She remembered a move she had seen her brothers use when fighting and locked her two hands together, into a fist. She jerked it up, delivering a sharp blow to underneath the chin of the man who held her. His teeth snapped on his tongue and he yelped. She quickly followed this with a vicious kick to the shins. He was so surprised that a small noblewoman was willing to fight, for one moment his hold on her slackened and Beatrice jerked away. In that instant she took to her heels, running as fast as she could up the track, back the way she had come, hoping to find help.
She saw a horseman approaching in the distance and screamed, waving her arms to attract his attention. The mercenaries were quickly gaining on her as their booted feet pounded hard behind her. She had no doubt that it was their intention to catch her, drag her off into the bushes and hold her quiet, until the lone horseman had been dealt with.
With her bodice torn, holding up her skirts as she ran, and her mouth wide open in a scream, she made for a wild sight. Suddenly something whooshed past her and the man nearest made a strange sound. Blood sprayed across her arm and, glancing back, she saw that a small arrow protruded from his neck. He fell instantly.
The horseman galloping towards them lowered a crossbow and, as he had not the time to reload, drew his sword with a ringing hiss of steel. Roaring a war-cry that echoed around the woods, he charged down on the other two men. Beatrice dived into the bracken lining the side of the road, out of the way. She fell to her knees, panting, gasping for breath, and pulling together the torn edges of her kirtle. She looked up, peering through the bushes, and then quickly away, one hand smothering a cry as the horseman slashed with his sword and one of the mercenaries lost his head. She did not look to see how he dealt with the other, but the noise was ferocious, as steel rang on steel, and both men profaned loudly with each blow.
At last, after what seemed like an eternity to Beatrice, all went quiet, except for the snorting pants of his horse and her own harsh breathing that was laboured more from terror than anything else. She rose cautiously, and then remembered that there had been others. The horseman had dismounted and was inspecting the men he had slain, but he turned quickly at her warning shout and had a moment to collect himself before the other three mercenaries ran at him with swords drawn.
With a despairing cry Beatrice covered her face. He would surely not win against these three and suddenly she thought it best to flee, whilst the mercenaries’ attention was elsewhere. With the clash of steel, the grunts and shouts of the fighting men echoing in her ears, Beatrice turned and began to run into the shelter of the woods.
She was hampered by the fact that she could not catch her breath, and her ribs and heart ached painfully as terror took its toll. She stopped and leaned against a tree, gasping for air. Then she heard the drumming of a horse cantering, and she looked back, her eyes wide with terror. At first she could not see anyone and cautiously she began to move, stumbling backwards as the thunder of hooves came louder and closer. Then he emerged through the trees, and the lone horseman called to her.
The big black destrier was vaguely familiar and Beatrice stared as he came to a shuddering halt and his rider pushed back his chainmail coif with one hand. ‘Remy St Leger!’
He smiled, and leapt down from his horse. Without thinking of propriety or anything else, Beatrice ran to him and flung her arms about his waist. He held her, and let her sob against his blood-spattered chest.
‘Shh,’ he said softly, calmly, ‘you are safe, my lady.’ He wanted to touch her, to stroke her hair, but his hands were not clean.
Gulping, wiping her wet face with her hand, she tipped back her head and looked up at him, asking with a wobbling smile, ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
‘Your father sent me to escort you home. But it appears I was too late.’
Her eyes lowered and she hung her head, ashamed that the convent had rejected her. ‘It seems I am not fit to be a nun.’
At her sorrowful tone he smiled, gave her shoulders a quick hug with his arm and then stepped back, peering down to look into her face. He asked carefully, ‘You are not hurt, my lady? Those men, they did not…touch you?’
She understood his meaning at once and with a blush she shook her head. She noticed that his gaze fell upon her torn kirtle and the glimpse of bare white flesh. Dragging her cloak tightly over her bosom, she met his eyes warily, afraid of what she would find there.
‘Do not look at me so, my lady. I am not the kind of beast that rapes women.’ His voice was angry, his eyes a very bright blue as they flashed at her.
‘Of course not, Sir Remy,’ she murmured, unable to meet his glare, ‘Come, let us not tarry here, for I feel sure ‘tis an evil place.’
She fell into step at his side as they walked back to the road, her eyes avoiding the gruesome sight of bloodied bodies lying there. They spent some while calling and searching for her horse, but it soon became apparent that he had taken to his heels and returned to the Red Lion.
‘Walther will carry us both,’ said Remy indicating the massive Hanoverian, who stood patiently, unfazed by the smell of fresh blood and seeming to relish the conflict as much as his master.
As he put his hands on her waist, and made to toss her up on to Walther, Remy suddenly grunted and stooped, clutching at his ribs. Beatrice looked up quickly, catching her breath in alarm. ‘Are you hurt, Sir Remy?’
He shook his head, and valiantly grasped her about the waist again, but again he was seized with pain and doubled over. Then, to her amazement, he gave a command to Walther and before her wide eyes the horse knelt down on his two front legs, and Remy mounted him, indicating that Beatrice should climb up behind.
‘I have never seen such a thing!’ she exclaimed, as she settled herself pillion on Walther’s broad back, her arms fastening about Remy’s waist.
‘You have never been in battle. If you had, then you would know ‘tis quite a common trick. A man in full armour, maybe injured, can sometimes find it difficult to mount a tall warhorse quickly.’
They set off, and Beatrice was aware that she had never felt so safe in her life. What bliss it was just to sit back and let someone else make all the decisions. Remy set a fast pace and it was certainly not comfortable bouncing around on the back of Walther, the chainmail links of Remy’s hauberk pressing painfully into her cheek and bosom as she clung to him to keep herself from falling off.
The clouds gathered darkly overhead and thunder grumbled. Even with the first spit of rain Remy did not stop. They came to a small stream and here they paused to let Walther rest and drink some water. They dismounted and Remy went to the bank, where he knelt and washed the blood from his face and hands. Beatrice was sitting quietly on a rock, looking up at the sky and wondering if it would rain hard, when suddenly she saw Remy slump and heard his low moan. He tried to straighten up and take a deep breath, only to moan and slump again.
Frightened, Beatrice jumped up and ran to him, kneeling at his side and exclaiming, ‘You are hurt, Sir Remy! Take off your hauberk and let me look.’
Reluctantly, for he was anxious to make Castle Ashton before nightfall, he agreed. Remy groaned, as he lifted his arms. ‘You will have to help me.’
With a struggle Beatrice dragged off first his coif, revealing lank blond hair dark with sweat, and then his hauberk. She staggered beneath its slithering weight and dropped it in the grass. Turning back, she unlaced his leather jack, pulling it off over broad shoulders and arms thick with the bulge of hard muscle. His linen tunic was wet with sweat, but she did not remove it, only lifted the hem up to his armpits and peered at the offending area he held his hand to. His ribs on the left side were stained purple with dark bruises, but she was thankful to see no open wounds or bleeding.
‘I think you may have broken a rib, or at the very least taken a nasty bruising.’
‘They are not broken,’ he assured her, for he knew what that felt like. He clasped her wrist and pulled away her exploring fingertips, a shiver of ecstasy, which was agony too, running
down his back. Dropping down his tunic, he made to stand up. ‘I will be fine. Let us be on our way.’
‘Nay,’ said Beatrice firmly, her hand on his shoulder forcing him to stay on his knees, ‘let me make a cold compress and bind your ribs. That may afford you some comfort.’
He looked quickly away as she lifted the hem of her skirt, and ripped several strips from her shift. These she knotted together, until she had a serviceable bandage. Then she tore another piece off and wadded it into a square. She leaned down to the stream and soaked it in cold water, squeezing the excess out and laying the makeshift compress against his ribs. He flinched, with a low, throaty groan and her eyes lifted to his.
‘You torture me.’ His gaze fell on her soft cheeks, the curve of her pink mouth. ‘I see you still have your hair.’
Beatrice found she could not look away from him, as his eyes explored her face, and her breath came quickly from between parted lips. She could feel the heat of his body, and beneath her fingers his flesh was solid, his sun-gold skin smooth along his ribs. She noticed that his chest was dusted with dark-gold hair, a thin dark line arrowing along the flat planes of his stomach to his navel, and beyond. Quickly she tore her eyes away. His male smell, mixed with sweat and dirt, was heady indeed and not repugnant. Her senses seemed to float, a spark lighting inside her.
She lifted the compress away and began binding his ribs with her handmade bandage. Remy held himself tensely as she leaned against him, her bosom brushing his midriff and he swallowed, fists clenched hard.
‘There,’ she said, surveying her efforts, ‘does that feel better?’
To please her he said aye, although in truth it made little difference. What he needed was a bed for the night. In more ways than one, he thought ruefully, as she helped him don his armour and they remounted Walther. They set off again, this time with her arms about his hips.
Beatrice was silent for a long while. Her thoughts returned again and again to the sight of his bare chest and the feel of his smooth skin beneath her fingers. He stirred up powerful emotions within her, which she had never felt before.
‘My lady?’ said Remy.
‘Aye?’
‘Could you—’ his voice was curt and rough ‘—move your arms, please?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Beatrice quickly. ‘Am I hurting you?’
‘Nay.’ His reply was somewhat strangled, but he was relieved when her arms shifted to his waist. She could not know, through his armour, that her slender forearm had rested on his shaft, and that the bold creature, never long dormant, had been roused by the contact as they jogged along.
Beatrice was puzzled by his request, thinking that she would hurt his ribs less if she gripped him about the hips. Apparently it was not so, but she thought no more of it and asked him, ‘Will we make Castle Ashton this day, Sir Remy?’
‘Aye. I hope so, my lady.’
‘Please, do not call me my lady all the time. My name is Beatrice.’
‘Only if you do not call me Sir Remy.’
She laughed, ‘Agreed. Should we not stop along the way and tell someone about…’ she hesitated ‘…the bodies?’
‘Aye. I had planned to stop in Somerton and report to the sheriff.’
‘Is it far?’
‘About five miles down the road.’
She fell silent and they rode along in companionable ease. Then Beatrice asked, ‘How is my father? Did he meet with my brothers, Hal and Osmond?’
‘He is well and, nay, we have not yet met up with your brothers.’ He did not want to upset her by repeating the fears Lord Thurstan had harboured that his sons were both dead.
‘I see. Does it seem likely that my father will return after his thirty days’ service?’
‘Nay, my la—Beatrice. The king is determined to drive the Welsh into the mountains and starve them into surrender. There are thousands of more troops on their way from Cheshire and Lancashire and there is talk that Edward has raised the largest army since William the Conqueror.’
‘Indeed? And do you have a great love for war?’
Her question took him by surprise, and he floundered with the answer. ‘I have neither love nor hate for war. ‘Tis as much a part of life as eating and breathing.’
‘Ah, but there I cannot agree with you. If Edward was content to sit at home with Eleanor, there would be no war now in Wales.’
Remy snorted. ‘What man is content to sit at home twiddling his thumbs and pestering his wife?’
‘Mayhap…’ she smiled ‘…a wife would prefer to be pestered than widowed.’
”Tis a woman’s view,’ he said sharply.
Beatrice abandoned the subject and yet she was eager to keep up their conversation, to hold at bay from her mind the horrors of the day. She searched for a topic that would not lead to argument and thought it safe to ask, ‘Do you play chess?’
‘Aye. Do you?’
‘Indeed. Mayhap one day we might have a game.’
He grinned at her over his shoulder, looking down into her brown eyes as she clung trustingly to him. ‘Only on one condition.’
‘What is that?’
‘You promise not to let me win.’
‘Why would I?’ she asked with genuine surprise.
‘Some men do not like a clever woman, but I am not one of them.’
‘I am far from being clever. Why, even the convent would not have me!’
Remy remembered his visit of the day before with the Abbess of St Jude. ‘I fear ‘twas your dowry that was the greatest attraction.’
Beatrice pouted. ‘I am sorry to say that my father has lost all of it.’ With a little laugh she jested, ‘He will have the devil’s own job in getting rid of me in wedlock now, without a dowry, for she would not give it back to me.’
They both knew who she was and Remy was about to reveal the contents of his saddlebags, when he hesitated. If he chose to ask Beatrice for her hand in marriage, he did not want her to think that it was because he lusted after her dowry.
During the course of their conversations, as they jogged along through the countryside, they discovered they had both slept at the Red Lion last night, and they chafed over the fact they had been so close.
”Tis my fault,’ said Remy, with a frown. ‘I should have thought to ask.’
‘But ‘twas late,’ she soothed, ‘no doubt you were tired.’
‘A knight must never be tired.’
‘You are only human.’ Quickly she thought to distract him from his supposed failings. ‘It seems to me that a knight must be many things. Warrior, horseman, swordsman, courtier, accomplished at singing and dancing. Do you like to dance?’
‘Nay.’ He scowled, unwilling to admit to her that his preference for dainty females often left him without a partner, for little women were mostly intimidated by his great size.
‘I love to dance,’ she said, aware that she had touched a sore spot and wondered at the reason, her guess fairly shrewd. ‘Couples are my favourite, but of course my father will allow me to dance couples only with my brothers, and they are very tall. How tall are you, Remy?’
‘I am six foot two.’
‘Oh, I would say Hal is at least two inches taller than you, and he is a wonderful dancer.’
‘Is that so?’ replied Remy sourly, still scowling.
Undaunted by his reticence, Beatrice plunged on and discovered they shared a love for archery; laughingly she challenged him to a contest. Then, wisely, she fell silent, for her mother had oft warned that a man did not like a chatterbox. Tired, she laid her cheek against Remy’s back and leaned against him. He made no objection.
It was dark when Walther plodded wearily over the drawbridge of Castle Ashton. Beatrice was half-asleep, her head pillowed against Remy’s back. Pitch lights flared and dazzled them with brightness, and grooms came running to assist them. There were hearty welcome cries from the serfs as they recognised Beatrice and quickly she was swept inside, while Remy went to make sure that Walther was properly taken care of an
d bedded down for the night with a good feed.
As she stepped into the hall, Beatrice was flooded with a warm feeling of joy to be back in her own home. She wondered what fever of the mind had persuaded her to abandon it in the first place, and put it down to the shock and grief of losing her mother only a short while ago. But now, some devilish little voice chirped inside her, she had found Remy.
From the chairs beside the fireplace several figures rose and Beatrice turned towards them, exclaiming with surprise, ‘Aunt Margaret! How came you to be here?’
‘My dearest Beatrice—’ her aunt, who was her father’s youngest sister, came to her with hands outstretched, kissing her on both cheeks ‘—your father sent word to me about your…’ she hesitated ‘…change of plans, and that he did not wish you to be alone while he is away. So, here we are.’
‘We?’
‘Of course.’ Her aunt turned and Beatrice felt her heart sink, felt hopes that had not even had the chance to become dreams evaporate. ‘Joanna, come and greet your cousin.’
Remy entered the hall just as Joanna rose from her seat and came towards them. Beatrice had no need to turn and see if he stared, for any man would stare at Joanna. A tall, slender girl, she had wheat-blonde hair and blue eyes, a lovely face and a full-bosomed graceful figure. But worse, far worse than any of that, she was eight years younger than Beatrice.
Chapter Four
Stricken as she was, Beatrice composed herself quickly. Her aunt had brought with her several knights as escort from her home in Oxford, as well as two of her ladies. Beatrice made the introductions.
‘Sir Humphrey Stanhope…Sir Kendall Mortimer…and Sir Richard Blackthorn.’
The knights bowed to one another, each taking their measure. Remy, although undoubtedly the youngest in years, had the advantage in stature and towered over them all. Beatrice watched him carefully as she introduced him to her cousin. He bowed over Joanna’s hand and kissed it, but she could not see his expression as he glanced at Joanna’s lovely face.
The Knight's Vow Page 6
