With a whimper her hands moved up his chest and slid around his neck. He groaned, his own hands sliding down to her buttocks and grinding her into the hard bulk of his arousal. They kissed, again and again, and then, without releasing her mouth from the possession of his, he picked her up, swinging her feet off the floor and carrying her to the bed. He laid her down, and himself alongside her. For a long while he did nothing more than continue to kiss her, with hungry urgency.
Beatrice surrendered herself to the most wonderful sensations she had ever felt. The feel of his mouth, the taste of him, the male aroma of him, the heavy muscles of his body, all were new to her. Exciting. Intoxicating. The flood of excitement had welled up so deep within her, and expanded, straining for release in some strange way that she could not fathom, that she made a small noise in her throat, turning to him for guidance.
Hearing this familiar female sound of melting, he smiled to himself and he became bolder. His thigh slid between her knees and his hand found her nipple.
Beatrice opened her eyes and stared at him. She knew that she should not let him touch her in such a way, but it felt so glori ous, and her lashes fluttered down with a strangled moan.
Then suddenly his hand moved away from her breast and she felt a sense of loss. Her eyes snapped open again and she looked up at him, and then gasped as he found the hem of her gown and lifted it up to expose her lower body, naked to his touch.
Her cry was lost inside his mouth. She did not dare to move and held herself tensely still, but as his hand slid between her knees and travelled along the silken warmth of her slender legs she shook her head, broke their kiss, and she cried out, ‘Nay! You must stop!’
‘Why?’ he asked, in a hoarse whisper. ‘No one will know whether you are a virgin or not.’
‘I will know! God will know!’
His thumb stroked the soft curve of her outer thigh and he gazed at her with lazy amusement, his voice husky as he stated, ‘I want you.’
‘Nay, it cannot be!’
‘You could not stop me, if I wanted to take you now.’ He squeezed her thigh with his fingers, demonstrating to her his strength as the hard muscles of his arms flexed and rippled.
‘Please,’ she gasped, ‘please do not shame me.’
Suddenly he released her, withdrew, and she felt cold air as he levered himself up off the bed, the four-poster creaking at his sudden movement. Beatrice sat up, quickly pulling down the hem of her nightshift to cover her nakedness, and leapt to her feet. She rushed at him and made a move to strike his face, but he was too tall and too quick, and checked her, grabbing her wrist in mid-air.
‘You have broken your oath of honour,’ she accused in an agonised whisper.
He blinked, with surprise, ‘I have done naught, except kiss you. At your request. I see nothing dishonourable in that.’
Every line of her body was taut with tension. ‘You should not have touched me…there.’
He laughed then. ‘If I had touched you “there”, instead of just upon your lovely little thighs, you would not now be making protest but crying out your joy as I possessed you.’
Beatrice gasped and flushed scarlet at his explicit words. ‘Go, for I was vastly mistaken to believe that you are a chivalrous knight.’
The light in his eyes flared with anger at her accusation. He stooped and covered her mouth with a kiss so sweet and tender that it left her reeling as he released her wrist and strode to the door. He turned and looked back at her for a moment before issuing his dark warning, ‘Kittens should not play with lions.’
Chapter Two
The convent of St Jude was situated in Northload Street and backed onto the manor house of the Abbot of Glastonbury. The nuns leased ten acres from Abbot John, and from this small parcel of land eked out sufficient food so as to provide enough for their community to live upon, rarely having to resort to buying anything from the market. There were three cows to be milked, a half-dozen sheep for mutton and wool, twenty chickens for eggs and meat, fish ponds and a thriving vegetable garden that yielded carrots, turnips, swedes, onions and herbs. There were apple and pear trees and also two acres of vines. The convent buildings themselves consisted of a hall, known as the refectory, where the nuns ate; a parlour, where Sister Huberta had her desk and went about the business of correspondence and discipline; a large kitchen, which faced on to the vegetable gardens to the rear, adjoined by the buttery. Below stairs there was a cellar, and eight sleeping chambers above stairs. Central to all, of course, was the chapel, ensconced within the body of the convent, so that there was easy access at all hours of the day and night.
A great deal of hard work was required by all to keep this little farm going, and Sister Huberta, Abbess, made sure that she wrung every last ounce out of every last nun, twenty-five in all, excluding the Abbess and the novices.
It was Tuesday, market day, and so large a party as the Ashton cavalcade attracted some attention as they entered the town from the south, along Chilkwell Street, and then turned to clatter up the High Street. Beatrice glanced at the market stalls as they passed by and noted a variety of interesting goods—cheeses, wooden spoons and rowan besoms, silks and ribbons, delicious-smelling pasties, leather boots and copper pots.
All too quickly they left the market behind and wheeled into Northload Street. Just before the end they came to a high brick wall that ran for some distance and abutted the solid posts of a wide, wooden double gate. The gate was barred from the inside and visitors were required to ring a wrought-iron bell set high up in the wall—high enough to discourage small children from tormenting the nuns and the neighbour-hood with silly games of ring-and-run.
Sir Giles leaned over in his saddle and tugged on the rope. They could not hear its jangle, but it was not long before a small trapdoor opened and a wimpled face peeped out.
‘Good morning, Sister,’ greeted Sir Giles politely, ‘Lady Beatrice of Ashton has arrived.’
The door slammed shut. They glanced at one another and Beatrice smiled with a small shrug. After some moments the trapdoor opened again and another nun peered at them with hard eyes. She was older than the first one, and had sharp features that reminded Beatrice of a ferret. She looked directly at Beatrice and spoke to her in a tone that well matched her features.
‘I am the Abbess here, Sister Huberta. What do you mean by bringing all these men to my door? Look how you have blocked the road and created unseemly interest.’
Beatrice felt a small shock of surprise at this abrupt greeting, and she glanced over her shoulder, surveying the men-at-arms who did indeed block the road and had attracted a small crowd of onlookers. Even now Sir Hugh was shouting and pushing his horse through in an attempt to get her coffer to the convent’s door. Beatrice turned to make her apology, but was forestalled.
‘They may go. At once. You may step down from your horse and I will admit you to St Jude’s. If that is still your wish.’ Sister Huberta stared straight at her.
‘Indeed,’ replied Beatrice slowly, her voice naturally soft and now scarcely audible above the stamp and snort of horses, the jingle of harness, the shouts of men down the road, ‘I have a coffer, if you would be so kind as to open the gate.’
‘Are you not aware that this is an enclosed order? I had thought I’d made it quite clear in my letters. We have not opened the gates in thirty years and will surely not do so now. We take you as you are, Mistress Beatrice—’ her name was pronounced almost with a sneer ‘—besides, I cannot allow one nun to own more than any other. You will be provided with what you need, even if it may not be what you want.’
‘But, my Bible—’
‘We have one.’
‘My hairbrush.’
‘You will not need it. Your hair will be shorn.’
The knights and men-at-arms nearby gasped. Beatrice closed her mouth upon her protests to salvage her soap and sewing kit and other possessions. She turned then to Sir Giles and said in a quiet voice, ‘Would you help me down, please?’
‘My lady.’ Sir Giles dismounted, and all the knights dismounted at once, with an audible creak of leather, clank of swords and ringing of spurs that made Beatrice cringe.
As Sir Giles set her down upon the ground Beatrice stroked Willow’s nose in farewell, let go of the reins and took a step towards the gates of St Jude. Then she stopped and turned around again, her eyes flitting from one knight to another.
‘Fare thee well,’ she whispered. ‘My thanks and may God go with you all.’
As one body they came and knelt in a semi-circle before her. She went to each one and kissed him upon the cheek. They remained silent and kept their gazes upon the ground, although every one of them longed to shout their protest and sweep her up on to her horse, to gallop away home.
When she came to Remy St Leger, last in line and furthest away from the gate, it was he, and he alone, who raised his eyes and looked upon her. He reached for her hand and kissed it.
‘Your father said to remind you that if all is not well, to send word.’ His voice was very low, not to be heard by the Abbess.
‘I know. But tell my father that I will not shame him by my lack of courage.’
”Tis not courage you need now, but common sense. Come away from this place.’
‘Let go of my hand!’ Beatrice said through clenched teeth.
‘Come along, young lady, I do not have time to waste idly waiting upon your pleasure.’
Remy cast the Abbess a look of sour contempt. Still clasping Beatrice’s small hand between the rough palms of his own much larger hands, he looked up at her, as he knelt in the mud on one bended knee. ‘You do not belong here.’
Beatrice leaned forwards and kissed his cheek. ‘Fare thee well, Sir Remy.’ She spoke sadly but firmly, and resisted the temptation to brush aside the lock of ash-blond hair that fell across his forehead. She tugged her hand free and stepped back.
The knights rose to their feet, and watched, many with hands on hips or the hilt of their swords, as Beatrice stooped through the small door, set in the gate, that closed almost at once behind her, revealing nothing of the convent or its inhabitants to the outside world.
For a long moment the knights stood there, staring, and then Sir Giles roused them and vaulted upon his horse. ‘To Ashton!’ he cried.
It was scarce midday and with hard riding they would make the castle by nightfall, forgoing the temptations the taverns of Glastonbury had to offer, in their haste to return to Lord Thurstan and impress upon him his duty to rescue Lady Beatrice from her own folly.
As the door slammed shut behind her Beatrice blinked in the gloom of the gatehouse. Then the Abbess swept past her and marched across the yard to the main building of the convent.
‘I have never seen such a carry on,’ Sister Huberta complained. ‘If I had known that your father intended to send you to us with such—such pomp, then I would most certainly have written and persuaded him otherwise.’
Beatrice stopped in her tracks, brows raised in a challenging way and she faced the Abbess. ‘I believe my father paid you a substantial dowry to accept me as a novice.’
Sister Huberta stood with hands tucked into her voluminous sleeves, back ramrod straight and looking down her nose at Beatrice from a greater height. Inclining her head slightly, she agreed, ‘Indeed, he did.’
‘I assume that, if I should not be happy here, and decide to leave, my dowry goes with me.’
A slow smile spread across the sharp features, and the Abbess took a step closer to Beatrice, her voice very soft, yet lethal as a blade. ‘I know your game, my lady. Don’t think I haven’t come across your sort before. Too old to wed, too young to cast off. Families have many ways of getting rid of the burden of trying daughters—’ She stepped back, turned and carried on into the building.
‘But—’ Beatrice protested in her own defence, hurrying after her.
‘Silence! You will not interrupt. Let me tell you one thing only. If you stay or if you go, it is your own choice. But you leave as you came. With nothing. Your dowry belongs to St Jude. Now, ‘tis the dinner hour and the sisters will be waiting to eat. Come along, and I will introduce you to everyone.’ She turned to Beatrice with a wide smile that showed yellow, pointy teeth, her voice over-sweet. ‘Now, we shall pray long and hard, to make amends for our poor beginning. I am sure, dear child—’ this as they entered the refectory room set with two long trestle tables, and bustling with black-garbed nuns as they laid out the noonday meal ‘—that you will be very happy here.’
Lord Thurstan had been drinking heavily since the moment Beatrice had left. In the space of two months he had lost both a wife and a daughter, and both of his sons—Lord Henry, his heir and affectionately known as Hal, and young Osmond—might well be dead as they rode on campaign with the Earl of Chester in Wales. No word had been heard from them for many months. In an attempt to dull the pain their absence had inflicted, he consumed as much red Burgundy wine as his stomach and his head could tolerate.
By the time Sir Giles and his knights reached the castle it was dark, and they dismounted and entered the hall, guided by the light of pitch flares, their mood tired and sombre.
‘What ho!’ exclaimed Lord Thurstan from his chair upon the dais, wiping a hand across his mouth and wagging a lamb chop at his men. “Tis a sorry lot I take with me to Wales. Mayhap I would be better off taking the kitchen wenches.’
The men allowed their squires to come in and disarm them, to wash their hands in bowls of hot water brought from the kitchen, before finding their places at the table and helping themselves to food and wine, all in gloomy silence.
Lord Thurstan sat up as Sir Giles took his place nearby. ‘What of Beatrice?’ he asked, with considerable restraint. ‘Was she well? Did she seem happy? And the Abbess? Was she a good woman?’
‘Aye, my lord,’ replied Sir Giles tersely, ‘Lady Beatrice was well when we left, although the Abbess refused to accept her coffer and she went in with nothing more than the clothes upon her back.’
Lord Thurstan grunted, not pleased with this news. The men chewed upon their meat and bread, gulped deep draughts of wine and eyed one another warily, the truth an unpalatable dish.
It was Remy St Leger who rose from his place and approached their lord seated upon his dais. Some admired him for his courage and others shook their heads over his foolhardiness.
Remy bowed deeply. ‘My lord, I would speak with you. In private.’
Lord Thurstan’s shaggy brows climbed to his forehead and he flicked his eyes about the hall. ‘We are all family here. I have no secrets in my own hall. If you wish to speak, then speak.’
Remy cleared his throat, but to his credit did not shrink. ‘I would ask you for your daughter’s hand.’
The hall went silent. All movement ceased. All eyes were agog.
‘What did you say?’ Lord Thurstan asked quietly, slowly setting aside his meat.
‘Lady Beatrice does not belong in a convent. I ask that you would give her in marriage to me.’
A wordless roar burst from Lord Thurstan as he leapt to his feet, and then one large fist swung through the air and Remy St Leger went crashing to the floor. For a moment the blow stunned him, but none went to his aid. Lord Thurstan stepped down from the dais and knelt at the young man’s side, his eyes cold with fury. He watched while Remy sat up, shook his head and wiped the blood from his mouth.
‘What do you know,’ asked Lord Thurstan quietly, ‘of my daughter?’
Remy did not falter. ‘I know that God did not make her to be a nun.’
‘Is that so? And you know her so well, then?’
Remy was silent, uncertain of the correct answer.
Lord Thurstan stabbed a finger in his chest. ‘My daughter is not for the likes of you!’
He turned away then and went back to his chair, refilling his goblet with wine and chewing fiercely upon his food. Everyone watched as Remy picked himself up off the floor, expecting him to slink away to lick his wounds, and vastly entertained to find that the Aquit
aine was willing to provide them with more sport.
Remy strode to the dais and shouted, ‘What sort of man sends his daughter to a convent to rot?’
Lord Thurstan rose menacingly to his feet, quickly followed by Sir Giles and Sir Hugh, who anticipated a brawl. ‘I did not send her. She went of her own choice.’
‘You could have said nay!’
‘Who, I? Say nay to Beatrice when she will say aye?’ Lord Thurstan put his head back and laughed. ‘Indeed, you do not know my daughter very well.’
‘I had thought my pledge was given to the king’s commander in honour, but now I see I serve a man who is no more than a coward!’ Remy leaned forwards and jabbed his finger in Lord Thurstan’s face. ‘I will prove to you, my lord, that I am worthy of your daughter!’
‘Take him away,’ growled Lord Thurstan, ‘before I rip his head off.’
Slumping down in his chair, he watched as Sir Giles and Sir Hugh persuaded Remy to go outside and cool off. The young man reluctantly allowed himself to be escorted from the hall, and Thurstan stroked his beard thoughtfully, a tiny glint of admiration in his eyes as he watched the tall, muscular figure of Remy St Leger retreat.
The bell for Compline rang and Beatrice struggled to extricate herself from the warm cot she had been given in the dormitory set aside for novices. There were only four of them, and most of the time they were too tired and bewildered to talk to each other. The hated bell rang again, and again, until Beatrice wanted to scream.
Throwing back the thin blankets, she fumbled about for her shoes, pulled them on and a plain wool cloak over the grey linen kirtle that was the uniform for novices. She was sure that she had hardly slept in the two days she had been here, and certainly had not changed her clothes nor bathed, apart from washing her face and hands in a bowl of cold water.
The Knight's Vow Page 3
