‘Beatrice!’ shouted Remy, trying to catch her attention before she ducked beneath the water again. ‘Look ahead! There’s a fallen tree, grab it! Beatrice, grab the tree!’
He could not be sure that she had heard him. She screamed again, choked on a mouthful of water and disappeared.
Remy cursed. For this he would kill Lord Henry!
Frantically he searched the smooth glide of water as it flowed along, and then at last he saw her head pop up. She grabbed hold of a branch protruding from the fallen tree trunk that had crashed down during some long-ago storm and wedged between an outcrop of boulders. She clung to it with both arms and looked back over her shoulder, gasping and panting.
‘Remy!’
‘Hold tight! I’m coming. Don’t let go.’
With urgent words of encouragement Remy guided Walther towards her and then, at last, he managed to grab hold of Beatrice by her kirtle and dragged her across his saddle bow.
Beatrice coughed and spluttered, retching as she hung upside down. Her legs trailed in the water and she clung to Remy’s knee with both hands, terrified of falling back into the river.
‘Hold on,’ Remy urged, ‘we’ll be out of this in a moment.’ He turned Walther towards the far bank, searching for a safe place to climb out of the treacherous torrent, the brave horse holding his head up high and swimming with the current as it flowed along. At last Remy chose a suitable spot and Walther found his feet, rising up out of the river with a snort as he clopped up the steep slope, halting beneath a great oak tree to shake himself off and turn his head enquiringly towards his master. Remy praised him and patted his neck and then he lowered Beatrice to the ground and dismounted himself. He grasped her by both arms and demanded, ‘Are you all right?’
Beatrice nodded weakly, still gasping for breath, and then she turned, fell to her knees and quietly ejected the contents of her stomach.
‘Damn him!’ exclaimed Remy, slamming his fist into his palm. ‘Damn the son of a bitch!’
‘Remy!’ Beatrice remonstrated with him, as she rose weakly, her hair clinging wetly to her head and her lips a bright crimson against the wet pallor of her face.
‘When I get hold of him I am going to thrash him in the manner he deserves!’
Again she exclaimed his name, and stared at him with horror. ‘Hal is your liege lord. You dare not lift a finger to him.’
‘And why not?’ he demanded of her, stooping to glare into her eyes. ‘Manners and good sense are obviously two lessons he has never been taught.’
‘Nay!’ Beatrice took a step towards him and laid a hand on his arm. ‘That is not so. It has been a difficult time for Hal, away from home these many months, and now our father’s death, and he is saddled with the burdens of an estate he had not so soon expected. This—’ she waved her hand at the river, at her sodden clothing, at poor dripping Walther ‘—this was merely his eagerness to reach a home much missed. Please, Remy, I beg you to seek only peace with my brother.’
‘Indeed?’ he muttered beneath his breath, glancing down at her for a long moment, her soft-spoken words of reason cooling the molten lava of his rage. His mood calmed, and with a sigh, taking her arm in one hand and Walther’s reins in the other, he began to walk off upstream, towards the rest of their party, some distance away, muttering darkly, ‘Your precious brother still has much to learn.’
Chapter Ten
Beatrice spent an uncomfortable afternoon in her sodden kirtle, the wet fabric chafing against her tender skin and her hair dripping continuously as a shower broke upon them and Hal insisted they push on.
‘Hot food and warm beds await us at Ashton!’ he goaded the men, urging them forwards.
She watched with disquiet as Remy rode close by her with a scowl upon his face, his glance for her brother as sharp as the edge of his sword. She wondered how to convince Remy that his anger should be extinguished, before it led him astray.
The storm passed over and the afternoon brightened as golden sunshine beamed out from behind the clouds. They were very close to home now, and Lord Henry sent a messenger on ahead to give warning of their arrival. A relieved cheer went up when, at last, the towers and walls of Castle Ashton came into view.
Hearing the jingle of harness and the beat of many horses trotting by, the local tenants came running from their cottages. They waved and called out a greeting to their new young lord, and then sobered as Lord Thurstan’s coffin trundled past, making the sign of the cross and muttering a prayer for his departed soul.
It was eventide when they plodded across the drawbridge, wet and weary and cold. The cart bearing Lord Thurstan’s coffin drew up before the doors of the chapel and their chaplain, Father Thomas, greeted them solemnly upon the steps.
Remy helped Beatrice to dismount and then he joined with Sir Giles, Sir Cedric and Lord Henry to bear the coffin upon their shoulders and carry it into the chapel, where it was laid to rest before the altar. The dim interior was glowing from the flickering light of a dozen candles, and Father Thomas swept away any demons with clouds of incense from a brass burner, swinging it to and fro upon a chain. He chanted prayers for the departed soul of his liege lord, and the chapel quickly filled with knights and servants eager to pay their respects.
Beatrice stood to the fore, beside her father’s coffin, shivering in her wet dress and shoes, her hair a damp coil upon her shoulder. Remy eyed her with concern, noting her pale cheeks and her frame racked by shudders. He moved to stand behind her, his arms encircling her waist and drawing her back against his chest.
She looked up over her shoulder, and welcomed the warmth that emanated from his tall frame, seeping into her very bones until some of the deep chill melted away. But still she continued to tremble, bone weary and distressed as once again she was forced to live through her father’s funeral rites.
Remy said, ‘My lady, at this rate you will not be fit for a wedding in a month of Sundays. Go you to bed.’
Beatrice shook her head, ‘My duty is here.’
‘Your father would be the first to see you take better care.’
Lord Henry turned then and frowned, admonishing them for their whispers as the priest intoned his Latin liturgy.
Seeing this, Remy told him, ‘She is exhausted, she should retire.’
Beatrice looked to her brother, and when he nodded it irked Remy that she obeyed her brother’s authority and not his own. He watched with narrowed eyes as Beatrice disappeared into the dark shadows of the chapel, accompanied by Elwyn, who greeted her with an embrace and took her away to her chamber.
Elwyn fussed over her charge, caring for her as she always had since Beatrice was a young girl. She was of a mind to have her take a hot bath, but Beatrice refused.
‘Let the knights have the water, Elwyn, for they have had a long five days, sweating in their armour. I will bathe on the morrow.’
In front of a roaring fire in her bedchamber a grumbling Elwyn helped her to strip off her wet garments and rubbed her down with towels soaked in hot water, fragrant with rose and lavender petals. Submitting to these brisk ministrations, Beatrice asked Elwyn how she had fared these weeks past.
‘Oh I be all right, my lady,’ muttered Elwyn, picking up discarded garments from the floor.
Beatrice looked at her sideways, noting her disgruntled expression. ‘Come now, Elwyn,’ she said with gentle encouragement, ‘if all is not well I would hear why.’
But Elwyn would not be drawn and insisted on dressing Beatrice in her nightshift. Obediently Beatrice raised her arms, like a child, and Elwyn made to don the soft linen, but her hands were stayed and, with an exclamation of horror, she demanded to know, ‘My lady, what has happened to you? What are these scars you bear?’
Beatrice felt an anguished heat colour her face and she told Elwyn of the attack in Wales. Then she asked, peering over her shoulder with a small frown and grimace, ‘Is it very bad, Elwyn? Have you any creams to make their livid marks fade?’
Elwyn made a strangled noise in her t
hroat, and folded Beatrice into the comfort of her embrace, rocking her slender frame. ‘Oh, my little lamb, you might have died! I might never again have had you home to love and to hold.’
Beatrice was deeply touched by her maid’s devotion, she who had been like a second mother to her all these years past, and she waited patiently, patting Elwyn’s broad back with one palm and murmuring, ‘Do not distress yourself, dear Elwyn. It is naught and here I stand before you, hale and hearty. But now I am scarred without as well as within. How it sorely grieves me to be so maimed.’
Taking hold of her self-control, Elwyn huffed a sigh and set Beatrice away. ‘What nonsense! You were always the most beautiful lady at Ashton, and always will be.’
Beatrice laughed. ‘Such blind loyalty! How lucky I am!’
Briskly Elwyn set about dressing her mistress in her nightshift, and a rose-brocade robe, then bringing a bowl of clean warm water for her to wash her face and hands with. She served Beatrice with a meal of hot broth, thick with chunks of chicken meat, carrots and swedes, accompanied by soft white bread.
Having eaten her fill, Beatrice sat back with a contented sigh, and then returned to the question of what vexed her faithful nurse. ‘Dear Elwyn, tell me what it is that troubles you,’ pleaded Beatrice.
‘Well…’ Elwyn folded her arms over her bosom, and gave Beatrice a direct look ‘…I hear my lady is to be married.’
Beatrice laughed then. ‘Is that all that has your nose out of joint?’
‘Well, I thought I would know of such a thing long before any pageboy!’
‘Who told the pageboy?’
‘The messenger Lord Henry sent on to say you were on your way and to make ready.’
‘You can hardly blame me for that, Elwyn.’ Beatrice rose from her chair, resisting the weary ache of protest from her tired body, and reached out her arms to give Elwyn a hug. ‘I would have told you the moment I had the opportunity. Besides—’ she tossed the mane of her still damp hair ‘—’tis only to Sir Remy.’
‘Only!’ exclaimed Elwyn, ‘What a peculiar thing to say, my lady, and I would have been much surprised to hear that you were going to wed anyone else!’
Beatrice bit hard on both her lip and her words, thinking that for the moment it would be prudent not to reveal the pact she had made with Remy St Leger. She was going to be married, but she would not be a true wife and that knowledge gave her little cheer.
‘Now,’ said Beatrice briskly, ‘what else can you tell me? Has there been any difficulties or disputes whilst we were away?’
Elwyn had a mutinous pout to her mouth, sensing that Beatrice was being secretive and not liking this new experience. ‘Well, Cook has been selling small packets of salt and flour behind your back.’
‘Has he indeed!’ exclaimed Beatrice, marching to the door. ‘Let us put a stop to that at once and remind Cook of his duty.’
Downstairs in the great hall most of the knights had come in, having discarded their armour and weapons in the armoury, and were now sitting down at the trestle tables to enjoy the same chicken broth and white bread that Beatrice had. Lord Henry had ordered wine and ale to be served in celebration of their homecoming and, spying Beatrice as she came down the stairs, he raised his goblet to her.
‘Your health, sister!’ he exclaimed.
Beatrice wondered if he had already imbibed a little too generously. ‘Hal, there is a matter I would discuss with you.’
‘In a moment, little Bee.’ Hal sat down and a large steaming bowl of broth was set before him, which he applied himself to with relish.
Not wishing to disturb her brother further, Beatrice asked, ‘When you are done, please meet with me in the kitchens, for there is a serious matter to be attended to.’
‘Very well.’ Hal tore off a chunk of bread and dipped it into his bowl, sighing and closing his eyes with pleasure as he ate a decent hot meal for the first time in days.
Leaving him to enjoy his food, Beatrice went to the kitchens at the rear of the hall and as she entered she noted that the curtains were drawn on the bathing alcove. She could hear the splash of water and a giggling female voice.
‘Oh my, Sir Remy, I ‘ave missed ye sorely!’
Beatrice froze. That voice belonged to one of the serving maids, a young strumpet by the name of Bess. She moved quickly and quietly, and jerked open the curtains. Remy sat in the bathing tub, steam rising up all about him, and Bess leaned over him as she scrubbed his back. They both looked up, she fancied with a guilty start, and Beatrice felt her heart plummet. Not yet wed and already another of her fears making itself known—that Remy would find the attractions of other women too hard to resist.
In truth, Remy had been about to dismiss Bess. He had no desire for her and knew that he would never betray his betrothed in any way. But now he looked at Beatrice with cold challenge and raised eyebrows, daring her to make comment as Bess stood with her hands upon his naked shoulders. He leaned back, his powerful torso tapering down into the water and revealing just a glimpse of his hips. Would Beatrice be jealous? He very much hoped so!
‘You may go,’ said Beatrice in a cold voice, and she waited until the maid had bobbed a curtsy and fled. Then she closed the curtains and approached the bathing tub with slow steps, trying to look only at his eyes. ‘What was that all about?’
Remy shrugged, and reached for the bar of soap abandoned by Bess. He lathered it up and soaped under his arms, and then his chest with a lazy circular motion, his blue gaze all the while holding with Beatrice’s wide brown eyes. ‘She helped me to wash. Nothing more.’
‘It didn’t sound that way.’
‘Indeed? How did it sound then, my lady?’ He leaned his head to one side and waited for her answer.
‘Well…’ Beatrice blushed fiercely, and stammered, ‘It—it sounded to me, well, like…’
‘Like what?’
‘Like you and she…’
‘What?’ he persisted, gliding the bar of soap over one muscular thigh, his eyes watching hers and the blush that burned her cheeks as she followed the movement of his hands.
‘As though you knew each other!’ Beatrice exclaimed.
He laughed, setting aside the soap and rinsing his chest. ‘Of course I know her. She’s Bess, one of the serving wenches.’
‘You know what I mean! You have…’
‘Yes?’
‘Lain with her!’
Remy shrugged again. ‘What if I have?’
Beatrice exclaimed her anger and frustration. She took a step towards him, intending to deal him a slap, but he caught her wrists and pulled her closer still, and she had to brace her knees against the edge of the wooden tub, lest she fall in and join him in his bath water.
‘I will not tolerate such vile behaviour, Sir Remy!’
Remy transferred his hold of her wrists into one hand, easily encircling their narrow width, and moved his free hand to grasp behind her thighs, forcing her to sink down upon her knees. He brought her face closer to his, their noses almost touching, their lips just a breath away.
‘I admit,’ he whispered, ‘that to lie with a woman tonight would greatly please me, but I will not cause you any shame. I assure you that between now and the day of our annulment the only woman I will give my attentions to is you, sweet Beatrice.’ He kissed her then, his lips moving slowly and thoroughly, before raising his head and asking, ‘That is still what you want, is it not?’
She blinked and stared at him for a moment, her senses swimming on a dizzy tide. ‘What is?’
‘An annulment. You do not wish me to, er…’ he hesitated delicately ‘…perform the rights of a husband on our wedding night.’
She tried to snatch away from him, confused, but he held her, his fingers gentle yet implacable. ‘We had agreed that you would not. Do you go back on your word?’
‘Nay, a knight does not break his promise, especially one given to a lady. But you have not answered my question, Beatrice. Is it what you want? To be a wife and a virgin?’
‘You should not speak to me so!’ protested Beatrice.
He smiled lazily, enjoying her blushes, heartened to see some emotion upon the usual pallor of her constrained countenance.
‘Please let me go!’
His hold slackened, ‘On one condition.’
She eyed him suspiciously, ‘And what would that be?’
‘Finish what Bess has begun.’
‘You mean, scrub your back?’
He laughed, ‘Aye.’ Then he planted a quick kiss on each hot, rosy cheek, his eyes full of mischief. ‘That is what I meant.’
Beatrice suspected that he was mocking her, but she rolled up her sleeves and did as he asked. Her fingers rinsed the soap from his broad back, gliding over the hard muscle compacted on either side of his spine, smoothing across his shoulder blades, and rubbing at a stubborn speck of mud at the base of his neck. Stooping over him, she noticed goosebumps flare across his golden skin.
‘Has the water gone cold, Sir Remy?’ she asked, ‘Shall I call for hot?’
‘Nay,’ he replied, his voice somewhat strangled. ‘Go now. I will finish by myself.’ He hunched forwards as she stepped out from behind him, not wishing her to see how her soft touch, her nearness and her elusive scent of flowers and female had aroused him. With some chagrin he concluded that the unexpected sight of rampant male vigour might be a shock to an innocent maiden. He jerked his head at the curtain and said curtly, ‘Go!’
Beatrice eyed him with a puzzled frown, and then left, pulling the curtains closed. There was an agonised groan from Remy and the sound of water splashing, but before she could call out if all was well her brother came into the kitchen, and she went with him to deal with their thieving cook.
When she returned, with the unpleasant knowledge that on Hal’s orders the cook would receive no wages for a year and ten lashes on the morrow, there was no sign of Remy. She went into the great hall, but she did not see him there either and with a resigned sigh she turned for the stairs leading to her chamber.
‘Wait,’ said Hal, detaining her with a hand on her shoulder. ‘I have spoken to Father Thomas. It is agreed that you will be married on Midsummer’s Eve.’
The Knight's Vow Page 17
