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The Knight's Vow

Page 11

by Catherine March


  Beatrice gave a gasp, startled at the touch of his fingers on her breast. He leaned over her, tucking her hips against his, the heavy bulk of his thigh sliding over her legs. His hand explored down the length of her body and cupped the round flesh of her buttocks, pressing her even closer to him. Beatrice lowered her hands to his chest, her heart drumming very hard. He kissed her again, long and deep, and then his mouth moved to her nipple and Beatrice exclaimed softly. She melted as he sucked and licked, shudders of pleasure vibrating deep within her. Her hands now clutched at his shoulders, holding on to him for guidance and support as he swept her along on a wave of excitement.

  ‘Beatrice,’ he whispered hoarsely against her cheek, ‘I want you.’ His hips pushed closer, the solid ridge of his arousal leaving her in no way uncertain of his need.

  They both lay still, unmoving, struggling for breath, knowing that in the next moment all would be changed between them, and staring at one another in the dark as Remy waited for her consent and Beatrice hesitated to give it.

  Suddenly the tent flap was thrust up. They both froze. Nogood came in and flung himself down upon his pallet, carefully putting aside his sword and boots. For a long time Remy and Beatrice lay entwined, until at last they heard Nogood’s snores and carefully Remy drew himself away, and moved with great stealth to lie apart from her. He buried his long sigh of regret in the furs he lay upon and succumbed to the depths of sleep that reached out to claim him, before starting awake as a violent thought attacked him: God Almighty, he had almost deflowered Lord Thurstan’s daughter!

  Beatrice lay awake for a long time, hardly able to contain the thoughts that racked her for hours. How close they had come to breaking the bonds of honour that bound them so closely! If she had given herself to him, in that moment of heat and lust that robbed the mind of all reason, his conscience would no doubt have forced him into offering for her hand and she would have soon found herself wed to the handsome knight. And all she had sought to avoid would have been achieved, the price being a few moments of ecstasy. Thank goodness for Nogood and his unexpected arrival! For she still could not decide whether it was folly to refuse Remy, or folly to love him. Exhausted from the day’s journey and wrestling with her thoughts she too, at last, fell sleep.

  In the morning Beatrice found it difficult to wake. When she rose reluctantly from her bed she gazed upon Remy’s empty pallet and was uncertain whether she felt disappointment or relief that they had been interrupted the night before. This morn she may well have risen a woman in the truest sense, but to surrender her virginity in such a manner seemed cheap indeed. She dressed with shaky hands and wondered how she would face Remy in the broad light of day, after such intimacy as they had shared last night.

  The tent flap cracked open and Beatrice started, looking fearfully over her shoulder as she laced up her kirtle. She met Remy’s glance, her brown eyes wide and accusing. He came in and knelt at her side, drawing her into his embrace, but she remained stiff as wood.

  ‘I will ask your father again for permission to wed you,’ he said softly, glancing down at her, wishing that she would look at him, yet when she did he flinched. They were aware of the men outside, their conversation conducted in hoarse whispers.

  ‘Let us not argue that point again.’ With both hands she tried to push him away, but he remained unmoving, and she glared at him, her lips still tender from all his kissing, her chin scraped pink from the rasp of his stubble. ‘What makes you think I am more willing now to marry you?’

  ‘Well…’ he shrugged ‘…after last night—’

  ‘It was a mistake, that’s all.’

  He captured her by both wrists and bent his head to look her in the eye, as he whispered fiercely, ‘I will have you for my wife, Beatrice! Aye, last night was a mistake, for I wish to worship you with my body within the bonds of matrimony, but that does not mean the wanting has lessened.’ He gave a low laugh, ‘Indeed, my taste of honey has left me aching for more, but when I take you, when we finally join together, it will be as husband and wife.’

  She turned her head away from him, flushing with embarrassment. ‘Have you forgotten that in ten years’ time I will be an old woman and you will be yet in your prime?’

  ‘By the blood of Christ, what foolishness you speak!’ He tilted her chin up to him, his blue eyes blazing. ‘You are not the sort of woman to age, and I care nothing for a few years’ difference. Why, to look at you one would think that you are no more than sixteen, and by this fuss you make I would say less, for you speak not with any wisdom.’

  She was gratified, but not sufficiently enough to dissolve her doubts about accepting him, and rebuked him sharply, ‘Nay, Remy, it cannot be.’

  ‘Why?’

  Her long hair shivered in a wave as she glared up at him. ‘I have stated my reasons why. Do not press me further.’

  ‘Is it…’ it was his turn to blush as he hesitated to ask ‘…is it because of my strength? You fear intimacy with me because I might hurt you?’

  ‘Aye, Sir Remy—’ she seized upon the excuse ‘—I tremble at the thought of being bedded by you. I would be wiser to seek a wizened old man, one who is eager to do my bidding, as you are not.’

  He bent to nuzzle her neck, whispering close to her ear, ‘Aye, but he will not satisfy you as I would.’

  She turned her head away from his kiss and pushed him back. Seeing that she would not easily grant him her favour, Remy released her. ‘We are ready to ride, my lady, and the sooner we reach Carmarthen and your father, the sooner we can make all right.’

  She was so self-conscious about the events that had occurred during the night that the mere thought of emerging in broad daylight caused a fierce blush to sweep up her neck. ‘I do not think I can face anyone!’

  ‘No one will know,’ he assured her, but then he frowned with doubt as he eyed her swollen lips and rosy cheeks. ‘Pull up your hood. I will make it known that you are belaboured by a cold.’

  Beatrice waited until the very last moment before emerging from the tent, and strode quickly to Bos, looking neither to left nor right. Remy tossed her up into the saddle, but she did no more than glance at him. Quickly the remains of the camp were broken down, packed away and they set off.

  Along the way Remy rehearsed mentally what he would say to Lord Thurstan. He meant to impress upon her father how deeply he felt for Beatrice, and would make no mention of their premature intimacy—that is, unless he had to.

  Beatrice, too, considered what she would say to her father when she at last saw him. But somehow she could not focus her thoughts and was faced with a bewildering array of mismatched, feeble sentences that neither excused nor condoned Remy St Leger. Her gaze strayed to his broad back and the column of his tanned neck again and again. It was madness to consider a wedding. Sheer madness!

  Shortly before midday they clattered into the small town of Carmarthen and rode directly to the castle. A sentry let them pass quickly enough as soon as he had established their identity, and many turned aside from their tasks to watch as their party swept to a halt in the courtyard. Here they were greeted by Sir Giles Radley and Beatrice embraced him tightly as soon as she had dismounted. Her first question was for her father, but to her dismay, over her head, Sir Giles turned his gaze to Sir Remy and quite ignored her.

  ‘Come this way,’ said Sir Giles, leading them up the steps and into the hall. ‘Sir Remy, a word. My lady, sit you down by the fire. I will order refreshments for you.’

  Reluctantly, Beatrice sat on the edge of a broad, polished oak settle placed at right angles to the hearth. Her eyes were wide and wary as she watched Remy and Sir Giles stride away. They climbed a spiral staircase and were gone from her view. The hall was busy, and a maid approached her with a tray of wine and honey cakes. Beatrice accepted both gratefully and then sat up as a soft voice claimed her attention.

  ‘Welcome, my dear, to Carmarthen. I am Lady Alys, wife to my Lord Haworth. I am chatelaine here—’

  ‘My lady—’ Beatric
e rose quickly to her feet, dipping a curtsy as she set aside her goblet and half-eaten honey cake ‘—I beg you to take me at once to my father, Lord Thurstan.’

  A shadow passed over Lady Alys’s face and she laid a restraining hand on Beatrice’s arm. ‘In a moment, my dear—’

  Alarm speared Beatrice. ‘Nay! Now, at once. I will not be put off.’ She ran across the hall and up the spiral stairs before Lady Alys could stop her.

  Ascending quickly, tripping over the hem of her gown in her haste, Beatrice emerged into a narrow corridor brightened by the light spilling from an open door at the far end. She could hear muted conversation, and recognised the deep, beloved timbre of her father’s voice. Calling his name, she burst into a room filled with people. Remy knelt on the floor beside a low cot, and it was he who turned with a shout and clenched fist, pointing with outstretched finger to the doorway.

  ‘Get her out of here!’ he roared, and at once Woodford and Fitzpons seized Beatrice about the waist and dragged her from the room.

  She did not go quietly, kicking furiously, and shouting her anger. ‘Damn you, Remy St Leger! How dare you do this to me? Father, it is I! Beatrice!’

  In the corridor Lady Alys and two of her waiting women met them. They soothed, cajoled and manhandled Beatrice away and into Lady Alys’s own chamber. Beatrice vented her rage, her voice nigh on a scream. It was not until Lady Alys administered a sharp slap that Beatrice subsided.

  ‘Listen to me, girl,’ said Lady Alys sternly, ‘your father is gravely ill. In a battle with the Welsh he received severe wounds and we doubt that he will recover.’

  Beatrice stared. Then she began to shake her head in denial of this tragic news, and to weep.

  Remy’s distress at the sight of Lord Thurstan was just as great, if not more than Beatrice’s, as the full horror of his lord’s fate became apparent. He lay behind a screen, shielded from the prying stares of servants, and bade near to him only those he most trusted. Remy was so privileged, and the young knight knelt on one knee beside the bed, his head bowed, and his heart heavy with the great weight of his sorrow.

  Lord Thurstan’s voice came in a croaky whisper. ‘Beatrice must never see me like this. I will have your promise.’

  ‘Aye, my lord. It is done.’

  ‘And I would have you wed her. Quickly, for she will have need of a strong man to protect and defend her. With no word of her brothers, I must presume them dead and Beatrice will be forced by the king to take a husband of his choosing. The vultures will descend after my death and it is Ashton’s bones they will pick over.’

  Remy sighed. His speech, so carefully prepared, was cast aside; what he would not have given to have Lord Thurstan rise from the bed and knock him senseless at his audacity to dare ask for his daughter’s hand! Remy cleared his throat and murmured, ‘I thank you, my lord, for this gift, but—’

  ‘Spit it out, boy. I am not long for this world.’

  ‘Beatrice has not, will not—’ Remy grimaced and shrugged his shoulders in Gallic fashion. ‘In a nutshell, my lord, she has refused me.’

  A snort came from the bandaged form of Lord Thurstan. ‘Did you not tell me once that you are man enough to take my daughter?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Remy, doubtfully.

  ‘Then take her! Her mother was just the same, and ‘twas only maidenly foolishness. We raise girls to be pure and chaste and then instantly expect them to be whores upon their wedding night.’

  ‘My lord,’ protested Remy, ‘I would never treat Beatrice so!’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Lord Thurstan sounded very weary indeed, and after a moment of silence broken only by his laboured breathing, he asked, ‘Did you bring the poppy juice?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Then ease me from this world into the next.’

  Remy shook his head. ‘Nay, my lord, do not ask of me that.’

  ‘I have endured agony these weeks past, just so that I might know Beatrice is safely wed. Call the priest and make her your bride before the dawn, and I will pass with no regret to heaven—or hell—as God sees fit.’

  ‘What you are asking, ‘tis murder.’

  ‘Look at me, Sir Remy! Take a long, good look. They have butchered me beyond human endurance. All I ask now is for mercy.’

  Remy could not bear to look, his gaze glancing away from the mutilated hands and feet. He could not deny the truth of Lord Thurstan’s words. He might linger yet for weeks to come, suffering great agonies of the body and mind.

  ‘Come now, Sir Remy. I give you my daughter. What greater price can I pay?’

  ‘My lord, I would hasten to do your bidding and to marry your daughter without hesitation and for nought. But this thing, I cannot do.’

  Lord Thurstan sighed. After a moment of careful thought, he whispered, ‘Very well. Then do me but one favour. Bring the poppy juice and leave it here beside my bed. I will sip it to ease my pain, and if I sip too much, well, so be it.’

  At last, an answer was wrung from Remy’s husky throat. ‘Aye.’

  ‘Go now and find Beatrice. The priest awaits. The banns have not been read but we have special permission from the Bishop. Make this broken old man happy and safeguard my daughter.’

  ‘My lord,’ Remy said, with tears in his voice, ‘my life is hers now and for always.’

  Chapter Seven

  Beatrice lay upon Lady Alys’s bed, spent and exhausted, her cheeks flushed and her hair dishevelled. Dusk had fallen. Her hostess had departed for supper in the great hall and Beatrice was left alone with her anger.

  She heard the door creak open, and shrank into the pillows behind the drawn bedcurtains, unwilling to face Lady Alys, or anyone. She tensed at the sound of footsteps, and smothered her breath in the tasselled cushion she clutched to her chest as a comforter. The curtain parted and candlelight spilled in at the same moment as Remy’s shadow fell across her crumpled form.

  ‘You!’ At once she sat up, then got to her knees. She hurled the cushion at his head and then, with a shout of rage, she pummelled the rock-hard expanse of his chest with both clenched fists.

  Remy waited while she vented her fury, until at last she collapsed sobbing and he held her against his heart, stroking back her tangled hair as she sniffed and gulped.

  ‘I want to see my father.’ Beatrice whispered, with a mutinous pout.

  ‘Nay.’

  Her head jerked up and she glared defiantly. ‘You cannot do this! I will see him.’

  He gripped her arms and said bluntly, ‘Your father is dying. It is best that you respect his wishes and do not attempt to see him.’

  Tears streaked anew from her swollen eyes. ‘I cannot believe that my father loves me so little that he does not care to see me!’

  ‘Foolish wench!’ Remy shook her, none too gently. ‘He loves you so greatly that he desires only to spare you the pain of seeing him so grievously injured.’

  ‘Oh, Remy! Tell me, are his wounds very bad?’

  ‘Aye.’ He looked away from her searching gaze, and then sought to impart his lord’s commands without further ado. ‘Your father has granted me permission to marry you.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Aye. Make yourself ready, for we have special dispensation from the Bishop, and Lord Haworth and Lady Alys are ready to stand as witnesses.’

  She stared at him with a look of horror and disbelief. ‘Such haste. I would rather wait, my father…he may well recover.’

  His blue stare was very hard upon her. ‘Your father will not recover, and after last night, I did not think either of us would prefer a long betrothal.’

  Beatrice flushed, and then suspicion dawned in her eyes as she stared up at him. ‘All is clear to me now.’ She spoke slowly, her voice husky from weeping. ‘With my father dead and my brothers lost and presumed dead, I stand as heiress to Ashton, and you stand to gain much as my husband.’

  His fist flexed and he almost struck her upon the face, such was his fury at her accusation. ‘Is that how you see me, Beatrice? A feckless
youth prepared to wed an older woman for the riches he might gain?’ With a frustrated sigh he thrust her away from him and she fell back on the pillows. ‘I will tell Lady Alys that there will be no wedding.’ He turned away, and then glanced back, his face impassive as stone as he told her, ‘I have stripped myself bare of all pride for you, Beatrice. I have fought other knights to defend your honour, humbled myself before your father for you, shown my passion for you, but you have made it clear that you will not have me. So be it. I will not ask again.’

  He let the bedcurtain fall and she was left alone in the dark. She heard his booted feet thump across the wooden floor and the creak of the door as it closed behind him. With a small cry Beatrice sat up and made to run after him, regretting her harsh words, and then she remembered that her father lay dying and it was Remy who prevented her from seeing him one last time. Her jaw set and she clenched her teeth. She would wait, and then later, when the household was asleep, she would find her father and hear from his own mouth what his wishes were.

  For now, she must bolster herself, and her rumbling stomach and the weakness she felt from hunger reminded her that it was the hour for supper. Beatrice crossed the room and tipped water from a copper jug into a shallow bowl, set upon a carved oak coffer ready for Lady Alys when she should retire. She bathed her face, red and sore from crying, then tidied her hair with a comb, and went downstairs.

  A minstrels’ gallery, screened with an intricate latticework of cherry wood, bridged the passage between the private chambers and the stairs leading down to the great hall. Here Beatrice paused and gazed through a trellised pattern of unicorns and elves upon the scene below. She felt as though she moved in a dream, an agonising nightmare, and at any moment she would waken and find herself safe in her chamber at Ashton, with her mother sewing in the solar and her father roaring impatiently at his knights.

 

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