The Knight's Vow. Catherine March

son of an old friend of your father’s who married a countess of Aquitaine. Both his parents have died recently and his elder brother holds the family estate. He has a reputation in France for being one of the finest swordsmen and has done well, very well, in tournaments.’

      ‘I cannot say I have ever noticed him at Ashton.’

      ‘He has been at Hepple Hill, your father’s estate in Wessex, training the new men-at-arms who will go with us to Wales. He arrived at Ashton but two days ago. Besides, with the death of your lady mother only two months past—’they both crossed themselves ‘—I am sure your father has taken great pains to keep a hot young blood like Remy St Leger far distant from his pretty, virg…um…virtuous daughter.’

      A flush of pink stained Beatrice’s cheeks, but still she laughed, softly. ‘Oh come, Sir Giles, I am an old maid. A “hot young blood” would certainly have no time to waste on me!’

      Sir Giles looked at her, with a frown, once again amazed that she did not know her own worth. ‘My lady, neither beauty nor love knows the limit of age.’

      For a moment he surveyed her heart-shaped face, dainty upturned nose, dark brown eyes with thick, long lashes, soft pink mouth and buttermilk skin. “Tis the church’s gain and our great loss tomorrow, my lady.’

      Beatrice stiffened in the saddle and looked away. She could not bear any more arguments against the path she had chosen, for she feared that far too easily she could be persuaded to return home. Quickly she searched for another topic. ‘Sir Giles, why has my father taken this Remy St Leger into our household?’

      ‘Because he is a fighter, my lady, a warrior, and we have need of such men, going into Wales.’

      ‘I see.’ Beatrice surveyed the broad shoulders of the young man they discussed, a frown creasing her brow, ‘He can surely not be very old.’

      ‘He is four and twenty and was knighted in his first battle at the age of sixteen. From a distance he may not seem very old, but if you look into his eyes, you will see a man full grown and wise with experience. They say he has killed over two hundred men.’

      Beatrice shuddered. ‘I think it is very sad, Sir Giles, that young men have become old before their time because of war.’

      ”Tis the way of the world, my lady.’ Lest her curiosity about the Aquitaine become too avid, Sir Giles steered the conversation elsewhere and made comment upon the weather.

      

      Later that afternoon Woodford and a party of ten men-at-arms were sent on ahead, with a pouch of silver coins, to secure a room for Lady Beatrice at the Red Lion inn. The men would sleep in tents in a nearby field, whilst the seven knights—Radley, Grenville, Montgomery, Woodford, Fitzpons, Baldslow and St Leger—would sleep in the common room and take turns to guard Lady Beatrice’s door throughout the night. Not for one moment would she ever be undefended.

      Storm clouds broke towards dusk and it rained heavily. By the time Beatrice reached the Red Lion she was soaked through to the skin. The downpour was so heavy that the yard of the inn was transformed into a quagmire and the men trudged ankle-deep in mud. There was much shouting as Radley, Baldslow and Montgomery steered the men-at-arms into their makeshift field quarters, Grenville and Fitzpons took charge of her coffer and Beatrice looked helplessly about for assistance. Her eyes encountered a fiercely blue male gaze and, instinctively, her own dropped. But Remy St Leger dismounted and was striding through the mud to Willow. He reached up, seized Beatrice about the waist and hauled her down from the saddle, carrying her easily across the yard to the inn. He slipped once, and with a small cry Beatrice clutched at his shoulders, feeling beneath her fingers the bulk of his muscular frame. His eyes flashed at her, with a mocking smile. He jiggled her weight closer against his chest and held her more tightly as they continued their precarious journey.

      Within the flagstoned doorway of the inn he set her down upon her feet and Beatrice had to tilt her head back to look up at him, for he was very tall.

      ‘Thank you,’ she murmured and, remembering her conversation with Sir Giles, looked into his eyes. And backed away. His features were indeed handsome and pleasing, but Remy St Leger was not the sort of man that a maiden would trifle with.

      Despite several attempts by the landlord to ingratiate himself with Lady Beatrice of Ashton, he saw nothing more than the top of her head, as she was swept upstairs to the finest chamber in the house, surrounded by five knights who seemed gigantic and armed to the teeth.

      Beatrice breathed a sigh of relief as she was shown into her chamber for the night. It was small, compared to her own room at home, but more than adequate for one night. There was a four-poster bed hung with dark blue damask, a roaring fire, two chairs placed before the hearth, a table set with plates of food and a flagon of wine. The windows were well shuttered and Beatrice flung off her sodden cloak, draping it over the back of a chair. A tap at the door made her pause as she reached to pull off her boots.

      ‘Come in.’

      Sir Giles entered, bearing a large pitcher of steaming water, followed closely by Sir Hugh carrying a bowl. They placed both on the hearth before the fire, checked the supply of logs, food and wine, and then turned to Beatrice with a deep bow.

      ‘Is there anything else my lady requires?’ asked Sir Giles.

      ‘Nay, thank you. I have everything I need.’ Rubbing her aching backside, with a rueful grin, she added, ‘I will sleep like a babe this night.’

      ‘You will not be disturbed, my lady.’

      They left her then and Beatrice knew there was no need to bar the door, for there would be a guard all night long. Returning to the hearth, she stripped off her clothes and boots and stood naked to wash. The water was deliciously hot, but the room wasn’t and Beatrice finished quickly, reaching to wrap a blanket around her while she fumbled in her saddlebag and drew out her nightshift. Long-sleeved and tied about the neck with a silk ribbon, she warmed the garment before the fire flames, then slid it quickly on. Sitting in a chair, feet curled beneath her, Beatrice took her time unbraiding her hair and smoothing it out with her fingers.

      Then she ate some of the hearty fare laid out for her—chicken and ham pie, roasted capon, fresh white bread and crumbly Leicester cheese, plum cake and spiced apples—but, inevitably, there came a time when she could no longer busy herself. She sat idly, staring at the fire, alone with her thoughts. Very alone. The reality of tomorrow suddenly came upon her and she was swamped with fear and doubt.

      Her father’s words echoed again and again within the confines of her mind—’…you will never know the joy of being a wife and a mother.’ With a sigh Beatrice rose from the chair and padded barefoot across the wooden floor to the bed, pulling back the covers.

      For a moment she surveyed the broad expanse of mattress, set with two pillows. A bed made to accommodate two people. Husband and wife. Lovers. Tears pricked her eyes. She climbed in and lay down, drawing up her knees into the warmth of her own body and away from the cold linen. After a while she turned on to her back, staring up at the ruched canopy.

      Why? she wondered. Twenty-nine years old and she could find no man worthy enough to claim her love, loyalty and respect. Always she found fault with the men who pursued her hand, for there had been no shortage of offers. Of course, now she was too old. Except for obnoxious Baldslow the offers had dwindled away to nothing.

      When she had been sixteen she had been betrothed to a young man that Beatrice had found acceptable in every way, but William de Warenne, a respected knight, handsome and brave, had been killed. The pain of his death still ached in her breast and she wondered if she had truly ever recovered from his loss. Her mother had warned her against holding on to a love that was long gone, that its grip would become so fierce that she would never be able to love again.

      Many years had passed since that anguished time, but time had not erased the pain completely. It was dull, but not gone. Mayhap she should reconsider Baldslow. He was old, but experience and wisdom were not to be scorned. Beatrice cringed, however, at the thought of his rough, scarred hands touching her, and here she came to the crux of