The Knight's Vow. Catherine March

Abbess Huberta would make certain of that.

      At last the mass came to an end and they shuffled off to bed. The hard, uncomfortable cot now felt like a bed of swan feathers and Beatrice fell gratefully into it, asleep at once. But not for long. Before she had time to dream the bell was ringing for Prime; afterwards, she was taken out into the cold, dark morning by Sister Audrey to help her milk the cows.

      

      Once a year Lord Thurstan owed the king thirty days’ service. This year his thirty days, probably more, would be spent in assisting Edward wrest control of Brecon and Gwynedd from the Welsh. He set off on Friday. The dawn muffled the ringing cavalcade of twelve mounted knights and a hundred men-at-arms. It was intended that they would march north to Evesham and join forces with the Earl of Hereford.

      

      Two weeks later, having enjoyed several small skirmishes against the Welsh, they camped against the walls of Carmarthen Castle, while the Marcher lords met in council with Edward’s commanders and decisions were made upon deployment.

      Seated in a tent round a small fire circled with stones were Radley and Montgomery. These two had become the best of friends and close comrades over the years, and with them sat Woodford, Baldslow and Remy St Leger. They huddled into their cloaks and passed a flask of brandy from man to man, while the wind and the rain lashed outside upon the wild hills of Wales. The remains of a meagre supper of rabbit stew congealed in a three-legged iron pot and their squires sat in corners carefully polishing the rust from swords and armour.

      The conversation was largely centred on the coming fight with Welshmen, whom they judged to be short and wild, but courageous in battle.

      ‘The only problem is drawing them down from their mountain lairs and out into the open,’ commented Radley.

      The others nodded in agreement, and after a long moment of silence Radley mused, ‘I wonder how fares Lady Beatrice.’

      Remy squinted at him with narrowed eyes, his mouth tightening, wondering if it was a deliberate ploy to draw him into an argument, or whether the good knight was genuinely expressing his concern. Remy decided upon the latter, and took a swig of brandy before passing on the flask to Baldslow.

      ‘I think Lord Thurstan misses her sorely, although he would be the last to admit so,’ said Montgomery.

      ‘Aye, more fool him,’ Woodford said, poking a stick into the embers of the fire, “Tis no easy life for a nun, not at St Jude’s. They provide for themselves, with no help from any man, and Lady Beatrice is not accustomed to hard manual labour.’

      Remy felt a burning sensation tighten in the pit of his stomach, not caused by the fiery brandy. His fists clenched, and he hid them beneath the folds of his cloak. He could not bear to think of Lady Beatrice with her back aching and her hands chafed by labour fit only for peasants.

      ”Tis certain even the angels wept when they cut her hair.’

      There was a loud chorus of agreement and Remy murmured, staring at the fire flames, ‘Aye, her hair was indeed beautiful. Like honey. It fell in waves to her hips.’

      Silence fell over the men, all movement stilled as they stared at him. Remy looked up quickly, suddenly realising his error and making quick amends as he stammered, ‘So I hear. Or was told.’

      ‘Indeed?’ Cedric Baldslow stared hard at the younger man, his suspicions aroused and spoiling for a fight with this pretty face. ‘Methinks you speak in a manner too familiar. I wondered, that night at the Red Lion…’ He let his words dangle while the others, except Remy, who remained silently staring at the fire, prompted Baldslow to continue. He shrugged, pouting somewhat belligerently, ‘I came up to check that St Leger had not fallen asleep at his post, and he was not there. I thought I heard a sound from my lady’s room.’

      At that implication Remy leapt to his feet, ‘What are you accusing me of? What sort of sound?’

      Baldslow rose slowly, and sneered, ‘The sound a woman makes when she lies beneath a man.’

      Remy swore and swung his fist, but not before the tide of red that stained his face had been noticed by one and all. “Tis a lie, Baldslow! You besmirch the honour of a lady!’

      ‘An honour you have already taken?’ shouted Baldslow, neatly side-stepping the blow. ‘Come now, Sir Remy, you are sworn by knighthood to always tell the truth!’

      ‘Have no fear,’ snarled Remy, glaring at his tormentor, ‘Lady Beatrice is still a virgin.’

      ‘Is she, still, by God? I think I greatly mislike the sound of that!’

      There were mutters from Radley and Montgomery, and even Woodford had one or two well-chosen epithets to throw at Remy. Now they all turned to stare at him, as they stood about the fire, and Radley demanded in a voice that was used to obedience, ‘Have you had intimate knowledge of the Lady Beatrice, Sir Remy?’

      ‘Nay!’ Remy hung his head, hands on hips, staring at his feet, his voice very quiet, ‘I…but kissed her. ‘Tis all. No more, I swear.’

      ‘You fool!’

      ‘Idiot!’

      Baldslow erupted, but not with words. Roaring like an enraged beast, he charged at Remy, head down, and cannoned into him with his shoulder. His momentum thrust them both through the tent flap and out into the night.

      It took only a moment for Remy to recover his wits and he punched back at Baldslow, thrusting his knee into his stomach until the grip that threatened to break his ribs loosened. With snarls and shouts the two men engaged in a fierce fight, smashing one another about the head and body with both fists, slipping and falling in the mud, soaked by the rain, but neither willing to give any quarter.

      The fracas attracted attention, and some came out of their tents to stare, to cheer, to exclaim, and one of them was Lord Thurstan. At his furious command it took half a dozen men more than a few moments to tear the two combatants apart, and drag them before their lord for accounting.

      ‘We are here to fight the Welsh, not each other! What goes on? Baldslow? St Leger? Answer me!’

      Both men remained silent, uncertain of the wisdom of truth now, when the punishment could be far greater than the reward. After a few moments, in which Lord Thurstan harangued them with dire threats if they did not speak, Baldslow decided to take the risk—after all, he had nothing to lose.

      ‘My lord, it came to my attention that St Leger has taken liberties about the person of my Lady Beatrice.’

      ‘Indeed?’ Lord Thurstan was inclined to be sceptical of any accusation uttered by Baldslow, a man whose own suit had been thoroughly thwarted and mayhap would stoop at nothing when presented with so threatening a rival for his daughter’s affections as the handsome young Remy St Leger. Seeing that this was not a matter to be aired in public, he summoned both men to his pavilion.

      Lord Thurstan dismissed his squire, who reluctantly went out into the cold wet night and found himself lodgings with Fitzpons and Grenville. With arms akimbo, Lord Thurstan turned to face his knights and silently demanded their explanation. Baldslow was the first to speak.

      ‘My lord, I have reason to believe that St Leger entered the bedchamber of Lady Beatrice, when we lodged for the night at the Red Lion inn. There, I believe, he became intimate with her.’

      Lord Thurstan controlled his instinctive rage at this accusation. ‘St Leger? What say you?’

      ‘My lord, I did nought. She asked me for one kiss, as she had never been kissed before. I swear on the Holy Bible and on my oath as a knight that nothing else happened.’

      ‘She is still a virgin?’

      ‘Aye, my lord.’

      ‘Baldslow, you may go. And I trust you will keep your tongue between your teeth.’

      ‘Of course, my lord.’ Baldslow bowed deeply and departed, throwing St Leger a triumphant look that was yet tinged with wary jealousy at Lord