The light in his eyes flared with anger at her accusation. He stooped and covered her mouth with a kiss so sweet and tender that it left her reeling as he released her wrist and strode to the door. He turned and looked back at her for a moment before issuing his dark warning, ‘Kittens should not play with lions.’
Chapter Two
The convent of St Jude was situated in Northload Street and backed onto the manor house of the Abbot of Glastonbury. The nuns leased ten acres from Abbot John, and from this small parcel of land eked out sufficient food so as to provide enough for their community to live upon, rarely having to resort to buying anything from the market. There were three cows to be milked, a half-dozen sheep for mutton and wool, twenty chickens for eggs and meat, fish ponds and a thriving vegetable garden that yielded carrots, turnips, swedes, onions and herbs. There were apple and pear trees and also two acres of vines. The convent buildings themselves consisted of a hall, known as the refectory, where the nuns ate; a parlour, where Sister Huberta had her desk and went about the business of correspondence and discipline; a large kitchen, which faced on to the vegetable gardens to the rear, adjoined by the buttery. Below stairs there was a cellar, and eight sleeping chambers above stairs. Central to all, of course, was the chapel, ensconced within the body of the convent, so that there was easy access at all hours of the day and night.
A great deal of hard work was required by all to keep this little farm going, and Sister Huberta, Abbess, made sure that she wrung every last ounce out of every last nun, twenty-five in all, excluding the Abbess and the novices.
It was Tuesday, market day, and so large a party as the Ashton cavalcade attracted some attention as they entered the town from the south, along Chilkwell Street, and then turned to clatter up the High Street. Beatrice glanced at the market stalls as they passed by and noted a variety of interesting goods—cheeses, wooden spoons and rowan besoms, silks and ribbons, delicious-smelling pasties, leather boots and copper pots.
All too quickly they left the market behind and wheeled into Northload Street. Just before the end they came to a high brick wall that ran for some distance and abutted the solid posts of a wide, wooden double gate. The gate was barred from the inside and visitors were required to ring a wrought-iron bell set high up in the wall—high enough to discourage small children from tormenting the nuns and the neighbour-hood with silly games of ring-and-run.
Sir Giles leaned over in his saddle and tugged on the rope. They could not hear its jangle, but it was not long before a small trapdoor opened and a wimpled face peeped out.
‘Good morning, Sister,’ greeted Sir Giles politely, ‘Lady Beatrice of Ashton has arrived.’
The door slammed shut. They glanced at one another and Beatrice smiled with a small shrug. After some moments the trapdoor opened again and another nun peered at them with hard eyes. She was older than the first one, and had sharp features that reminded Beatrice of a ferret. She looked directly at Beatrice and spoke to her in a tone that well matched her features.
‘I am the Abbess here, Sister Huberta. What do you mean by bringing all these men to my door? Look how you have blocked the road and created unseemly interest.’
Beatrice felt a small shock of surprise at this abrupt greeting, and she glanced over her shoulder, surveying the men-at-arms who did indeed block the road and had attracted a small crowd of onlookers. Even now Sir Hugh was shouting and pushing his horse through in an attempt to get her coffer to the convent’s door. Beatrice turned to make her apology, but was forestalled.
‘They may go. At once. You may step down from your horse and I will admit you to St Jude’s. If that is still your wish.’ Sister Huberta stared straight at her.
‘Indeed,’ replied Beatrice slowly, her voice naturally soft and now scarcely audible above the stamp and snort of horses, the jingle of harness, the shouts of men down the road, ‘I have a coffer, if you would be so kind as to open the gate.’
‘Are you not aware that this is an enclosed order? I had thought I’d made it quite clear in my letters. We have not opened the gates in thirty years and will surely not do so now. We take you as you are, Mistress Beatrice—’ her name was pronounced almost with a sneer ‘—besides, I cannot allow one nun to own more than any other. You will be provided with what you need, even if it may not be what you want.’
‘But, my Bible—’
‘We have one.’
‘My hairbrush.’
‘You will not need it. Your hair will be shorn.’
The knights and men-at-arms nearby gasped. Beatrice closed her mouth upon her protests to salvage her soap and sewing kit and other possessions. She turned then to Sir Giles and said in a quiet voice, ‘Would you help me down, please?’
‘My lady.’ Sir Giles dismounted, and all the knights dismounted at once, with an audible creak of leather, clank of swords and ringing of spurs that made Beatrice cringe.
As Sir Giles set her down upon the ground Beatrice stroked Willow’s nose in farewell, let go of the reins and took a step towards the gates of St Jude. Then she stopped and turned around again, her eyes flitting from one knight to another.
‘Fare thee well,’ she whispered. ‘My thanks and may God go with you all.’
As one body they came and knelt in a semi-circle before her. She went to each one and kissed him upon the cheek. They remained silent and kept their gazes upon the ground, although every one of them longed to shout their protest and sweep her up on to her horse, to gallop away home.
When she came to Remy St Leger, last in line and furthest away from the gate, it was he, and he alone, who raised his eyes and looked upon her. He reached for her hand and kissed it.
‘Your father said to remind you that if all is not well, to send word.’ His voice was very low, not to be heard by the Abbess.
‘I know. But tell my father that I will not shame him by my lack of courage.’
”Tis not courage you need now, but common sense. Come away from this place.’
‘Let go of my hand!’ Beatrice said through clenched teeth.
‘Come along, young lady, I do not have time to waste idly waiting upon your pleasure.’
Remy cast the Abbess a look of sour contempt. Still clasping Beatrice’s small hand between the rough palms of his own much larger hands, he looked up at her, as he knelt in the mud on one bended knee. ‘You do not belong here.’
Beatrice leaned forwards and kissed his cheek. ‘Fare thee well, Sir Remy.’ She spoke sadly but firmly, and resisted the temptation to brush aside the lock of ash-blond hair that fell across his forehead. She tugged her hand free and stepped back.
The knights rose to their feet, and watched, many with hands on hips or the hilt of their swords, as Beatrice stooped through the small door, set in the gate, that closed almost at once behind her, revealing nothing of the convent or its inhabitants to the outside world.
For a long moment the knights stood there, staring, and then Sir Giles roused them and vaulted upon his horse. ‘To Ashton!’ he cried.
It was scarce midday and with hard riding they would make the castle by nightfall, forgoing the temptations the taverns of Glastonbury had to offer, in their haste to return to Lord Thurstan and impress upon him his duty to rescue Lady Beatrice from her own folly.
As the door slammed shut behind her Beatrice blinked in the gloom of the gatehouse. Then the Abbess swept past her and marched across the yard to the main building of the convent.
‘I have never seen such a carry on,’ Sister Huberta complained. ‘If I had known that your father intended to send you to us with such—such pomp, then I would most certainly have written and persuaded him otherwise.’
Beatrice stopped in her tracks, brows raised in a