The Knight's Vow

by Catherine March

  Their pulses raced, and their skin flushed with hot damp sweat as passion soared between them. His fingers found her breast, the sensitive bud of her nipple quickly taut beneath his teasing. He sent stabs of excitement shooting through her body and Beatrice gasped, moving against him, soft moans vibrating in her throat.

  Realising that he was too close to the threshold of no retreat, Remy forced himself to lift his head, staring at her. He whispered, ‘Be thankful you have your flux, for if you did not I would take you now.’

  Abruptly he let her go, and stood up. She tried to stop him, fingers clutching at his sleeve, his tunic, but he tore away and strode from the room, banging the door shut.

  Beatrice listened to his footsteps as he ran down the stairs, berating herself for putting temptation in both their paths. She must never be alone with him again! It could not be, between them. Her father would not sanction their marriage, for though he came from a noble family he was still the youngest son and landless. The prizes he had won on the tourney circuit would count for nothing with her father and he would consider him to be a poor bargain in the marriage market. Remy St Leger was the one thing a father took pains to avoid—a landless, penniless knight. And if that wasn’t enough she would do well to remember that he was five years younger, and so very handsome.

  It was true that he had taken a fancy to her, but what chance did she have of holding him? She had little hope for a marriage based on lust, for as the years passed his lust would wane, as her hair faded to grey and her waist thickened from childbearing. For a moment she was delightfully enchanted by the tantalising thought of bearing Remy’s child. She had always longed to hold her own babe in her arms, and she could easily imagine that babe to have blond hair and blue eyes. But then she returned to the tormenting facts, that reminded her painfully why a marriage between her and Remy would be impossible.

  Besides, she would not take the risk of having her poorly mended heart broken again. And that fear was the greatest deterrent of all. With a sigh Beatrice turned over onto her side and sought solace from her woes in sleep.

  ‘Mother says you are to dress and come downstairs for supper.’

  Beatrice groaned and burrowed deeper into the covers.

  ‘Oh, do, please, dear Beatrice. I have missed your company this day and there are minstrels and acrobats come to the hall. We saw them at the fairing as we returned from our hunt and Mother invited them home to play for us. And Sir Richard bagged a fine stag, so all the men are in high spirits. There will be dancing.’ Joanna added the last as a final lure, knowing well her cousin’s love for dancing.

  ‘Nay…’ Beatrice shuddered ‘…I am too shamed.’ For more reasons than she could truthfully admit.

  Joanna clucked her tongue. ‘Come now, no one thinks the worse of you because of Mother’s outspokenness. Why, we have all borne the brunt of it at one time or another. Even Sir Kendall would likes strangle her after she learnt of his…’ Joanna hesitated ‘…problem.’

  Beatrice looked up with interest.

  ‘Well, ‘tis common knowledge that he has had little luck with the ladies lately.’

  They laughed, but Beatrice wondered exactly what her young cousin was alluding to and whether it was proper that she should even know of such things. With a sigh Beatrice rose from her nest and allowed Joanna to help her dress, brush her hair and thread a pink ribbon through two thin braids on either side of her temples, the rest of her hair swirling about loose and lovely.

  As they made ready the sound of music, laughter, and merry voices floated up the stairs. Joanna mentioned that a neighbour, Sir Vance, and his family had been invited to sup with them and it was quite a gathering, already well lubricated by drink, that sat down to eat. Beatrice was careful to avoid Remy’s glance and seated herself at her usual place beside her father’s chair, now occupied by Aunt Margaret. To her left was seated Sir Richard Blackthorn; Remy had been placed much further down the table, between the two daughters of Sir Vance, both plump, plain girls who almost swooned at the handsome young knight’s unexpected company.

  The minstrels played all through supper and Beatrice feigned a great interest in them, despite Sir Richard’s deliberate attempts to divert her. He tried to engage her in conversation, but he was new to her aunt’s household and she was a little wary of him. His lean face, dark brown hair and black eyes were not unhandsome to look upon, but there was something in his smouldering manner that unnerved her a little, as though he could see through her shift, or mayhap imagined her without it. Beatrice was not disappointed when her aunt claimed her attention and made enquiries about how they were managing since her mother’s death.

  After supper the trestle tables were broken down and put away against the far wall. Beatrice perched upon the settle beside the hearth, watching with a smile while Joanna and several other young girls urged the minstrels to play a tune they could dance to. They skipped into a carole, laughing and smiling, hands linked as they spun round in a circle.

  It took some while for Beatrice to realise that Remy was avoiding her as much as she avoided him. Though their glances collided several times, he did not once speak to her, and she did not encourage him with a smile. For once he was displaying some restraint and Beatrice thought it commendable, if highly unusual.

  When the dancing began Remy sat himself down to watch Sir Kendall and Sir Richard arm-wrestle. He declined their challenge to contest them, pointing out his injured ribs. Sir Richard was insistent almost to the point of rudeness and Remy felt his temper flare.

  Leaning against the warm wall beside the hearth, he watched while Sir Richard danced with Joanna, noting the man’s keen interest. His hand was familiar on the girl’s waist and Remy glanced to Lady Margaret, to see if she too noted this fondling. But Joanna’s mother was too busy blushing and laughing at long-time-widower Sir Vance’s attention. With her husband away to Wales Lady Margaret enjoyed a little male companionship and harmless flirting, revelling in the flattery that her own taciturn husband rarely bestowed upon her.

  Remy drank deeply from the goblet of wine he held in one hand, and then he caught sight of Beatrice, sitting quietly on the settle. She was staring into the hearth flames, and he felt an ache in his chest as he gazed upon the features of her sweet face, her soft lips solemn. He thought he detected a bright shimmer of tears in her eyes, and wondered what sad thought it was she dwelled upon that caused her unhappiness. Despite his resolution to avoid her he shifted his frame from the wall and took a step in her direction, but he was waylaid and dragged off by the other men for a game of Hot Cockles.

  It was a game he disliked, for it was often an opportunity for petty grievances to be vented. On this occasion it was to be a game only for the men. Sir Humphrey drew the short straw and was blindfolded. He knelt down and a circle formed about him. Then he had to guess who it was that struck him about the head. The blows started off with some restraint and there was much laughter as the men disguised their voices and became more enthusiastic about their task. Remy refused to participate and stood back, although when it came around for Sir Richard Blackthorn’s turn he was greatly tempted to join in and administer a resounding clout.

  It was a rough and tiring game and at its end the men gathered around a keg of ale to quench their thirst. The hour was growing late and jovial drunkenness was starting to turn ugly. Bess and another maid, Gillian, lingered as they served the knights with wine and seed cake. The maid caught Remy’s eye and she gave him a smile, which he avoided, rasping a hand over the stubble on his chin as he pretended not to notice. The charms Bess offered, and he had on occasion enjoyed, now repulsed him. He pondered on this strange state of affairs, for he had a healthy appetite for bedsport that he had not failed to satisfy on a regular basis.

  Overhearing a lewd conversation about several of the maids only served to remind him that most men were not averse to satisfying their lust with serving wenches. He tried his best to turn a deaf ear to it all, but when he heard mention of Beatrice’s name his m
anner abruptly changed.

  Sir Richard leaned against his shoulder, and enquired, his voice slurred and his eyes blood-shot, ‘What know you of the Lady Beatrice? I have heard rumours that her brothers may have fallen in Wales. That makes her a wealthy heiress and I have the fancy to call myself Lord.’

  Remy shouldered him away, his lip curling in distaste, ‘Lady Beatrice is not a subject for conversation.’

  ‘The thing is,’ Sir Richard continued, ignoring the low growl of advice, ‘she is no young maid, like Joanna—’

  ‘Shut your mouth, Blackthorn,’ snarled Remy, scowling into his mug of ale.

  ‘Oh ho! What is this? Trespassing, am I?’

  ‘Mayhap.’ Remy shot him a hard glance.

  ‘Oh, aye? I am wont to sample the goods before shackling myself for life. Have you? Is Lady Beatrice a good ride? Will she go on top?’

  Remy shouted an oath, his temper finally goaded beyond endurance. He grabbed the front of Sir Richard’s tunic in one fist, and snarled softly, ‘Don’t even think about her!’

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘Or I’ll kill you!’

  ‘Get your hands off me!’ Sir Richard tossed his ale in Remy’s face and in the next instant the two knights had toppled from their bench and were throwing punches at one another, Sir Richard’s less than accurate, but Remy landing several with a satisfying thwack of his knuckles on soft flesh.

  A shout went up, as several realised that a brawl was in progress. Sir Vance and his son jumped gleefully to their feet, being of the opinion that an evening’s entertainment could never be better rounded off than with a good fight. Leaping into the fray, they joined in manfully as the hall erupted in a confusion of bellows, kicks, punches, eye-jabbing and stomping.

  Lady Margaret sighed and beckoned for Elwyn to take Beatrice and Joanna away. Joanna protested loudly, but Beatrice was glad to escape the mêlée, horrified at the violence which men seemed to relish.

  The next morning Remy received, in addition to his black eye, split lip and grazed knuckles, a severe tongue-lashing from Lady Margaret. He retreated to the bailey to exercise Walther, and refrained from pointing out to Lady Margaret that he had only been defending Beatrice’s honour. It was on the tip of his tongue to say that he would not have Sir Richard Blackthorn anywhere near his daughter, but Lady Margaret was in such a fury over broken dishes and damaged furniture that a strategic withdrawal seemed wise. It rained and even Walther was little impressed with him.

  From her window Beatrice watched as Remy put the big, black Hanoverian through his paces. She brushed her hair idly, leaning against the window embrasure and only half-listening to the chatter that ebbed and flowed from Joanna.

  ‘I swear, coz, you have not heard a word!’ Joanna complained and stomped across the room to snatch the hairbrush from Beatrice’s hand and follow her dreamy gaze with an accusing glare. ‘What on earth…? Ah, I see.’

  Beatrice flushed, “Tis not what you think.’

  Joanna laughed, and put her arm around her cousin, giving her a gentle squeeze. ‘Indeed? And why not? He’s handsome, a fine knight, virile.’

  ‘Young,’ Beatrice sighed.

  ‘What is a few years here or there? To my mind a younger man is far better than an old one, who will die and leave you a widow.’

  ‘Young knights die too. In battle.’

  Sensing at once the fears that plagued Beatrice her cousin murmured, ‘Lightning never strikes twice. Does he know how you feel?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you want me to murmur in his ear, or give him a token of your affection?’

  ‘Nay!’ Beatrice eyed her with some confusion. ‘You—you do not mind?’

  ‘Why on earth should I mind?’

  ‘Well, I thought…you hinted that you had lost your heart.’

  A peal of laughter burst from Joanna’s shapely lips. ‘Indeed I have, but not to that blond giant. ‘Tis Sir Richard whom I love.’

  Chapter Five

  A few days later the sky cleared and the sun came out. It was a lovely May day and Beatrice strolled in the pleasaunce, enjoying the warm sunshine upon her face and the soft scent of emerald grass and flowers growing in a colourful blaze of yellow and pink and purple. She stooped to examine the petals of marguerites and lupins, and inhale the sweet fragrance of cinnamon roses, glad for a moment of solitude to clear her confused thoughts.

  A step sounded on the cobbled path behind her and a shadow cast itself over the flowers she was so intent upon. Beatrice straightened and turned about, her heart jolting as she came face to face with Remy. He too looked uncomfortable, and stared at his boots as he said gruffly, ‘Your cousin Joanna said you wished to speak to me.’

  ‘Oh, no, I did not, I—’ Joanna! Beatrice cursed her silently. The scheming little madam had taken to heart her earlier, foolish words and sent Remy to her in the garden. When she had specifically stated that she wished to be alone! ‘Well…’ Beatrice hesitated, not wishing to offend him ‘…I think—’ Indeed, she could not think at all, and struggled to find words, realising that if she was honest she was pleased to see him, to have the chance to clear up any misunderstanding between them. ‘I thought that you and I—’ She raised her eyes to his, silently pleading for his assistance.

  He smiled slowly, softly. ‘That we should take a stroll?’

  ‘Aye.’ Beatrice breathed a sigh of relief, and laid her hand on his arm as he held it out to her. They fell into step as they walked along the path, and Beatrice sought desperately for some civilised conversation; it seemed to her that all their previous encounters had been anything but civilised! ‘It is a lovely day, do you not agree?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘It has been a long winter.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘It is pleasant to walk in the garden and smell the flowers.’

  Remy nodded and cleared his throat, a slight frown upon his brows. She was acutely aware of his tall presence, the warmth and scent of his male body, the corded muscles of his forearm beneath her fingertips.

  ‘I hope you do not feel too unwell, Sir Remy, after your…’ she hesitated ‘…disagreement with Sir Richard.’ Her glance skimmed over his swollen purple eye and the cut upon his lower lip. She winced. ‘You have not lost any teeth?’

  He laughed. ‘Nay, sweet Beatrice, I have not lost my teeth.’

  His endearment affected her deeply and she stumbled on the uneven cobbles of the path. Remy quickly caught her about the waist. For a long moment they stood close together, staring at each other, he with a deep longing, she with confusion. Then Beatrice stepped back and they resumed their slow walk, all too aware of the windows of the castle that overlooked the pleasaunce; she had no doubt that several pairs of eyes watched them.

  ‘Beatrice—’

  ‘Remy—’

  They both began at once, and laughed.

  ‘You speak first,’ he told her, and waited.

  ‘Remy, I wanted to say…that is, what happened the other day, in my bedchamber, it will not, must not, ever happen again.’ A blush stole over her cheeks and she glanced shyly up at him.

  Her embarrassment enchanted him and he longed to pull her into his arms and kiss her lips that were now anxiously pursed, completely disregarding her words and wishes. He raised a brow, his smile rueful. ‘Did my lady not enjoy being kissed? Not so long ago you begged me to do so, for you feared to become an old woman without ever knowing how it felt to be kissed by a man.’

  Beatrice protested, her brows pulled together in a frown, ‘That was different! My life was about to change drastically and I did not think that I would ever be part of this world, or ever see a man again after that night.’

  ‘Indeed?’ he said sardonically.

  ”Tis not chivalrous of you to bring it up! But—’ now her temper was truly riled ‘—if past behaviour be the subject of our discussion then I have my own axe to grind!’

  ‘Grind away, your ladyship.’

  ‘Can you never be serious about an
ything?’ she demanded, glaring up at him.

  He shrugged, ‘I am all yours, and all ears.’

  Beatrice sighed in exasperation. ‘It has come to my attention that you…’ again she hesitated, she who was always so direct and easy in her speech ‘…it seems that you prevailed upon my father and took the liberty of asking him for my hand.’

  ‘Aye. ‘Tis true.’ His tone implied that he was mightily proud of himself for this daring feat.

  Beatrice was tempted to blacken his other eye. Drawing a deep, steadying breath, she asked between clenched teeth, ‘Would it not have been good manners to have asked me first?’

  ‘What?’ He glanced down at her with genuine, wide-eyed surprise.

  ‘Mayhap,’ she said with a lofty tone, her nose tipped to the sky, ‘I will not have you.’

  ‘You will not,’ he spluttered in confused outrage, ‘have me?’

  ‘Nay. If you went down on your knees today, Sir Remy, and begged me to be your wife, I would…’ she held a hand to her heart and shook her head sorrowfully ‘…with the greatest and gravest of regrets, have to inform you that—oh!’ Her sentence ended on a shriek, as Remy grabbed her hand and ran off with her down the path. ‘Remy!’

  Beatrice struggled to keep up with him as he dragged her along, ducked behind a high boundary of yew hedge and opened the gate that led out into the archery butts.

  ‘Remy! What are you doing? Stop!’

  He ran across a corner of the bailey and entered the cool shadows of the south tower, slammed the door shut and thrust Beatrice up against the wall. With his hands planted on either side of her head, the wall of the tower at her back and the even more formidable and solid wall of his chest before her eyes, there was no escape.