The Knight's Vow

by Catherine March

  Beatrice raised her eyes to Remy as he pulled on his clothes. ‘You are leaving me?’

  ‘Aye.’ He dressed swiftly, then turned to her with hands on hips, shrugging his broad shoulders. ‘I am sorry, but I have no choice.’ Then he stooped, gently grasping a fistful of hair at the nape of her neck and pressing a tender kiss upon her swollen lips. ‘Do not look at me with that fear in your eyes.’ He kissed her again, quickly, promising, ‘I will be back.’

  Beatrice felt the blood in her veins turning to ice. Her hands trembled as she lifted them to his neck, stroking his firm skin with her thumb. She murmured, with eyes lowered, ‘Do not of me a widow make.’ Uttering those words made it all too real that Remy was going into battle. She raised her eyes to his and said desperately, ‘Let me come with you.’

  ‘Nay!’ His reply was swift and definite.

  But she would not be so easily set aside. ‘Are we not to make our home at Hepple Hill? We would have journeyed there on the morrow anyway.’ She turned away from him then and hurried to her coffer, to reach for her maroon kirtle.

  His fingers closed about her wrists and jerked her to a halt as she tried to hurry on her clothes, ‘You will not come with me,’ he said firmly, a hard glint of challenge in his eyes.

  Beatrice stood her ground. She tipped back her head and looked up at him. ‘If you do not let me come with you, then I shall follow. Later. On my own. The choice is yours, my lord.’

  He gnashed his teeth and groaned.

  ‘St Leger!’

  ‘I’m coming!’ Remy replied with a furious shout, frowning at Beatrice and then at the door. ‘Your sister is proving to be stubborn, as usual.’

  ‘Then show her the back of your hand, if she will not listen to your voice.’

  ‘Advice I am greatly tempted to take,’ muttered Remy, shaking his head grimly at the look of outrage on Beatrice’s face. He lifted his hand and made a sharp movement through the air with it, but he halted the motion well short of her face and stretched out his lean fingers to tenderly cup her chin. He stooped over her as with his other hand he curved it about her waist and pressed her slender length against him. ‘You will not come with me, Beatrice,’ he repeated, hushing her as she made to protest. ‘I cannot take you into danger. These Gascons are vicious bastards, ‘tis why Edward employs them against the Welsh. I cannot do my duty if I must worry over your safety.’ He leaned closer, and whispered in her ear, ‘You will stay here.’ He repeated each of the words slowly and with unyielding firmness.

  Beatrice subsided. She had no wish to put Remy in danger by imposing her presence. She hung her head, her kirtle falling from her hands. ‘I will miss you,’ she whispered.

  ‘And I you.’ He chucked her under the chin, coaxing from her a watery smile. ‘I will be back in a day or two—’

  ‘Come on, man,’ drawled Hal impatiently. ‘For the love of God, save your sweet talk for later.’

  Remy sighed heavily, whispering, ‘One of these days I am going to break your brother’s neck.’ He bent his vast shoulders over her again and kissed her, once, twice, until at last he gave her up. ‘Adieu, my little wife.’

  ‘Adieu…’ she reached up on tiptoe and stroked his cheek with her palm ‘…my giant husband.’

  He laughed, and then hurried away, unbarring the door, greeting a disgruntled Lord Henry. She heard him quietly ask her brother, ‘How strong are they?’

  And Hal’s reply, ‘Between twenty and thirty.’

  Their voices faded with their footsteps running down the stairs, already men of war.

  In the armoury Nogood helped Remy to don his mail armour and latch on his sword. When they rode out of the gates they were forty knights, most garnered from the wedding guests, and a hundred men-at-arms. They streamed out across the drawbridge, intent on delivering to the Gascons swift and merciless English justice.

  Beatrice spent a disconsolate day, listening to her aunt and Joanna chatter, admiring her many wedding gifts, and missing Remy so much that she ached from head to toe. She blushed to think at how he had touched her, and wondered with great impatience when she would again hold him in her arms. And always there was the terror that clutched at her insides and her mind and her soul, so that she felt she could hardly breathe, and barely think, of anything except Remy. Though he was miles away, she felt his presence, and knew that she was within his thoughts, as he was within hers, cherished and, she hoped and prayed, protected.

  That evening, as she rose from the supper table, she spotted Nogood and beckoned Remy’s squire to her side. She smiled reassuringly at him as he bowed and eyed her warily, asking him, ‘You do not ride with Sir Remy?’

  ‘Nay, my lady, he says I am not yet ready to join in the fight.’ He blushed in agony at his inadequacy.

  Beatrice frowned, curious and troubled about this young boy who worked so hard and with such loyal diligence for her husband; he would be an important part of her household, and yet she knew nothing about him. ‘How old are you, Nogood?’

  ‘I am sixteen, my lady.’

  So young! ‘And what is your real name? It vexes me greatly to hear you called Nogood, for truthfully I think you are everything that is good.’

  His blush deepened and he shifted uneasily from foot to foot. ‘My real name is Gounoud, but my lord Sir Remy sometimes…um…er…became confused in the beginning, when I was first sent to serve him as squire, and called me Nogood.’ Here he stammered and quailed at this obvious criticism of his lord. ‘In all truth I do not mind and sometimes my lord calls me by my first name, which is easier for him to remember.’

  ‘And what is that?’ She persisted gently, resisting the urge to hug him as she would a child.

  He bit his lip, eager to escape her inquisition. ‘Kit. Short for Christopher.’

  ‘Kit?’ Beatrice tried it out and then smiled. ‘Aye, it suits you. I can understand how that would be easier for Sir Remy to bellow when he is in a hurry.’

  At that they both laughed and then she offered him her hand and he kissed it quickly, before hurrying away, glancing back with a smile of such adoration that Beatrice was in no doubt that she had won his loyalty for all the days of her life.

  That night she had much to think about and refused the offer from Joanna to sleep with her, preferring to have her privacy and to lie against the pillow that Remy had slept on, still aromatic with his male scent. She fell asleep praying for his safety, and awoke early with the hopeful thought that by evening he would be back.

  But he did not return that day, nor the next, and the waiting became an agony. Late in the afternoon a trumpet blast from the highest watchtower warned them of approaching riders and Beatrice made herself tidy and hurried downstairs. It was Hal who strode briskly into the hall, looking weary, dirty and yet triumphant. Beatrice approached him cautiously as he stood with arms upraised while his squire unlatched his armour.

  ‘Ah, Beatrice,’ he said, noticing her then, ‘pack your things and be ready to go at first light. I have left your husband to hold Hepple Hill and you will join him there.’

  Stunned by this casual command, she ventured to ask, ‘He is well?’

  Hal observed the wide-eyed fear of her countenance, and smiled with reassurance. ‘He is well. Fought like a devil in his haste to deal with the Gascons, and no doubt I know why.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  Hal chuckled and suggested that her husband feared she was missing his company in bed which earned him a slap, brother or no brother, lord or no lord. With the peal of his laughter ringing in her ears, Beatrice gathered up her skirts and ran across the hall. She trotted swiftly up the stairs to her chamber and there breathlessly, smiling and suddenly lightheaded with relief, informed Elwyn that they were to make ready for their removal to Hepple Hill.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was but a morning’s ride to her new home in Wessex, and Beatrice rode under heavily armed escort led by Sir Hugh Montgomery. She was accompanied by several female attendants, including her own dear Elwyn, her wedd
ing gifts and the good wishes of her family and guests as they waved her goodbye.

  The countryside they rode through was pretty enough, with rolling green fields and dense woodland, but Beatrice had little appreciation for it as she barely contained her impatience to reach Hepple Hill and see Remy. It had only been three days, but felt more like a lifetime she had endured without him. She wondered if he felt the same and urged her horse into a swift trot.

  As they neared Hepple Hill towards midday, there were signs of devastation and conflict—burnt-out cottages that still smouldered, dead animals lying in the fields, and the earthy mounds of freshly dug graves behind the small stone church.

  ‘My lady,’ cried Elwyn, ‘avert your eyes!’

  Her maid tried to protect Beatrice from seeing the bodies that hung from several trees beside the track, but it was too late. She had already seen them, and she gasped, turning away in horror. Quickly she spurred on her horse and they cantered up to the wide moat that ringed the castle known as Hepple Hill. Her escort called to the guard on duty, and the drawbridge was let down after their identities had been established.

  Beatrice swept into the courtyard, which was too small to be rightly named a bailey, and dismounted. She looked about her, noting the fearful and watchful eyes of the serfs, the general air of disrepair and neglect evident in the weeds growing about and the piles of refuse left to rot when they should have been carted away and dumped elsewhere. She wrinkled her nose in distaste, and exchanged a glance with her serving women.

  ‘We’ll have our work cut out for us here, my lady,’ muttered Elwyn.

  Beatrice nodded, with a wry smile, and then turned towards the steps of the keep. ‘Come, mayhap it is better within.’

  Her women did not share her optimism, and followed Beatrice with glum expressions. Once inside the double doors of the hall, Beatrice glanced about, relieved that at least here it was cleaner. There were several servants busy putting up trestle tables for the noon meal, and the reassuring smell of roasted meat and baked bread wafted from the direction of the kitchen at the rear of the hall.

  She wondered where Remy might be, and then, as her eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom, she saw him. He was seated on the dais, listening with a perplexed expression upon his handsome face to a vassal, who appeared to be making a complaint about a neighbour who had crossed his land and taken his pig. The moment he saw Beatrice he held up his hand to silence the man, and leapt to his feet.

  She hurried across the hall to greet him, her eyes devouring him from head to toe to make sure that he had not incurred any injury. His cheek and brow were bruised and there was a cut on his chin, but apart from that, and grazed knuckles, he appeared to be whole and healthy.

  ‘Beatrice!’ He swept her into his arms, whispering by her ear, ‘Thank God you are here.’ And then he moved his head and kissed her with hot and greedy need upon the mouth.

  With a blush, noting the chuckles of her women and the sniggers of the handful of knights lounging about the hall, taking their ease from their bout of hard fighting, she struggled out of his arms and made a formal curtsy to him.

  ‘My lord,’ she murmured, impressing upon him with her eyes that he should behave in a more judicious manner.

  Remy sighed, bowed, and said, ‘Your timing is well done, my lady. We are about to sit down for the noon meal.’ Then he noticed that she was wearing a wimple, the pale linen folded about her head and neck and hiding her hair. He flicked his fingers at it disparagingly. ‘Take this thing off. I do not care for it. I prefer to see your hair loose.’

  Beatrice felt herself redden with embarrassment and anger at his words and his manner. ‘I am a married woman now, my lord. I am obliged to wear it.’

  He snorted in disgust. ‘Not in your own home and not when your husband orders you to remove it. Do it now!’

  She jumped at his bark and eyed him charily, awakening to the unpleasant awareness that this was not the same Remy who had left her. When she had removed the offensive wimple he offered her his arm and escorted her to the table. Remy employed every ounce of his self-discipline to behave in the manner that her flashing brown eyes indicated that he was sorely in danger of lacking. He enquired politely how she had fared and how was her journey, while his instinctive reaction was far more basic. He longed to throw her over his shoulder and carry her off to the solar chamber above, there indulging himself in the sweet nectar and solace of her love. But he reasoned that she had had a long journey, and must be tired and hungry.

  Somehow he managed to contain himself, but it was no easy task. Sitting next to Beatrice, listening to her voice, admiring her lovely face, her bosom brushing his arm as she leaned towards him to tell him of something—he knew not what, for his brain was in a dizzy whirl—was slow torture. Throughout the meal his eyes strayed again and again to her lips, as she placed tiny morsels of food in her mouth, to her graceful white hands, his skin burning with the memory of their touch upon him. His gaze strayed to her small breasts, his loins hardening as he remembered the feel of their delicious weight in his hands and a rosy, hard nipple in his mouth.

  Beatrice frowned at Remy. She had the distinct feeling he was not listening to a word she was saying. He had a rather strange, glazed look to his eyes. She began to worry that he might have taken a blow to the head during his skirmish with the Gascons. He had certainly forgotten his manners and had neither introduced her to the knights who would be part of their household, nor to any of the servants that she would rule. Just when she was about to ask him whether he was feeling well, he suddenly set aside the apple he had been peeling and stabbed the sharp point of his dagger into the table top. He scraped back his chair and stood up. Her words died on her lips, and she craned her neck back to stare up at him.

  Remy fastened his hand around her elbow and he drew her from her chair, announcing to the company at large in a loud voice, ‘I am going to take my wife to her solar.’ He looked around the hall with great significance. ‘There will be no interruptions.’

  To this bold statement different reactions were evinced. The knights cheered and applauded him with envy, whilst Beatrice flushed bright scarlet and was mortified. Her waiting women tittered in sympathy, and then she had no choice but to follow Remy as he stepped down from the dais and hustled her across the hall towards the stairs, that spiralled up to the floor above and their private apartments.

  ‘My lord!’ protested Beatrice, stumbling upon the steep stone steps. ‘I beg your pardon!’

  He paused and turned back towards her, muttering, ‘So formal, Beatrice?’

  He grasped her hand and she nimbly leapt up the steps in his rapid wake. When he reached their solar he shut the door firmly, and rammed home the bar.

  Beatrice looked about. It was a pleasant enough room, although rather small, but there were two windows, with shutters thrown wide open on the warm summer day, and a four-poster bed made up with clean linens and a brocade coverlet, hung with dark green curtains. There was a table against one wall and two chairs beside the hearth, several tapestries on the walls and a large, ornately carved coffer at the foot of the bed. Before she could inspect her new quarters further, Remy spun her into his embrace.

  Without a word he stooped his head and kissed her. Beatrice laid her hands flat on his chest, gasping for breath as his tongue invaded her mouth and his lips crushed hers. Against her hip she felt the bulk of his arousal, his hands moulding her buttocks and pulling her hard against him.

  ‘God, I have missed you,’ he murmured savagely, his lips travelling down her neck.

  ‘So I see,’ she replied, now seriously concerned at this change in her husband, and she placed her cool palms either side of his jaw and raised his face up. Gently she asked, ‘What is amiss, my lord?’

  For an answer his arms circled about her waist and he held her tightly against him, his face buried against the curve of her neck. ‘Hold me, Beatrice. Wash me clean with your purity and make me brave again, for I fear all my courage has deserted me.�
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  With a wide-eyed and startled expression upon her face, she stroked the back of his neck, her voice a soft whisper. ‘What is it that you fear, Remy?’

  At that he shook his head, unable to reveal further his weakness and his torment. ‘Do not ask, for you would not want to love the man that trembles with fear inside of me. A knight must be strong and bold, and here I stand before you, whimpering like a child.’

  Her heart ached painfully for him and tears burned at the back of her eyes. ‘There’s a frightened child within all of us, sometimes. It takes only a little comfort and patience and rest to make us full-grown again.’ Tenderly she caressed her fingertips against the smooth tanned skin at the back of his neck. ‘Do not be so harsh on yourself, Remy.’ She raised her eyes to the rafters and for a moment tried hard to think what could be amiss, seeking divine inspiration. Then it came to her. ‘Was the fighting against the Gascons very bad?’

  ‘It was bloody and fierce.’ His voice was muffled against her neck. ‘They put up a determined fight and were intent that they would not be taken prisoners. It sickens me to have to slaughter men like that, but I am accustomed to battle and well trained for it.’

  ‘But still it is not pleasant, and I would not have married you if you were a brutal man who had a lust for slaying.’ She had a feeling that this was not all that was troubling him. ‘I know you do not fear battle, yet earlier you spoke of trembling with fear. What is it, my husband? Tell me all.’

  With a sigh he straightened up and turned away from her, hardly able to admit what he had only today realised. He went to the narrow window embrasure and stood gazing out at the green fields and the softly blue sky dappled with clouds. Then, with great reluctance, he told her, ‘I am inadequate, Beatrice. I am a failure. An illiterate, battle-scarred and battle-weary knight who knows little about anything except a sword and a horse and killing.’ He sighed heavily again, his broad shoulders stooped as though a great weight bore down upon him, and he spread his hands in defeat. ‘Your father gifted me this estate, Hepple Hill, and yet I have no idea, no notion at all, of how to run it or look after it, or how to hold it or make it prosper. I fear we shall lose all.’