The Knight's Vow

by Catherine March

  ‘What do you mean,’ Remy panted, stooping to look down into her eyes, ‘that you will not have me?’

  Beatrice swallowed nervously, her hands pressed to the hard warmth of his chest, stunned by his reaction. What had started off as a light-hearted exchange had now turned very serious indeed. ‘Surely you must see,’ she said softly, her eyes raised no higher than his tunic, ‘that a marriage between us can never be.’

  He uttered a curse then, demanding of her, ‘And why not? I am a man, unwed, and you are a woman, also unwed. You cannot fault my lineage, for I am a knight of noble blood—my mother is a countess of Aquitaine. I see no great impediment to our joining.’

  ‘Then you must be either blind or stupid! Besides the fact that my father would consider you to be unsuitable, being landless and penniless, I am not much better off. My dowry is gone and, as far as I know, the rumours that my brothers are dead are not yet true. I am unlikely to inherit any titles, and I have no manors and no gold, no silver, no jewels—’

  ‘Stop it! Your dowry is safe. Your father tasked me to retrieve it from the avaricious grasp of the Abbess, and it is now locked in your father’s vault.’

  Beatrice stared up at him, shocked. ‘But—’ She shook her head in confusion. ‘Why did you not tell me this before?’

  ‘Why do you think?’ he counter-demanded, his glance fierce. Then he grasped her shoulders in both hands and shook her. ‘It is not wealth I seek, damn it! ‘Tis you alone! ‘Tis you, Beatrice, that I want.’

  She stared at him, full of doubt and mistrust, not only for his feelings but for her own too. She whispered, ‘But why?’

  For an answer he bent his head and kissed her. His lips were demanding, yet tender. He poured into her mouth all the passion that ignited him. Beatrice staggered, and he cradled her head with his large hand as the pressure of his kiss bore down on her slender neck. His other hand slid between her shoulder blades, pressing her into his body. She could feel the hard strength of his muscular torso against her soft female self, and her legs almost buckled with the startling joy of it.

  At last he lifted his head and told her in a husky voice, ‘That is why.’ Then he went down on one knee and reached for her hand, gently holding her delicate white fingers between his palms. ‘Lady Beatrice, would you do me the honour of being my wife?’

  ‘Oh, Remy.’ Tears sparked in her eyes, and then a sob burst from her throat. ‘Please, get up.’

  ‘Not until I have your answer.’

  Swallowing hard, she dashed at her wet cheeks with her fingertips. ‘Then my answer must be no.’

  ‘But why?’ He rose then, his fingers digging into her waist as he clasped her to him, his eyes searching her face, ‘Am I not handsome enough for you? I am young too, but no callow youth, and though I may not yet have my own lands I have been knighted, my reputation for valour upon the battlefield—’

  She laid a finger on his lips, silencing him. “Tis not you, Remy. It is I. Do you not understand that I am five years your senior? I do not care to lie awake at night while I wonder where, and with whom, my handsome young husband is spending his time.’

  ‘Never!’ he vowed. ‘Once we are married I would be faithful to you unto death.’

  ‘Indeed?’ She smiled, with regret and sadness, shaking her head, her fingers closing over his wrists and urging him to release her. ‘Let me go, Remy. ‘Tis a fairytale you create, nothing more.’

  ‘Nay, Beatrice!’ He held her chin and kissed her again, pressing her against the wall, endeavouring to convey to her the depth of his emotion. Boldly his hand covered her breast and he pushed his knee between her legs. His other hand slid to her buttocks and lifted her against him, while his lips broke from her mouth and pressed hot, moist kisses down the side of her neck, ‘Tell me you do not want me, Beatrice, as much as I want you!’

  She arched her head back, shivering with pleasure at his touch, her skin on fire. ‘Aye—’ her voice was husky ‘—I want you, Remy. But lust is a poor basis for marriage and I will not shame my family by giving myself to you without the benefit of wedding vows. Nor will I condemn myself to a lifetime of misery and pain within them. For if I loved you as I once loved before, and I lost you too, the pain would kill me. I could not bear another such wound, for it goes too deep. I am too badly scarred to ever love again. Now,’ she spoke more firmly and grasped his hands, lifting them away from her body, ‘you must let me go. If my lady aunt were to find us so—’

  ‘Then well and good,’ he said roughly, anger at her refusal making him harsh. ‘I have only to lift your skirts…’ his fingers plucked at the fabric of her kirtle, baring her ankles, his voice hoarse and urgent ‘…and take you!’

  ‘You would not dare.’ Beatrice stared up at him with a gasp, suddenly reminded of his powerful male strength. ‘And if you did dare, Remy, do you think I will thank you for such a brutal bedding, here upon the stairs of the south tower? It would be wrong and you well know it!’

  ‘Aye, but you would have no choice but to make good the wrong by marrying me.’

  ‘And two wrongs would make a right?’

  He had the grace to hang his head in shame, his passion subsiding at her rebuke, and her resistance. Gently she stroked his cheek with her palm, and whispered, ‘You will find someone else.’

  ‘Nay!’ He turned his head and pressed a kiss to the soft skin on the inside of her wrist. ‘Mayhap my wooing has been too rough, too sudden, and for that I beg your pardon. I admit that I am no courtier, prancing about in pointed shoes and coloured hose. I cannot spout pretty poems, nor shower you with gifts and garlands of flowers, but…’ here he drew a deep breath, and her heart ached at the catch in his voice ‘…know that my feelings for you are true, Beatrice. I would cut out my own heart before ever I would hurt or betray you.’

  ‘Oh, Remy.’ She longed to throw her arms around him and surrender to his will, but she felt certain that it would only lead to disaster for them both. She brushed aside a lock of hair from his forehead. ‘You are too stubborn for your own good.’

  Then she tore away from his arms and ran out of the tower, tears blinding her path as she found her way across the bailey to the keep, seeking refuge in her chamber. Upon her bed she wept.

  Despite the combined cajoling of both Joanna and her aunt, Beatrice refused to attend the hall for supper. Elwyn brought her a tray, but she ate little and sat in a silent state of melancholy, staring into the fire flames while Elwyn brushed out her hair. Her tears had long since ceased, and now only a dull emptiness left her still and silent.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Elwyn softly, ‘why my little bird is so quiet this eve?’

  ”Tis naught.’ Beatrice smiled weakly. ‘My usual weariness at this time of the month.’

  Elwyn shook her head, stroking the brush in long, slow sweeps down the length of Beatrice’s gleaming hair. ‘Nay, you can fool everyone, even yourself, but there is nothing usual about my lady tonight.’

  At that tears began to slide silently down Beatrice’s cheeks. She sniffed and wiped them furiously away. ‘Do not give me sympathy, Elwyn, for I must be strong and accept my lot in life.’

  ‘Oh, aye?’

  ‘Indeed. Decisions, once made, must not be broken.’

  ‘How noble, my lady.’

  Beatrice swallowed. She did not want to think about Remy. She must not doubt for a moment that she had made the right decision.

  ”Tis cold comfort,’ murmured Elwyn.

  Beatrice glanced up with a question in her eyes.

  ‘Being noble will not warm your bed on a winter’s night. ‘Tis your birthing day next Lammas, is it not, my lady?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And how old will you be?’

  Beatrice sighed. ‘You know well enough that I shall be thirty years old.’

  ‘Aye. Thirty years old, Lady Beatrice,’ Elwyn stated firmly, ‘and if I were you I would grab hold of that handsome young Aquitaine that wants you so much, with both hands, before it’s too late.’


  ‘Hush,’ Beatrice admonished her. ‘What kind of a fool do you think I am? Aye, he wants me now, and, aye, maybe it will last for a year or two. But what then? He will cast me aside in favour of a pretty young thing, her face unmarred by crow’s-feet about the eyes and her breasts firm and plump.’

  ‘And are you God, to see the future so clearly? And even if it was so, and I greatly doubt that he would be so fickle, for even a doorpost can see how he cares for ye, then take the year or two and make the most of it! ‘Tis better than nothing, better than the cold comfort of your noble and empty bed.’

  With a sigh Beatrice snatched her head away. ‘If I was not so fond of you, Elwyn, I would punish you for your wayward tongue! Besides, Joanna will be up anon and share the bed with me.’

  ”Tis only truth I speak. Lies are easy to swallow, but ‘tis the truth which oft times sticks in the gullet.’ Elwyn helped her mistress to disrobe and climb up into the four-poster bed that awaited her, with warmed sheets turned down invitingly upon its vast expanse. “Tis a shame indeed to waste all that space upon your cousin.’

  ‘Be gone!’

  Elwyn clucked and fussed, tidied the room and then retired to sleep upon her pallet. Beatrice listened to her gentle snores and lay awake for many hours, her thoughts in riot. When Joanna came to bed she was full of giggles and whispers upon the merits of Sir Richard, dwelling on the significance of his every glance and word. Beatrice sighed with relief when at last Joanna fell into a peaceful slumber.

  That night her dreams were filled with anguish and longing.

  She woke in the morning feeling unrefreshed. She dressed carefully in a gown of soft watchet trimmed with gold embroidery, her hair fastened in a matching net of fine gold mesh.

  Slowly she descended the stairs to the great hall, and glanced about cautiously. She looked for Remy. She needed to see him, to speak with him, to gauge whether the feelings of her heart were truer than the reasoning of her mind. He stood with his back to her, and her heart did a little somersault at the sight of his tall frame, his blond hair slightly ruffled from the night’s sleep and his voice husky as he spoke. He was occupied with his squire, as bedrolls were put away and instructions given for the day, but as he turned to wash his hands in a bowl of hot water offered to him by a serving maid, their eyes met. Again her heart did peculiar things, a pitter-patter that she was unfamiliar with, and she felt the warmth of a blush heat her face and spread throughout her limbs. How could one glance have such a strange effect? she thought, bewildered by emotions that were both unfamiliar and exciting all at once. She had to speak with him, but to summon him to her side would cause unwelcome comment, and, judging from the grim set of his face, she was not at all sure he would respond favourably.

  Sitting down with Aunt Margaret and Joanna to break her fast, Beatrice idly crumbled a piece of bread, and wondered how she could achieve a secret meeting with Remy. Joanna would see it as a tryst, and be all too eager to conspire in the venture, yet she was reluctant to confide in her cousin, fearing that her tongue would wag. Listening to the conversation at table, she realised that plans were afoot to go hunting before noon, if it did not rain. She was not overly fond of hunting, but she thought an opportunity might be found to speak privately with Remy, whilst they were out in the forest. But then, she mused, if they were using hawks, as seemed likely when the discussion turned to the merits of goshawks and peregrines, no doubt they would keep to the open fields, which would afford little shelter from observation. She pondered on her dilemma and then noticed that Remy was staring at her across the width of the table. She was about to smile when he looked away, his expression stern, no doubt keenly aware of his rejection. Now she fretted anxiously, eager to make it known to him that all hope was not lost.

  But then she faltered, afraid to commit herself, afraid to hurt him needlessly if she found that a great mistake had been made. Mayhap what she felt for him was little more than what he felt for her, and could be easily extinguished by a satisfying night or two in his arms. Her cheeks flared with bright colour at such a thought, but in all honesty she could not see herself creeping about in her nightshift, nor would she lower her high ideals and reduce them to mere carnal desire. What she wanted was love, true love, and Remy had made no mention of such, despite the overwhelming expertise of his kisses that left her in no doubt as to his passion. And yet to love again filled her with terror. She could hardly dare to believe that it could be true either. Did this man love her? What was there about her to love? She had loved William so deeply, with such a fierce ardour, and when he was taken from her the pain of that loss had made her ache with despair. She thought that she was one of those people who could love only once, who chose a mate for a lifetime, like a swan, and even if that mate no longer lived she was still bound to him by her heartstrings. William and his love had filled her life with such brightness that his sudden death had plunged her into a world of deep and endless darkness. Now, many years later, she lived in a world that was neither dark nor bright, but a dull safe warmth that sustained her need for survival. Dare she make any attempt to reach out for the brightness again?

  It was imperative that she speak with him, in private, but it became very clear indeed that Remy was taking great pains to avoid her. By mid-morning she was seething with frustration, and just when she resolved to go to the armoury and confront him, heedless of the breach of etiquette she would be committing in so doing, another matter arose that took precedence.

  Elwyn came to her chamber, where Beatrice sat with her tapestry frame and her restless thoughts, and announced that a messenger had arrived from Wales. Beatrice set aside her sewing and flew down the stairs. She came at a run across the hall, skirts and braids all flying askew in her haste. But she was halted in mid-stride, when her aunt held out a hand and said, “Tis for Sir Remy.’

  Beatrice gasped, and then watched while a servant was sent to the armoury to fetch him. She asked the messenger, ‘Do you come from Wales?’

  ‘Aye.’ He shifted uneasily.

  ‘Did Lord Thurstan send you?’

  The messenger gulped and nodded, eyeing her nervously, but his torment was not prolonged as Remy came striding into the hall, tracking mud from his boots and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. At once the messenger turned to him and held out the parchment, relieved to have done his duty.

  Remy studied Lord Thurstan’s seal and then said tersely, ‘Go you to the kitchen and have your fill of ale, and a meal.’

  The messenger bowed and grinned his thanks, while Beatrice contained her annoyance, her lips thinned to a tight line as she wondered at how Remy dared to give orders in her hall.

  Remy broke the red wax seal and then realised, with a flush of stinging embarrassment, that he could make little sense of the formal Latin script. He cast around and, seeing his dilemma, Lady Margaret carefully edged in by his elbow. She read the letter quickly, gasped several times, and looked with horror from Remy to Beatrice and back again.

  ‘What is it?’ demanded Beatrice, losing all patience and snatching the message from Remy’s hand. She took it to the fire and by its light cast her eyes over her father’s neat writing, chagrined that the one for whom the message was intended was still ignorant as to its contents. Quickly, however, all amusement was wiped from her face and she too gasped with astonishment.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Remy.

  ‘My father has summoned you back to Wales,’ said Beatrice slowly, ‘and you are to take me with you.’

  Remy stared at her in disbelief and then searched about the hall, until he found the chaplain. In two strides he was at Beatrice’s side, and plucked from her fingers his letter. He thrust it at Father Thomas and commanded, ‘Read this to me.’

  With shaking hands the priest held the creased parchment, cleared his throat, squinted at the thick black letters and read out loud, ‘Greetings to Sir Remy St Leger, from your liege, Lord Thurstan. I ask that you bring at once my only daughter. Bring too the medicine chest containing poppy juice. We wait for
you at Carmarthen and wish you God speed.’

  ‘Nay!’ exclaimed Remy. ‘I will not take a woman to Wales.’

  ‘My father commands you.’

  ”Tis safe enough,’ murmured Sir Kendall, ‘by Carmarthen and the Marcher lands.’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Sir Humphrey, ‘and we will ride with you, as we are due to rejoin with Lord Robert now that we have safely delivered Lady Margaret to Ashton.’

  Remy frowned, his mouth a hard line. He liked it not, and he cast a glare upon Beatrice that made her knees shake. ‘Then pack and be ready, my lady. ‘Tis not yet noon and we can make some distance before nightfall.’

  Beatrice and Elwyn flew about the bedchamber in their haste to pack and be ready. Beatrice changed her kirtle in favour of leather breeches and a riding gown that was split both front and back. She sent a message to the stables for Bos to be saddled, brushing aside Elwyn’s fears that she was not a rider skilled enough to handle the young stallion.

  ‘He is swift and strong,’ retorted Beatrice, ‘and such a horse will I need if we are to keep pace with Walther.’

  An hour later they assembled in the hall with five panniers and four saddlebags, and two baskets of food packed by Lady Margaret. Beatrice was making her farewells when Remy came striding into the hall to chivvy her along. He stopped and stared at her baggage, stifling the oath that sprang to his lips.

  ‘What is all this?’ he asked with feigned patience, waving one hand at the small mountain of luggage.

  Beatrice frowned at him, wondering if he had left his senses in the bailey. ‘Why, ‘tis mine and Elwyn’s belongings.’

  ‘Elwyn? She will not be going. One woman is bad enough, but two, never!’

  ‘But I must have my maid! Who else will attend me?’

  ‘You will manage on your own.’ He knelt on one knee and began ripping open the panniers, pulling out gowns and shifts and girdles, hairbrush, Bible, shoes, blankets, shawls, and piling them up on the floor. Then he tipped out the saddlebags and curtly ordered Beatrice to repack. ‘Two saddlebags, my lady, ‘tis all you can take. And make haste, we leave anon.’