“I am twenty-nine years old,
Sir Remy, and I have never
been kissed….”

Remy squinted a look at Beatrice, the light slowly dawning.

“I can expect to live twenty, maybe thirty years as a nun. Alone. Unloved. I would like to know…that is…will you kiss me?”

“He stared at her, silent.

“So that I may know what it is like,” she continued. “And take that memory with me.”

“He shook his head. “I cannot oblige you. ’Twould be more than my life is worth. Your father—”

“He will never know! I promise. No one will know.”

“Nay.” He turned to go.

“Wait! Please. Just a kiss. ’Tis all I ask. I hear most men are willing to kiss maids….”

The Knight’s Vow

Harlequin®Historical #234—April 2008

CATHERINE MARCH

was born in Zimbabwe. Her love of the written word began when she was ten years old and her English teacher gave her Lorna Doone to read. Encouraged by her mother, Catherine began writing stories while a teenager. Over the years her employment has varied from barmaid to bank clerk to legal secretary. Her favorite hobbies are watching rugby, walking by the sea, exploring castles and reading.

The KNIGHT’S VOW
CATHERINE MARCH

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

Available from Harlequin®Historical and CATHERINE MARCH

My Lady English #822

The Knight’s Vow #234

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter One

April 1277

The wind howled and the rain drummed a steady beat against the shutters of Castle Ashton. In the great hall the most privileged knights of the household sat close to a fire glowing in the hearth, wide enough to burn logs the length of a man.

Some of the knights threw dice upon a game of chance, several talked earnestly about past heroics upon the battlefield, two played chess and one tried his luck with a pretty serf who had, thus far, eluded his pursuit.

A door banged above and the wooden stairs creaked as footsteps pounded down from the lord’s solar on the first floor. The knights looked up, expectant, wary.

Lord Thurstan exuded a vibrant energy as he strode across the hall, despite his years of some two score and six. There was a touch of grey at his temples and threading through his thick brown beard, but his heavy body was still that of a warrior—in King Edward’s army he held a high rank.

‘Radley!’

‘My lord?’ Sir Giles Radley, second-in-command, leapt to his feet, his game of chess forgotten.

‘On the morrow you will escort Lady Beatrice to the convent at Glastonbury. Take forty men-at-arms and,’ he paused and looked around, eyes narrowed as he considered his twelve knights, ‘take Grenville, Montgomery, Woodford, Fitzpons, and…Baldslow. Oh, and take young St Leger as well. ‘Tis high time the boy earned his keep. And make haste, for we leave for Wales at the end of this week.’

The knights broke away from their idle pastimes and now crowded around Lord Thurstan, questions tripping eagerly over one another as they begged for news of the Welsh campaign.

‘So Edward is determined to conquer Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, and make him rue the day he ever refused to pay homage?’ asked Sir Hugh Montgomery.

‘Aye.’ Lord Thurstan accepted a goblet of wine, ‘The king has set his sights on Gwynedd and naught, neither reason nor argument, will deter him.’

Their discussion upon the merits and means of forcing the Welsh into submission went on well into the night. Those who had an early start on the morrow drifted away to bedrolls before the warm hearth. One hovered at Lord Thurstan’s elbow—Cedric Baldslow, a man who matched his lord in age, his square, solid frame not yet running to fat, his face well worn and tanned to the hue and texture of saddle leather, his greying head shaved. His thin mouth and narrow eyes reflected the portrait of a hard man, a man Lord Thurstan valued only as a knight who could, and would, fight hard in any battle.

‘My lord,’ said Sir Cedric softly, ‘the Lady Beatrice…’ he hesitated and Lord Thurstan looked painfully away, knowing full well what was to come next ‘…she is determined to take holy vows?’

‘Aye. That she is. The girl would be a nun and there is no one who can change her mind.’

Cedric clutched urgently at his lord’s sleeve, almost desperate, as he pleaded, ‘You cannot sanction it, for the love of God! Persuade her, my lord, to accept me and I will make her a fine husband.’

Thurstan snorted and took a deep gulp of his wine, before slamming down the cup in a way that brooked no further argument. He could not tell Cedric that not only did he neither like nor trust him and would not give his only daughter in marriage to such a man, but that Beatrice herself had made it clear that she neither liked nor trusted not only Cedric, but any man.

‘The girl is twenty-nine years old,’ said Thurstan gruffly. “Tis her own decision. Now, I am off to bed. Fare thee well, Cedric, and I entrust you to deliver Beatrice safely to the Abbess at Glastonbury.’

In her chamber Beatrice knelt upon the floor and carefully folded her garments into a coffer made of oak and bound with strips of iron. Between the layers she slid in her personal possessions: Bible, hairbrush, sewing kit, a brooch, shoes, soap, writing paper, quills and ink.

A soft tap upon the door made her pause, and look up, as her father came in. He folded his arms over his broad chest and surveyed the stripped room and the open coffer, now almost full to the brim.

‘It is done,’ he said, abruptly. ‘Radley will escort you on the morrow to Glastonbury.’

‘Thank you, Father.’ Beatrice lowered her eyes, hands clasped, searching for words.

‘Come here, girl.’ Her father opened his arms and she ran to him, laying her head upon the barrel of his chest, her small hands clutching at his tunic. He stroked her hair, noting that its honey colour was so like her mother’s. ‘I have no argument with your decision. My only disappointment is that you will never know the joy of being a wife and a mother—’ he held up a hand, hushing her protest ‘—but as I am away to Wales, to march with your brothers and the king’s army, ‘tis just as well you go now to the nuns. God alone knows if I shall return, and I would have not a moment’s peace to think of you here alone at Ashton.’

‘Oh, Father, you will return safely! I shall pray every day for you, for Hal and Osmond, and for all our knights who go to Wales.’

With a smile her father smoothed the soft golden-brown head laid against his chest, his other hand patting her shoulder. ‘You are a good girl, Beatrice. Just like your mother, God rest her soul.’ And with that he set her aside and left her alone to finish her packing.

It was her thoughts that occupied Beatrice, more than her packing. She could not deny that she was filled with sadness at the prospect of leaving her home, yet since her mother had died two months ago the empty space she had left only reminded Beatrice more acutely that her life had little meaning and no purpose. How hard it had become to rise each day and trudge through her dreary routine of chores! To deal with petty domestic problems and conflicts between the serfs, when inside of her there ached a loneliness that could never be fulfilled. At least in the convent she would have the company of the nuns, and a tranquil life spent in prayer and devotion to a being whom she loved more dearly than any man.

The morning dawned cold, pearl-white with mist, a soft rain dripping from the trees and rooftops. Beatrice broke her fast early, alone in her room, having first attended mass in the castle chapel. Finishing her last crust of bread and cheese, Beatrice summoned her maid, Elwyn, who came at once and began to brush her mistress’s hair with long, slow strokes, her face glistening with silent tears.

‘Come now, Elwyn,’ chided Beatrice gently, taking away the brush and laying it back in her coffer, “tis not the end of the world.’

‘Oh, my lady,’ Elwyn sobbed, ‘do not go! ‘Tis not right, for one so young and lovely to shut herself away with those old crones.’

Beatrice clucked her tongue in disapproval, ‘I am neither young, nor lovely, nor the nuns of St Jude “old crones”. Be happy for me, Elwyn, for ‘tis a great honour to be accepted and I go to live a life of tranquillity, devoted to our Lord in prayer.’ With a smile she wiped Elwyn’s cheeks with her sleeve, ‘You have been looking after me since I was twelve years old, and well you have done it. But shall you not be glad now for the respite? Mayhap you should marry. Goodness knows Big Al the blacksmith has asked you enough times.’

‘Oh, I am too old for all that nonsense.’ Elwyn sniffed, and with a valiant effort set about braiding Beatrice’s hair, fastening on her cloak and lacing her boots. Reluctantly, she accepted a final embrace, helped Beatrice lock her coffer and accompanied her downstairs to the hall.

The serfs were lined up, waiting, and Beatrice clasped hands with each one, with a murmur of thanks and best wishes for the future, until she came at last to her father. He tucked her arm in his and led her out of the wide main door and on to the steps. Beatrice resisted the temptation to look back, blinking away the sudden and unexpected tears. She had not thought to be so anguished at this final parting; indeed, she had imagined it would be a relief to be leaving after all the long, lonely years, but at this moment she only felt awash with sadness.

In the bailey horses champed on their bits, stamped and snorted, tails swishing as girths were tightened. The air rang with clanking swords, jingling spurs, and the deep voices of men as they made final preparations for an important task—to protect their baron’s daughter from all harm.

For the knights a journey to Glastonbury would take scarce a day, but to accommodate Lady Beatrice they would ride at a more leisurely pace, and spend the night at an inn along the way. Nothing would be left to chance and the knights, well trained and well prepared, took seriously the task entrusted to them.

A groom led Beatrice’s horse forward, a pretty chestnut mare of mature years, dependable if not swift. Beatrice stroked Willow’s soft pink nose, delaying the moment when she must make her final farewell to her father. His hand laid upon her shoulder and she looked up with a wan smile.

‘I can come with you,’ he offered, hopefully.

Beatrice shook her head, flung her arms around his waist and hugged him tight. Tears crowded her throat, but she shook her head again. ‘Nay, Father. ‘Tis far better if I go alone. Otherwise I might never have the courage to leave you.’

‘One way or another,’ he whispered against her temple, ‘you will always be with me. Here.’ His meaty fist struck his heart.

They hugged one another for some long moments, and then Lord Thurstan broke away, cleared his throat with a gruff cough, and boosted Beatrice up into the saddle of her mare. She reached down and clasped his fingers.

‘Farewell, Father. May God be with you.’

‘Farewell, my little Beatrice. Remember, if all is not well, you have only to send word.’

Beatrice smiled softly. ‘I will not forget, Father. And give my love to Hal and Osmond when you see them.’

With raised hands they saluted one another and then Beatrice turned her horse about and followed the seven knights, who rode close about her. Their hoofbeats drummed loudly across the wooden drawbridge, followed by the forty men-at-arms, all mounted and well armoured with swords, bows, spears and shields.

The day brightened and the sun peeped through the clouds, lifting Beatrice out of her sombre mood. She could not recall ever hearing birdsong so sweet, as it came now from the larks and starlings, nor seen elder and hawthorn trees blossom so prettily. The hedgerows were full of yellow pepper saxifrage and evening primrose, interspersed with the bright blue of periwinkle and the ramblings of pink-and-white wild dog-roses. The slope of the land appeared magnificent to her eye as hill and dale spread about her in a great vista.

Amidst the constant creak and rattle of leather and armour, the talk of men all around her, there was little peace to enjoy the beauty of this, her last day of freedom. She admonished herself inwardly, trying to uphold the view that she should not consider her commitment to the church to be an end, but a new and wonderful beginning.

And yet…

Cedric Baldslow nudged his destrier alongside Willow and persisted in his attempts to engage Beatrice in conversation. If her smile seemed more aloof than the smile she gave to others, he did not appear to notice. Arrogantly he was confident of his charms, convinced that the lass needed only persuasion to accept his troth. The fact that she had rejected him three times already seemed not to trouble him at all.

At last Sir Giles Radley, seeing her predicament, sent Baldslow away on an errand to the rear of the column, to check on the cart bearing Beatrice’s coffer. She smiled her thanks as Sir Giles rode alongside, and to fill an awkward moment, she asked him, ‘Who is the tall young man with the ash-blond hair?’

‘That is Remy St Leger, my lady, son of an old friend of your father’s who married a countess of Aquitaine. Both his parents have died recently and his elder brother holds the family estate. He has a reputation in France for being one of the finest swordsmen and has done well, very well, in tournaments.’

‘I cannot say I have ever noticed him at Ashton.’

‘He has been at Hepple Hill, your father’s estate in Wessex, training the new men-at-arms who will go with us to Wales. He arrived at Ashton but two days ago. Besides, with the death of your lady mother only two months past—’they both crossed themselves ‘—I am sure your father has taken great pains to keep a hot young blood like Remy St Leger far distant from his pretty, virg…um…virtuous daughter.’

A flush of pink stained Beatrice’s cheeks, but still she laughed, softly. ‘Oh come, Sir Giles, I am an old maid. A “hot young blood” would certainly have no time to waste on me!’

Sir Giles looked at her, with a frown, once again amazed that she did not know her own worth. ‘My lady, neither beauty nor love knows the limit of age.’

For a moment he surveyed her heart-shaped face, dainty upturned nose, dark brown eyes with thick, long lashes, soft pink mouth and buttermilk skin. “Tis the church’s gain and our great loss tomorrow, my lady.’

Beatrice stiffened in the saddle and looked away. She could not bear any more arguments against the path she had chosen, for she feared that far too easily she could be persuaded to return home. Quickly she searched for another topic. ‘Sir Giles, why has my father taken this Remy St Leger into our household?’

‘Because he is a fighter, my lady, a warrior, and we have need of such men, going into Wales.’

‘I see.’ Beatrice surveyed the broad shoulders of the young man they discussed, a frown creasing her brow, ‘He can surely not be very old.’

‘He is four and twenty and was knighted in his first battle at the age of sixteen. From a distance he may not seem very old, but if you look into his eyes, you will see a man full grown and wise with experience. They say he has killed over two hundred men.’

Beatrice shuddered. ‘I think it is very sad, Sir Giles, that young men have become old before their time because of war.’

”Tis the way of the world, my lady.’ Lest her curiosity about the Aquitaine become too avid, Sir Giles steered the conversation elsewhere and made comment upon the weather.

Later that afternoon Woodford and a party of ten men-at-arms were sent on ahead, with a pouch of silver coins, to secure a room for Lady Beatrice at the Red Lion inn. The men would sleep in tents in a nearby field, whilst the seven knights—Radley, Grenville, Montgomery, Woodford, Fitzpons, Baldslow and St Leger—would sleep in the common room and take turns to guard Lady Beatrice’s door throughout the night. Not for one moment would she ever be undefended.

Storm clouds broke towards dusk and it rained heavily. By the time Beatrice reached the Red Lion she was soaked through to the skin. The downpour was so heavy that the yard of the inn was transformed into a quagmire and the men trudged ankle-deep in mud. There was much shouting as Radley, Baldslow and Montgomery steered the men-at-arms into their makeshift field quarters, Grenville and Fitzpons took charge of her coffer and Beatrice looked helplessly about for assistance. Her eyes encountered a fiercely blue male gaze and, instinctively, her own dropped. But Remy St Leger dismounted and was striding through the mud to Willow. He reached up, seized Beatrice about the waist and hauled her down from the saddle, carrying her easily across the yard to the inn. He slipped once, and with a small cry Beatrice clutched at his shoulders, feeling beneath her fingers the bulk of his muscular frame. His eyes flashed at her, with a mocking smile. He jiggled her weight closer against his chest and held her more tightly as they continued their precarious journey.

Within the flagstoned doorway of the inn he set her down upon her feet and Beatrice had to tilt her head back to look up at him, for he was very tall.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured and, remembering her conversation with Sir Giles, looked into his eyes. And backed away. His features were indeed handsome and pleasing, but Remy St Leger was not the sort of man that a maiden would trifle with.

Despite several attempts by the landlord to ingratiate himself with Lady Beatrice of Ashton, he saw nothing more than the top of her head, as she was swept upstairs to the finest chamber in the house, surrounded by five knights who seemed gigantic and armed to the teeth.

Beatrice breathed a sigh of relief as she was shown into her chamber for the night. It was small, compared to her own room at home, but more than adequate for one night. There was a four-poster bed hung with dark blue damask, a roaring fire, two chairs placed before the hearth, a table set with plates of food and a flagon of wine. The windows were well shuttered and Beatrice flung off her sodden cloak, draping it over the back of a chair. A tap at the door made her pause as she reached to pull off her boots.

‘Come in.’

Sir Giles entered, bearing a large pitcher of steaming water, followed closely by Sir Hugh carrying a bowl. They placed both on the hearth before the fire, checked the supply of logs, food and wine, and then turned to Beatrice with a deep bow.

‘Is there anything else my lady requires?’ asked Sir Giles.

‘Nay, thank you. I have everything I need.’ Rubbing her aching backside, with a rueful grin, she added, ‘I will sleep like a babe this night.’

‘You will not be disturbed, my lady.’

They left her then and Beatrice knew there was no need to bar the door, for there would be a guard all night long. Returning to the hearth, she stripped off her clothes and boots and stood naked to wash. The water was deliciously hot, but the room wasn’t and Beatrice finished quickly, reaching to wrap a blanket around her while she fumbled in her saddlebag and drew out her nightshift. Long-sleeved and tied about the neck with a silk ribbon, she warmed the garment before the fire flames, then slid it quickly on. Sitting in a chair, feet curled beneath her, Beatrice took her time unbraiding her hair and smoothing it out with her fingers.

Then she ate some of the hearty fare laid out for her—chicken and ham pie, roasted capon, fresh white bread and crumbly Leicester cheese, plum cake and spiced apples—but, inevitably, there came a time when she could no longer busy herself. She sat idly, staring at the fire, alone with her thoughts. Very alone. The reality of tomorrow suddenly came upon her and she was swamped with fear and doubt.

Her father’s words echoed again and again within the confines of her mind—’…you will never know the joy of being a wife and a mother.’ With a sigh Beatrice rose from the chair and padded barefoot across the wooden floor to the bed, pulling back the covers.

For a moment she surveyed the broad expanse of mattress, set with two pillows. A bed made to accommodate two people. Husband and wife. Lovers. Tears pricked her eyes. She climbed in and lay down, drawing up her knees into the warmth of her own body and away from the cold linen. After a while she turned on to her back, staring up at the ruched canopy.

Why? she wondered. Twenty-nine years old and she could find no man worthy enough to claim her love, loyalty and respect. Always she found fault with the men who pursued her hand, for there had been no shortage of offers. Of course, now she was too old. Except for obnoxious Baldslow the offers had dwindled away to nothing.

When she had been sixteen she had been betrothed to a young man that Beatrice had found acceptable in every way, but William de Warenne, a respected knight, handsome and brave, had been killed. The pain of his death still ached in her breast and she wondered if she had truly ever recovered from his loss. Her mother had warned her against holding on to a love that was long gone, that its grip would become so fierce that she would never be able to love again.

Many years had passed since that anguished time, but time had not erased the pain completely. It was dull, but not gone. Mayhap she should reconsider Baldslow. He was old, but experience and wisdom were not to be scorned. Beatrice cringed, however, at the thought of his rough, scarred hands touching her, and here she came to the crux of the matter. She could not give her body to a man she did not love. The mere thought made goosebumps rise upon her flesh.

She had raged furiously over William’s death and laid the blame at only one door—God’s. After a time she had been ashamed and guilt-ridden, taking as penance a pious devotion to God and the church that her parents had questioned and misliked, but had been unable to alter.

Beatrice turned over onto her side, a dozen thoughts jostling for favour. With a low, frustrated moan she flung back the covers and sat up. If only she had thought to pack her Bible close to hand, instead of in her coffer, then she would be able to read, until her mind was soothed and she fell asleep.

She left the bed and poured a goblet of wine, taking it and a wedge of plum cake to sit before the fire. She wondered what her father would be doing now; no doubt dining, as she was, and packing his gear for the venture to Wales. And tomorrow, tomorrow she would be at the convent.

The fire warmed her and Beatrice glanced down at her feet, peeping out beneath the long hem of her nightshift. William had said she had pretty feet, on that one occasion by the river when he had found her paddling in the cool water, and had almost kissed her. Almost. Within a few days he had ridden off to war, and within a few weeks more he was dead.

Beatrice wondered, as she munched on the sweet crumbly cake, what it would be like to be kissed by a man. Her mother had always complained that her father’s beard tickled and Beatrice thought she would prefer a face cleanshaven. Into her thoughts intruded the image of a handsome male face, with bright blue eyes and dark blond hair long at the neck. Remy St Leger. She could not recall how his mouth had been, but she was certain he had no beard.

Eventually Beatrice went back to bed and, at last, fell asleep. But it was not for long. She woke again, and the night was dark and still. The logs had burned down to ruby embers. She lay for a long while, listening to the sigh of the wind rustling in the treetops, the creak of roof beams, an owl hooting. She snuggled down deeper into the warmth of the bed, meagre as it was, and then she thought it might be wise to pile on a few more logs to keep the fire going until morning.

She padded silently across the floor, lit a candle and reached for a log, laying it carefully in the grate, and then another. She found a poker and stirred up the embers, and then jumped back with an exclamation as the topmost log rolled and scattered tiny burning coals upon the hearth. One hit her foot and she yelped with pain.

At once the door flung open. A knight charged into the room, his sword half-drawn, looking about him with eyes narrowed in question.

‘Be at ease, sir,’ Beatrice called, and then gasped as she turned and faced Remy St Leger, her voice sinking to an uncertain whisper. ‘There is no one here who does me harm, except my own foolish self.’

His glance took in the fallen log and the poker in her hand, but not before he noticed how the firelight silhouetted her slender body through the fine white linen of her nightshift. He noticed, too, that her hair fell unbound in a ripple of glorious honey to her hips. With a hiss his sword was rammed home in its scabbard and he strode across the room, knelt to retrieve the log smouldering on the hearth and to place it back in the grate. Looking up at her, he held out his hand until she relinquished the poker.

Beatrice stepped to one side, watching his broad back, the taut line of muscular thigh and buttocks as he knelt to tend the fire. She felt a heat of colour sweep over her cheeks. Then he turned and, taking her elbow, indicated that she should sit down.

A man of few words, thought Beatrice, complying, mystified at his intention. She flinched as his fingers touched her, and he lifted her foot into the palm of his hand. As he examined it carefully, his action caused her nightshift to slide up to her knees. Quickly Beatrice snatched at the hem and pulled it down to cover her legs. By the flick of his eyes she knew that he had noticed her reaction; then she was startled by the sound of his voice when he spoke, in clear English charmingly accented by his native French, the timbre of it finding a place deep within her soul.

‘I will fetch a little goose-grease and a bandage.’

‘There is no need!’ Beatrice leapt quickly from the chair. Too quickly. Her knee connected with his chin and a resounding crack echoed about the room, ‘Oh, I am sorry! Are you all right?’

He regained his balance by grasping the chair, trapping Beatrice between his spread knees and arms. She looked down at his ash-blond head, breath tensely held, for she had never been so close to a man, and was acutely aware that she wore nothing but her nightshift. He rubbed his chin, and then rose slowly, his full height dwarfing Beatrice, who barely reached to his collarbone.

‘I have taken worse than a tap from a maiden’s knee,’ he said, hands on hips, smiling down at her in a way that was almost insolent.

Beatrice had nowhere to retreat, standing so close to him and with the chair against the back of her knees. She sensed the impropriety of their position and would have been further outraged if she had known that from his vantage-point of greater height he could see down through the open neck of her shift, and his eyes fell upon the soft swell of her breasts.

Beatrice found it hard to believe that this man was a full five years younger than she. It was she who felt the awkward youth. She glanced up at him, and in that moment saw for herself where his eyes lingered. Quickly, with a clumsy trip, she stepped over his boots and presented him with her back as she clutched at one ornately carved bedpost, suddenly feeling a little dizzy. In a voice cool as ice, she said, ‘You may go.’

His footsteps thumped across the floor, and then she heard the snap of the door as it shut. Whirling round, Beatrice let out a gasp and stared at the dark planks of the solid oak door. How dared he! The insolent knave! Her father would most certainly hear of this!

Then Beatrice remembered that she would not see her father come morning, that mayhap she would not see him for many months, and that she would soon be committing herself to life as a nun. Remy St Leger would be the last man ever to look upon her in such a way, as a man looks upon a woman.

Did he like what he had seen? Her hands flew to both hot cheeks, horrified at the sinfulness of her thoughts. His mouth had been wellshaped and not too wide, his jaw cleanshaven…

No! No! Beatrice ran to the bed and dived beneath the covers, pulling them over her head. In the muffling darkness her gasps for breath sounded like the panting of a wild animal. Her body felt different—her breasts ached, her legs felt weak. The male smell of him was still in her nose. He seemed to have invaded her every sense, every pore…One part of her sternly berated Beatrice for being a weak human being, another cajoled that she was only as God had made her—a woman.

What would it feel like to lie in his arms? To feel his hard, muscular body moving against her softness? Heat flooded her and through all her thoughts pounded one drumbeat—tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.

Beatrice was certain that she would have only this one night to learn of things that would never be a part of her life. Why, she had never been kissed, let alone bedded! What harm would it do? She would still go to the nunnery a chaste virgin, except for one kiss. That was all she wanted. All she asked. And Remy St Leger would be the one to kiss her, Beatrice decided impulsively. No doubt the ‘hot young blood’ would not cavil, and even if he did she would remind him of his sworn duty to Lord Thurstan and his family to do as he was told!

Throwing back the covers, Beatrice leapt out of bed and hurried to the door. Her hand reached out to open it, and then drew back, checked by her natural sense of caution. She turned away, chewing on her knuckles, pacing, darting many glances at the impervious door, a frown creasing her brows.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow… Resolutely, she turned back and quickly jerked open the door, before she could change her mind again.

He sat opposite upon a three-legged stool, leaning his back and broad shoulders against the wall. In one hand he held a dagger, in the other a whetstone. Looking up, pausing in his task, he eyed her with one brow raised in question, before bending once again to sharpen the dangerous blade.

‘I wish to speak with you.’

He looked up. ‘My lady?’

‘Privately. In my chamber.’

Again the stone rasped along the gleaming steel. ‘I think not.’

‘At once, Sir Remy!’ Beatrice resisted the temptation to stamp her foot. She had no wish to appear any more of a child that she already did.

‘Very well. ‘Tis late and I would not wish your voice to waken the entire inn.’

Beatrice flushed painfully at his censure and then stepped back as he rose from the stool and came into her chamber. She closed the door and moved past him, to stand before the fire, with her back to him.

‘My lady?’ prompted Remy, hands on hips, enjoying her silhouette and knowing full well that he should not be here alone with her.

‘As you know, I am on my way to join the nuns of St Jude.’

‘Aye.’

‘I will dedicate my life to God.’

He bowed, in silent acknowledgement of her great sacrifice.

‘I…’ she hesitated ‘…of course I am…’ again she could not say the words ‘…I go…chaste. Untouched.’

Remy St Leger shifted uncomfortably, staring at his boots, wondering where this strange conversation was leading. He took a step backwards, to the door.

‘I am twenty-nine years old, Sir Remy, and I have never been kissed. Properly. By a man. Not a relative. If you know what I mean.’

He squinted a look at her, the light suddenly dawning.

‘I can expect to live twenty, maybe thirty, years as a nun. Alone. Unloved. I would like to know…that is…will you kiss me?’

He stared at her, silent.

‘So that I may know what it is like. And take that memory with me.’

He shook his head. ‘I cannot oblige you. ‘Twould be more than my life is worth. Your father—’

‘He will never know! I promise. No one will know.’

‘Nay.’ He turned to go.

‘Wait! Please. I will grant you any favour in the future, and use what influence I have with my father in granting such favour, should needs be. Please. Just a kiss, ‘tis all I ask. I hear men are most willing to kiss maids.’

With his back to her he smiled, and then wiped that smile from his face before turning round to face her, looking her up and down with a penetrating stare that made her heart beat faster. He walked slowly across the room and stopped when he was but a sword’s length away from her.

‘Mayhap you are not aware that a kiss can lead to other things. Things which you know nought of.’

‘I am aware of what a kiss can lead to.’

He controlled his surprise and met her eyes stare for stare. Of course, even though she was so small and looked so young, she was not. No shrinking violet, this maiden. Was she even truly a maiden? he wondered.

Beatrice dropped her gaze to her fingers, twisted one around to the other against her chest. ‘I shall rely upon your honour as a knight to make sure that…we…you…shall refrain from…that.’

He laughed then and closed the space between them. Boldly he laid his hands about her waist. ‘There is no need to be coy. We both know what it is you want. One last tumble before donning your habit?’

‘What!’ His hands upon her were a new experience, yet his blunt words astonished her even more.

‘Surely you do not expect me to believe that a woman of your age has never been bedded?’

‘Nay! I have not.’

His eyes challenged her, and she glared back.

‘Very well. My lady commands a kiss, so a kiss my lady shall receive.’ He closed the space between them and she gasped as his hands slid up along the curve of her ribs, slowly traced the outline of her breasts and then travelled over her delicate shoulders. His fingers lingered on the line of her collarbone, so fragile, and then he slid his hands up into her hair and cradled her head.

Beatrice felt her breath stop in her throat and she stared up at him, wide eyed. His shoulders stooped, his body solid and warm against her, and then his head descended and she closed her eyes, waiting. She felt the warmth of his breath and then the cool touch of his lips on her lips. Her hands slid between them, resting on his chest, leaning on him for support. He held her gently while his mouth moved on hers and he persuaded her lips to part for him.

A shock of surprise shivered through her body as his tongue slid into her mouth, moist and hot. He tasted her, savoured, and his jaw moved more quickly. He lifted his head and slanted his mouth the other way over hers, his kiss driving harder and deeper. Their mingled breath came in pants and Beatrice felt sheer excitement flood through her body.

With a whimper her hands moved up his chest and slid around his neck. He groaned, his own hands sliding down to her buttocks and grinding her into the hard bulk of his arousal. They kissed, again and again, and then, without releasing her mouth from the possession of his, he picked her up, swinging her feet off the floor and carrying her to the bed. He laid her down, and himself alongside her. For a long while he did nothing more than continue to kiss her, with hungry urgency.

Beatrice surrendered herself to the most wonderful sensations she had ever felt. The feel of his mouth, the taste of him, the male aroma of him, the heavy muscles of his body, all were new to her. Exciting. Intoxicating. The flood of excitement had welled up so deep within her, and expanded, straining for release in some strange way that she could not fathom, that she made a small noise in her throat, turning to him for guidance.

Hearing this familiar female sound of melting, he smiled to himself and he became bolder. His thigh slid between her knees and his hand found her nipple.

Beatrice opened her eyes and stared at him. She knew that she should not let him touch her in such a way, but it felt so glori ous, and her lashes fluttered down with a strangled moan.

Then suddenly his hand moved away from her breast and she felt a sense of loss. Her eyes snapped open again and she looked up at him, and then gasped as he found the hem of her gown and lifted it up to expose her lower body, naked to his touch.

Her cry was lost inside his mouth. She did not dare to move and held herself tensely still, but as his hand slid between her knees and travelled along the silken warmth of her slender legs she shook her head, broke their kiss, and she cried out, ‘Nay! You must stop!’

‘Why?’ he asked, in a hoarse whisper. ‘No one will know whether you are a virgin or not.’

‘I will know! God will know!’

His thumb stroked the soft curve of her outer thigh and he gazed at her with lazy amusement, his voice husky as he stated, ‘I want you.’

‘Nay, it cannot be!’

‘You could not stop me, if I wanted to take you now.’ He squeezed her thigh with his fingers, demonstrating to her his strength as the hard muscles of his arms flexed and rippled.

‘Please,’ she gasped, ‘please do not shame me.’

Suddenly he released her, withdrew, and she felt cold air as he levered himself up off the bed, the four-poster creaking at his sudden movement. Beatrice sat up, quickly pulling down the hem of her nightshift to cover her nakedness, and leapt to her feet. She rushed at him and made a move to strike his face, but he was too tall and too quick, and checked her, grabbing her wrist in mid-air.

‘You have broken your oath of honour,’ she accused in an agonised whisper.

He blinked, with surprise, ‘I have done naught, except kiss you. At your request. I see nothing dishonourable in that.’

Every line of her body was taut with tension. ‘You should not have touched me…there.’

He laughed then. ‘If I had touched you “there”, instead of just upon your lovely little thighs, you would not now be making protest but crying out your joy as I possessed you.’

Beatrice gasped and flushed scarlet at his explicit words. ‘Go, for I was vastly mistaken to believe that you are a chivalrous knight.’

The light in his eyes flared with anger at her accusation. He stooped and covered her mouth with a kiss so sweet and tender that it left her reeling as he released her wrist and strode to the door. He turned and looked back at her for a moment before issuing his dark warning, ‘Kittens should not play with lions.’

Chapter Two

The convent of St Jude was situated in Northload Street and backed onto the manor house of the Abbot of Glastonbury. The nuns leased ten acres from Abbot John, and from this small parcel of land eked out sufficient food so as to provide enough for their community to live upon, rarely having to resort to buying anything from the market. There were three cows to be milked, a half-dozen sheep for mutton and wool, twenty chickens for eggs and meat, fish ponds and a thriving vegetable garden that yielded carrots, turnips, swedes, onions and herbs. There were apple and pear trees and also two acres of vines. The convent buildings themselves consisted of a hall, known as the refectory, where the nuns ate; a parlour, where Sister Huberta had her desk and went about the business of correspondence and discipline; a large kitchen, which faced on to the vegetable gardens to the rear, adjoined by the buttery. Below stairs there was a cellar, and eight sleeping chambers above stairs. Central to all, of course, was the chapel, ensconced within the body of the convent, so that there was easy access at all hours of the day and night.

A great deal of hard work was required by all to keep this little farm going, and Sister Huberta, Abbess, made sure that she wrung every last ounce out of every last nun, twenty-five in all, excluding the Abbess and the novices.

It was Tuesday, market day, and so large a party as the Ashton cavalcade attracted some attention as they entered the town from the south, along Chilkwell Street, and then turned to clatter up the High Street. Beatrice glanced at the market stalls as they passed by and noted a variety of interesting goods—cheeses, wooden spoons and rowan besoms, silks and ribbons, delicious-smelling pasties, leather boots and copper pots.

All too quickly they left the market behind and wheeled into Northload Street. Just before the end they came to a high brick wall that ran for some distance and abutted the solid posts of a wide, wooden double gate. The gate was barred from the inside and visitors were required to ring a wrought-iron bell set high up in the wall—high enough to discourage small children from tormenting the nuns and the neighbour-hood with silly games of ring-and-run.

Sir Giles leaned over in his saddle and tugged on the rope. They could not hear its jangle, but it was not long before a small trapdoor opened and a wimpled face peeped out.

‘Good morning, Sister,’ greeted Sir Giles politely, ‘Lady Beatrice of Ashton has arrived.’

The door slammed shut. They glanced at one another and Beatrice smiled with a small shrug. After some moments the trapdoor opened again and another nun peered at them with hard eyes. She was older than the first one, and had sharp features that reminded Beatrice of a ferret. She looked directly at Beatrice and spoke to her in a tone that well matched her features.

‘I am the Abbess here, Sister Huberta. What do you mean by bringing all these men to my door? Look how you have blocked the road and created unseemly interest.’

Beatrice felt a small shock of surprise at this abrupt greeting, and she glanced over her shoulder, surveying the men-at-arms who did indeed block the road and had attracted a small crowd of onlookers. Even now Sir Hugh was shouting and pushing his horse through in an attempt to get her coffer to the convent’s door. Beatrice turned to make her apology, but was forestalled.

‘They may go. At once. You may step down from your horse and I will admit you to St Jude’s. If that is still your wish.’ Sister Huberta stared straight at her.

‘Indeed,’ replied Beatrice slowly, her voice naturally soft and now scarcely audible above the stamp and snort of horses, the jingle of harness, the shouts of men down the road, ‘I have a coffer, if you would be so kind as to open the gate.’

‘Are you not aware that this is an enclosed order? I had thought I’d made it quite clear in my letters. We have not opened the gates in thirty years and will surely not do so now. We take you as you are, Mistress Beatrice—’ her name was pronounced almost with a sneer ‘—besides, I cannot allow one nun to own more than any other. You will be provided with what you need, even if it may not be what you want.’

‘But, my Bible—’

‘We have one.’

‘My hairbrush.’

‘You will not need it. Your hair will be shorn.’

The knights and men-at-arms nearby gasped. Beatrice closed her mouth upon her protests to salvage her soap and sewing kit and other possessions. She turned then to Sir Giles and said in a quiet voice, ‘Would you help me down, please?’

‘My lady.’ Sir Giles dismounted, and all the knights dismounted at once, with an audible creak of leather, clank of swords and ringing of spurs that made Beatrice cringe.

As Sir Giles set her down upon the ground Beatrice stroked Willow’s nose in farewell, let go of the reins and took a step towards the gates of St Jude. Then she stopped and turned around again, her eyes flitting from one knight to another.

‘Fare thee well,’ she whispered. ‘My thanks and may God go with you all.’

As one body they came and knelt in a semi-circle before her. She went to each one and kissed him upon the cheek. They remained silent and kept their gazes upon the ground, although every one of them longed to shout their protest and sweep her up on to her horse, to gallop away home.

When she came to Remy St Leger, last in line and furthest away from the gate, it was he, and he alone, who raised his eyes and looked upon her. He reached for her hand and kissed it.

‘Your father said to remind you that if all is not well, to send word.’ His voice was very low, not to be heard by the Abbess.

‘I know. But tell my father that I will not shame him by my lack of courage.’

”Tis not courage you need now, but common sense. Come away from this place.’

‘Let go of my hand!’ Beatrice said through clenched teeth.

‘Come along, young lady, I do not have time to waste idly waiting upon your pleasure.’

Remy cast the Abbess a look of sour contempt. Still clasping Beatrice’s small hand between the rough palms of his own much larger hands, he looked up at her, as he knelt in the mud on one bended knee. ‘You do not belong here.’

Beatrice leaned forwards and kissed his cheek. ‘Fare thee well, Sir Remy.’ She spoke sadly but firmly, and resisted the temptation to brush aside the lock of ash-blond hair that fell across his forehead. She tugged her hand free and stepped back.

The knights rose to their feet, and watched, many with hands on hips or the hilt of their swords, as Beatrice stooped through the small door, set in the gate, that closed almost at once behind her, revealing nothing of the convent or its inhabitants to the outside world.

For a long moment the knights stood there, staring, and then Sir Giles roused them and vaulted upon his horse. ‘To Ashton!’ he cried.

It was scarce midday and with hard riding they would make the castle by nightfall, forgoing the temptations the taverns of Glastonbury had to offer, in their haste to return to Lord Thurstan and impress upon him his duty to rescue Lady Beatrice from her own folly.

As the door slammed shut behind her Beatrice blinked in the gloom of the gatehouse. Then the Abbess swept past her and marched across the yard to the main building of the convent.

‘I have never seen such a carry on,’ Sister Huberta complained. ‘If I had known that your father intended to send you to us with such—such pomp, then I would most certainly have written and persuaded him otherwise.’

Beatrice stopped in her tracks, brows raised in a challenging way and she faced the Abbess. ‘I believe my father paid you a substantial dowry to accept me as a novice.’

Sister Huberta stood with hands tucked into her voluminous sleeves, back ramrod straight and looking down her nose at Beatrice from a greater height. Inclining her head slightly, she agreed, ‘Indeed, he did.’

‘I assume that, if I should not be happy here, and decide to leave, my dowry goes with me.’

A slow smile spread across the sharp features, and the Abbess took a step closer to Beatrice, her voice very soft, yet lethal as a blade. ‘I know your game, my lady. Don’t think I haven’t come across your sort before. Too old to wed, too young to cast off. Families have many ways of getting rid of the burden of trying daughters—’ She stepped back, turned and carried on into the building.

‘But—’ Beatrice protested in her own defence, hurrying after her.

‘Silence! You will not interrupt. Let me tell you one thing only. If you stay or if you go, it is your own choice. But you leave as you came. With nothing. Your dowry belongs to St Jude. Now, ‘tis the dinner hour and the sisters will be waiting to eat. Come along, and I will introduce you to everyone.’ She turned to Beatrice with a wide smile that showed yellow, pointy teeth, her voice over-sweet. ‘Now, we shall pray long and hard, to make amends for our poor beginning. I am sure, dear child—’ this as they entered the refectory room set with two long trestle tables, and bustling with black-garbed nuns as they laid out the noonday meal ‘—that you will be very happy here.’

Lord Thurstan had been drinking heavily since the moment Beatrice had left. In the space of two months he had lost both a wife and a daughter, and both of his sons—Lord Henry, his heir and affectionately known as Hal, and young Osmond—might well be dead as they rode on campaign with the Earl of Chester in Wales. No word had been heard from them for many months. In an attempt to dull the pain their absence had inflicted, he consumed as much red Burgundy wine as his stomach and his head could tolerate.

By the time Sir Giles and his knights reached the castle it was dark, and they dismounted and entered the hall, guided by the light of pitch flares, their mood tired and sombre.

‘What ho!’ exclaimed Lord Thurstan from his chair upon the dais, wiping a hand across his mouth and wagging a lamb chop at his men. “Tis a sorry lot I take with me to Wales. Mayhap I would be better off taking the kitchen wenches.’

The men allowed their squires to come in and disarm them, to wash their hands in bowls of hot water brought from the kitchen, before finding their places at the table and helping themselves to food and wine, all in gloomy silence.

Lord Thurstan sat up as Sir Giles took his place nearby. ‘What of Beatrice?’ he asked, with considerable restraint. ‘Was she well? Did she seem happy? And the Abbess? Was she a good woman?’

‘Aye, my lord,’ replied Sir Giles tersely, ‘Lady Beatrice was well when we left, although the Abbess refused to accept her coffer and she went in with nothing more than the clothes upon her back.’

Lord Thurstan grunted, not pleased with this news. The men chewed upon their meat and bread, gulped deep draughts of wine and eyed one another warily, the truth an unpalatable dish.

It was Remy St Leger who rose from his place and approached their lord seated upon his dais. Some admired him for his courage and others shook their heads over his foolhardiness.

Remy bowed deeply. ‘My lord, I would speak with you. In private.’

Lord Thurstan’s shaggy brows climbed to his forehead and he flicked his eyes about the hall. ‘We are all family here. I have no secrets in my own hall. If you wish to speak, then speak.’

Remy cleared his throat, but to his credit did not shrink. ‘I would ask you for your daughter’s hand.’

The hall went silent. All movement ceased. All eyes were agog.

‘What did you say?’ Lord Thurstan asked quietly, slowly setting aside his meat.

‘Lady Beatrice does not belong in a convent. I ask that you would give her in marriage to me.’

A wordless roar burst from Lord Thurstan as he leapt to his feet, and then one large fist swung through the air and Remy St Leger went crashing to the floor. For a moment the blow stunned him, but none went to his aid. Lord Thurstan stepped down from the dais and knelt at the young man’s side, his eyes cold with fury. He watched while Remy sat up, shook his head and wiped the blood from his mouth.

‘What do you know,’ asked Lord Thurstan quietly, ‘of my daughter?’

Remy did not falter. ‘I know that God did not make her to be a nun.’

‘Is that so? And you know her so well, then?’

Remy was silent, uncertain of the correct answer.

Lord Thurstan stabbed a finger in his chest. ‘My daughter is not for the likes of you!’

He turned away then and went back to his chair, refilling his goblet with wine and chewing fiercely upon his food. Everyone watched as Remy picked himself up off the floor, expecting him to slink away to lick his wounds, and vastly entertained to find that the Aquitaine was willing to provide them with more sport.

Remy strode to the dais and shouted, ‘What sort of man sends his daughter to a convent to rot?’

Lord Thurstan rose menacingly to his feet, quickly followed by Sir Giles and Sir Hugh, who anticipated a brawl. ‘I did not send her. She went of her own choice.’

‘You could have said nay!’

‘Who, I? Say nay to Beatrice when she will say aye?’ Lord Thurstan put his head back and laughed. ‘Indeed, you do not know my daughter very well.’

‘I had thought my pledge was given to the king’s commander in honour, but now I see I serve a man who is no more than a coward!’ Remy leaned forwards and jabbed his finger in Lord Thurstan’s face. ‘I will prove to you, my lord, that I am worthy of your daughter!’

‘Take him away,’ growled Lord Thurstan, ‘before I rip his head off.’

Slumping down in his chair, he watched as Sir Giles and Sir Hugh persuaded Remy to go outside and cool off. The young man reluctantly allowed himself to be escorted from the hall, and Thurstan stroked his beard thoughtfully, a tiny glint of admiration in his eyes as he watched the tall, muscular figure of Remy St Leger retreat.

The bell for Compline rang and Beatrice struggled to extricate herself from the warm cot she had been given in the dormitory set aside for novices. There were only four of them, and most of the time they were too tired and bewildered to talk to each other. The hated bell rang again, and again, until Beatrice wanted to scream.

Throwing back the thin blankets, she fumbled about for her shoes, pulled them on and a plain wool cloak over the grey linen kirtle that was the uniform for novices. She was sure that she had hardly slept in the two days she had been here, and certainly had not changed her clothes nor bathed, apart from washing her face and hands in a bowl of cold water.

It was the middle of the night, and cold, and she found her way out into the passage by running her hand along the wall. They were not allowed a light, an extravagance that was reserved for the chapel only. Fortunately it was not far, and she could see the soft glow spilling out from the open chapel door.

Shuffling in, half-asleep, she knelt down beside Emeline, a novice from Somerton, a simple-minded young girl afflicted with skin so badly pock-marked that no man would look upon her favourably, nor treat her respectably. The church had been her only option. Beatrice glanced at the girl and gave her a kind smile, her knees aching upon the cold stone floor. Indeed, every part of her body ached, her hands were raw with blisters and her face burnished from the sun.

On her first day she had been sent to the vegetable garden to help Sister Joan and she had spent many hours hoeing and weeding and watering turnips, carrots and onions. Today she had been sent to the fish ponds and her arms ached from the tasks she had been set. Never in her life had she been required to work and it was rapidly becoming apparent to Beatrice that her vision of a tranquil life spent praying and gazing sweetly upon the Lord and the Virgin Mary was only a myth. Abbess Huberta would make certain of that.

At last the mass came to an end and they shuffled off to bed. The hard, uncomfortable cot now felt like a bed of swan feathers and Beatrice fell gratefully into it, asleep at once. But not for long. Before she had time to dream the bell was ringing for Prime; afterwards, she was taken out into the cold, dark morning by Sister Audrey to help her milk the cows.

Once a year Lord Thurstan owed the king thirty days’ service. This year his thirty days, probably more, would be spent in assisting Edward wrest control of Brecon and Gwynedd from the Welsh. He set off on Friday. The dawn muffled the ringing cavalcade of twelve mounted knights and a hundred men-at-arms. It was intended that they would march north to Evesham and join forces with the Earl of Hereford.

Two weeks later, having enjoyed several small skirmishes against the Welsh, they camped against the walls of Carmarthen Castle, while the Marcher lords met in council with Edward’s commanders and decisions were made upon deployment.

Seated in a tent round a small fire circled with stones were Radley and Montgomery. These two had become the best of friends and close comrades over the years, and with them sat Woodford, Baldslow and Remy St Leger. They huddled into their cloaks and passed a flask of brandy from man to man, while the wind and the rain lashed outside upon the wild hills of Wales. The remains of a meagre supper of rabbit stew congealed in a three-legged iron pot and their squires sat in corners carefully polishing the rust from swords and armour.

The conversation was largely centred on the coming fight with Welshmen, whom they judged to be short and wild, but courageous in battle.

‘The only problem is drawing them down from their mountain lairs and out into the open,’ commented Radley.

The others nodded in agreement, and after a long moment of silence Radley mused, ‘I wonder how fares Lady Beatrice.’

Remy squinted at him with narrowed eyes, his mouth tightening, wondering if it was a deliberate ploy to draw him into an argument, or whether the good knight was genuinely expressing his concern. Remy decided upon the latter, and took a swig of brandy before passing on the flask to Baldslow.

‘I think Lord Thurstan misses her sorely, although he would be the last to admit so,’ said Montgomery.

‘Aye, more fool him,’ Woodford said, poking a stick into the embers of the fire, “Tis no easy life for a nun, not at St Jude’s. They provide for themselves, with no help from any man, and Lady Beatrice is not accustomed to hard manual labour.’

Remy felt a burning sensation tighten in the pit of his stomach, not caused by the fiery brandy. His fists clenched, and he hid them beneath the folds of his cloak. He could not bear to think of Lady Beatrice with her back aching and her hands chafed by labour fit only for peasants.

”Tis certain even the angels wept when they cut her hair.’

There was a loud chorus of agreement and Remy murmured, staring at the fire flames, ‘Aye, her hair was indeed beautiful. Like honey. It fell in waves to her hips.’

Silence fell over the men, all movement stilled as they stared at him. Remy looked up quickly, suddenly realising his error and making quick amends as he stammered, ‘So I hear. Or was told.’

‘Indeed?’ Cedric Baldslow stared hard at the younger man, his suspicions aroused and spoiling for a fight with this pretty face. ‘Methinks you speak in a manner too familiar. I wondered, that night at the Red Lion…’ He let his words dangle while the others, except Remy, who remained silently staring at the fire, prompted Baldslow to continue. He shrugged, pouting somewhat belligerently, ‘I came up to check that St Leger had not fallen asleep at his post, and he was not there. I thought I heard a sound from my lady’s room.’

At that implication Remy leapt to his feet, ‘What are you accusing me of? What sort of sound?’

Baldslow rose slowly, and sneered, ‘The sound a woman makes when she lies beneath a man.’

Remy swore and swung his fist, but not before the tide of red that stained his face had been noticed by one and all. “Tis a lie, Baldslow! You besmirch the honour of a lady!’

‘An honour you have already taken?’ shouted Baldslow, neatly side-stepping the blow. ‘Come now, Sir Remy, you are sworn by knighthood to always tell the truth!’

‘Have no fear,’ snarled Remy, glaring at his tormentor, ‘Lady Beatrice is still a virgin.’

‘Is she, still, by God? I think I greatly mislike the sound of that!’

There were mutters from Radley and Montgomery, and even Woodford had one or two well-chosen epithets to throw at Remy. Now they all turned to stare at him, as they stood about the fire, and Radley demanded in a voice that was used to obedience, ‘Have you had intimate knowledge of the Lady Beatrice, Sir Remy?’

‘Nay!’ Remy hung his head, hands on hips, staring at his feet, his voice very quiet, ‘I…but kissed her. ‘Tis all. No more, I swear.’

‘You fool!’

‘Idiot!’

Baldslow erupted, but not with words. Roaring like an enraged beast, he charged at Remy, head down, and cannoned into him with his shoulder. His momentum thrust them both through the tent flap and out into the night.

It took only a moment for Remy to recover his wits and he punched back at Baldslow, thrusting his knee into his stomach until the grip that threatened to break his ribs loosened. With snarls and shouts the two men engaged in a fierce fight, smashing one another about the head and body with both fists, slipping and falling in the mud, soaked by the rain, but neither willing to give any quarter.

The fracas attracted attention, and some came out of their tents to stare, to cheer, to exclaim, and one of them was Lord Thurstan. At his furious command it took half a dozen men more than a few moments to tear the two combatants apart, and drag them before their lord for accounting.

‘We are here to fight the Welsh, not each other! What goes on? Baldslow? St Leger? Answer me!’

Both men remained silent, uncertain of the wisdom of truth now, when the punishment could be far greater than the reward. After a few moments, in which Lord Thurstan harangued them with dire threats if they did not speak, Baldslow decided to take the risk—after all, he had nothing to lose.

‘My lord, it came to my attention that St Leger has taken liberties about the person of my Lady Beatrice.’

‘Indeed?’ Lord Thurstan was inclined to be sceptical of any accusation uttered by Baldslow, a man whose own suit had been thoroughly thwarted and mayhap would stoop at nothing when presented with so threatening a rival for his daughter’s affections as the handsome young Remy St Leger. Seeing that this was not a matter to be aired in public, he summoned both men to his pavilion.

Lord Thurstan dismissed his squire, who reluctantly went out into the cold wet night and found himself lodgings with Fitzpons and Grenville. With arms akimbo, Lord Thurstan turned to face his knights and silently demanded their explanation. Baldslow was the first to speak.

‘My lord, I have reason to believe that St Leger entered the bedchamber of Lady Beatrice, when we lodged for the night at the Red Lion inn. There, I believe, he became intimate with her.’

Lord Thurstan controlled his instinctive rage at this accusation. ‘St Leger? What say you?’

‘My lord, I did nought. She asked me for one kiss, as she had never been kissed before. I swear on the Holy Bible and on my oath as a knight that nothing else happened.’

‘She is still a virgin?’

‘Aye, my lord.’

‘Baldslow, you may go. And I trust you will keep your tongue between your teeth.’

‘Of course, my lord.’ Baldslow bowed deeply and departed, throwing St Leger a triumphant look that was yet tinged with wary jealousy at Lord Thurstan’s lack of reaction.

‘I have half a mind,’ said Lord Thurstan quietly, ‘to thrash you within an inch of your life, St Leger. How you even dared to lay one finger on my daughter, I do not know. But…’ here he stroked his beard thoughtfully, eyeing the tall young man who stood silently before him, ‘I know my Beatrice, and she is no wanton. Long ago, when she was but sixteen, she was betrothed to a young knight whom she greatly admired—mayhap loved, such as a girl so young can love, knowing little of it. He was killed, and since then she has felt no fondness for any man. Many times I had hoped to have my hand forced, but none had the courage. My wife often chastised me for this view, saying it was barbaric, but I think a forced wedding is better than no wedding. Do you not agree?’

Remy looked awkwardly at his boots, ‘I…well…sir…it depends.’

‘On what?’

‘From what side of the bed the wedding is viewed. For the groom a moment of pleasure may be rewarded with a lifetime of misery.’

Despite the seriousness of the situation Thurstan laughed and clapped Remy upon the shoulder. ‘Is it your view that a life spent wedded to Beatrice would be one of misery?’

‘Nay. She is beautiful, sweet, kind.’

‘She is older than you. By five years.’

Remy shrugged. ‘Her innocence is her youth.’

‘As your experience is your maturity?’

‘Aye, my lord. Do not doubt that I am man enough for Beatrice.’

Blue eyes met Lord Thurstan’s dark brown, with unrelenting challenge. Nodding, as if suddenly coming to a decision, Lord Thurstan moved to his saddlebags and extricated a folded, stained parchment. He waved it at Remy. ‘I have this evening received a letter from the Abbess of St Jude. I had planned to send Woodford back, but I think it will be you, Sir Remy, who goes to fetch my daughter home.’

‘Sir?’ Remy stood up straight, a bolt of surprise shooting through him.

‘It seems the Abbess is not as enamoured of my Beatrice as you are.’

Several times in the past few days Beatrice had managed to sneak away to the barn. At mid-morning the hayloft was flooded with sunlight and here she made for herself a warm nest and managed an hour of blissful sleep. It seemed her entire life revolved around this desperate need for sleep, and food.

Although the food was well cooked and tasty there was little of it, and the Abbess would not spend her coin on purchasing flour. There was no bread, no pies, no tarts or cakes. Breakfast consisted of stewed fruit or a thin, coarse gruel made from oats grown on the holding; the midday meal was vegetable soup; supper was a meat or fish stew, sometimes followed by cheese or fruit. The gnawing ache of hunger clawed constantly at her belly and even her dreams were rampant with images of food. She longed to taste just a crust of bread, let alone the sweet curd tarts, game pies and spiced apple cake that Cook at Ashton was so good at making.

Waking from her nap, Beatrice hurried down the rickety ladder from the hayloft, the bell for the noon Angelus ringing like an alarm. She knew that she must hurry and, brushing the stalks of dusty hay from her skirts, Beatrice ran along the path that threaded between the vegetables and herbs. She had been sent to collect eggs and realised, with a small gasp of fear, that she had failed to do so.

When she reached the kitchen door, hoping to slip in and make her way through the convent to the chapel, she was stopped by the large bulk of Sister Una, assigned to the kitchen as cook. She paused as she wielded a massive knife through a pile of turnips and swedes.

‘Sister Huberta said to tell you not to go to the chapel, but to her parlour. At once.’

Biting her lips, Beatrice nodded and smiled her thanks for the message. The first time she had been summoned to Sister Huberta’s study, and severely reprimanded for some misdemeanour or another, Beatrice had shook with terror. But now, it was a regular occurrence and she visited the Abbess on a daily basis.

Her footsteps tapped on the flagstones of the passage and from the chapel she could hear the uneven tones of discordant singing. Beatrice knocked on the door.

‘Enter.’

She opened the door and came in to find Sister Huberta at her usual place behind her desk. The Abbess sat back in her chair, fingers steepled before her, and smiled unpleasantly.

‘Ah. Beatrice. How nice to see you. Again.’

‘Abbess.’ Beatrice dipped a small curtsy.

‘Come closer, girl. I do not wish to shout at you across the room.’

Beatrice took three paces forward.

‘I would ask you to do me a favour.’

‘Of course.’

‘Take off your wimple.’

Beatrice gasped, her hand flying defensively to the linen wrapped around her head and neck. ‘I…I must…protest, Sister.’

‘Indeed, you must. But I am afraid that I must insist. You see, dear Beatrice, it has come to my attention that once again you have breached our covenants. This time, ‘tis most serious. Now, remove your wimple, or I will fetch Sister Una and have her do it for you.’

Beatrice sighed, admitting defeat and too tired, hungry and dispirited to raise further protest. Slowly her small, pale hands unwound the linen wimple and her glorious mane of honey-brown hair spilled about her shoulders, slithering down like silk to curl about her hips.

‘I—I am not, by law, required to cut it, Sister Huberta, until my second year. When I am certain of my vocation.’

‘I see. And you have doubts about your, um, vocation?’

‘Nay, Sister. I wish to praise and honour our Lord and devote my life to Him in prayer.’

‘But?’

‘Well…’ brightening suddenly at this invitation to unburden herself and disguising her surprise at Sister Huberta’s willingness to listen, Beatrice hurried on ‘…life is harsh here, for everyone. I am sure that if our bodies were not troubling us so much from lack of sleep and constant hunger, we would be able to devote ourselves more entirely to God.’

‘Indeed!’ Sister Huberta now rose from her chair, and scraped it back. ‘Thank you for that advice, Beatrice. Now, I have some for you.’ She opened the door of her study. ‘Go home.’

‘Sister?’

‘I am sending you away. Back to your father.’

‘But—’

‘I have written to him once already, but received no reply. Unfortunately, St Jude cannot afford the burden of a lazy, useless chit!’ She rang a bell and Sister Emily, the gatekeeper, came. ‘Mistress Beatrice will be leaving us. Kindly escort her to the novice dormitory. She will remove these garments and dress in her own. Then take her to the gate and show her out.’ Sister Huberta gained immense satisfaction from every word she spoke.

‘But—’ Beatrice, struggling to comprehend the situation, pointed out ‘—I have no horse, no escort, no money! How can you—?’

‘Silence!’ Sister Huberta held up her hand. ‘Collect your bundle from the dormitory. I have given you two pennies to help you on your way.’

Utterly bewildered, Beatrice followed Sister Emily to the novices’ dormitory, where upon her cot sat a bundle. It was her cloak, her own dark blue fustian, that had been used to tie up her shoes and clothes.

‘I have put in some cheese and two apples,’ whispered Sister Emily. ‘Come now, do not look so distraught. You are lucky indeed to be escaping.’ Glancing over her shoulder, she added in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘Do not change your clothes, for your habit will lend you some protection on the outside.’ With nimble hands she fastened Beatrice’s wimple on, tucking away the glorious hair and assuring her, ‘There are few who would dare to accost a nun.’

Beatrice was numb with shock. She followed Sister Emily across the yard, and clutched at her bundle as if to a lifeline while the large key attached to a leather thong at Sister Emily’s waist clanked and scraped in the lock. The nun stepped to one side, and held the door open. Reluctantly, she stooped through the doorway, as she had only three weeks before.

‘Fare thee well, sweet Beatrice. God will go with you.’

Beatrice could do no more than smile weakly, and then she was standing alone in the dusty road, she, who had never stood alone and unprotected in her life.

Chapter Three

For a long while Beatrice simply stood there, unaware of the passers-by who glanced at her. Then a hand touched her sleeve and she looked down into the plump, tanned face of an old woman, a basket of eggs over her arm.

‘Are you all right, my dear?’ she asked, in the broad country accent of a farmer’s wife.

Beatrice blinked, and then smiled, her smile growing wide as it reached her eyes and suddenly she laughed ‘Aye, I am, mistress.’

‘Chucked you out, has she?’

‘What?’

The old woman laughed. ‘No need to be shamed.’ Jerking her head at the convent, she added, ‘She don’t like the pretty ones. Sent you on your way?’

‘Aye. It is so.’

‘Well, never you mind, dearie. Come along, now, I’ll walk with you to market. Have you far to reach your home?’

‘Indeed. I am from Castle Ashton.’

The old woman frowned, ‘I’ve not heard of it. Must be a long ways off.’

Beatrice fell into step, and half-listened in a daze as the woman chatted in a friendly manner. They came to the market and Beatrice felt quite overwhelmed by the noise and bustle. She parted from the farmer’s wife and wandered amongst the stalls, pausing to gaze upon the wares displayed as though she had never seen before such simple things as leather boots, wooden spoons, bolts of cloth in lovely colours of mulberry and emerald and saffron. The most fascinating was the pieman’s stall and Beatrice stood gazing hungrily upon the golden pastry, filled with meat and vegetables, whose savoury aroma hung deliciously on the air. Succumbing to temptation, Beatrice felt for the two coins the Abbess had thrust into her kirtle pocket, and offered one to the pie seller.

‘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. And 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 was 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.

She remembered a move she had seen her brothers use when fighting and locked her two hands together, into a fist. She jerked it up, delivering a sharp blow to underneath the chin of the man who held her. His teeth snapped on his tongue and he yelped. She quickly followed this with a vicious kick to the shins. He was so surprised that a small noblewoman was willing to fight, for one moment his hold on her slackened and Beatrice jerked away. In that instant she took to her heels, running as fast as she could up the track, back the way she had come, hoping to find help.

She saw a horseman approaching in the distance and screamed, waving her arms to attract his attention. The mercenaries were quickly gaining on her as their booted feet pounded hard behind her. She had no doubt that it was their intention to catch her, drag her off into the bushes and hold her quiet, until the lone horseman had been dealt with.

With her bodice torn, holding up her skirts as she ran, and her mouth wide open in a scream, she made for a wild sight. Suddenly something whooshed past her and the man nearest made a strange sound. Blood sprayed across her arm and, glancing back, she saw that a small arrow protruded from his neck. He fell instantly.

The horseman galloping towards them lowered a crossbow and, as he had not the time to reload, drew his sword with a ringing hiss of steel. Roaring a war-cry that echoed around the woods, he charged down on the other two men. Beatrice dived into the bracken lining the side of the road, out of the way. She fell to her knees, panting, gasping for breath, and pulling together the torn edges of her kirtle. She looked up, peering through the bushes, and then quickly away, one hand smothering a cry as the horseman slashed with his sword and one of the mercenaries lost his head. She did not look to see how he dealt with the other, but the noise was ferocious, as steel rang on steel, and both men profaned loudly with each blow.

At last, after what seemed like an eternity to Beatrice, all went quiet, except for the snorting pants of his horse and her own harsh breathing that was laboured more from terror than anything else. She rose cautiously, and then remembered that there had been others. The horseman had dismounted and was inspecting the men he had slain, but he turned quickly at her warning shout and had a moment to collect himself before the other three mercenaries ran at him with swords drawn.

With a despairing cry Beatrice covered her face. He would surely not win against these three and suddenly she thought it best to flee, whilst the mercenaries’ attention was elsewhere. With the clash of steel, the grunts and shouts of the fighting men echoing in her ears, Beatrice turned and began to run into the shelter of the woods.

She was hampered by the fact that she could not catch her breath, and her ribs and heart ached painfully as terror took its toll. She stopped and leaned against a tree, gasping for air. Then she heard the drumming of a horse cantering, and she looked back, her eyes wide with terror. At first she could not see anyone and cautiously she began to move, stumbling backwards as the thunder of hooves came louder and closer. Then he emerged through the trees, and the lone horseman called to her.

The big black destrier was vaguely familiar and Beatrice stared as he came to a shuddering halt and his rider pushed back his chainmail coif with one hand. ‘Remy St Leger!’

He smiled, and leapt down from his horse. Without thinking of propriety or anything else, Beatrice ran to him and flung her arms about his waist. He held her, and let her sob against his blood-spattered chest.

‘Shh,’ he said softly, calmly, ‘you are safe, my lady.’ He wanted to touch her, to stroke her hair, but his hands were not clean.

Gulping, wiping her wet face with her hand, she tipped back her head and looked up at him, asking with a wobbling smile, ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

‘Your father sent me to escort you home. But it appears I was too late.’

Her eyes lowered and she hung her head, ashamed that the convent had rejected her. ‘It seems I am not fit to be a nun.’

At her sorrowful tone he smiled, gave her shoulders a quick hug with his arm and then stepped back, peering down to look into her face. He asked carefully, ‘You are not hurt, my lady? Those men, they did not…touch you?’

She understood his meaning at once and with a blush she shook her head. She noticed that his gaze fell upon her torn kirtle and the glimpse of bare white flesh. Dragging her cloak tightly over her bosom, she met his eyes warily, afraid of what she would find there.

‘Do not look at me so, my lady. I am not the kind of beast that rapes women.’ His voice was angry, his eyes a very bright blue as they flashed at her.

‘Of course not, Sir Remy,’ she murmured, unable to meet his glare, ‘Come, let us not tarry here, for I feel sure ‘tis an evil place.’

She fell into step at his side as they walked back to the road, her eyes avoiding the gruesome sight of bloodied bodies lying there. They spent some while calling and searching for her horse, but it soon became apparent that he had taken to his heels and returned to the Red Lion.

‘Walther will carry us both,’ said Remy indicating the massive Hanoverian, who stood patiently, unfazed by the smell of fresh blood and seeming to relish the conflict as much as his master.

As he put his hands on her waist, and made to toss her up on to Walther, Remy suddenly grunted and stooped, clutching at his ribs. Beatrice looked up quickly, catching her breath in alarm. ‘Are you hurt, Sir Remy?’

He shook his head, and valiantly grasped her about the waist again, but again he was seized with pain and doubled over. Then, to her amazement, he gave a command to Walther and before her wide eyes the horse knelt down on his two front legs, and Remy mounted him, indicating that Beatrice should climb up behind.

‘I have never seen such a thing!’ she exclaimed, as she settled herself pillion on Walther’s broad back, her arms fastening about Remy’s waist.

‘You have never been in battle. If you had, then you would know ‘tis quite a common trick. A man in full armour, maybe injured, can sometimes find it difficult to mount a tall warhorse quickly.’

They set off, and Beatrice was aware that she had never felt so safe in her life. What bliss it was just to sit back and let someone else make all the decisions. Remy set a fast pace and it was certainly not comfortable bouncing around on the back of Walther, the chainmail links of Remy’s hauberk pressing painfully into her cheek and bosom as she clung to him to keep herself from falling off.

The clouds gathered darkly overhead and thunder grumbled. Even with the first spit of rain Remy did not stop. They came to a small stream and here they paused to let Walther rest and drink some water. They dismounted and Remy went to the bank, where he knelt and washed the blood from his face and hands. Beatrice was sitting quietly on a rock, looking up at the sky and wondering if it would rain hard, when suddenly she saw Remy slump and heard his low moan. He tried to straighten up and take a deep breath, only to moan and slump again.

Frightened, Beatrice jumped up and ran to him, kneeling at his side and exclaiming, ‘You are hurt, Sir Remy! Take off your hauberk and let me look.’

Reluctantly, for he was anxious to make Castle Ashton before nightfall, he agreed. Remy groaned, as he lifted his arms. ‘You will have to help me.’

With a struggle Beatrice dragged off first his coif, revealing lank blond hair dark with sweat, and then his hauberk. She staggered beneath its slithering weight and dropped it in the grass. Turning back, she unlaced his leather jack, pulling it off over broad shoulders and arms thick with the bulge of hard muscle. His linen tunic was wet with sweat, but she did not remove it, only lifted the hem up to his armpits and peered at the offending area he held his hand to. His ribs on the left side were stained purple with dark bruises, but she was thankful to see no open wounds or bleeding.

‘I think you may have broken a rib, or at the very least taken a nasty bruising.’

‘They are not broken,’ he assured her, for he knew what that felt like. He clasped her wrist and pulled away her exploring fingertips, a shiver of ecstasy, which was agony too, running down his back. Dropping down his tunic, he made to stand up. ‘I will be fine. Let us be on our way.’

‘Nay,’ said Beatrice firmly, her hand on his shoulder forcing him to stay on his knees, ‘let me make a cold compress and bind your ribs. That may afford you some comfort.’

He looked quickly away as she lifted the hem of her skirt, and ripped several strips from her shift. These she knotted together, until she had a serviceable bandage. Then she tore another piece off and wadded it into a square. She leaned down to the stream and soaked it in cold water, squeezing the excess out and laying the makeshift compress against his ribs. He flinched, with a low, throaty groan and her eyes lifted to his.

‘You torture me.’ His gaze fell on her soft cheeks, the curve of her pink mouth. ‘I see you still have your hair.’

Beatrice found she could not look away from him, as his eyes explored her face, and her breath came quickly from between parted lips. She could feel the heat of his body, and beneath her fingers his flesh was solid, his sun-gold skin smooth along his ribs. She noticed that his chest was dusted with dark-gold hair, a thin dark line arrowing along the flat planes of his stomach to his navel, and beyond. Quickly she tore her eyes away. His male smell, mixed with sweat and dirt, was heady indeed and not repugnant. Her senses seemed to float, a spark lighting inside her.

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