The Knight's Vow

by Catherine March

  ‘What will it be, mistress? Cornish, ham and chicken, or apple?

  Beatrice pointed to a Cornish pasty, and accepted it into her hand as though it were Crusade treasure, pocketing her change and scarce knowing whether she had enough money left to find her way home. She had never had to deal with money before and had little knowledge of its value.

  Taking her pie and her bundle, she went and sat down upon the steps of the stone cross that marked the place for trade. She savoured every last mouthful, and then sat back and turned her face up to the sun. Before she realised it she was praying, and felt the sweet presence of her God return to her. Remy St Leger had been right. She did not belong in the convent.

  For these long weeks past she had forced his memory from her mind, although sometimes he invaded her dreams. Now, knowing that he existed, that even at this moment he too felt the sun upon his face, filled her with a happiness that she had not felt for a very long time. Yet the moment she felt that little burn of pleasure she immediately quelled it, for it was her experience that pain usually followed swiftly and she was not eager to feel such an emotion again. It spurred her to rise and turn her mind to the task of reaching home, rather than idly mulling, and she set out upon the road that led her from the town centre and into Chilkwell Street.

  Her surroundings looked somewhat different from afoot than on horseback, but Beatrice was sure that this was the way to Ashton. She thought that if she walked quickly she would make the Red Lion by dusk and there take shelter for the night.

  The road was not deserted, as at first she had feared, and these were friendly country folk who offered her no harm. Sometimes there were curious glances, and greetings of, ‘Bless us, Sister!’ called out as they passed her by. Children often turned to stare at her, and she would smile and wink at them.

  As the afternoon faded, and clouds gathered on the horizon, Beatrice began to tire. Her feet ached and the thin soles of her shoes afforded little protection from the sharp stones and twigs of the track she followed. She stopped to rest several times, and took solace from the peaceful shade of great oak trees, leaning back to listen to the song of birds, and watch clouds scudding across the sky. There was contentment in gazing upon the green countryside, ripening now with spring foliage into summer. It was the end of May and soon the fields would be golden with crops of wheat and oats and barley.

  She was acutely aware of being alone, and was both cautious and watchful of the road ahead and behind her. If she spied the advancement of a group of men more than two in number, or a party of soldiers, she ran and hid in the trees and bushes crowding thickly on either side of the track. Only when they had passed by did she emerge, like a little rabbit, and hurry on her way.

  The light faded quickly and Beatrice began to fear that she would not make the Red Lion before nightfall. Behind her she could hear the rumbling of a cart and her hopes picked up. She glanced carefully over one shoulder, and saw that the cart carried only two men, one quite old and one very young, father and son mayhap, and she paused, the countryside about her no longer peaceful and welcoming but vaguely threatening and hostile.

  The cart rumbled closer and the two men caught sight of her and called their mule to a halt. The men doffed their hats and Beatrice eyed them warily.

  ‘Good day to you, Sister. ‘Tis far you be out on your own.’

  Beatrice smiled coolly. ‘Good day. Am I on the right track for the Red Lion at Littleton?’

  ‘Aye, but it be a good three mile down the road. You’ll not make it on foot afore dark. Hop on t’back, mistress, and we’ll see you right.’

  ‘Thank you for your kindness, sir.’

  Beatrice walked around to the back of the cart and jumped up, settling herself amongst the sacks of grain and vegetables, her legs dangling. With a lurch they set off, and the swaying motion and low-toned, sober conversation of the men, probably farmers, lulled her. She took her wimple off as exhaustion swept over her and she soon fell into a doze.

  The soft pink evening sky had long since been swallowed up by inky night when they trundled into the yard of the Red Lion. Beatrice roused herself, with some difficulty, and jumped down from the cart, thanking her escorts, who watched as she went inside.

  A warm, smoky fug greeted Beatrice as she stepped over the threshold, holding her cloak tight about her as several leery-looking men glanced her way. She recognised the innkeeper from her previous visit, and approached him.

  ‘Good evening, sir. I am Lady Beatrice of Ashton. I require a room for the night and supper.’

  To her surprise he laughed, and turned from wiping a table and flung a damp cloth over his shoulder. ‘Oh, aye? And I’ll be the King of Spain!’

  Several nearby laughed heartily into their tankards of ale, and speculative stares were turned upon Beatrice. She drew herself up, brows arched and a frosty glint in her brown eyes.

  ‘You will recall that I stayed here some three weeks ago, when I was escorted by seven knights, and forty men-at-arms. My father, Lord Thurstan, will be most displeased to hear of your reluctance to accommodate me.’

  At that, and hearing the haughty culture of her voice, the innkeeper was taken aback and he paused, looking her over thoroughly and a vague memory stirring in his dim mind. He had not actually seen the Lady Beatrice face to face—the knights had made damn sure of that—but he recalled that she had been a small woman, such as the one before him now, and her hair had been golden-brown, such as the one before him now. Clearing his throat and quickly wiping his hands upon the stained apron about his waist, he hedged, ‘Well, now, I am happy to be of service to Lady Beatrice any day, but how do I know that this dusty little nun standing before me is she?’

  Beatrice smiled, acknowledging his caution. ‘I am not a liar, sir. I am Lady Beatrice and to show good faith I shall write you a promissory note, if you would be so kind as to bring quill and parchment.’

  Greatly impressed, for few except the clergy and nobility could write, the innkeeper shouted for his wife, who came shuffling along with a small square of coarse parchment and a bedraggled quill. The inkpot was old and a drop of acquavit was used to swill up some ink. Then, leaning on a scarred table, Beatrice wrote a note promising to pay the bearer the cost of one night’s lodging and two meals, plus an extra reward for the loan of a saddled riding-horse, which would be returned by Cas-tle Ashton once Lady Beatrice had arrived safely home. The innkeeper blustered a bit over the last part, but she managed to persuade him that her father was good for any debt.

  Finally, after adding her signature with a flourish, the innkeeper accepted her note and his wife showed Beatrice to a room upstairs. Not the grand one she had enjoyed before, for that was already taken, but one smaller, at the back. Nevertheless, after the dormitory at St Jude it seemed like heaven to Beatrice.

  ‘I’ll bring you up some hot water, and a bite to eat. You don’t want to be sitting downstairs on your own with that mob of roughnecks.’

  ‘You are most kind. Thank you.’ Beatrice smiled, and set her bundle down on the bed. As soon as the door closed and she was alone, she opened it up and shook out her cloak, her dark-green wool gown and her fine linen shift, laying these across a chair to warm before the fire.

  Tomorrow she would wear her own clothes, but for tonight Beatrice gloried in the luxury of good food, hot water and a comfortable bed. Before going to sleep she said her prayers with heartfelt and earnest thanks.

  Remy St Leger had ridden hard from Wales to reach the town of Glastonbury by mid-week, the urgency of his mission being impressed upon him by an anxious Lord Thurstan.

  ‘I’ll not be surprised if Beatrice has been put out in the cold, without so much as a by your leave.’

  ‘The Abbess would surely not leave a woman alone and de-fenceless in the street?’ questioned Remy, with a frown.

  Lord Thurstan shook his head, tugging nervously at his beard. ‘I cannot spare even one man to go with you, St Leger. But I trust you are more than capable of dealing with the Abbess alone. A
nd she’ll not be keeping the dowry either,’ he huffed. ‘Four hundred marks that will be, not a penny less.’

  Remy bowed. ‘I understand. Fear not, my lord, I will make certain that the Abbess keeps nothing that belongs to Ashton.’

  He left at first light, armed with his sword, a dagger to be used in his left hand, a crossbow and thirty feather-tipped bolts. He was bulky indeed kitted out in a leather jack and chainmail hauberk with articulated shoulder plates. He refused a helm in favour of a chainmail coif, beneath which he wore a lambrequin, a cloth hood that protected his head and neck from the rain, both of which he felt allowed him more ease of movement in close-quarter combat.

  Remy stopped only briefly along the way to rest, feed and water his horse, feeding himself standing by the road and aware that with every passing moment Beatrice might be vulnerable. The thought of her being at the mercy of any common serf in the street spurred him on. The time spent in the saddle gave him a chance to think upon his strategy, for he was certain that he would gain nothing if he meekly rang the bell at St Jude’s gate and asked for admittance. Nay, the circumstances called for more cunning than that.

  He reached Glastonbury as the afternoon waned on the third day, and went at once to the convent, stinking of sweat and dirt and wiping his brow with one sleeve. For a long while he sat upon his horse behind the shelter of some mulberry bushes and gazed at the impervious walls, more than two ells high. He squinted at the sun and guessed at the hour, and when his judgement was confirmed by the thin sound of female singing, he swung down from his horse. He tied the reins to the branch of a yew tree, confident that his destrier, a finely trained warhorse of Hanoverian breed, would not allow himself to be stolen. From his saddlebag he took a rope and attached it to a grapnel—a three-pronged iron hook and a useful item in times of siege.

  Remy tossed the grapnel over the wall, jerked it back until it locked against the brickwork, and then hauled himself up and over the top, no mean feat for a big man heavily armoured. Lightly he dropped down, cast a quick glance about and then, crouched low, ran soundlessly through the garden. He peered through the small-paned windows, tried a door, which proved to be locked, and then skirted around until he gained entrance by the refectory, deserted while the nuns attended mass.

  After a brief, furtive exploration he let himself into a parlour, and there sat himself down to wait, with his booted feet up on a cluttered writing table. From its scabbard he drew his sword, an immense weapon of gleaming Toledo steel that had served him well, and laid it down across his knees.

  Sister Huberta clanked with keys as she walked along the passage, her shadow thrown gigantically across the walls by the bright rays of the lowering sun. As she let herself into her parlour and closed the door she noticed at once a male odour, one that she had not known for many years, not since she had been widowed. She whirled quickly, and let out a frightened gasp as she spied the man lounging with casual grace in her chair, behind her desk.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she spluttered. ‘Who are you? How dare you—’

  ‘Be quiet, woman,’ said Remy softly, rising to his feet and filling the small room with his broad bulk. ‘I am here for Lady Beatrice.’

  The Abbess relaxed a little, with relief, and was able to tell him truthfully, ‘Well, be on your way, for you are too late. She is gone.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  She didn’t like the soft menace of his tone, nor the way he was staring at her. ‘Tell me at once, sir, who you are.’

  ‘I am Lord Thurstan’s man. Where is she?’

  Sister Huberta eyed him impassively, for the first time swallowing a little nervously. ‘She left this morning. Gone home. The girl was quite unsuitable.’

  ‘How did she go?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By horse, cart. On foot?’

  ‘On foot, of course.’

  ‘So, I should tell Lord Thurstan that you set his daughter outside the gate, in the street, alone, and told her to go home? On foot?’

  ‘She is no child. She can well find her own way.’

  ‘You had better hope so. Now, there is one other matter. The dowry.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Lord Thurstan wants it back. ‘Tis a tidy sum and he is not of a mind to let you keep it.’

  Sister Huberta laughed harshly, ‘Well, I care not a fig what Lord Thurstan wants! His daughter has caused us enough trouble these weeks past and we require compensation.’

  Silver flashed through the shadows and the Abbess gave a small shriek, as she felt the cold point of steel at her throat.

  ‘I am averse to killing holy nuns,’ snarled Remy, ‘but I have no aversion to killing a witch! Now, give me the money!’

  Under the circumstances, she was obliged to reach for a key at her waist and hurry to an iron-bound, padlocked oak chest that was tucked away in a corner. She opened it and scrabbled about inside for a moment, before drawing out a soft leather pouch that contained four hundred marks. Her mouth a tight thin line, she rose and handed the pouch to her visitor.

  Taking it with his left hand, he made a deep bow to her and departed with a final promise. ‘Pray, sister, that I find Lady Beatrice, and that she is safe and well. Or I will be back, and next time I will come with a hundred men and burn this foul place to the ground!’

  The Abbess stepped back with a gasp, clutching at her racing heart as the young man left as silently as he had arrived.

  Remy found his way back over the wall, vaulted on to his horse and packed away both grapnel and the four hundred marks. Then with a shout and swift kick he galloped through Glastonbury and set off on the road to Ashton. He was anxious to make the Red Lion that night, and urged his horse onwards.

  He came upon half a dozen soldiers and joined them to hear what news of Wales. But they were mercenaries, Flemings, and their English was neither good nor pleasant. Dissatisfied with their paymaster, King Edward, they were on their way to Dover and home. Remy felt his nerves twinge and mistrusted the way they looked him over and eyed his saddlebags. He soon parted company with them and galloped on.

  The morning was bright and sunny as Beatrice, sitting neatly side-saddle, arranged her dark blue cloak over the folds of her green kirtle. She called out her thanks to the innkeeper and his wife before setting off on the road that would, she hoped, lead her home before the day was out.

  She felt refreshed after her night of blissful sleep and two good meals, and she had washed thoroughly in a bowl of hot water before the fire. She was grateful to acknowledge that at least her experience at St Jude had taught her to appreciate even the most basic pleasures of everyday life. With a light heart, humming a tune, she set her horse into a smart trot.

  It was a sunny day, but not a market day. There were few people on the road, especially as she was going further and further away from Glastonbury. By mid-morning she paused to water her horse—a fat, unwilling creature—and to eat the cold chicken and bread the innkeeper’s wife had wrapped for her.

  Setting off again, they came to a section of woodland and the road was soft with pine needles. The trees crowded in thickly on either side, dark and dense, a blanket of tall bracken spread between them. Beatrice felt a moment of doubt, as she peered fearfully about, unnerved by the sudden lack of birdsong and sunlight. She clicked her tongue to her horse and urged him on, hoping to pass through the woods quickly.

  Then she heard a shout, muffled cries, and as she rounded a sharp bend in the track she came upon the two farmers who had helped her yesterday. Their cart was surrounded by a group of men, soldiers by the looks of them, and they were busy ransacking the goods on the back of the cart. Beatrice gave a small cry, shocked at such outrageous behaviour, and would have urged her horse forwards, intending to deal with them in no uncertain manner, when one of the farmers gave a scream and gurgled. His throat was cut and Beatrice halted, her eyes wide with horror. The younger one, perhaps the farmer’s son, turned and saw her, waved his arms and shouted for her to go back, before he too wa
s slashed without mercy.

  Beatrice wasted no time in wheeling her horse about, but already two or three of the soldiers had leapt astride their own horses and were after her.

  ‘Come on!’ shouted Beatrice, kicking furiously at the barrel of the fat gelding’s ribs. He lumbered into a reluctant canter and, whipping him with the reins, Beatrice leaned over his withers as he stretched into a gallop, her cloak flying out behind her.

  She heard the pounding of hooves fast approaching and with urgent shouts tried to force a little more speed from her horse. But it was too late, the three soldiers gained ground and soon they surrounded her. They reached over and snatched the reins from her grasp and Beatrice, heart pounding, screamed as leather-gloved hands seized her about the waist and dragged her down. One of them hit her in the face, and she gasped with shock, head reeling. The three soldiers had dismounted and loomed over her. Quickly they searched her saddlebags and finding nothing of interest turned to her with eyes that left her in no doubt as to what they wanted.

  They spoke in a foreign language—Dutch, she thought—and she realised they were mercenaries. They jostled her, fingering her fine clothes, her hair. She screamed again as one of them grasped the neck of her kirtle, and ripped it, exposing the soft white skin of her chest. The other two argued over who would go first and fumbled with the fastenings of their braies, shoving one another aside in their eagerness.