The hall was brightly lit with candles and the glow of a dancing fire in the massive hearth spread a cosy warmth. It was noisy too, with a cheerful hubbub of voices and laughter, a lute-player strumming a pleasant tune in one corner, and several wolfhounds tail-wagging as they sat to one side and resisted the urge to chase after scraps, for which they would be severely punished. She saw Sir Giles and Sir Baldslow eating with careful concentration, ignoring the antics of other diners; nearly all the knights from Ashton appeared solemn and sober. Beatrice longed to run away and hide in a dark corner, but she knew this she must not do. Her father would wish her to carry on as befitting the daughter of a Lord.
Remy was the first to notice her as Beatrice came down the stairs and he rose from his seat. Sir Giles looked up, then over his shoulder in the direction of Sir Remy’s bright gaze, and he too rose.
‘My lady.’ Sir Giles gestured to a place beside him, and Beatrice sat down at the table, her eyes lowered and ignoring Remy, until he too was forced to regain his place.
Sir Giles piled her trencher with roasted fowl, ham-and-leek pie, crumbly Welsh cheese, and filled his goblet with sweet Spanish wine to share with her. Beatrice murmured her thanks, and forced herself to eat, knowing that she would need her strength for the coming night. She kept her eyes upon her food, thus maintaining a barrier to conversation, until Lord Haworth, having eaten his fill and succumbing to the nagging whispers of his wife, came to Beatrice and stood at her shoulder. He leaned forwards, and asked softly, ‘Might I have a word, Lady Beatrice? Finish your meal and then I would be pleased if you would meet with me in the solar.’
Beatrice nodded, but her lips were pursed and she did not encourage Lord Haworth to make small talk.
He withdrew, eyeing his wife with a sour glance as they climbed the stairs. ‘It be none of our business,’ he hissed in her ear.
‘Pish!’ Lady Alys gathered her skirts in one hand. ‘With her mother dead and her father soon to be, who else is there to advise the girl?’
‘You can advise all you like, dear wife, but she will not listen. My understanding is that Beatrice of Ashton has never been biddable.’
Beatrice ate slowly and lingered over her meal, her thoughts thawing as the delicious food warmed her, and lifted her gaze to look around at the crowded trestle tables. She glanced across and further down the expanse, seeking a handsome face and a direct gaze of sky blue, but was a little piqued to find that Remy had gone. Suddenly there was no reason to linger and she wiped her fingers and mouth upon a linen napkin.
‘Goodnight, Sir Giles.’
‘Goodnight, my lady.’ Sir Giles rose to his feet and made a bow to Beatrice, ‘And do not distress yourself overly, for we stand ready to serve you as we did your father.’
Beatrice laid her hand upon his arm, and smiled. ‘I thank you for your loyal service, Sir Giles, and I only hope that I prove to be as worthy a master.’
‘Mistress,’ corrected Sir Giles.
With a sigh, and a slight nod of her head, Beatrice left him and climbed the stairs to the upper floor. Further along the passage she came to the open door of the solar and knocked.
‘Come in, my dear,’ called Lady Alys from her seat before the fire, gesturing with one hand for Beatrice to sit in the other chair placed opposite.
Lord Haworth laid aside the letter he was perusing, cleared his throat and paced for a moment with his hands folded behind his back, before approaching Beatrice, stroking his dark beard pensively.
‘I…we—that is, Lady Alys and I, felt that we should help you with your situation. Being young and—’
‘I am twenty-nine, my lord,’ said Beatrice quietly, gazing calmly at Lord Haworth.
‘Quite. Indeed. But, nevertheless, you are without advisers who are mature and wise in the ways of the world. We know that your father was keen for you to wed this evening, but you have refused. The Bishop is ready and waiting, and my wife and I are more than happy to stand as witnesses. It would be in your best interest.’
Beatrice rose to her feet, a flush of anger staining her cheeks and firing her eyes with a bright gleam. ‘My father has always left the decision to wed entirely up to me. He has never forced me, and I do not believe that he would force me now!’
‘Most girls of your age and rank have been wed a long while and produced several children,’ commented Lady Alys, her glance upon her sewing.
‘That may be so, but I have been fortunate in that my parents had a care for my feelings in the matter!’
Lady Alys set her sewing down in her lap and stared at Beatrice. ‘You have not the luxury of feelings! You will need a husband, however repugnant that might be to you, for ‘tis a man your knights will need to lead them into battle, not your tender feelings!’
Beatrice gasped at her plain speaking, her conscience yet twinged by the truth of Lady Alys’s words. ‘I could lead them myself, as my father did!’
‘Women do not ride into battle!’ snorted Lord Haworth.
‘Boadicea did.’
‘And look what happened to her!’ Lady Alys rose to her feet, her sewing finally set aside. ‘Come, child, we are not your enemies.’ She put her arm about Beatrice’s shoulders and led her to the door, ‘It has been a long journey for you and at the end a great shock to find your father such as he is. Rest now. Tomorrow we will consider the matter again, after you have had a good night’s sleep.’ She clapped her hands and a maid came stumbling along the passage. ‘Show Lady Beatrice to the Blue Chamber and assist her this evening.’
Beatrice had no intention of meekly laying down her head and going to sleep. Not when she had such violent thoughts to wrestle with. But she gave the impression to the eager little maid that she was retiring for the night and allowed her to unlace her kirtle, put her into her nightshift and brush out her hair. Then she was left alone in the big canopied bed and Beatrice stared at the glowing fire until it was reduced to ruby embers and a hush descended over the castle. Doors ceased to bang, voices fell silent, and only the howl of the wind and distant wolves could be heard.
She rose from the warm bed and, shivering, slipped on her cloak and her leather shoes. Without even a candle to guide her, for she did not want to give herself away, she crept along the passage and up the spiral of stairs to her father’s chamber.
After supper Remy took himself off to the stables to check on Walther. He prized his horse so greatly that he would not leave his care to the rough mercies of a stableboy. He made sure that Walther was warm and well fed, settled him for the night with a fond pat to the arch of his powerful neck and then crossed the bailey to regain the warmth of the keep. He shrugged off his cloak and threw down his bedroll in a vacant spot near the hearth, but hesitated before allowing himself to end his duties for the day and seek his rest.
Filling a goblet with wine, Remy sat on a bench and contemplated the fire flames, much as Beatrice did on the floor above him. He had long since left the vial of poppy juice close at hand for Lord Thurstan and he was troubled as to whether his lord still lived or not. He could not bear to think of him dying alone in a dark corner, and yet he did not want to intrude on his lord’s privacy. Drinking deeply, Remy pondered, and then rose to his feet and loped with a silent tread upstairs, passing the upper floor that led to Lord Haworth’s rooms, and continuing until he reached the passage leading to Lord Thurstan’s chamber.
A candle flickered in the gloom. He waited for his eyes to accustom themselves to the dark, and then he walked slowly forwards, behind the screen. Lord Thurstan’s shape seemed strange, until he realised that a female form lay slumped across him. The female, he realised after a few moments more, was Beatrice.
Remy dropped to one knee and seized Beatrice about the waist and jerked her away. ‘What are you doing here?’ he hissed.
Beatrice wiped her face as tears poured in a silent stream down her cheeks. ‘He is…my father…he’s…gone.’
Setting her abruptly aside Remy leaned forwards and felt for a pulse at Lord Thurstan’s ne
ck. There was none. With a sigh, and a prayer, he closed the unseeing eyes. ‘He is at peace, God rest his soul.’
‘And this?’ Beatrice snatched up the empty vial of poppy juice and thrust it in Remy’s face. ‘This is your doing, is it not? Were you so eager to take me as wife that you would commit murder?’
At that his discipline broke and Remy slapped her face, with an oath that was not softly spoken and smothered her cry of shock and pain. ‘At your father’s deathbed you are yet still the shrew! What man in his right mind would seek to wed with you?’
Beatrice sucked in her breath, and scrambled to her knees, backing away a step as Remy too rose and stood towering over her. Then he grabbed her arm and forcefully ejected her from the chamber, dragging her along the passage and down the stairs, along yet more passages until he reached her chamber, where earlier he had placed her belongings. The door banged shut behind him and they stood facing each other like two snarling combatants upon the tourney field.
‘Do you deny that you gave my father the poppy juice?’
‘I do not deny it.’
‘Then you have killed him!’
Remy was silent, hands on hips as he glared at her with narrowed eyes. ‘You do not know how it was.’
‘Nay, Sir Remy, I do not.’ She tossed back strands of hair from her eyes and tilted her chin up to meet his gaze. ‘And whose fault is that?’ Her finger stabbed him in the chest. ‘You would not let me see him, you denied me the chance to hear from his own lips his final wishes, and now, because of you, he is gone and I will never be able to speak to him again!’ Her voice broke; turning away swiftly, she covered her face with both hands and wept.
‘Beatrice…’ he took a step towards her, his voice gentle ‘…I am sorry. But I did as I was commanded—indeed, as your father begged. His injuries were so grievous—’
Beatrice whirled about to face him. ‘I did not see, he was already gone when I reached the chamber. Tell me, what were his wounds?’
‘It is best that you do not know.’
With a low shriek of rage, Beatrice demanded, through gritted teeth, ‘I wish everyone would stop deciding what is best for me! Tell me, or I will go up, pull back the covers and look for myself.’ She made to rush past him, but his large hand moved quickly and fastened around her upper arm, halting her in mid-stride, jerking her backwards.
He stooped, their noses almost touching, blue eyes glaring into brown, and then he told her, softly and without emotion, ‘The Welsh had hacked off his right hand and both of his feet.’
‘Oh, God!’
‘How he has survived so long I do not know. The loss of blood, the infection—’
She held her hands to her ears. ‘Enough.’
‘Aye. ‘Tis not pretty, but you wished to know and now I have told you. On his deathbed your father begged me to take you for my wife, but until you beg me—’ this time it was his turn to stab his forefinger into her chest ‘—I will not do so. Goodnight, Beatrice. Go to bed and let there be no more disturbance this night, for we all need our rest. In the morning we must prepare for a funeral, and then we depart to fight the Welsh who did this atrocity.’
‘I will ride with you.’
‘Nay. You will stay here, where it is safe and there are walls and women to care for you.’
‘But I would see the men who murdered my father punished!’
Remy smiled grimly, a dangerous light in his eyes. ‘Have no doubt—we will track them down and slaughter them like the vermin they are.’ At the door he swept her a bow. ‘Goodnight, my lady.’
Remy hurried away to inform the priest of Lord Thurstan’s death and that he should make preparations for a funeral on the morrow. Then, at last, he rolled himself in his blankets before the fire hearth and sought oblivion in sleep.
When he had gone Beatrice clutched at the bedpost for long moments, her heart hammering very fast. So much had happened in so short a space of time! What was she to do? And what path did she follow on the morrow? Marry Sir Remy? How greatly she was tempted, but he had spoken of pride, of honour and passion, and had made no mention of love. Over his head hung the suspicious cloud of her father’s death. How could she trust a man who might have had a hand in hastening her father to his grave? And what were his reasons for doing so? She could not bear to think that there was anything other than honourable intentions, but of this she could not be sure. And with neither trust nor love, there was no hope of happiness in the lifelong union of marriage.
Wearily she tossed aside her cloak and shoes. She climbed up into the bed and lay beneath the covers, clutching her rosary and praying for the departed soul of her father, too exhausted to weep, until she fell asleep in the middle of her third Hail Mary and knew no more.
The morning dawned bright and clear, a fine day with a hint of summer. Birds sang loudly and, hearing them, Beatrice found it hard to believe that her own world had changed so completely, and yet that of others remained the same. Birds still sang, the sun still rose, maids laughed, and knights swaggered with their swords slung about their hips.
Her movements felt slow and heavy as she washed and dressed and braided her hair. Lady Alys came and after a brief embrace spoke of the funeral, set for mid-morning.
‘I would prefer to take my father back to Ashton.’
Lady Alys grimaced. ‘It would not be wise.’
They both recoiled from dwelling on the nasty image of a corpse rotting in canvas as it was transported on a long slow journey south, and with a small nod of her head Beatrice agreed to a funeral to be held at Carmarthen and without delay.
‘Come, my dear.’ Lady Alys took her by the arm, and led her downstairs. ‘Let us break our fast and do honour to your father’s memory. He was a great man and much loved.’
Condolences came in a steady stream, from Lord Haworth, the resident knights and their ladies, from the priest and Bishop, from her own men—Sir Giles Radley, Sir Hugh Montgomery, Grenville, Woodford and Fitzpons, and, of course, Sir Cedric Baldslow. She hid her shudder of revulsion as he bent to kiss her hand and murmur his regrets. He looked her deeply in the eye for a long moment as they both realised that she stood—until her brothers were proved to be alive—both heiress and unwed, a ripe fruit for a hand daring enough to make the plucking.
Sir Richard Blackthorn came and tendered his sympathy and she smiled as he gallantly offered his services should she need assistance. Beatrice thanked him and did not notice the scowl that marred Remy’s handsome features as she favoured Sir Richard with her smile.
If that was the way of it, thought Remy, God help Ashton! But he controlled the slow burn of anger within his chest and stooped to publicly make his condolences to Beatrice.
She blushed as he kissed her hand and held it for several moments, whispering for her ears only, ‘The Bishop stands yet ready for a wedding.’
‘Would we wish to celebrate our marriage, in years to come, on the day that we mourn my father’s death?’
He smiled wryly, outwitted. ‘Then, my lady, we might set a date for the future?’
‘I thought you said that you would not ask me again and, besides, what man in his right mind would want to marry a shrew such as I?’
Remy almost laughed, but saw that she was most earnest and would not appreciate his humour. He bowed deeply. ‘True, my lady. But I am willing to shoulder the burden, as your father wished.’
‘Sir Remy,’ whispered Beatrice through clenched teeth, ‘I would rather marry a…a…’ He eyed her with brows raised and head tilted to one side as she struggled to find words vile enough. With a frustrated moan, she jerked her hand from his clasp. ‘I have matters to attend. Go from my sight.’
‘Your wish is my command.’ He smiled grimly as he backed away.
Beatrice went to don her cloak and collect her rosary and bible, before joining Lady Alys and walking with her to the chapel across the bailey. The funeral mass was well attended, yet overly long and tedious. Clouds of incense billowed out and a plaintive chant sung by se
veral young pageboys tore at Beatrice’s heart. At its end her father was carried to his final resting place on the sacred hill beyond the castle walls, and many of the townspeople stopped to stare and cross themselves as the funeral party went by.
After the burial there was to be no respite for Beatrice. She longed for the solace of her chamber, to be alone and sit with her mind vacant of all thought, but it was not to be. There was the mid-day meal to get through and then a great commotion as many of the knights, under the leadership of Sir Giles Radley, donned their armour and prepared to ride out to track down the Welsh.
From the steps of the great hall Beatrice watched as her father’s men mounted their horses. She waved her scarf in goodbye, and for a long poignant moment her gaze held with Remy St Leger’s as his horse pranced to the gate. Then he saluted her with one hand, swung about and was gone from her sight. She felt utterly alone.
At last, she retired to her chamber and sat in a chair by the window, watching thin clouds scud across the sky as the sun journeyed along its afternoon path. Her mind was like a pool hidden deep in a dark forest—it seemed that there was nothing there and all was quiet and still, but beneath the surface all manner of life existed.
By evening Beatrice had made her decision. She would go home to Ashton, and for this purpose she would enlist the aid of Sir Richard Blackthorn to escort her, as her own knights were gone in pursuit of the Welsh. She resolved to speak with him at the evening meal, and all being well she would be home before the week was out.
Supper was a subdued occasion, out of respect for her loss, and in the hushed atmosphere there was little opportunity for Beatrice to talk privately with Sir Richard. In the end, she was forced to invite him to accompany her for a stroll around the pleasaunce, an engagement she would much rather have avoided as gossip-mongers put their heads together and watched as they left the hall.
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