Of course, my lord.’ Baldslow bowed deeply and departed, throwing St Leger a triumphant look that was yet tinged with wary jealousy at Lord Thurstan’s lack of reaction.

‘I have half a mind,’ said Lord Thurstan quietly, ‘to thrash you within an inch of your life, St Leger. How you even dared to lay one finger on my daughter, I do not know. But…’ here he stroked his beard thoughtfully, eyeing the tall young man who stood silently before him, ‘I know my Beatrice, and she is no wanton. Long ago, when she was but sixteen, she was betrothed to a young knight whom she greatly admired—mayhap loved, such as a girl so young can love, knowing little of it. He was killed, and since then she has felt no fondness for any man. Many times I had hoped to have my hand forced, but none had the courage. My wife often chastised me for this view, saying it was barbaric, but I think a forced wedding is better than no wedding. Do you not agree?’

Remy looked awkwardly at his boots, ‘I…well…sir…it depends.’

‘On what?’

‘From what side of the bed the wedding is viewed. For the groom a moment of pleasure may be rewarded with a lifetime of misery.’

Despite the seriousness of the situation Thurstan laughed and clapped Remy upon the shoulder. ‘Is it your view that a life spent wedded to Beatrice would be one of misery?’

‘Nay. She is beautiful, sweet, kind.’

‘She is older than you. By five years.’

Remy shrugged. ‘Her innocence is her youth.’

‘As your experience is your maturity?’

‘Aye, my lord. Do not doubt that I am man enough for Beatrice.’

Blue eyes met Lord Thurstan’s dark brown, with unrelenting challenge. Nodding, as if suddenly coming to a decision, Lord Thurstan moved to his saddlebags and extricated a folded, stained parchment. He waved it at Remy. ‘I have this evening received a letter from the Abbess of St Jude. I had planned to send Woodford back, but I think it will be you, Sir Remy, who goes to fetch my daughter home.’

‘Sir?’ Remy stood up straight, a bolt of surprise shooting through him.

‘It seems the Abbess is not as enamoured of my Beatrice as you are.’

Several times in the past few days Beatrice had managed to sneak away to the barn. At mid-morning the hayloft was flooded with sunlight and here she made for herself a warm nest and managed an hour of blissful sleep. It seemed her entire life revolved around this desperate need for sleep, and food.

Although the food was well cooked and tasty there was little of it, and the Abbess would not spend her coin on purchasing flour. There was no bread, no pies, no tarts or cakes. Breakfast consisted of stewed fruit or a thin, coarse gruel made from oats grown on the holding; the midday meal was vegetable soup; supper was a meat or fish stew, sometimes followed by cheese or fruit. The gnawing ache of hunger clawed constantly at her belly and even her dreams were rampant with images of food. She longed to taste just a crust of bread, let alone the sweet curd tarts, game pies and spiced apple cake that Cook at Ashton was so good at making.

Waking from her nap, Beatrice hurried down the rickety ladder from the hayloft, the bell for the noon Angelus ringing like an alarm. She knew that she must hurry and, brushing the stalks of dusty hay from her skirts, Beatrice ran along the path that threaded between the vegetables and herbs. She had been sent to collect eggs and realised, with a small gasp of fear, that she had failed to do so.

When she reached the kitchen door, hoping to slip in and make her way through the convent to the chapel, she was stopped by the large bulk of Sister Una, assigned to the kitchen as cook. She paused as she wielded a massive knife through a pile of turnips and swedes.

‘Sister Huberta said to tell you not to go to the chapel, but to her parlour. At once.’

Biting her lips, Beatrice nodded and smiled her thanks for the message. The first time she had been summoned to Sister Huberta’s study, and severely reprimanded for some misdemeanour or another, Beatrice had shook with terror. But now, it was a regular occurrence and she visited the Abbess on a daily basis.

Her footsteps tapped on the flagstones of the passage and from the chapel she could hear the uneven tones of discordant singing. Beatrice knocked on the door.

‘Enter.’

She opened the door and came in to find Sister Huberta at her usual place behind her desk. The Abbess sat back in her chair, fingers steepled before her, and smiled unpleasantly.

‘Ah. Beatrice. How nice to see you. Again.’

‘Abbess.’ Beatrice dipped a small curtsy.

‘Come closer, girl. I do not wish to shout at you across the room.’

Beatrice took three paces forward.

‘I would ask you to do me a favour.’

‘Of course.’

‘Take off your wimple.’

Beatrice gasped, her hand flying defensively to the linen wrapped around her head and neck. ‘I…I must…protest, Sister.’

‘Indeed, you must. But I am afraid that I must insist. You see, dear Beatrice, it has come to my attention that once again you have breached our covenants. This time, ‘tis most serious. Now, remove your wimple, or I will fetch Sister Una and have her do it for you.’

Beatrice sighed, admitting defeat and too tired, hungry and dispirited to raise further protest. Slowly her small, pale hands unwound the linen wimple and her glorious mane of honey-brown hair spilled about her shoulders, slithering down like silk to curl about her hips.

‘I—I am not, by law, required to cut it, Sister Huberta, until my second year. When I am certain of my vocation.’

‘I see. And you have doubts about your, um, vocation?’

‘Nay, Sister. I wish to praise and honour our Lord and devote my life to Him in prayer.’

‘But?’

‘Well…’ brightening suddenly at this invitation to unburden herself and disguising her surprise at Sister Huberta’s willingness to listen, Beatrice hurried on ‘…life is harsh here, for everyone. I am sure that if our bodies were not troubling us so much from lack of sleep and constant hunger, we would be able to devote ourselves more entirely to God.’

‘Indeed!’ Sister Huberta now rose from her chair, and scraped it back. ‘Thank you for that advice, Beatrice. Now, I have some for you.’ She opened the door of her study. ‘Go home.’

‘Sister?’

‘I am sending you away. Back to your father.’

‘But—’

‘I have written to him once already, but received no reply. Unfortunately, St Jude cannot afford the burden of a lazy, useless chit!’ She rang a bell and Sister Emily, the gatekeeper, came. ‘Mistress Beatrice will be leaving us. Kindly escort her to the novice dormitory. She will remove these garments and dress in her own. Then take her to the gate and show her out.’ Sister Huberta gained immense satisfaction from every word she spoke.

‘But—’ Beatrice, struggling to comprehend the situation, pointed out ‘—I have no horse, no escort, no money! How can you—?’

‘Silence!’ Sister Huberta held up her hand. ‘Collect your bundle from the dormitory. I have given you two pennies to help you on your way.’

Utterly bewildered, Beatrice followed Sister Emily to the novices’ dormitory, where upon her cot sat a bundle. It was her cloak, her own dark blue fustian, that had been used to tie up her shoes and clothes.

‘I have put in some cheese and two apples,’ whispered Sister Emily. ‘Come now, do not look so distraught. You are lucky indeed to be escaping.’ Glancing over her shoulder, she added in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘Do not change your clothes, for your habit will lend you some protection on the outside.’ With nimble hands she fastened Beatrice’s wimple on, tucking away the glorious hair and assuring her, ‘There are few who would dare to accost a nun.’

Beatrice was numb with shock. She followed Sister Emily across the yard, and clutched at her bundle as if to a lifeline while the large key attached to a leather thong at Sister Emily’s waist clanked and scraped in the lock. The nun stepped to one side, and held the door open. Reluctantly, she stooped through the doorway, as she had only three weeks before.

‘Fare thee well, sweet Beatrice. God will go with you.’

Beatrice could do no more than smile weakly, and then she was standing alone in the dusty road, she, who had never stood alone and unprotected in her life.

Chapter Three

For a long while Beatrice simply stood there, unaware of the passers-by who glanced at her. Then a hand touched her sleeve and she looked down into the plump, tanned face of an old woman, a basket of eggs over her arm.