“I am twenty-nine years old,
Sir Remy, and I have never been kissed….”
Remy squinted a look at Beatrice, the light slowly dawning.
“I can expect to live twenty, maybe thirty years as a nun. Alone. Unloved. I would like to know…that is…will you kiss me?”
“He stared at her, silent.
“So that I may know what it is like,” she continued. “And take that memory with me.”
“He shook his head. “I cannot oblige you. ’Twould be more than my life is worth. Your father—”
“He will never know! I promise. No one will know.”
“Nay.” He turned to go.
“Wait! Please. Just a kiss. ’Tis all I ask. I hear most men are willing to kiss maids….”
The Knight’s Vow
Harlequin®Historical #234—April 2008
CATHERINE MARCH
was born in Zimbabwe. Her love of the written word began when she was ten years old and her English teacher gave her Lorna Doone to read. Encouraged by her mother, Catherine began writing stories while a teenager. Over the years her employment has varied from barmaid to bank clerk to legal secretary. Her favorite hobbies are watching rugby, walking by the sea, exploring castles and reading.
The KNIGHT’S VOW
CATHERINE MARCH
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
Available from Harlequin®Historical and CATHERINE MARCH
My Lady English #822
The Knight’s Vow #234
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For Calvin, Bruce and David
With love
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter One
April 1277
The wind howled and the rain drummed a steady beat against the shutters of Castle Ashton. In the great hall the most privileged knights of the household sat close to a fire glowing in the hearth, wide enough to burn logs the length of a man.
Some of the knights threw dice upon a game of chance, several talked earnestly about past heroics upon the battlefield, two played chess and one tried his luck with a pretty serf who had, thus far, eluded his pursuit.
A door banged above and the wooden stairs creaked as footsteps pounded down from the lord’s solar on the first floor. The knights looked up, expectant, wary.
Lord Thurstan exuded a vibrant energy as he strode across the hall, despite his years of some two score and six. There was a touch of grey at his temples and threading through his thick brown beard, but his heavy body was still that of a warrior—in King Edward’s army he held a high rank.
‘Radley!’
‘My lord?’ Sir Giles Radley, second-in-command, leapt to his feet, his game of chess forgotten.
‘On the morrow you will escort Lady Beatrice to the convent at Glastonbury. Take forty men-at-arms and,’ he paused and looked around, eyes narrowed as he considered his twelve knights, ‘take Grenville, Montgomery, Woodford, Fitzpons, and…Baldslow. Oh, and take young St Leger as well. ‘Tis high time the boy earned his keep. And make haste, for we leave for Wales at the end of this week.’
The knights broke away from their idle pastimes and now crowded around Lord Thurstan, questions tripping eagerly over one another as they begged for news of the Welsh campaign.
‘So Edward is determined to conquer Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, and make him rue the day he ever refused to pay homage?’ asked Sir Hugh Montgomery.
‘Aye.’ Lord Thurstan accepted a goblet of wine, ‘The king has set his sights on Gwynedd and naught, neither reason nor argument, will deter him.’
Their discussion upon the merits and means of forcing the Welsh into submission went on well into the night. Those who had an early start on the morrow drifted away to bedrolls before the warm hearth. One hovered at Lord Thurstan’s elbow—Cedric Baldslow, a man who matched his lord in age, his square, solid frame not yet running to fat, his face well worn and tanned to the hue and texture of saddle leather, his greying head shaved. His thin mouth and narrow eyes reflected the portrait of a hard man, a man Lord Thurstan valued only as a knight who could, and would, fight hard in any battle.
‘My lord,’ said Sir Cedric softly, ‘the Lady Beatrice…’ he hesitated and Lord Thurstan looked painfully away, knowing full well what was to come next ‘…she is determined to take holy vows?’
‘Aye. That she is. The girl would be a nun and there is no one who can change her mind.’
Cedric clutched urgently at his lord’s sleeve, almost desperate, as he pleaded, ‘You cannot sanction it, for the love of God! Persuade her, my lord, to accept me and I will make her a fine husband.’
Thurstan snorted and took a deep gulp of his wine, before slamming down the cup in a way that brooked no further argument. He could not tell Cedric that not only did he neither like nor trust him and would not give his only daughter in marriage to such a man, but that Beatrice herself had