They had been vastly outnumbered and taken by surprise. One moment the craggy hillside had been deserted, the next swarming with hundreds of bare-chested, dark men in kilts and armed with bows and spears. Their bows were formidable, long as a man, and the Welsh had nocked up fresh arrows with lightning speed. Their faces had been painted and their wild war cries were savage incantations that chilled the blood of the stoutest men. He glanced at Sir Cedric Baldslow, asleep sitting up with his back against the wall, his head nodding on his chest. Even Sir Cedric had blanched as the tide of Welsh warriors had washed over them.
Dawn came creeping slowly, lifting the swirling mist that he spied between cracks of the poorly plastered walls. Indeed it would take little effort for him to smash his way out of this dark, stinking prison, but beyond there were dozens of Welshmen on guard. Besides, they had been led here bound and blindfolded and he knew not his way out of this mountain lair.
He wondered if it was too late to pray. He began a plea and then his mind wandered, again to Beatrice. How he regretted their bitter words and how he longed to take them back! He should have dragged her to the altar, kicking and screaming if needs be, and married her, and made her his wife in both body and name. Warmth seeped through him at the thought of bedding Beatrice and he stifled a groan.
Mid-morning they were brought a scant meal of coarse brown bread and whey. The men chewed, some muttering, complaining that it was fare fit to break good teeth. The day had brightened, and as their guards passed through the open door, Remy could see a cloudless blue sky. Then a shout echoed around the hilltop cluster of huts and the Welshmen gathered about one of their clan who came running into their midst, panting and pointing back down the valley.
The Englishmen craned their necks to take notice, but the door was swiftly kicked shut and barred. Sitting up, Remy nudged Sir Cedric in the ribs and nodded to the doorway. The men stilled their grumbles and looked up eagerly, hope stirring.
‘Do you think ‘twas a messenger?’ asked Remy.
‘Mayhap,’ grunted Sir Cedric.
‘I am certain Lord Haworth will do all he can to rescue us,’ chirped Nogood, his expression woeful as he looked to Remy.
‘Aye.’ Remy tried to give the boy some comfort. ‘It will not be long now.’
His personal feeling was that they would not live to see the sunset, and he sat back in stoic silence, his mind working constantly on the possibilities of escape. So far, none had presented itself. He sighed, and closed his eyes, his thoughts again wandering to Beatrice. Would she shed a tear when news of his death reached her? Mayhap she had been right to refuse his suit. Had she not already suffered too deeply over the death of a betrothed? He vowed then that, if ever their freedom was won, he would not plague her with his ardour, no matter the cost to his own yearning heart.
It was not long before the Welshmen came and dragged them from the hut. Their hands were tightly bound behind their backs, four of the swarthy, stocky Welsh attaching themselves to Remy as he towered over them all. Again they were blindfolded and led down the narrow mountain track across the spine of high hills.
Remy wondered at their haste, as they were urged none too gently to hurry. The Welsh chieftain, Gwyn ap Iestan, told them that a party of knights had been scouted approaching, and hinted that their ransom was to be paid. In the valley below they were led to a grove of birch trees and hidden between the thick undergrowth of bushes lining the banks of a small tumbling stream, spanned by a wooden bridge.
It was dim and cool in the shadows, here at the bottom of the valley, affording the Welsh concealment. The captive English knights chafed at the waiting, impatient now to snatch at the freedom that was only a breath away. Surely their release had been secured?
Remy did not readily believe that honour was yet to be upheld by the Welsh in their dealings with an ancient foe. Their blindfolds were removed and he lifted his head from the cloying dirt and watched as Gwyn ap Iestan deployed his men. Although he could not understand the Welsh language, he was familiar with their hand signals, the same he would himself use to give orders when an ambush was being planned and all noise had to be suppressed. His foreboding only grew as he recognised the flanking movement the Welsh used to send men off to the rear of the approaching cavalcade. They intended to encircle the English from behind, cutting off their retreat and no doubt slaughtering everyone, taking the ransom monies and leaving no trace of their foul deeds.
Over the sounds of swirling water and wood pigeons cooing, Remy and the other knights detected the faint yet familiar sounds of harness chinking, and horses blowing as they climbed the path leading through the forest. As they craned their necks, their faces came alight as the flag of St George appeared above the crest of the hill below them, and then the bearer and his horse, followed by two knights and four men-at-arms.
‘God bless ye, Lord Haworth,’ muttered one of the Carmarthen knights.
‘Nay,’ said Remy, squinting at the pennon that followed and held aloft by a small young knight, ‘those are the colours of Ashton.’
A spear jabbed him in the back and he rose to his feet, as he and the other knights were led out of the bushes and on to the river bank. On one side of the bridge sat the Welshman Gwyn ap Iestan upon his sturdy mountain pony, and on the other side the party of knights clattered to a halt and sat rigid upon their horses, banners held proud and tight in wary gauntlets.
They were a paltry few, thought Remy, but he had no doubt that Lord Haworth could not spare even this handful of men to rescue them. One, Remy cast an upwards sidelong glance at, who looked little more than a pageboy. Then he looked again and his head jerked up as, in an instant, he recognised the soft brown eyes of Beatrice.
His mouth opened in slack horror. He almost called out, then quickly realised the folly of so doing. Silently he ran through his repertoire of curses, heaping all manner of vile names upon the slender young knight who was in fact a woman. God have mercy! If the Welsh made this discovery…His face paled visibly and quickly he turned away, pretending to stumble, hanging his head down low to hide the emotions that seized him.
Now that the prisoners had been brought forth the negotiations began. The young knight leading the English signalled with one gauntlet and an older knight—in fact, Sir Giles Radley—nudged his horse forwards and began to speak. The Welsh sneered at this high-handed tactic and made several rude remarks about the noble lord who deigned not to speak aloud. But Remy knew that it was not arrogance that prevented Beatrice from speaking. The moment the little lordling spoke, the Welsh would know they had in their midst an English lady. Sweat trickled from beneath his arms and his heart beat very fast. He bargained with God, making all manner of rash and foolish promises, if only the Almighty would see this matter through quickly and allow Beatrice to depart safe and sound.
At last the small leather chest containing six hundred pounds was exchanged and the English knights had their bonds cut. They were shoved forwards and none tarried upon that wooden bridge.
Reaching Beatrice, Remy flashed her an angry glare. She smiled, greatly pleased with herself, and this only enraged him further. Spare horses had been brought along and Remy vaulted up into the saddle, turning to Sir Giles Radley to hiss a dire warning, “Tis a trap! Look to the trees.’
‘Fear not,’ Sir Giles whispered in return, wheeling his horse about as the party moved off at a smart trot.
‘They mean to ambush us in the woods!’ said Remy, urgently trying to impress upon Sir Giles the situation, but again he was met with calm reassurance. Had they all gone mad? thought Remy, wishing he had a sword latched about his waist and feeling as powerless as a babe. How would he defend Beatrice from the Welsh when he had no weapon?
Dappled sunlight streamed through the canopy of lime-green leaves overhead as they moved off, harnesses creaking and ringing, the clop of hooves muffled by the soft mossy earth of the track. Remy looked to left and right, and then, suddenly, the Welsh were upon them, loosing a volley of arrows. He gave a shout of
warning, but already Beatrice had spurred her horse forwards and was galloping past him, whilst the other knights reined in.
‘We must flee!’ shouted Remy, his glance following after Beatrice and yet knowing full well it was his duty to remain with the other knights and fight, as Sir Giles drew his sword. ‘Nogood, follow my lady and stay with her!’
Nogood spurred his horse and set off in pursuit of Beatrice. Then, as the Welsh charged at them from the bushes on either side of the track, the silhouettes of mounted English knights darkened the hilly rise edging the woods. A ringing hiss of steel silenced the birdsong and startled the Welsh, as many swords were drawn from their scabbards, followed by the hoarse bellow of an English war cry.
The ground trembled and the woods echoed with a sound like thunder as the knights galloped towards them, expertly threading their way through the trees with all the skill of battle-seasoned cavalry.
‘What the devil…!’ exclaimed Sir Cedric.
Sir Giles grinned. “Tis Lord Henry, the new Lord of Ashton, come to our aid.’
But this was not the moment for explanations and Sir Giles quickly broke open the leather pack hidden beneath his saddle flaps and tossed out swords as the Welsh came at them with their spears and javelins, their longbows letting fly arrows at the rate of a dozen a minute. With a jubilant shout Remy raised his sword and threw himself into the fray of battle.
From her safe distance Beatrice let the reins drop upon Bos’withers and he bent his neck to crop at the emerald grass tufting upon the hillside beyond the woods. She could hear the ferocious ring of steel, the shouts of men and the shrieks of horses. With a gasp of stifled pain she leaned forwards, in a vain attempt to escape the burning agony that seared her body. The first arrow had struck her left shoulder, the blow softened by the chainmail of her bishop’s mantle; the second had found her right hip and was deeply embedded.
‘My lady!’ Nogood exclaimed in horror as he pulled his horse up alongside her, and he eyed the arrow shafts protruding from her body.
With a soft cry she turned to him. ‘Nogood, help me.’
Quickly he dismounted and hurried to reach up and support her before she fell and caused more damage. ‘Hold on, my lady,’ he begged softly, looking over one shoulder in the direction of the woods. ‘Sir Remy will be here in a moment, and then we can lift you down.’
She nodded, her brow beaded with sweat. Gradually, as Nogood’s arms ached and her grip on consciousness weakened, she hung doubled over Bos’shoulder, her forehead resting on one knee. Darkness reached out to claim her, but she fought to resist it, knowing that if she fell from Bos now the arrows would drive deeper into her body and she would not live; and she wanted to live, she wanted to see Remy, to speak with him. She must hear from his own lips his denial that he had ought to do with her father’s death. She tried to keep her thoughts busy, reciting psalms and prayers, and then her mind wandered and she remembered this morning, which seemed so very long ago now.
They had not been far from Carmarthen when they had met with her brother Hal upon the road. He had with him twenty mounted knights, all of them crack campaigners who had been with King Edward on Crusade to the Holy Land. They were the finest cavalry fighters that England could muster and had at their command fifty men-at-arms. When Beatrice had explained that several Ashton knights had been taken captive by the Welsh tribe who had butchered their father, Hal had been only too eager to avenge his death.
They had ridden off together, formulating a plan along the way in which Beatrice would meet with the Welsh, hand over the ransom monies and secure the release of their knights, whilst Hal encircled the woods with his men and attacked from the east and western flank. Her brother had impressed upon her the importance of getting out of the way when the fighting began, and had been half-inclined to leave her behind. But Beatrice had insisted that she ride along, without revealing that there was one knight in particular that she had to see, safe and sound, and free. Now, she could only wait, and pray that all was going to plan. Pray that her brother reached her before it was too late.
‘Nogood?’ Beatrice whispered.
‘Aye, my lady?’
‘If…’ She hesitated, and then forced herself to go on. ‘If I should die—’
‘Nay, my lady!’ exclaimed Nogood. ‘You will not die. You must not! Why, Sir Remy will thrash me if you do.’
Beatrice tried to laugh, and managed only a weak smile. ‘He would not do such a thing. Methinks he is a master much loved.’
‘Aye, indeed. But you are his lady love, the other half of his heart. If you were to die, then his life would not be worth living, and neither would mine.’
At that Beatrice started to cry, silent tears running down her cheeks and dripping on to her hand, there to run in salty rivulets upon the blood that had seeped from her shoulder and down her arm.
‘Hold on, my lady,’ implored Nogood. ‘Listen—’ he cocked his ear, glancing back ‘—all is quiet. The fighting is over. They will be here anon.’
It was some long moments more before Sir Giles and Lord Henry emerged from the trees, followed by the other knights. They were grim, panting with the exertions of the fight, wiping bloodstained swords and sheathing them. Sir Giles looked about to take an accounting, noting with satisfaction that there were many cuts and bruises, but their armour had stood them in good stead. A shout then distracted him and he spurred his horse towards Nogood.
Remy wiped his face with a battle-blackened hand and sheathed his sword. He too looked up at Nogood’s desperate shout. As he saw Beatrice slumped over her horse with two arrow shafts jutting from her body, he let loose a profanity and urged his horse into a gallop. He overtook Sir Giles and was the first to arrive, pulling up with a suddenness that caused his horse to snort.
‘God Almighty! Beatrice!’
‘Careful!’ Sir Giles dismounted too and reached to the other side of Beatrice, together with Lord Henry. ‘Gently now.’
Remy, being the tallest, reached up and carefully lifted Beatrice down from Bos. With a professional eye he examined the arrows and where they had implanted. ‘We must get them out.’ He raised his eyes to Sir Giles, and to another knight whom he did not know and looked at him with a question in his eyes.
‘This is Lord Henry,’ said Sir Giles, ‘my lady’s brother.’
A muscle tightened in Remy’s jaw. He felt his anger rise like a red-hot flame, ready to burst out and sear this careless brother to ash. Now was not the time to question why he had brought his own sister into such a dangerous situation. Turning to Nogood, Remy gave his orders. ‘Build a fire and boil water. Find out if anyone has any aquavit, and bring it to me.’
He exchanged a long look with his squire. Having attended Remy on many campaigns, and attended to his wounds, he knew well enough what each item would be needed for. Nogood rushed to do his bidding, while Remy gently lifted Beatrice and carried her to a makeshift bed beside the track, which had been thrown together by a combination of several cloaks.
‘Beatrice?’ Remy whispered, laying her down upon her front.
‘Mmm?’ Her lashes fluttered, but she was barely conscious.
‘I must remove the arrows. It is your only hope.’
She nodded, and gasped with renewed pain as she was jolted into awareness by the sound of Remy’s dagger ripping away her cloak and tunic. Cold air struck her flesh and she moaned.
‘We should take her to Carmarthen,’ murmured Sir Giles.
‘She will not make it,’ replied Remy brusquely. ‘We must do this now.’
Lord Henry, known as Hal, cleared his throat. ‘Do you know what you are doing?’
‘Nogood, where’s the aquavit?’ demanded Remy, ignoring the question.
His squire came running, having secured a small flask of the strong alcohol from one of Lord Henry’s knights. Remy splashed a drop liberally over the two wounds and then said, ‘Tell me when the dagger is red-hot.’
‘What are you going to do?’ demanded Hal.
‘After the arrows have been removed, I must seal the wounds.’
‘By God!’ exclaimed Hal. ‘You cannot mean to take a red-hot blade to her flesh? You will kill her!’
‘If I do not, then the wound will bleed and rot. She will die of the fever.’
‘You will scar her for life!’
‘Aye, but at least she will have a life!’ Remy glanced down at Beatrice, her face turned to one side. Her chainmail coif and linen lambrequin had been removed and he leaned over and stroked her cheek, brushing back tendrils of hair. He wondered whether to give her aquavit to dull the pain, or knock her out with a blow to the head. Either choice had little merit, for the strong spirit was not usually imbibed by ladies and might well make her retch, and he feared a blow from his fist might cause her further injury. He hoped that once he began extracting the first arrow, the pain would be so excruciating she would faint anyway.
Beatrice felt his breath upon her cheek as he whispered, ‘This will hurt, sweeting, but it must be done.’
She tried to smile, but was too weak. And then pain such as she had never known in her life pierced her senses and she screamed, eyes snapping open, her hand lashing out and four nails digging deep into the nearest arm, which happened to be Nogood’s. Remy drew the first arrow from her shoulder, and Beatrice, to all their relief, collapsed into unconsciousness.
When they reached Carmarthen dusk was falling. Beatrice was taken at once into the care of Lady Alys and a local wise woman, who with her skill had managed to keep alive Lord Thurstan beyond expectation. Now it was his daughter who received such tender care.
The Knight's Vow Page 14
