‘I assume that, if I should not be happy here, and decide to leave, my dowry goes with me.’
A slow smile spread across the sharp features, and the Abbess took a step closer to Beatrice, her voice very soft, yet lethal as a blade. ‘I know your game, my lady. Don’t think I haven’t come across your sort before. Too old to wed, too young to cast off. Families have many ways of getting rid of the burden of trying daughters—’ She stepped back, turned and carried on into the building.
‘But—’ Beatrice protested in her own defence, hurrying after her.
‘Silence! You will not interrupt. Let me tell you one thing only. If you stay or if you go, it is your own choice. But you leave as you came. With nothing. Your dowry belongs to St Jude. Now, ‘tis the dinner hour and the sisters will be waiting to eat. Come along, and I will introduce you to everyone.’ She turned to Beatrice with a wide smile that showed yellow, pointy teeth, her voice over-sweet. ‘Now, we shall pray long and hard, to make amends for our poor beginning. I am sure, dear child—’ this as they entered the refectory room set with two long trestle tables, and bustling with black-garbed nuns as they laid out the noonday meal ‘—that you will be very happy here.’
Lord Thurstan had been drinking heavily since the moment Beatrice had left. In the space of two months he had lost both a wife and a daughter, and both of his sons—Lord Henry, his heir and affectionately known as Hal, and young Osmond—might well be dead as they rode on campaign with the Earl of Chester in Wales. No word had been heard from them for many months. In an attempt to dull the pain their absence had inflicted, he consumed as much red Burgundy wine as his stomach and his head could tolerate.
By the time Sir Giles and his knights reached the castle it was dark, and they dismounted and entered the hall, guided by the light of pitch flares, their mood tired and sombre.
‘What ho!’ exclaimed Lord Thurstan from his chair upon the dais, wiping a hand across his mouth and wagging a lamb chop at his men. “Tis a sorry lot I take with me to Wales. Mayhap I would be better off taking the kitchen wenches.’
The men allowed their squires to come in and disarm them, to wash their hands in bowls of hot water brought from the kitchen, before finding their places at the table and helping themselves to food and wine, all in gloomy silence.
Lord Thurstan sat up as Sir Giles took his place nearby. ‘What of Beatrice?’ he asked, with considerable restraint. ‘Was she well? Did she seem happy? And the Abbess? Was she a good woman?’
‘Aye, my lord,’ replied Sir Giles tersely, ‘Lady Beatrice was well when we left, although the Abbess refused to accept her coffer and she went in with nothing more than the clothes upon her back.’
Lord Thurstan grunted, not pleased with this news. The men chewed upon their meat and bread, gulped deep draughts of wine and eyed one another warily, the truth an unpalatable dish.
It was Remy St Leger who rose from his place and approached their lord seated upon his dais. Some admired him for his courage and others shook their heads over his foolhardiness.
Remy bowed deeply. ‘My lord, I would speak with you. In private.’
Lord Thurstan’s shaggy brows climbed to his forehead and he flicked his eyes about the hall. ‘We are all family here. I have no secrets in my own hall. If you wish to speak, then speak.’
Remy cleared his throat, but to his credit did not shrink. ‘I would ask you for your daughter’s hand.’
The hall went silent. All movement ceased. All eyes were agog.
‘What did you say?’ Lord Thurstan asked quietly, slowly setting aside his meat.
‘Lady Beatrice does not belong in a convent. I ask that you would give her in marriage to me.’
A wordless roar burst from Lord Thurstan as he leapt to his feet, and then one large fist swung through the air and Remy St Leger went crashing to the floor. For a moment the blow stunned him, but none went to his aid. Lord Thurstan stepped down from the dais and knelt at the young man’s side, his eyes cold with fury. He watched while Remy sat up, shook his head and wiped the blood from his mouth.
‘What do you know,’ asked Lord Thurstan quietly, ‘of my daughter?’
Remy did not falter. ‘I know that God did not make her to be a nun.’
‘Is that so? And you know her so well, then?’
Remy was silent, uncertain of the correct answer.
Lord Thurstan stabbed a finger in his chest. ‘My daughter is not for the likes of you!’
He turned away then and went back to his chair, refilling his goblet with wine and chewing fiercely upon his food. Everyone watched as Remy picked himself up off the floor, expecting him to slink away to lick his wounds, and vastly entertained to find that the Aquitaine was willing to provide them with more sport.
Remy strode to the dais and shouted, ‘What sort of man sends his daughter to a convent to rot?’
Lord Thurstan rose menacingly to his feet, quickly followed by Sir Giles and Sir Hugh, who anticipated a brawl. ‘I did not send her. She went of her own choice.’
‘You could have said nay!’
‘Who, I? Say nay to Beatrice when she will say aye?’ Lord Thurstan put his head back and laughed. ‘Indeed, you do not know my daughter very well.’
‘I had thought my pledge was given to the king’s commander in honour, but now I see I serve a man who is no more than a coward!’ Remy leaned forwards and jabbed his finger in Lord Thurstan’s face. ‘I will prove to you, my lord, that I am worthy of your daughter!’
‘Take him away,’ growled Lord Thurstan, ‘before I rip his head off.’
Slumping down in his chair, he watched as Sir Giles and Sir Hugh persuaded Remy to go outside and cool off. The young man reluctantly allowed himself to be escorted from the hall, and Thurstan stroked his beard thoughtfully, a tiny glint of admiration in his eyes as he watched the tall, muscular figure of Remy St Leger retreat.
The bell for Compline rang and Beatrice struggled to extricate herself from the warm cot she had been given in the dormitory set aside for novices. There were only four of them, and most of the time they were too tired and bewildered to talk to each other. The hated bell rang again, and again, until Beatrice wanted to scream.
Throwing back the thin blankets, she fumbled about for her shoes, pulled them on and a plain wool cloak over the grey linen kirtle that was the uniform for novices. She was sure that she had hardly slept in the two days she had been here, and certainly had not changed her clothes nor bathed, apart from washing her face and hands in a bowl of cold water.
It was the middle of the night, and cold, and she found her way out into the passage by running her hand along the wall. They were not allowed a light, an extravagance that was reserved for the chapel only. Fortunately it was not far, and she could see the soft glow spilling out from the open chapel door.
Shuffling in, half-asleep, she knelt down beside Emeline, a novice from Somerton, a simple-minded young girl afflicted with skin so badly pock-marked that no man would look upon her favourably, nor treat her respectably. The church had been her only option. Beatrice glanced at the girl and gave her a kind smile, her knees aching upon the cold stone floor. Indeed, every part of her body ached, her hands were raw with blisters and her face burnished from the sun.
On her first day she had been sent to the vegetable garden to help Sister Joan and she had spent many hours hoeing and weeding and watering turnips, carrots and onions. Today she had been sent to the fish ponds and her arms ached from the tasks she had been set. Never in her life had she been required to work and it was