The Knight's Vow. Catherine March

my daughter, I do not know. But…’ here he stroked his beard thoughtfully, eyeing the tall young man who stood silently before him, ‘I know my Beatrice, and she is no wanton. Long ago, when she was but sixteen, she was betrothed to a young knight whom she greatly admired—mayhap loved, such as a girl so young can love, knowing little of it. He was killed, and since then she has felt no fondness for any man. Many times I had hoped to have my hand forced, but none had the courage. My wife often chastised me for this view, saying it was barbaric, but I think a forced wedding is better than no wedding. Do you not agree?’

      Remy looked awkwardly at his boots, ‘I…well…sir…it depends.’

      ‘On what?’

      ‘From what side of the bed the wedding is viewed. For the groom a moment of pleasure may be rewarded with a lifetime of misery.’

      Despite the seriousness of the situation Thurstan laughed and clapped Remy upon the shoulder. ‘Is it your view that a life spent wedded to Beatrice would be one of misery?’

      ‘Nay. She is beautiful, sweet, kind.’

      ‘She is older than you. By five years.’

      Remy shrugged. ‘Her innocence is her youth.’

      ‘As your experience is your maturity?’

      ‘Aye, my lord. Do not doubt that I am man enough for Beatrice.’

      Blue eyes met Lord Thurstan’s dark brown, with unrelenting challenge. Nodding, as if suddenly coming to a decision, Lord Thurstan moved to his saddlebags and extricated a folded, stained parchment. He waved it at Remy. ‘I have this evening received a letter from the Abbess of St Jude. I had planned to send Woodford back, but I think it will be you, Sir Remy, who goes to fetch my daughter home.’

      ‘Sir?’ Remy stood up straight, a bolt of surprise shooting through him.

      ‘It seems the Abbess is not as enamoured of my Beatrice as you are.’

      

      Several times in the past few days Beatrice had managed to sneak away to the barn. At mid-morning the hayloft was flooded with sunlight and here she made for herself a warm nest and managed an hour of blissful sleep. It seemed her entire life revolved around this desperate need for sleep, and food.

      Although the food was well cooked and tasty there was little of it, and the Abbess would not spend her coin on purchasing flour. There was no bread, no pies, no tarts or cakes. Breakfast consisted of stewed fruit or a thin, coarse gruel made from oats grown on the holding; the midday meal was vegetable soup; supper was a meat or fish stew, sometimes followed by cheese or fruit. The gnawing ache of hunger clawed constantly at her belly and even her dreams were rampant with images of food. She longed to taste just a crust of bread, let alone the sweet curd tarts, game pies and spiced apple cake that Cook at Ashton was so good at making.

      Waking from her nap, Beatrice hurried down the rickety ladder from the hayloft, the bell for the noon Angelus ringing like an alarm. She knew that she must hurry and, brushing the stalks of dusty hay from her skirts, Beatrice ran along the path that threaded between the vegetables and herbs. She had been sent to collect eggs and realised, with a small gasp of fear, that she had failed to do so.

      When she reached the kitchen door, hoping to slip in and make her way through the convent to the chapel, she was stopped by the large bulk of Sister Una, assigned to the kitchen as cook. She paused as she wielded a massive knife through a pile of turnips and swedes.

      ‘Sister Huberta said to tell you not to go to the chapel, but to her parlour. At once.’

      Biting her lips, Beatrice nodded and smiled her thanks for the message. The first time she had been summoned to Sister Huberta’s study, and severely reprimanded for some misdemeanour or another, Beatrice had shook with terror. But now, it was a regular occurrence and she visited the Abbess on a daily basis.

      Her footsteps tapped on the flagstones of the passage and from the chapel she could hear the uneven tones of discordant singing. Beatrice knocked on the door.

      ‘Enter.’

      She opened the door and came in to find Sister Huberta at her usual place behind her desk. The Abbess sat back in her chair, fingers steepled before her, and smiled unpleasantly.

      ‘Ah. Beatrice. How nice to see you. Again.’

      ‘Abbess.’ Beatrice dipped a small curtsy.

      ‘Come closer, girl. I do not wish to shout at you across the room.’

      Beatrice took three paces forward.

      ‘I would ask you to do me a favour.’

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘Take off your wimple.’

      Beatrice gasped, her hand flying defensively to the linen wrapped around her head and neck. ‘I…I must…protest, Sister.’

      ‘Indeed, you must. But I am afraid that I must insist. You see, dear Beatrice, it has come to my attention that once again you have breached our covenants. This time, ‘tis most serious. Now, remove your wimple, or I will fetch Sister Una and have her do it for you.’

      Beatrice sighed, admitting defeat and too tired, hungry and dispirited to raise further protest. Slowly her small, pale hands unwound the linen wimple and her glorious mane of honey-brown hair spilled about her shoulders, slithering down like silk to curl about her hips.

      ‘I—I am not, by law, required to cut it, Sister Huberta, until my second year. When I am certain of my vocation.’

      ‘I see. And you have doubts about your, um, vocation?’

      ‘Nay, Sister. I wish to praise and honour our Lord and devote my life to Him in prayer.’

      ‘But?’

      ‘Well…’ brightening suddenly at this invitation to unburden herself and disguising her surprise at Sister Huberta’s willingness to listen, Beatrice hurried on ‘…life is harsh here, for everyone. I am sure that if our bodies were not troubling us so much from lack of sleep and constant hunger, we would be able to devote ourselves more entirely to God.’

      ‘Indeed!’ Sister Huberta now rose from her chair, and scraped it back. ‘Thank you for that advice, Beatrice. Now, I have some for you.’ She opened the door of her study. ‘Go home.’

      ‘Sister?’

      ‘I am sending you away. Back to your father.’

      ‘But—’

      ‘I have written to him once already, but received no reply. Unfortunately, St Jude cannot afford the burden of a lazy, useless chit!’ She rang a bell and Sister Emily, the gatekeeper, came. ‘Mistress Beatrice will be leaving us. Kindly escort her to the novice dormitory. She will remove these garments and dress in her own. Then take her to the gate and show her out.’ Sister Huberta gained immense satisfaction from every word she spoke.

      ‘But—’ Beatrice, struggling to comprehend the situation, pointed out ‘—I have no horse, no escort, no money! How can you—?’

      ‘Silence!’ Sister Huberta held up her hand. ‘Collect your bundle from the dormitory. I have given you two pennies to help you on your way.’

      Utterly bewildered, Beatrice followed Sister Emily to the novices’ dormitory, where upon her cot sat a bundle. It was her cloak, her own dark blue fustian, that had been used to tie up her shoes and clothes.

      ‘I have put in some cheese and two apples,’ whispered Sister Emily. ‘Come now, do not look so distraught. You are lucky indeed to be escaping.’ Glancing over her shoulder, she added in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘Do not change your clothes, for your habit will lend you some protection on the outside.’ With nimble hands she fastened Beatrice’s wimple on, tucking away the glorious hair and assuring her, ‘There are few who would dare to accost a nun.’

      Beatrice was numb with shock. She followed Sister Emily across the yard,