The Wife Test (7 page)

Tall, gangly Fenster had suffered more than his quotient of indignity. He and his fellow impostors were about to be found out. He parted his legs and stood his ground as the wretch rammed a hand straight into the razor-sharp blade he had strapped to the inside of one thigh.

The Frenchman jerked back with a screech, but the others paid no heed, thinking it must be him inflicting the pain. He grabbed his badly sliced hand, gurgling disbelief as Fenster ripped the blade from his leg and straightened to his full height with a snarl of fury.

Nearby Mattias, who had been wrestled to the ground by three rut-maddened brigands, took advantage of their horror when they threw up his habit to reveal stout, bandy legs and an unexpected rack of male tackle.

“Arrrhaaaa!” he roared as he ripped his short sword from its hidden scabbard and came up wild-eyed and ready for blood. “Swive
this,
ye pox-eaten cur!” With a single thrust he dispatched the brigand who had been about to ravish him.

Withers had cleverly torn the seams of his garment to give him quick access to the short knives he wore beneath it. At the first howls of battle, he wrenched his hands free and slid them through those openings for his blades. The wretch pinning him to the ground reared suddenly with a cry that was somewhere between a gurgle and a scream.

By the time the rest of the brigands went for the blades they had so arrogantly discarded, the five “maidens” were upon them, battling hard for blood and honor. And winning.

Later, after the five had restored their disguises and lay sprawled on the tops of the rocks ringing the stone niche, watching for the lord who had ordered their abduction, Fenster looked over at Mattias with a sober expression.

“Ye know … that could ’ave been th’ little Sisters, instead o’ us,” he said.

Mattias thought on that for a moment, then yanked his veil forward to better shade his eyes as he scanned the fields below. He scowled, seeing that event and the memories of many that had come before it in a troubling new light.

“Glad I ain’t a woman.”

The sun was directly overhead when Sir Graham’s men and the valiant sister-impostors came racing on horseback across the fields toward the dowry wagons. Sir Hugh reined the horses and climbed down, standing with his fists propped at his waist while they dismounted. Chloe and the others scrambled to the rear of the wagon, their hearts in their throats, counting habits and looking for wounded.

“The good news is—those brigands won’t be trying to abduct the Sisters again,” Sir Graham called as he dismounted.

“And the bad?” Hugh scanned the habit-clad men for signs of damage.

“The fighting was done before our mysterious lord arrived.”

“What?” Hugh strode over to the disheveled “Sisters,” demanding an explanation. “What the devil were you doing, revealing yourselves before their leader got to you? You were under orders to shrink and shriek until you learned who he was.”

“We couldn’t, Yer Lordship,” Fenster muttered, lowering his head.

“Why the hell not?” Hugh roared.

“They was—” Mattias glanced at the maids staring at them from the back of the wagon and lowered his voice. “They was about to ’ave their way wi’ us.”

Hugh stared at Mattias, then Fenster, Hiram, Willum, and Withers. To a man they hung their heads and hid their reddened faces. He didn’t know whether the reaction working its way up through him was anger or laughter. To prevent both, he rubbed his face until he could form a suitable glower.

“Just like the cursed French to wreck both their plan and mine with their unholy eagerness for a bit of ball—” He halted, appalled by what he’d barely left unsaid, then addressed the five again. “At least you spared the Sisters a vile and terrifying experience.” He shouted to the rest of the company: “Mount up. We have a ship to meet. England awaits.”

Then he turned to the wagon and found the maids climbing down and scurrying for the nearby bushes, revealing themselves to the whole company in their male garments. He looked with horror from his men’s avid gazes to the maids fleeing through the grass and underbrush. Whenever he got one thing settled, another ran willy-nilly out of control—it was like trying to herd chickens!

“Where in blazes do you think you’re going?” he roared. “Get back in that wagon!”

“We will,” Chloe of Guibray responded as she turned her back on him and headed for the bushes herself. “As soon as we’ve paid our respects to Nature.”

As he stood there, telling himself that tearing out his hair would probably save time when he someday entered the monastery and had to have his head shaved in a tonsure, his wayward eyes dropped to the sway of her hips as she strode defiantly away. Sweetly rounded buttocks. Long, shapely legs … sinfully visible in a pair of men’s tights. Every muscle in his lower half contracted.

“Damned infuriating females.” He turned straight into Graham’s discerning gaze and flinched, hoping his friend hadn’t seen him
looking.
“I should have let the damned Frenchmen take them. Would have saved five poor, unsuspecting Englishmen from a fate worse than death.”

“Fools!” Some distance away one very irritable French lord was swinging down from his horse to survey the remains of what had once been a group of seasoned fighters. “Idiots! Look at them!”

Every man in the
compte’s
escort was doing just that, and wincing. The evidence was unmistakable: the men in the raiding party had died with their privates exposed … anticipating pleasure when, in fact, they were facing death.

“Died with their
pissots
in their hands instead of weapons!” The
compte
stalked among the corpses, toeing one after another with his boot in a gesture of contempt. “And not a sign of the tarts they intended to skewer. You’d think the bastards could have managed to kill at least one!”

“T-there are many tracks. They must have had help,
mon seigneur,”
his red-faced captain, Valoir, offered.

“You think so?” He flew at Valoir and seized the top of his breastplate, jerking the taller soldier down to his level. “Twice now you and your men have failed to abduct a handful of bastard females. Mere women. Simple bags of flesh and vice.”

“Who are protected by an escort of experienced soldiers,” the captain forced each word past the humiliation filling his throat. He was making excuses and his lord hated excuses.

“Your men have experience, too,
n’est-ce pas?”
the
compte
said ominously. “Only their experience has been at
losing
battles.” He released Valoir with a shove, and it took a moment for the proud soldier to gain his bearings.

“I will take the full garrison and intercept them at the coast,” Valoir declared, starting for his horse.

“Don’t be absurd!” the
compte
snarled, stopping him in his tracks. “How far would you get with an armed garrison in English-held territory before the English intercepted you? And even if you made it to the coast … after two attacks in two days, they would have to be imbeciles not to be prepared. And they are
not
imbeciles.” Reason began to assert itself, and the lord drew a hard breath and began to pace.

“We must give them time to forget, to think they are safe. It may require crossing the Channel, but we can still keep them from marrying and completing Avalon’s ransom.” Even in the midday sun his smile was chilling. “Failing that, there must be any number of ways to render the dirty little tarts unmarriageable.”

The wagon bearing the duke’s daughters had yet another distractible driver that day before Sir Hugh stormed down off his horse and took up the reins himself. At first he sat like a great, forbidding gargoyle, scowling off toward the west. He refused to stop or slow or speak in more than single syllables until Chloe informed him that Alaina and Margarete were growing faint from the sun. He looked irritably over his shoulder, glimpsed Alaina and Margarete feverishly beginning to loosen and shed garments, and immediately stopped the wagon.

While he herded the maids out of his men’s view, Hugh had Graham and the others scour a nearby copse of trees for sizable but supple branches. At his direction they arched the small limbs over the bed of the wagon and covered them with a felt, creating a shade on the sun-facing side.

His reaction to the maids’ appreciative squeals and the way they pressed close to squeeze his hands and pulled him down to press his cheek with theirs surprised Chloe. It wasn’t hostility or annoyance or even his usual sneer of superiority. He clearly hadn’t expected such gratitude and was caught with his guard down. Then he looked up and saw her staring at him, and she could have sworn he reddened as he pulled away and barked orders for them to climb back into the wagon.

As they got under way again, she thought about his expression as he extricated himself from the others’ clutches. There was more to him than met the eye. He made quite a display of his dislike for women, but in unguarded moments he showed a far less prickly attitude. He was a puzzle. And if there was anything Chloe couldn’t abide, it was an unsolved puzzle.

For one brief, intensely lucid moment she felt herself teetering on the brink of something … suspended in time, potent with free will, and caught between choice and possibility … then plunged head-over-heels into the irresistible thrall of curiosity.

Of all the men the king might have sent to escort them, why did he have to choose Hugh of Sennet? Surely there were other knights who were equally as capable and far more willing. Then it occurred to her that he might have chosen Sir Hugh precisely because he was unwilling. Any man genuinely appreciative of feminine charms might find five fresh young maids too much of a temptation. But that didn’t explain Sir Hugh’s aversion to women. What could have caused him to dislike women so that he didn’t want to see their faces or even hear their voices? A bad mother? A wicked sister? A pretty but coldhearted maid?

As she studied his broad back, the desire to know became like an unreachable itch. She climbed to the front of the wagon and stood on her knees beside the seat.

“Pardon, Sir Hugh, but can you tell me what will happen when we get to the king’s castle? Do you know what is planned for us?”

“No,” he declared, frowning.

Did the man ever do anything but scowl?

“Well, you are taking us straight to the king, are you not?” Chloe asked.

“Yes.”

“Is Windsor Castle a busy place? Are there always many people there?”

“Yes.”

One would have thought she was trying to pull his teeth. She drew a determined breath and changed her tactic. “When nobles come to the castle, where do they stay?”

“In tents. Or chambers.”

“Do you know where we will stay?”

“No.”

“And are there dinners and feasts in the evenings?”

“Sometimes.”

“Great feasts where ladies wear their finest gowns?” Alaina broke in, scurrying forward to hang on to the seat and peer up at him. “And show off their new slippers and headdresses? And musicians compose, songs to their beauty?”

He exhaled heavily and after a pause gave Alaina a quick, wary glance.

“There are many fine clothes,” he said, again facing the road ahead. “People always wear their best when appearing before the king.”

“And dancing?” Margarete joined them, to hang over Alaina’s shoulder. “Are there musicians and entertainments in the evenings? Does everyone know how to do Italian steps? Does the king have a fool who makes everyone laugh?”

“Many of the lords and ladies enjoy a bit of dancing. There are often jugglers and mummers … sometimes traveling players. Some say the king has a whole host of fools that make him laugh.” He leaned slightly in their direction and lowered his voice: “But
he
calls them his ‘privy councillors.’ ”

Chloe stared at him. Was that a jest? As the others nodded eagerly to one another, she bit her lip, watching. He was talking to them. Actually
talking.

“Is there a chapel or a church with colored glass windows?” Helen had come forward and nestled beside Chloe. “Is that where we will be wedded?”

“I have no idea where the marriages will take place. But there is a chapel … served by several priests who hear confession and celebrate masses.”

“Never mind the church.” Lisette pushed through the others to present her prime concern: “Speak to us of
les hommes.
These husbands we will have … who are they?”

“I have no idea.”

“Then tell us about your nobles who have no wives,” Lisette persisted and the others seconded her request. “Are the
seigneurs
all old and warty, with hairy ears and missing teeth? Or are there some who are young and manly … like Sir Graham?”

That caused him to glance down at Lisette. He considered her for a moment—during which she lowered her eyes and produced what Chloe guessed must be the first blush she had managed in years—and he made a sound that might have been either a throat-clearing or a chuckle. As he turned back to his driving, his gaze snagged on Chloe, and for a moment their eyes met. A tic of panic flitted through his expression … guilty surprise … as if he’d been caught doing something shameful. Like being sociable. Or human.

What the devil was he doing? Hugh chided himself. In spite of his determination to ignore them, he had found himself listening to their chatter for the last several miles. It seemed innocent enough … talk of the convent, their anxiety and hopes for the end of the journey, recitations of calendars for planting and for household maintenance to keep their memories sharp, and a recounting of the things and people at the convent that they would miss. It was when they began to speak of their heartfelt gratitude to the men who were abducted in their stead that his resistance had begun to melt. They were young … cast out of the only home they’d known into a great and perilous world … pawns in a game of thrones that they neither recognized nor understood.

What was the harm in answering a few of their questions … as long as he didn’t look at them? For, as the monks had so fervently averred, it was
looks
that led to lust … and lust to sin … and sin to degradation. Unchecked, each step forged a link in a weighty chain that dragged a man down to eternal damnation. As long as he didn’t
look
at them, he told himself, he would be all right.

“Unwedded noblemen …” He rubbed his chin, thinking. “There is the Earl of Ketchum … a somewhat older fellow who never married. He recently inherited from his childless brother and has need of an heir. And my friend Sir Simon, newly made the Earl of Candle, is yet unwedded. He is a valiant knight who has distinguished himself on the field of battle and in the lists at tournaments …”

It was sunset when they heard and saw seagulls swooping overhead, and smelled the tang of salt in the air. Sir Hugh urged the horses faster and craned his neck for a first glimpse of water and sail. But, when they stopped on a high spot overlooking the sea, he spotted whitecaps, cliffs overlooking a narrow stretch of beach, a modest village with fishing boats lining the shore, and no sails.

“No,” he said to himself. “No, no, no!” He dropped the reins and jumped down from the wagon to rush to the brow of the cliff. He stood motionless for a time, paralyzed by the sight of uninterrupted waves as far as the eye could see. “Oh, bloody hell,
no!”

Chloe watched with rising concern as he paced furiously, uttered several colorful variations on “damnation”—which caused her to put her hands over Margarete’s ears—and then dragged Sir Graham out of earshot for what appeared to be a volatile consultation. At length they returned to the wagon to announce that the ship had undoubtedly weighed anchor to outrun some weather and would return soon. They would descend to the beach and camp there for the night, in order to be ready to leave the instant the ship appeared.

“We are not going to the village?” she asked, glancing toward the cottages huddled a half a mile away, at the top of the cliffs.

“No need,” Sir Hugh declared, averting his eyes as he climbed back onto the wagon seat.

“Of course there is
need.”
She took up that gauntlet, scuttling across the barrels and crates to once again stand on her knees beside the driver’s seat. “We’re hungry and the hampers the sisters provided are empty.”

“We’ll eat aboard ship,” he responded tersely.

“Which, presumably, will be before we all die of hunger.”

“One can only hope.” His tone left ambiguous the nature of that hope.

“We have other reasons for wanting to visit the village,” she said irritably. “We need certain curatives.” That got his attention.

“Someone is ill?” He turned slightly and gave them a furtive glance.

“Bitten, actually.”

He showed a satisfying alarm. “Who? Where? By what?”

“All of us. All over.” She pulled out the neck of the tunic she wore. “By the disgusting vermin that inhabit these garments along with us.”

“Fleas.” He gave a snort of dismissal and again slapped the reins.

She rolled up her sleeve and shoved a naked arm in front of him, causing him to jerk to one side to avoid contact with it. But he couldn’t avoid seeing that her skin was marred by a dozen small red bites and streaks from scratching.

“We look more like plague victims than noble brides.” She watched him glance quickly at her arm, then away. “You need further proof?”

Instantly he was surrounded by a forest of bared arms that were peppered with angry red spots and well-scratched patches.

“Of course, I don’t have much experience in such matters,” Chloe said, glaring at him through that alarming display. “But I imagine that arriving at the king’s castle looking like half-eaten fleas’ dinners could damage our value as ‘matrimonial pearls-of-great-price.’ ” When he glanced up, she smiled with a vengeful air. “It
could
appear as if we hadn’t been treated well on the journey.”

He turned, against his better judgment, and beheld five blotchy, well-scratched faces. Then they began to open their tunics to show him the bites on their slim, elegant throats and the tops of their creamy breasts.

“Damnation.” He slammed his eyes shut. “Why didn’t you just tell me they were being eaten alive?”

Despite its location and frequent traffic with seagoing vessels, the village was not especially well supplied with fresh water, herbals for nostrums, or clean accommodations. After an exhaustive search, Sir Hugh managed to find a large metal tub and a cottager on the upland side of the village who for a few pence would allow them the use of his hearth. And while Graham was busy locating and retrieving the maids’ trunks for them, Hugh was forced to escort Chloe from cottage to cottage in search of some acceptable goose grease, dried spurge, a bit of fresh cowslip, and some ground oats.

From her trunk she produced a mortar and pestle, and while the others began to bathe in the oat water she mixed for them, she worked to concoct a soothing unguent on a small table outside the cottage door, while Hugh paced nearby. He paused periodically to inspect what she was doing.

“Are you certain you know what you’re doing?” Hugh demanded.

“I studied herbal remedies with our convent physician.”

“Studied?”

“Of course.”

“Maids in a convent
study?”
He gave a snort of disbelief. Then, snagged by the memory of something she’d said, he began to search and assess her anew. “How do you know about the Trojan horse?”

“I read Homer’s great poem. The convent had a goodly number of books. The abbess taught me Latin and English and some Greek and Italian.”

“You read?”
He nearly strangled on the words.

“All of us do … at least church Latin. Though, in truth, some of my sisters have no real interest in it. And unless used, it is a skill quickly forgotten.”

“Females who read.” He gave a skeptical roll of the eyes, then peered over her shoulder at the grease and herbs turning into a green salve. “Are you sure that stuff won’t burn holes in their skin?”

“It’s just grease and herbs. But perhaps you should test it.” She dipped her finger in the bowl and deposited a glob on the back of his hand.

“Hey!” He jerked back, but she grabbed both of his wrists to keep him from wiping it off. “Let go.”

“Give it a moment,” she ordered, tightening her grip on him. “Do you feel anything?”

“No!” he declared adamantly.

“You’re certain? No burning? No itching?”

“No.” He reddened, both embarrassed and relieved.

“The only thing you’re in danger of,” she said tartly, “is having softer skin.”