The Knight's Vow

by Catherine March

  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.

  ‘Are you all right, my dear?’ she asked, in the broad country accent of a farmer’s wife.

  Beatrice blinked, and then smiled, her smile growing wide as it reached her eyes and suddenly she laughed ‘Aye, I am, mistress.’

  ‘Chucked you out, has she?’

  ‘What?’

  The old woman laughed. ‘No need to be shamed.’ Jerking her head at the convent, she added, ‘She don’t like the pretty ones. Sent you on your way?’

  ‘Aye. It is so.’

  ‘Well, never you mind, dearie. Come along, now, I’ll walk with you to market. Have you far to reach your home?’

  ‘Indeed. I am from Castle Ashton.’

  The old woman frowned, ‘I’ve not heard of it. Must be a long ways off.’

  Beatrice fell into step, and half-listened in a daze as the woman chatted in a friendly manner. They came to the market and Beatrice felt quite overwhelmed by the noise and bustle. She parted from the farmer’s wife and wandered amongst the stalls, pausing to gaze upon the wares displayed as though she had never seen before such simple things as leather boots, wooden spoons, bolts of cloth in lovely colours of mulberry and emerald and saffron. The most fascinating was the pieman’s stall and Beatrice stood gazing hungrily upon the golden pastry, filled with meat and vegetables, whose savoury aroma hung deliciously on the air. Succumbing to temptation, Beatrice felt for the two coins the Abbess had thrust into her kirtle pocket, and offered one to the pie seller.