The Knight's Vow. Catherine March

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