The Knight's Vow. Catherine March

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