The Knight's Vow. Catherine March

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?’