The Knight's Vow. Catherine March

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.