The Knight's Vow

by Catherine March

  The evening was warm and the buds of flowers were just unfurling in the pleasant garden as Beatrice strolled slowly beside Sir Richard. Carefully, she sought to broach the subject uppermost in her mind. In the end, she decided there was no need to prevaricate and spoke directly.

  ‘Sir Richard, I am anxious to return home and you have kindly offered me your assistance should I have a need. I ask you then, kind sir, if you would escort me to Ashton.’

  Sir Richard stopped and stared at her for a long moment. Then he bowed and reached for her hand, pressing a kiss upon it as he said gravely, ‘My lady, I would be delighted to escort you, but I am not free to do so. We ride at first light to join with my Lord Robert.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘It is by direct order of the King.’

  Beatrice searched his face with her eyes, trying to decide if he spoke truthfully or whether he was just playing a dangerous game with his own safety in mind. There was no clue from his bland expression and she turned away with a heavy sigh, freeing her hand from his clasp. ‘I see.’

  ‘My apologies, Lady Beatrice. But there is naught I can do. King Edward is in need of reinforcements against the Welsh and his campaign takes prior claim over…’ He hesitated to be blunt.

  ‘Over the petty affairs of women?’ Beatrice finished for him, an acid tone to her voice. ‘Very well. You have no need to grovel, Sir Richard.’

  He flushed. ‘If I could, I would, be assured of that. May I suggest that you apply to Lord Haworth?’

  She inclined her head with what little dignity she could muster. ‘I shall do so.’

  Her instincts were that such a request would not meet with any favour, and she was right. Lord Haworth was polite but firm in his refusal, stating that he could not spare the men to escort her homewards.

  For several days Beatrice seethed in frustration; there was something distinctly odd about the blank wall of refusal that she came up against time and time again from all quarters. She was convinced that a conspiracy was afoot to prevent her from leaving Wales, but exactly why she was uncertain.

  Four days after the funeral Beatrice emerged from Mass to find a party of monks dismounting from their mules in the bailey, with heartfelt murmurs and groans of relief.

  ‘Good day, Father,’ Beatrice greeted one of the monks, noting from his plain garb of brown wool that they were Benedictines. ‘Have you journeyed far this day?’

  ‘Good day, my child,’ exclaimed the monk loudly, as he rubbed his aching backside, with great relief to have his feet upon terra firma. ‘We have come from St David’s, where we have made our pilgrimage. Are you the chatelaine of this keep?’

  ‘Nay, indeed. It is Lady Alys you should apply to, although I am sure you are most welcome. Come, I will show you to her.’

  ‘Thank you, sweet girl, you are most kind. Father Dennis, bring the others, this young lady will show us the way.’

  ‘Very good, Father Clement.’

  Beatrice escorted them all the way across the bailey and up the rise of stone steps that led into the great hall, surrounded by five Benedictine monks, all tonsured, some overweight and overtired, others gaunt with earnest piety. She asked carefully, ‘It is a great undertaking to make a pilgrimage to St David’s. I hear that the journey is so perilous across the wild land of Wales that it would be easier to make one to Rome.’

  ‘Indeed, child.’ Father Clement sighed heartily. ‘Yea, though I shall walk through the shadows of the valley of death, I shall not fear. Thy rod and thy staff shall comfort me.’

  ‘Psalm 23?’

  He smiled and patted her hand, nodding in agreement.

  Beatrice asked her next question carefully, ‘And where is your home, Father? Have you very far to go?’

  ‘Our monastery is near Bath. A week’s ride from here. Not too far, yet far enough.’

  As they entered the hall and stood before the warming flames of the hearth, Beatrice was already concocting a plan, but she bided her time as Lady Alys approached and introductions were made. Bath was only twenty miles from Ashton; could she manage to persuade the monks to take her with them, and could she manage to travel the remaining miles alone? She had no desire to repeat the dreadful occurrence of her last solitary journey. This time there might be no Remy St Leger to rescue her.

  She pondered on these thoughts during supper and did not rush to make any request of the Benedictines. Indeed, she even resolved to sleep on the vexing matter, and, as she lay awake hugging her pillow, she wondered whether it was wisdom or cowardice that prevented her from making a decision. It might be many weeks before another suitable escort, or any escort for that matter, might happen along. She had better grab the chance while it was still within her grasp.

  With that thought in mind, upon rising in the morning and joining with the monks in the chapel for early prayers, she touched Father Clement upon his sleeve and asked, in a taut whisper, if she might have a private word with him. He showed no surprise or reluctance at her request and, in the shadows of the cloistered gardens, she quickly told him of her predicament and her desperate need to return home.

  Father Clement nodded his head slowly, mouth pursed, florid jowls vibrating. ‘Certainly you are most welcome, although we can offer you poor protection, for we are not knights, but I am certain the banner of God shall guard you as it has us.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Father, I am most grateful!’

  ‘Providing,’ he said sternly, arresting her joyful reaction, ‘providing that Lord Haworth and Lady Alys give their consent, for I would not want my order to be accused of abducting rich young females.’

  ‘Certainly.’ Beatrice uttered the word glibly, without a trace of the deceit she knew she would have to practise in order to leave Carmarthen. She promised that she would tell the Haworths of her departure, but in fact she had no intention of doing so. She hoped, somehow, to slip out of the gates unnoticed.

  ‘We shall leave shortly after we have broken our fast.’

  ‘I shall be ready, Father.’ Beatrice hurried away, calling over one shoulder as she skipped across the bailey, ‘Thank you, Father.’

  She ran up the steps and then forced herself to walk modestly and quietly across the great hall, afraid to attract any undue attention and most anxious to avoid Lady Alys. Any questions from that shrewd woman and she would crumble like a Christmas pudding!

  Arriving in her chamber somewhat breathless, Beatrice ran about gathering up her possessions, stuffing them into her saddlebags and now grateful that Remy had been so severe about her baggage. She had no need to call a waiting woman to assist her; throwing on her cloak, she endeavoured to hide the bags beneath its concealing folds. Then she crept down the stairs and observed the hall before attempting to sneak across it. As she had hoped, the maids were busy setting up the trestle tables and tending to the dogs, and Lady Alys could be heard scolding some unfortunate fellow in the kitchen as she chivvied preparations for the first meal of the day. Most of the men were about their business in the armoury, bailey and stables, and those two that remained dozed before the fire with eyes closed, besotted from too much drink enjoyed on the previous eve.

  Her footsteps were swift and silent as she crossed the hall. Then she was out the door and across the bailey, hurrying in the direction of the stables. Here she ordered a stableboy to saddle Bos and bring him out to her, and she was a little daunted as he emerged from his stable dancing from foot to foot, snorting and chafing at the little exercise he had been given these five days past. Walther came to the door of his stall and poked his head out to see what all the commotion was about and, seeing Beatrice, he snickered. He had been left behind, together with all the other destriers of the English knights, who were relying upon sturdy Welsh ponies; far too many of their own warhorses, imported at great expense from France, had been lost to the Welsh. Beatrice ignored him, swallowed nervously and was just about to throw up her saddlebags upon Bos when the stentorian boom of the sentry guard echoed across the yard. She gave a guilty start, thi
nking that her subterfuge had been detected, but it soon became apparent that she was not the subject of interest.

  The main gates, always kept securely shut and barred, creaked open and a small party stumbled in on foot. Beatrice watched, her eyes narrowed as she looked the distance. Then, as recognition dawned, she dropped the saddlebags and ran.

  ‘Sir Giles!’ she called, picking up her skirts in both hands and forcing her legs to run faster.

  The knights, leaning with weary exhaustion upon their knees or each other, looked up as she ran towards them. There was Woodford and Montgomery too, and the other two knights belonged to the Haworth household, she knew not their names, but all of them were filthy with mud and blood, haggard with exhaustion, and horribly bereft of their weapons and horses. But, as she stood staring at them, there was only one question that desperately needed an answer. ‘Where is Sir Remy?’

  Sir Giles looked up at her with a grave expression, ‘He is taken, my lady. The Welsh have captured him. Along with Baldslow, Nogood and three of the Haworth knights.’

  ‘And the others? Grenville? Fitzpons?’

  ‘Dead. They are all dead. They only let us go to bear a message of ransom.’

  Beatrice pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling her gasp of horror. From the corner of her eye she saw the Benedictine monks emerge from the hall and move towards their mules, ready to embark on their journey south and homewards. Beatrice groaned. It was one thing to leave, knowing that Remy was alive and well and off doing what men loved to do best—fight—but quite another to leave knowing he faced a fate of almost certain death. Damn you, Remy St Leger!

  With clenched fists Beatrice watched as the gates were opened for the monks to depart. Father Clement approached leading his mule by the reins. She murmured her excuses, and then waved them goodbye.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Nay!’ thundered Lord Haworth. ‘I forbid it! We will not pay ransom to those thieving heathens! And you will not ride out to meet them. The King has ordered the Welsh prince, Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, to pay homage to him, and he has failed to do so. Now Edward has amassed the largest army since King William came from Normandy and will take Wales by force. It will mean forfeiture of my demesne if the King finds out that we have paid ransom monies to the Welsh.’

  ‘Do not say nay to me, my lord!’ shouted Beatrice in return, spinning so fast upon her heel that her skirts flew about in a swirl. ‘Are these not my very own knights? If I wish to pay ransom, then I will do so. If I wish to ride out and meet the Welshman and pay him his thirty pieces of silver into his dirty little hand, then I will do so. By God, I will do so!’

  She ran to the solar door and wrenched it open, but was halted by the roar that exploded from Lord Haworth.

  ‘Young woman!’

  Beatrice paused, and turned to glance over her shoulder. Lady Alys came up to her and placed her arm around Beatrice’s shoulders, gently guiding her back into the room.

  Lord Haworth sighed heavily. ‘Lady Beatrice, you try my patience!’ He held up his hands to hush her protests. ‘Listen to me for a moment. A knight knows well enough the price he may be called upon to pay in service to his king. He is not afraid to die.’

  ‘I will not let Remy die!’ cried Beatrice, her control breaking and the words bursting out upon a sob. ‘I beg you, my lord, please. Please help me. I will do anything. Anything at all. I have the money to pay the ransom, and I will even pay ransom for your knights as well. Then the King cannot judge you.’

  Lord Haworth again sighed deeply, torn between his duty and his conscience. He would gladly see returned safely home his three knights, but the price was too high. ‘I cannot spare any men to ride out and pay the ransom, and risk their capture too.’

  ‘I will go myself.’

  ‘Nay! Impossible.’

  ‘Why?’ pleaded Beatrice, pressing her advantage. ‘With or without your permission, Lord Haworth, I leave before midday to secure the release of my knights.’

  Beatrice turned then and marched resolutely from the solar, despite the pleas and cajoling of Lady Alys and Lord Haworth.

  Sir Giles Radley sat sprawled in a chair before the fire hearth in the great hall, clutching a goblet of hot spiced wine. He sat up as Beatrice approached.

  ‘How much?’ she demanded, breathless, pushing back the strands of hair that she had disturbed in her heated and agitated argument with Lord Haworth. ‘How much do they want?’

  ‘A hundred pounds.’

  ‘Well…’ Beatrice sighed with relief ‘…that is not beyond my means.’ Her father had left a coffer of gold coins, to pay his men and purchase their food and lodgings, as well as armour, weapons and horses.

  ‘Each.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A hundred pounds for each man.’

  Beatrice calculated that even three hundred pounds was well within her means, but then she remembered her rash offer to free the Haworth men as well—the ransom monies would be six hundred pounds. That was a fortune indeed. And she did not have it readily to hand. She raised her eyes to the ceiling, as though she could see through it to the solar above and the furious Lord Haworth, bitterly regretting her argument with him. Now she would need to humble herself and beg him to reconsider and provide the money to free his own knights. It occurred to her that this task was best suited to someone Lord Haworth was more agreeable to listening to—in short, a man. She turned to Sir Giles, and after some persuasion on her part, some sighing and eye-rolling on his part, he reluctantly rose to his aching feet and went off to engage Lord Haworth in a serious discussion.

  Satisfied that Sir Giles would not fail her in his task, Beatrice went off to make preparations for her journey. She hurried to her father’s chamber. In the doorway she paused, her hand fastening on the doorframe, as though part of her would pull her away. Looking about, she saw that the room had been cleared of the screens and the cot upon which her father had died. Now all that remained were his cloak and clothes, his saddlery, the padlocked coffer of gold coins, and a pile of armour that belonged not only to her father but to other departed knights. Armour was a valuable commodity and what had been owned by Ashton knights was now piled in a corner. Beatrice approached slowly, her footsteps soft upon the stone floor. She eyed the discarded swords, shields, hauberks, gauntlets, greaves and vambraces, saddened that this pile of steel and leather was all that remained of noble men slain upon the windswept hillsides of Wales.

  Kneeling down, Beatrice tugged out what she had seen the day before, upon her inspection of her father’s belongings. The bishop’s mantle was a full-length cloak, the shoulders protected by mail. She put this to one side, and then searched for a pair of gauntlets small enough to fit her hands. She knew that she could not ride out to meet the Welsh dressed as a woman, but neither did she have the physical attributes to shoulder the great weight of a knight’s armour. The bishop’s cloak, worn over a leather tunic and quilted chausses, should adequately protect her, as well as disguising her female figure. Leather boots and a coif to cover her head, made of very fine mail over a cloth lambrequin and not too heavy, completed her outfit and she placed all the items in the bishop’s cloak, tied up the corners and carried the large, rather heavy, bundle to her chamber.

  Here she summoned the little maid assigned to her by Lady Alys and enlisted her help in transforming Lady Beatrice of Ashton into a young knight. They laughed, and groaned as each broke a nail in their struggle with the rough leather and cold, chinking steel links of mail, but at last Beatrice was fastened into her new clothing. She strutted about with what she hoped was passing resemblance to a male swagger and looked to young Bryony for approval.

  The maid nodded and then frowned. ‘But, my lady, your hair…’ She pointed at the long, honey-brown length of Beatrice’s lovely hair. ‘Surely you do not mean to cut it.’

  ‘Nay—’ Beatrice chuckled ‘—I do not intend to carry this charade so far. I shall braid it and hide the length beneath my tunic.’ She demonstrated this by tucking her bra
id into the back of the neck. ‘Like so.’ She pirouetted. ‘I am Lord…Lord…’ She cast about for a suitable name.

  ‘Bertram?’ suggested the maid, hands clasped to her chin pensively.

  ‘Nay. Too old. Lord…’

  ‘Boniface?’

  ‘Nay! Too silly.’

  ‘Bernard?’

  ‘Aye. Lord Bernard.’

  Thus attired, her pale face roughened with ash from the hearth, Beatrice left her chamber with some trepidation, yet enjoying the free movement of her legs in chausses as she trotted down the stairs. In the hall Lord Haworth and Lady Alys greeted her with dumbfounded silence, and Beatrice felt colour swamp her face and neck in a hot embarrassing tide. Lady Alys started to fan herself and complained that she felt faint, stumbling to seat herself upon the settle by the fire, while Lord Haworth stood with arms akimbo and a mighty frown upon his face. But he remained silent. Then Sir Giles came forwards and made his bow to Beatrice.

  ‘My lady, we are ready to depart.’

  Remy woke with a start. He had been dreaming, a bright, vivid dream of a silver lake glinting with sunshine, a blue sky, a shaded oak tree, beneath which he lay upon a velvet cloak with Beatrice. Her hair had been unbound, flowing like a golden river of dark honey over her bare shoulders. Her body had been pale, and soft, and inviting. Love had been shining in her eyes as he had leaned over her…and that was when he had awoken, his mind unable to accept so untrue a fact. Love did not shine from her eyes, and no doubt he would never lie naked with Beatrice of Ashton!

  He did not want to open his eyes and remind himself of where he was. But his other senses did that for him. His big body ached, cold and cramped as he lay upon the dirt floor of a hut, the soft snoring and disgruntled sounds of his companions as they too shifted uneasily in their sleep making him all too aware that he was held captive by a Welsh chieftain. He cursed himself for a fool over and over again. He had thought himself invincible, having survived many battles and never been captured before. True, it had taken five of these heathens to bring him down from his horse, and two he had quickly despatched to their maker before Sir Giles had called for them to put up their arms, seeking to save lives with surrender.