The Knight's Vow

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.’