The Knight's Vow

by Catherine March

  Beatrice watched with her mouth gaping open. Her temper rose in a flash and she turned to berate him, but already he was striding out the door, shouting orders as he chased the ten men-at-arms who would accompany them.

  Aunt Margaret clucked her tongue. ‘These young men nowadays, so full of themselves.’

  Elwyn bent to retrieve their scattered belongings and sort through the essential items that Beatrice would need: two clean gowns, two shifts, her monthly linens, hose, slippers, brush and Bible.

  Fastening on her cloak, Beatrice turned to embrace her aunt. ‘When I return Father will be with us, I am sure.’ Then she turned to Elwyn and bade her farewell.

  ‘Aye, mistress. Take you good care of yourself now.’

  They kissed, then Beatrice hurried outside as Remy’s squire hovered anxiously. A sharp breeze lifted tendrils of hair at her temples and the hem of her dark blue cloak. Beatrice ran lightly down the steps into the bailey and looked up at Bos, the fine bay stallion her brother Osmond was training to be a warhorse. He snorted at the touch of her fingers on his pink nose, pawed the ground and swished his tail. Beatrice swallowed nervously and looked around for assistance—Bos was so much taller than Willow and she was unable to mount on her own.

  A shadow fell over her and Beatrice turned to face Remy as he came to stand at her shoulder, eyeing Bos grimly, hands on his lean hips in a belligerent fashion, ‘Tell me that you do not intend to ride this creature.’

  Beatrice took a deep breath, and drew herself proudly upright, glancing up at him with a spark of challenge in her eyes. ‘Aye, I do intend to ride him. He is one of the best horses we have.’

  ‘He is too strong for a woman. Take Willow.’

  ‘She is old and slow. Bos will keep better pace with Walther.’

  ‘Not if I have to stop all the time and pick you up from the roadside.’

  ‘Nonsense! Bos is well mannered.’

  ‘He will toss you,’ warned Remy gravely, and then, with a sigh, seeing the stubborn set of her mouth, and not wishing to engage in a full-blown public argument, he put his hands to her hips and lightly lifted Beatrice up into the saddle.

  Beatrice, caught offguard, gasped and quickly threw her leg over the saddle and settled her feet in both stirrups. Remy thrust her thigh up with his forearm as he ducked beneath the saddle flap to check and tighten the girth. In protest, Bos kicked with one back leg and Beatrice had to grab quickly at the reins, almost unseated before the journey had begun.

  Casting her a sceptical glance with raised brows, Remy strode away and vaulted on to Walther. With a shout he wheeled the destrier and led the small party out of the gate, across the wide green meadow of the outer bailey and clattered across the drawbridge.

  Chapter Six

  It became at once apparent that Remy would be their leader, despite the fact that the three knights belonging to Birchlea had the advantage in age, Sir Humphrey Stanhope being the eldest at twenty-eight. Remy set a fast pace, cantering swiftly over hill and dale towards Bristol and leading them through all the short cuts he had learned of on his previous journeys.

  They had not gone far when Bos took exception to Sir Richard’s horse riding close alongside him. He lashed out with his back leg and with his teeth took a chunk out of the unfortunate creature’s neck. Sir Richard’s horse screamed and during the ensuing fracas Beatrice lost her seat.

  With a cry she hit the ground with a hard thump, banging her hip and elbow and flying hooves narrowly missed crushing her head. Remy swore and called the party to a halt, trotting Walther back and swinging down. He knelt in the road at Beatrice’s side; with his hands running over her limbs he quickly ascertained that she was not seriously injured. Then he lifted her up by the elbow and said, stooping to peer into her face, “Tis not too late to turn back. No doubt Willow will be pleased to see you.’

  Beatrice jerked her arm free, and replied sharply, ‘We go on.’

  He shrugged, seized her so roughly that she gasped aloud, and lifted her into the saddle. Catching his eye and the slight smile on his mouth, as his hand lingered on her rump, she rather suspected he enjoyed picking her up. Beatrice snatched up the reins and took control of Bos, who jibed a little but respected her firm hand. Putting his head down, he flowed into a beautiful, smooth canter that scarce bounced Beatrice from the saddle. The other horses kept well out of his way.

  By the time dusk fell they had travelled a good twenty miles, and Beatrice ached in places she never knew could ache. She longed to lie down and rest her weary body, and as they rode through wooded countryside she wondered where they would spend the night. But Remy had no intention of stopping just because the sun had set. Beatrice felt her anger rise again. She wanted to shout at him, hammer him with her fists, swear at him, but he rode ahead and she was helpless to do anything other than keep Bos under control and cantering onwards.

  A cloudless night sky lit their way by star and moonlight and the spring evening was only mildly cool. Beatrice marvelled at the rare privilege she had been granted in sharing this experience, this company of men, when women were oft left behind, cosseted and sheltered within the dull safety of stone walls.

  At last Remy called a halt, but only because the horses were tired and needed to be cooled, watered and fed. They walked for some distance, and then turned off the main track and made camp in a sheltered dell amongst the massive trunks of an oak wood. Squires took care of the horses, while the knights quickly set about erecting canvas tents and making a fire.

  They sat on fallen logs and ate a dry supper of cold meat, bread and cheese, washed down by wine or water carried in skins. Beatrice sat exhausted and silent, slightly apart from the men as they busied themselves with horses, tack, armour, their conversation incomprehensible as they muttered and grumbled and discussed the path ahead and the war in Wales. All she wanted was to sleep and she stood up, planning to find a tent and a sheepskin that would accommodate her.

  The talk abruptly stopped, and the men looked at her. The light of the dancing flames fell upon her pale cheeks and the glow of her braided honey hair. Beatrice was acutely aware that she was the only woman amongst eighteen men, although the ten men-at-arms camped apart from them, in a protective ring about the inner core of the four knights, their four squires and, at their heart, Lady Beatrice of Ashton.

  Remy rose to his feet, still chewing on a hunk of bread, as did Sir Richard Blackthorn, and Beatrice was trapped between the pair of them.

  ‘I wish to sleep,’ she whispered, glancing shyly up at Remy.

  ‘Come, my lady,’ said Sir Richard, taking her gently by the wrist, ‘my tent is available to you.’

  Roughly Remy seized her other wrist and for a moment Beatrice felt like a bone caught between two dogs, before Remy pulled her away and thrust her behind him. He held her with his left hand, while his right hand clasped the hilt of his sword and he announced in an implacable voice, “Tis I Lord Thurstan entrusted with the safety of his daughter. Not you, Blackthorn. She will sleep in my tent.’

  For a moment Sir Richard glared at the younger man, then he grinned, and swept an ornate bow as he backed away, ‘As you wish.’

  A tug on her wrist and Beatrice had to follow Remy, tripping in his wake over the rough ground. His squire ran ahead and flung aside the tent flap, fussed around arranging furs and sheepskins, showed Beatrice where he had put her saddlebags and begged to know if she required anything else.

  ‘Your manners are better than your knight’s.’ She smiled at the boy, ignoring Remy’s scowl at this insult. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Nogood.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘His name is Nogood,’ barked Remy and, with his hand in the small of her back all but shoved Beatrice inside the tent. ‘Lie you down and go to sleep. We rise at dawn.’

  Beatrice had thought she would lie awake all night, so strange was her bedchamber, with the wind banging on canvas, the rustle and snap of the woods all about, the smell of grass and the snort and stamp of horses close
by. But she fell asleep almost instantly and only woke up once when the weight and heat of a large male body settled not two feet away from her. In one corner Nogood lay, judging by his snores, and Beatrice did not stir until he gently wakened her at first light. She suspected that her easy slumber had much to do with the fact that Remy St Leger slept beside her, and with his broad back for her door and his long legs for her walls she had felt safe as a babe within its cradle.

  Remy watched her in the morning, with an inscrutable face, as they prepared to ride on. She stood in front of Bos, stroking his nose and talking softly to him. The stallion’s ears were pricked as he listened, and he mumbled at her hair with his thick, velvety lips. Laughing, Beatrice fed him a crust of bread and Bos snorted, butting her gently in the stomach for more. Her lack of fear impressed Remy, for there were few women, especially one as small as Beatrice, who would not be frightened of the hot-tempered and powerful destrier.

  Even though he knew her body must be screaming with aching protest at the unfamiliar exercise, he admired the way she made no complaint. Her walk was slightly hobbled as she moved to check girth and stirrup leathers and Remy was quick to be the one to assist her to mount, even though Sir Richard had attempted to reach her first.

  Beatrice smiled her thanks to Remy and gathered the reins in one hand, turning Bos to join with the others. The day was much the same as the one before, although longer and more exhausting. Sometimes the men sang; often there was a joke and much laughter. She liked listening to them, even though their conversation was sometimes not suitable for the hearing of a lady.

  Remy looked back often, not only to check on his men and their progress, but to check that Bos behaved and gave Beatrice no trouble. Or was that just an excuse to look at her lovely face? Her smile was so soft and sweet, he thought, although always slightly guarded. He wondered if she ever allowed herself to let go of this elderly and formal constraint that she wore like the mantle of an old woman. What would it take to make her laugh so hard and so loud that tears ran down her cheeks?

  That night it was he who tossed and turned, while she slept soundly in a nest of furs, a slender shape beneath her covers, but the curve of one hip, as she lay on her side, distinctly female.

  On the third day they left England behind and entered Wales. Beatrice noticed a change in the men. They became quieter, wary and vigilant. The countryside was now wild and treeless, rising to high mountain crags and swept by a noisy wind.

  Sir Kendall rode alongside Beatrice and she asked him, ‘Tell me about the Welsh. Are they as fiercesome as everyone says?’

  ‘Indeed.’ Sir Kendall nodded sagely, glad for the opportunity to impress her with his knowledge, scant as it was. ‘They are not overly tall, but they are exceptionally sturdy and live outdoors in all weathers. They throw javelins and spears and it is thanks to them that we have adopted the longbow, which can fire an arrow over a greater distance than our crossbows, and with more accuracy.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Beatrice considered this information and looked fearfully up at the barren hills circling them, expecting at any moment to see hordes of angry Welshmen aiming their arrows at her.

  Remy, overhearing this conversation, twisted in the saddle, with a frown for Sir Kendall. ‘Have no fear, my lady, for we ride through Marcher lands still. There are no Welsh here who will attack us.’

  Beatrice relaxed a little at this information, but, judging from the continued wariness and quiet of the men, as they rode in close formation about her and looked constantly to left and right, she wondered how truthful his assurance was.

  That night they camped against the walls of a Cistercian monastery, and had their first hot meal in three days, seated at the refectory table of the monks’ guesthouse. Remy made enquiries about a room for Beatrice, but it turned out there were none available, full as they were with a large party of pilgrims on their way to St David’s. After the meal, she returned with the men to their camp and settled herself for the night in Remy’s tent, while he sat around the campfire and warmed himself with aquavit, hoping that it would dull his senses. He must spend another night sleeping alongside Beatrice and he was not certain that he could endure the torment, or the temptation.

  In the tent’s dark privacy Beatrice sank down with a sigh upon the nest of furs that Nogood had made ready for her. After three days of hard riding her gown and breeches stank of dirt and horseflesh. Glancing over her shoulder, making sure the tent flap was down, she pulled off her boots, her hose, her breeches and her gown. Clad only in her muslin shift, she climbed beneath the covers and settled her aching body with a sigh, wriggling her bare toes with delight into the spongy softness of a sheepskin.

  Shadows from the men seated around the fire leapt gigantically against the cream canvas of the tent, and Beatrice watched these idly as her thoughts roamed. She heard Sir Kendall tell a joke about a maid and a monk that made her ears blush, although she didn’t quite understand its meaning and was intrigued when Sir Humphrey admonished his fellow knight for its coarseness. Remy, however, laughed heartily and then the men were silent for a moment, conspicuously aware of the lady that lay not far from them.

  Smiling to herself, her cheek pillowed on one hand, Beatrice fell asleep, her last thought being that the Welsh would not attack them here on the sacred ground of a monastery. When the others came to sleep she did not know, but when she woke again it was very dark and quiet, except for the distant howl of a wolf that had disturbed her from her sleep. She woke with a start, heart thumping, and reached out with one hand, hearing no snores and fearful of being alone.

  She encountered the warm bulk of Remy’s back. Reassured that she was not alone she turned over, facing towards him. She remembered her conversation with Sir Kendall and suddenly, in the black emptiness of a dark, wild night, she felt a return of her fears. What, indeed, was there to stop the Welsh from attacking them? Mayhap they were heathens and had no respect for the sanctity of holy ground, and there was neither moat nor battlements to protect them from whatever the hills harboured.

  Stifling a small moan of terror she shifted closer to Remy, and he, his instincts honed with a soldier’s alertness, woke instantly. He turned to her, his voice rough with sleep and rasped, ‘What is it?’

  His hand reached at once for his sword, but her cool fingers on his wrist stayed him. “Tis naught,’ she whispered, ‘I was just a little…afraid.’

  He lay back down, aware of her small hand and her bare arm as it slid past his when she tucked it back under the covers. ‘Have no fear,’ he answered softly, ‘I will protect you with my life from all harm.’

  In the dark Beatrice smiled. She could not help but voice her fears, ‘But you are only one man, Sir Remy.’

  With a chuckle, he lifted her hand and placed it upon the massive bulge of his bicep and whispered back, ‘Aye, but what a man!’

  Beatrice clucked her tongue at his boasting, but joined him in a soft chuckle, realising that he humoured her out of her fear. It seemed only natural when he reached out and dragged her pallet of furs closer, and she made no objection when their two separate sleeping spaces became one. For a while they were both silent and she wondered, judging from his deep, even breathing, if he was asleep. ‘Remy?’

  He grunted, and stirred. ‘What?’

  ‘Do the Welsh kill women, in battle?’

  His eyes opened at that, although he could see nothing in the pitch dark. He did not want to frighten her more and tell her the truth: that the Welsh would not kill her, but rape her and take her captive. ‘Nay, my lady, they do not kill women.’

  She sighed thankfully, slightly mollified. ‘How far do we still have to go?’

  ‘We should reach Carmarthen by midday tomorrow.’

  ‘I shall be very glad to see my father.’

  ‘Aye. And he will be glad to see you.’

  She smiled. ‘Remy?’

  He curbed his impatience, holding sleep at bay as he answered her yet again, ‘What?’

  ‘Where is Nogood?�
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  ‘On guard duty.’

  ‘Would it…be very improper…if I asked you…to hold me?’

  He smiled, ‘Aye, my lady, very improper indeed.’ But without further ado he reached out, opened both their covers, and pulled her slender body into the warmth of his.

  Beatrice gasped as she met the furnace-like heat that his body generated, and realised, with a further gasp, that he slept naked. He, too, became aware that she wore only her shift and the feel of her silky limbs against him stirred his blood. But neither of them made any comment, and Beatrice settled herself with two inches of space between their bodies, her head pillowed against his proud bicep. She resisted the urge to rub her cheek against him and snuggle even closer to his heavy male body that towered reassuringly over her. A languid warmth flooded through her limbs and she relaxed trustingly beside him, eager once again for sleep.

  ‘Beatrice?’ whispered Remy, after some long while, probing to see if she was still awake.

  ‘Mmm?’ she murmured drowsily.

  His reply was to press his lips to her temple, his fingers sliding up her arm to reach her chin, tipping her face up to his and finding her mouth unerringly in the dark, tilted to the perfect angle to meet his kiss. Beatrice sighed weakly, soft and pliant, unresisting. Whenever Remy kissed her she knew only pleasure, and so she lay quietly and let him. His ardour quickened and his mouth opened hers, his tongue sliding possessively in and joining with her tongue in a kiss of such deep intimacy that she quivered. She moaned and her arms slid around his neck, encouraging him to continue.

  Whether it was the aquavit or the knowledge that tomorrow he must surrender Beatrice to her father, he did not know, but he only knew that he wanted more, much more. His fingers found the strap of her shift and slid it down from her shoulder, tugging at the fragile linen until her breast was bared to him and his hand settled upon the soft, high mound. His thumb brushed the velvet circle of her nipple and instantly it tightened into a bud.