She stared at him wide-eyed, puzzled. ‘But why? Why would you do that? You stand to gain nothing.’
‘I would gain the knowledge that you are safe. You need not live at Ashton under your brother’s roof and at his mercy. No doubt he too will take a wife, and what would become of you then?’
Beatrice shook her head doubtfully, chewing her lower lip as she pondered his suggestion.
‘What say you, my lady?’ He chucked her under the chin, hoping to draw from her an answering smile. ‘Shall we call your father’s bluff?’
She smiled weakly. ‘He will not be pleased.’
‘He had no right to play God with our lives, no matter how good his intentions.’
‘Aye.’ She nodded in agreement. ‘Then let it be so.’
Remy rose to his feet, taking a deep breath and suppressing the exclamation of triumph that threatened to erupt from him. By hook or by crook, Beatrice had agreed to be his wife!
The door opened then and Lord Haworth came into the room, followed closely by Lady Alys and Hal. Beatrice rose to her feet, and together she and Remy turned to face them.
‘Well,’ demanded Lady Alys, ‘is it good news?’
Hal snorted. ‘That depends on what you mean by good news.’
Remy took Beatrice by the hand and drew her close to his side, announcing, ‘We are to be married.’
‘Oh, wonderful!’ exclaimed Lady Alys.
‘Excellent,’ agreed Lord Haworth.
Hal nodded, giving Beatrice a look that congratulated her in more ways than one.
‘Well, then,’ said Lord Haworth, ‘shall I call the Bishop?’
‘What?’ exclaimed Beatrice, alarmed.
‘He has been waiting ten days now to perform this wedding,’ Lord Haworth muttered grimly.
‘Oh.’ Beatrice tilted back her head and looked up at Remy. It was too sudden. She was not ready. ‘I—I—’ she stammered and then seized upon an excuse. ‘I want to be married from my own home, at Ashton.’
‘Nay, Beatrice,’ said Hal, anxious that no delays jeopardise Hepple Hill, ‘what difference does it make where the ceremony is performed?’
Beatrice swayed then, suddenly feeling exhausted and unable to cope with further argument, and she pressed a hand to her brow. Quickly Remy supported her with an arm about her waist.
‘Can you not see she is in no fit state for a wedding? We will wait until we reach Ashton. No doubt,’ he said brusquely, turning to Hal, ‘you had planned to depart for home soon anyway.’
There was some discussion upon the merits of waiting or rushing through with the marriage ceremony, but at last Remy won out.
‘At least,’ said Hal impatiently to his sister, ‘I trust you have no objections to a public announcement of the betrothal?’
‘Nay,’ Beatrice whispered. The room tipped and swayed and she feared that she might faint. And then she felt strong arms slide beneath her knees and around her back, her feet leaving the ground as Remy lifted her up into his arms. She linked her hands behind the strong column of his neck as he secured her against his chest, and she was greatly tempted to lay her head down upon his shoulder.
‘Come,’ clucked Lady Alys, ‘to bed with you, young lady.’ And, with a reproving frown for Lord Henry, ‘This matter is dealt with, my lord. A betrothal is as binding as a marriage. Let your poor sister rest now.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Lord Haworth, ‘I will call the clerks and have the marriage contracts drawn up. There can be no doubt then that either party shall renege upon their agreement, to which we stand as witnesses.’
‘Indeed.’ Hal bowed to Remy, who stood at the door with Beatrice in his arms. ‘By your leave.’
Remy nodded his head in acknowledgement and, striding from the solar, carried Beatrice to her bedchamber. As they traversed the passage they had a moment alone and she glanced up at his face, noting his clenched jaw and the muscle that ticked in his cheek.
‘You are displeased?’ she murmured.
He kicked open her chamber door, and set her down upon the edge of the great four-poster bed. ‘Not with you,’ he answered curtly, sitting down beside her and cupping her face in his palm, a smile unclouding his eyes. ‘I believe it is tradition to seal a betrothal with a ring, and a kiss. I have no ring to give you, but I have a kiss.’
He leaned down, but she stayed him with one hand upon his chest. ‘I fear you have made a poor bargain. What if…’ She hesitated, then pressed on, ‘What if we are unable to obtain an annulment, for whatever reason?’
‘We will cross that bridge when, and if, we come to it.’ He spanned her waist with his hands, urging her closer, and angled his head to kiss her.
Beatrice allowed herself a moment of surrender. The feel of his lips moving upon hers made her heart beat faster, and she sighed and relaxed against him. His ardour quickened and he made to open her mouth wider, but a discreet cough at the door forced him to withdraw and release her.
Lady Alys came into the room with a quick step, hiding her smile. ‘Now, Sir Remy, enough of that. My husband bids that you join him in the hall to celebrate this joyous occasion.’
Remy rose, with a grin and a bow for Lady Alys. ‘Take good care of her, my lady, for I would hope that a speedy recovery shall lead to a speedy wedding.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Lady Alys with a teasing glint in her eyes, ‘and speed is of the essence.’
Remy laughed, bowed to the two ladies and withdrew. Lady Alys watched his impressive male form as he walked to the door, and then turned to Beatrice and sighed. ‘You are a lucky girl indeed.’
Beatrice felt a fierce heat creep up her neck and cheeks, embarrassed that Lady Alys should be so indiscreet as to allude to the obvious male charisma that Remy exuded. This was but one of her many fears—the attraction Remy held for women, all women it seemed, no matter their age. With a sigh she allowed Bryony to undress her and in her nightshift she slid between the covers of the bed and lay back against a pile of soft pillows. Her glance strayed to the scar behind her shoulder, the skin pink and puckered. She knew that the one upon her hip was bigger and just as ugly. Thank goodness Remy had agreed that their marriage was not to be consummated, for she could not bear to have his fingers touch her body and know that such scars would almost certainly repulse him.
Downstairs in the great hall the household was gathered for the noon meal. At its end Lord Haworth hammered the hilt of his dagger upon the table boards and called for quiet. He turned to Lord Henry and invited him to speak. Hal rose from his place.
‘On this day,’ he announced, in a deep clear voice that echoed around the crowded hall, ‘Sir Remy St Leger has made his pledge to my sister, the Lady Beatrice, and they shall be married.’
A cheer went up, the loudest echoing from all the Ashton knights, who drummed their knuckles upon the table to show their approval. Sir Giles exclaimed loudly, “Tis high time we had a bit of good news.’
Remy accepted the many congratulations that came his way, some of the knights pounding him hard upon the back. As the commotion subsided he took a deep draught of the fine wine that Lord Haworth had ordered brought up from the cellar, and across the table met the brooding gaze of Lord Henry. Slowly, Remy set his goblet down, and rose from the table. Deliberately he strolled to an alcove beside the fire hearth and turned to look directly at Lord Henry. His silent challenge was taken up, and Lord Henry joined him.
‘My lord,’ said Remy, with mock servility, ‘spit out what chokes your gullet.’
Lord Henry eyed him impassively, respecting the fact that it was not often he came eye to eye with another man and mindful of Remy’s reputation. He had entertained the idea, as he journeyed from Chester with his father’s outrageous Will burning a hole in his pocket, that he would challenge St Leger and settle the matter of Hepple Hill in the age-old tradition of hand-to-hand mortal combat. But now, having met Remy, having seen him perform in battle against the Welsh, he had spurned the idea as foolhardy. Hal considered himself to be a good knight, and a good
swordsman, but he was no match for the likes of St Leger, who was not merely good but superior.
‘Come now, my lord,’ prompted Remy with impatient sarcasm, ‘let us have it out, for we are to be brothers, and I for one have no quarrel with you.’
Lord Henry muttered under his breath, ‘I’ll wager you don’t.’ But then he said in a louder tone, ‘All is very rosy for you, St Leger, in your garden. Hepple Hill is a fine estate.’
”Tis not mine. It belongs to Beatrice.’
‘Indeed. And that puzzles me. Don’t mistake me, I love my sister, but I cannot for the life of me see why you have agreed to marry her. If I may speak bluntly, why would a man such as yourself choose to hide behind a woman’s skirts?’
Remy narrowed his eyes, but controlled the spark of anger that leapt too quickly in his breast. Then he smiled, slowly. ‘If we are being blunt, then I will tell you. Sometimes, the only way to lift a woman’s skirts is to stand behind them.’
Lord Henry stared at him for a moment, aware that to speak so of a lady was a grave insult. He considered striking St Leger, but then, instead, he began to laugh. He laughed so loud and so hard that others standing nearby turned to stare at them. Remy stood with hands on hips, eyebrows lifted and a wry grimace upon his lips. He did not think his comment was all that amusing—indeed, he had expected a blow and would have welcomed a fight to break the tension between them.
At last Lord Henry wiped the tears from his eyes and controlled his guffaws of mirth. He patted Remy consolingly on the shoulder. ‘Here I was thinking that you had some grand political scheme, and all it really is…’ he laughed again ‘…is lust.’
Remy scowled. The joke had worn thin long ago. He thought Lord Henry should be defending his sister’s honour, instead of laughing about it. He shrugged off the hand on his shoulder, his stance turning belligerent, and muttered, “Tis not mere lust I feel for Beatrice.’
‘Indeed?’ Lord Henry sobered then. ‘You are aware, I trust, that she is a good few years older than you?’
‘Aye.’
‘And that she still feels a deep devotion to William de Warenne, her betrothed killed in battle years ago?’
‘Aye. But I think ‘tis a great exaggeration to say that she still has feelings for him. ‘Tis mere loneliness that has caused her to be loyal to his memory, and loyalty is a quality I greatly value.’
‘Indeed?’ Lord Henry gave him a look that was almost one of pity. ‘Then I wish you good luck, Sir Remy, for it will take a bold man to overcome the disadvantages that you face. I trust,’ he said with a note of warning, ‘that you plan no harm towards my sister? For Hepple Hill shall return to Ashton upon her demise, should she be childless at such time, and you will stand to gain nothing if that is the route you plan to follow.’
Through clenched teeth, his blood hot with anger at this insult, Remy replied, ‘Have no fear. If harm should come to Beatrice, it shall not be by my hand. I intend to give her only happiness and joy in our marriage.’
Lord Henry looked the knight up and down, noting the handsome face, the muscular, broad-shouldered body, and the sensual curve of his mouth. ‘No doubt upon her wedding night Beatrice will swoon from all this joy and happiness.’
For the first time Remy smiled, and he said softly, with great amusement and a sweeping bow, ‘My lord, I shall do my best!’
Holding out his hand, Lord Henry invited, ‘Come, let us put aside our unfortunate beginning. We are men of the same mettle and I think we could well be friends.’
Remy nodded his agreement and shook hands with Lord Henry, for never was he one to hold a grudge and he could find no other fault with his brother-to-be except a ruthless dedication to his family’s welfare, that in truth was to be commended.
Five days later they left Carmarthen and embarked upon their journey southwards, and home. There had been some delay to their departure as Lord Henry had insisted that he would not leave his father buried in Wales. Members of the clergy had muttered with misgivings, but the greasing of holy palms with a generous donation had ensured their blessing and Lord Thurstan was removed from his grave. A coffin of gleaming oak bound with brass received his remains, and this was placed upon a covered cart.
Thus encumbered, and as Beatrice tired easily, the journey was slow. She rode upon a gentle palfrey while Nogood had the unenviable task of riding Bos, whose temper had little improved during his idle days in Wales.
So large a party could not be easily accommodated at inns along the way, and most nights they camped under canvas, secure in the knowledge that only a fool would dare attack when the odds were vastly against them. With the country awash with lawless bands and mercenaries intent on winning their fortunes with King Edward in Wales, too little care could not be taken and the English knights, together with their men-at-arms, were confident yet vigilant.
Many times Beatrice felt Remy’s gaze upon her, as they rode along, as they watered the horses at a tumbling silver stream, as he lifted her up into the saddle or helped her dismount. Sometimes, when they were seated about the campfire eating a cold supper of bread and cheese, his stare seemed speculative, and she wondered what were his thoughts. At other times, she could not mistake the warm glow of desire that softened his hard male features and relaxed his mouth. It was then that a tingle crept up her spine and flushed across her skin, but she could not decide whether it was fear for the future and her irrevocable commitment to be his wife, or excitement at the prospect of Remy St Leger being her husband.
By this time it was mid-June, and surprisingly hot. Lord Henry fussed and fumed at their slow progress, anxious to reach Ashton and have his sister safely wedded before the thirty-day deadline elapsed. Already nineteen days had passed since Lord Thurstan had passed away.
On the fifth day they paused to water the horses beside a river and Beatrice lifted the heavy weight of her braided hair away from her neck, damp tendrils clinging to her overheated skin. She felt great pity for the men, roasting in their leather tunics and mail armour. The heat at midday was intense and on the horizon a great bank of dark clouds loomed. A stiff breeze whipped up and rustled the leaves of the willow and elder trees lining the river bank. A storm was promised before the day was out.
‘We can cross here,’ said Lord Henry, eyeing the dark green waters of the river blocking their path, ‘it will save us some time.’
Sir Giles urged his horse forwards and advised, “Tis safer if we travel up to the causeway, my lord. These rivers may look benign, but beneath the surface there can be strong and dangerous currents.’
‘Nonsense,’ replied Lord Henry, ‘get the wheels off the cart, and float it across. The horses can swim well enough and it will save us a great deal of time. Before nightfall we might reach Ashton.’
‘What of your sister?’ said Remy quietly. ‘Would you put her in danger?’
Lord Henry turned to Beatrice with a casual smile. ‘She is an excellent horsewoman and I have no doubt she will fare better than most.’
‘My lord—’ Sir Giles tried again to make his protest, but to no avail.
Lord Henry urged his horse down the bank, his spurs forcing the wary animal onwards as he lowered his head to the swirling waters, snorting and blowing and stepping gingerly as firm earth gave way to sliding mud. With much shouting and hard riding Lord Henry urged his destrier on and rose dripping and triumphant upon the far side. He waved his arm and urged the rest of his party to follow.
Whilst the knights assisted most of the men-at-arms to cross, Sir Giles and Remy stayed to see the wheels removed from the cart bearing Lord Thurstan’s coffin, and set half-a-dozen men to guide it as they floated it across the river.
‘Beatrice,’ said Remy, wheeling Walther about, ‘you are to go last and I think ‘twould be better if you rode pillion with me.’
‘Nay.’ Beatrice smiled, taking up her reins. ‘I would not wish to burden either you or poor Walther.’
”Tis no burden,’ he replied impatiently, his frown lowering over eyes that w
arned her against entering into a quarrel.
Beatrice held fast and turned Bos—she had taken pity on Nogood and let him ride the palfrey that day—towards the riverbank. She did not relish the prospect of riding him through the swirling waters, which were not overly deep and reached to shoulder-height on most of the horses, but she did not want Remy to think her a simpering ninny. She must trust Bos to carry her safely, however grave her misgivings. When her turn came Remy tried again to persuade her to dismount and ride with him, but Beatrice gave a little laugh, that sounded nervous even to her own ears, and urged Bos forwards. He did not like the idea of getting wet, and made much protest, snorting, throwing his head up and down and causing Beatrice to feel unsure of her seat. Perhaps it was her mistrust that communicated itself to the stallion, for suddenly he reared, with a melodramatic shriek and wildly rolling eyes, and with a startled cry Beatrice fell.
She hit the riverbank head first and was momentarily stunned before she rolled and fell into the water with a splash. The spot was a little off the chosen crossing path and deeper than expected. A swirling current snatched at her with hungry fingers, dragging her down into the river’s dark depths.
Beatrice fought desperately, opening her eyes beneath the water and peering up at the faint green glint of sunlight above her head. She kicked hard with her legs and flailed with her arms, suddenly emerging out of the watery grave that threatened to claim her. She screamed, and waved her arms, frantically calling for help.
Remy had plunged Walther into the river the moment Beatrice had hit the water. Now he desperately urged the powerful destrier onwards and followed the swift flow downstream, shouting to Beatrice. He wondered whether to throw himself into the river and swim after her, but he resisted the temptation and relied upon the greater strength of his horse to carry him ever closer.
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