The Wife Test (9 page)

As Chloe looked at the eager faces of her new sisters, the weight of her responsibility settled squarely on her shoulders. She had promised Sister Archibald that she would see the others properly mated and wedded. But after the rigors of the journey and seeing the attitude of some men regarding women’s character and abilities, her confidence in her ability to keep that promise was beginning to waver.

Still, her heart beat faster at this glimpse of what might have once been and certainly would become her homeland. This place held the keys to both her past and her future. While she contemplated that, her gaze fell on Sir Graham, who was strolling by and nodding to the maids perched on trunks and crates.

“Good morning,” she called to him as he neared. He beamed good humor as he corrected his course to join her.

“It won’t be long now.” He leaned against the barrels and nodded toward the greening fields around them. “We’ll reach London by noon and be under way to Windsor within an hour or two.”

“We’re not staying in London?”

“Just long enough to take on a pilot and unload some of the captain’s cargo. This vessel has a shallow enough draft to carry us upriver to Windsor.”

“Oh.” Her spirits sank. “I thought we would see London first.”

“Believe me”—he chuckled—“you won’t be missing a great deal.”

That hint that expectation and reality might have little to do with each other caused her to resettle herself uneasily on the barrel top.

“Tell me about the king, Sir Graham. What kind of man is he?”

He thought for a moment.

“Decisive. Determined. The kind of man others would follow regardless of rank. He knows what he wants and has the will and strength to take it.”

“Like the Aquitaine,” she observed. “And how does he treat women? His wife? The ladies of his household?”

“His wife, Queen Philippa, he treats quite well. She is often in his company and often with child. But his mother, Isabella, he exiled at the beginning of his reign.”

Her dismay must have shown in her face, for he smiled.

“You needn’t fear. He demands chivalrous behavior toward the women of his court, and feels a great responsibility to set a high standard for his knights and nobles. Chivalry demands that men of noble birth defend and provide for the weak and defenseless.”

He spoke as if he assumed that the king would naturally include them among the “weak and defenseless.”

“Does he listen to advice, or does he insist he already has the Almighty’s word on every matter that comes before him?”

He looked at her with mild surprise and then canted his head, studying her in a new light. “You’ve a sharp wit, Chloe of Guibray. The king appreciates a keen mind. I think neither of you will be disappointed in the other.”

She relaxed a bit, praying that he was right.

“And will you be going home after you’ve delivered us safely, Sir Graham?” she asked, searching for a less volatile topic.

“No, I won’t see my home again for some time to come. It’s quite a ways from London … west … on the coast of Devon.”

“Perhaps you can tell me.” She saw no harm in asking: “Are there any Gilberts in your Devonshire?”

“Gilberts.” He scoured his memory. “I’m not certain I know of any … in Devon or elsewhere. But, then, I have no head for lineages and kinships. I have trouble recalling the begats and bequeaths of my own house. Why?”

“I have relations by that name,” she said as casually as possible. “I was hoping I might be able to meet them … perhaps visit someday. Who would be the keeper of such information? Is there a record of noble houses somewhere?”

“Absolutely.” Sir Graham laughed. “It’s called
the rolls of taxation.
If there’s a House of Gilbert anywhere, it will be on the Lord Treasurer’s list.”

“Ah, yes.” She nodded, relieved to have a place to start. “The tax rolls.”

His gaze fell to the hands she had tightly clasped in her lap, and she separated them and smoothed her gown over her knees.

“I confess I would be a bit anxious for connections, too, in your shoes,” he said, lowering his voice. “Sent away from a safe and familiar home to a distant land to marry a perfect stranger.”

“A stranger he will most certainly be. But I pray every day that he will not prove
perfect.”
Seeing that her candor surprised him, she blushed.

“You would not have a
perfect
husband?” He seemed truly puzzled.

“He will not be getting a perfect wife, after all. And we are more forgiving of others when aware of our own shortcomings.”

He studied her for a moment, then chuckled. “You have no cause to worry. I have yet to meet an Englishman without at least a few flaws.” He turned a warming gaze on the other maids, sitting nearby. “Unlike the maids who come from the Sisters of the Order of the Brides of Virtue.” His attention was quickly intercepted by Lisette, who slid from her seat on a trunk and swayed sinuously toward them. He froze like a bird entranced by an approaching snake.

“Good morning, Sir Graham,” she said with a smile so demure that it almost seemed a parody of that virtue.

“Good morning.” He stiffened noticeably.

“Has Chloe been asking you about our new home?”

“She has.” He gave them both a terse nod, pivoted, and strode away.

Lisette’s eyes danced as she watched his retreating back. “Have you noticed the way his ears go flaming red when he’s flummoxed?”

“Lisette”—Chloe frowned, studying the maid of Mornay’s all too visible ambition—“How do you know he isn’t already wedded?”

Lisette folded her arms and turned a knowing look on Chloe. “No man who is well wedded and bedded is adverse to a bit of feminine adoration. Only a man who is free and afraid of being caught would flee a mere maid’s company.”

Chloe thought on that as Lisette swayed back to the others. Then she slid from her seat, wondering if that knowledge came from Lisette’s experiences before coming to the convent or if it was just passed along to Frenchwomen in their mother’s milk. She started toward the railing and looked up just in time to see Sir Hugh halt in his tracks, reverse course, and stride vigorously back up the deck to avoid her.

She glanced over her shoulder at Lisette, who had seen his reaction and smiled as if her judgment had just been vindicated.

Alert now, she glanced back at Sir Hugh as he reached the bow of the ship and leaned on the railing. Free and afraid of being caught. It certainly seemed to fit. But who did the insufferable man think was likely to chase him? Her?

Shortly after midday, as the boat nudged away from the stone quay in the heart of London’s congested waterfront, Hugh joined Graham at the bow of the ship. Together they leaned on the railing and watched the sailors chanting as they pulled rhythmically together to raise the sail.

“It won’t be long now,” Graham said, looking toward the rear deck where a troublesome bouquet of femininity sat in full, enticing bloom. “They’ll soon be the king’s problem.”

“A damned relief that will be,” Hugh responded, refusing to look at them again. He’d
looked
all night. All bloody night. He’d scarcely had more than a wink of sleep. Every movement on deck, each snap of the sails, every sound of feet on the deck had brought him to his feet with his hand on the hilt of his blade. More than once his gaze had met old Mattias’s, Withers’s, or Fenster’s across the deck, and he’d realized they were watching, too. Nobody, it seemed, got much rest. Except
them.

Suddenly he couldn’t resist looking at them. Searching them for that dark blue woolen cap … that shining fall of auburn hair …

“You know”—Graham folded his arms across his chest and rubbed his bristled chin—“my father has been asking when I might take another bride.”

Hugh snapped upright.

“Ohhh, no.”

“Why not?” Graham straightened, too, and looked down the deck to the maids. “I’ll have to produce an heir soon, and I don’t need a large dowry. That little Margarete … pretty as a spring robin … biddable and sweet-natured …”

“Have you lost your mind?” Hugh grabbed his friend’s arm. “She was raised in a bloody
convent.”

“Ohhh”—Graham’s chest swelled with male pride—“I think I could coax her past that ‘convent modesty.’ ”

“You don’t have a clue, do you?” Hugh tightened his grip. “They’ve
taught
them things in that convent. All kinds of things. They can
read.”

“The hell you say.” Graham’s smile vanished. “You’re making that up.”

“I am not. Chloe of Guibray said they all learned Church Latin … and some even read English and French and Greek.”

Graham thought on that for a moment, then adamantly dismissed it. “Not Margarete. I’m sure of it. She hasn’t the wits or the constitution for such stuff.”

Hugh considered his friend’s wishful thinking. “And what if the king decided to give you that dark-eyed one—Lisette—instead?”

Graham sobered instantly. “I’d flee to the nearest monastery and shave my head. She’s trouble, that one. Those
come-ye-hither
looks of hers. Have you seen the way she walks? As if every step she takes gives her some wicked pleas—” Embarrassed by his own potent conjuring, he shook it off and glanced irritably at Hugh. “It will be interesting to see who Edward sentences to a life with Chloe of Guibray. Now,
there’s
a handful.”

Handful.
The word triggered visions in Hugh’s sleep-starved brain … the moisture on her bare skin shining like golden dew … her long, damp hair glinting as it clung to her bare shoulders … and generous
handfuls
of—

He rubbed his eyes to banish that image and left Graham puzzling over the words he ground out as he walked away.

“I did not.”

The great round tower of Windsor Castle came into view well before the boat arrived at the stone quay that served the castle and the bustling town that huddled outside the stone curtain wall. They were greeted first by guards posted at the dock who recognized Sir Hugh and Sir Graham and quickly provided a cart to carry the maids, and wagons to carry their chests and dower goods up the winding path to the castle gate.

The air was festive with sound and delicious smells as the cart bounced along the road that wound along between merchant shops, craftsmen’s stalls, and pushcarts laden with everything from tinware to hot meat pies. At first Chloe and the others were entranced by the bustle and the novelty of it all. It was like a summer fair, with peddlers, jugglers, hawkers, and a crush of common folk … tradesmen shouting out their wares … colorful banners snapping in the breeze … children scurrying … craftsmen’s hammers ringing out. By the time they reached the castle grounds, the maids had realized how little of the world they had glimpsed until now. Paling, they sought the comfort of each other’s hands.

As the cart rumbled across the drawbridge, Chloe sat stiff as a plank, praying in earnest, promising the saints fervent devotion and the Almighty scrupulous obedience in exchange for help. Buckets and barrels of help.

She looked around at the massive stone walls, the fierce iron portcullis that hung over their heads as they passed through the gate, and the great stone ramparts bristling with scaffolding and covered with workmen who looked no larger than ants. She wasn’t sure what she had expected, but this was far larger and more intimidating than anything she might have imagined. This was the seat of the power that had floated an army across the Channel and taken vast territories in France by force of arms.

And she had supposed she could blithely walk into the King of England’s hall and demand that he permit her some say in the marriages he intended to bind his nobles’ loyalty and reward their accomplishments? She had to be mad.

At least Sister Archibald would have had a habit to remind him of the weight and authority of the church behind her. The realization left her reeling:
It should have been Sister Archie who came to see to their welfare.
How selfish of her to scheme and contrive to take the old Sister’s place when the abbess—in all her experience and wisdom—had decreed that she should stay and serve their beloved order!

Dearest Heaven and all the Saints Above,
she pleaded,
HELP!

As they wound their way toward the great round tower that commanded the hill, the town, and the surrounding countryside, they spotted a cluster of people gathered at the base of a smaller round tower under construction. A maze of wooden beams extended up the exposed center of the structure, some of which hung out over the rising walls and were fitted with ropes and pulleys for hauling stone to the top. Stone-cutters, hod-carriers, apron-wrapped master masons, boys bearing armloads of scrolls, and a variety of well-dressed men had collected, craning their necks and offering opinions on the work.

Spotting the king at the center of the crowd, Hugh dismounted and shoved his way through the assembly to find Edward of England holding a freshly cut stone, examining the workmanship while listening to a debate between his architect and master mason on one side and his councillors and Lord Treasurer on the other. As Hugh parted the edge of the crowd, the stone chips all around crunched underfoot, and the king looked up. His face lit with a smile of relief.

“You’re back!” he declared, dropping the stone and halting the debate over the cost of construction in the same instant. He acknowledged Hugh’s bow with an extended arm, and Hugh rose and clasped it.

“I’ve brought the duke’s daughters, Sire. Safe and sound.” He held out the leather-bound sheaf of documents. “I hereby deliver them into your wise and merciful hands.”

“Here and now? Excellent!” the king asked, deflecting the packet of documents to the hands of a portly fellow wearing a great gold chain of office, then craning his neck to look for the maidens. “I confess a strong curiosity about these long-lost offspring.” Spotting the cart and escort party not far away, he pulled Hugh closer and began to move. “Ugly as sin, are they?”

“Not quite, Sire,” Hugh said stiffly.

“Not quite ugly or not quite sin-worthy?” The king’s desultory laugh caused a wave of knowing smiles in the courtiers clustered around him. “Let us see if these wenches are truly worth a duke’s ransom.”

Ten paces from the cart the King of England stopped dead, staring at a bevy of bright, sun-blushed faces with widened eyes, set in a torrent of shining tresses. The crowd around him grew quiet as he studied them and, one by one, they modestly lowered their gazes and heads.

“These are the maids?” His Highness seemed to choke on the notion. “These are Avalon’s daughters?”

“They are,” Sir Hugh declared. “As presented to me by the abbess of the Convent of the Brides of Virtue.” He strode to the rear of the cart, motioned to them, and began to hand them down to the ground.

All watched the king take in their fresh countenances, appealing figures, and demure curtsies. His surprise and pleasure were both evident as he strolled closer and examined them.

“Take note, Bromley. We’ve uncovered Avalon’s secret treasure!”

The stout, florid-faced fellow holding the adoption documents chuckled as he came forward to join the king. “One should never underestimate the Brides of Virtue. You recall, Sire, I told you about the Earl of Whitmore’s dealings with them. They sent a ‘husband judge’ home with him … made him pass a ‘husband test’ before giving him a bride.”

The king barked a laugh that registered royal recall. “So they did.”

The husband test.
Despite her anxiety, or perhaps because of it, Chloe was struck forcefully by that casual reminder. Sister Archie’s wry references to the test required of the Earl of Whitmore had never failed to fill the abbess with a cryptic delight. Clearly they shared some secret, and Heaven knew, the abbess loved a bit of intrigue …

“Lady Alaina de Cluny … Lady Helen of Ghent …” Sir Hugh was introducing them to the king, using their newly acquired status as a duke’s daughters for the first time. Chloe felt her throat tightening and her tension rising. Everything was happening so quickly. But this could be her best chance to speak to the king, perhaps her only chance! “Lady Margarete of Cologne … Lady Lisette de Mornay … and Lady Chloe of Guibray.”

Speak. Say something. Anything!

Chloe dropped on weakened knees into a deep curtsy before raising her face to him.

“I have been honored with the duty of conveying to Your Highness the greetings and good wishes of the abbess of the Convent of the Brides of Virtue.”

“Indeed.” The king’s brows rose as he nodded, allowing her to rise.

“And if it please Your Highness, I also bear a more solemn charge from the abbess.” When he continued to look at her with interest, she went on. “I am to see that the convent’s obligations to Your Highness, to the good duke, and to my beloved sisters are properly discharged.”

“And what obligations are these?” The king studied her while watching Sir Hugh’s eyes narrow in censure.

“To be certain that the daughters of the Duke of Avalon are properly matched … to present the noblemen Your Highness has selected as our husbands with the best possible wives.” She clasped her hands tightly. “May I inquire—”

“Apologies, Sire.” Sir Hugh’s nostrils flared briefly before he turned to the king. “It has been a long journey and the duke’s daughters—”

“Have a question that I wish to hear,” the king said, waving aside Sir Hugh’s objections.

“Thank you, Your Highness.” Chloe flashed a heartfelt smile. “Our abbess merely wished to inquire whether you have decided what method you will use to match us with the husbands you have chosen.”

The king’s pensive expression said she had just created a new wrinkle in the fabric of the royal mind.

“For if you have not yet decided how it will be done, may the good abbess of our convent be so bold as to suggest a way?”

“This is not something to tire the king with, Lady Chloe,” Sir Hugh insisted. His frustration grew more visible when the king gave another, more emphatic wave that forbade efforts to silence her.

“I will hear the good abbess’s suggestion,” he declared with a twitch of amusement at one corner of his mouth.

“The abbess proposes that the convent’s ‘wife test’ be applied. For surely it is Your Majesty’s desire to see his nobles not only wedded, but happily paired with well-suited wives.”

“Surely.” The king shot a look at the one he called Bromley, who came to attention. “The ‘wife test.’ And who does your abbess suggest to administer this ordeal?”

“Oh, it is no ordeal, Highness. It is merely a time of assessment and revelation, meant to benefit both the man and the maid.”

“A courtship, then?”

“More a test of compatibility, Highness. The abbess suggests your humble servant”—she bowed her head modestly—“to carry out this task.”

“Forgive Lady Chloe, Sire.” Sir Hugh’s face was crimson and his fists were clenched as he stepped partway between her and the king. “She has acted as the maidens’ representative during the journey and—having been raised in a convent—is woefully unacquainted with royal protocol.”

Chloe held her breath, staring first at Sir Hugh’s broad back and then around him at the king’s intent expression.

“How am I to know that you speak for the abbess?” the king demanded.

Chloe felt her tension begin to melt.
This
she was prepared for.

“I believe there is a letter to that effect in the documents. The abbess took pains to acquaint me with the writs of and the contents of the dower goods. She appointed me to speak for the five of us.”

“Five?” The king looked from her to the others and, for the first time, seemed to realize that she was included in the tally. “There are
five
of you?”

“Yes, Highness.” Her tension came flooding back. “With the stroke of a quill, the duke reclaimed five daughters.” She held her breath.

“Five at one stroke. The duke wields a
mighty quill
indeed,” the king quipped, sending a titter through the crowd. Then he settled his gaze on her in a way that reminded her of old Sister Abbingale, whose singular gift to the convent community had been the unerring detection of dirty ears.

“Very well. I shall consider this letter and the good abbess’s suggestion.” He looked squarely at Sir Hugh.

“With the queen indisposed, I have asked Lady Marcella of Hector to take charge of the maids. She will see them settled, and they will dine with us this evening in the great hall.” He nodded to them as they sank into hasty curtsies, then turned and strode off with the crowd parting ahead of him like the biblical Red Sea.

The minute the king disappeared from sight, Sir Hugh whirled, clamped a hand on Chloe’s arm, and pulled her forcefully toward the great round tower, leaving the others to stare at each other and then scurry after them.

“What a damned fool thing to do!” Sir Hugh ground out, just loud enough for her to hear. “Have you no sense of place or person?”

“I only did what the abbess would have expected of me,” she said, struggling to keep up with his long strides.

“Then your abbess is a fool. No woman, not even an abbess, can issue commands to the King of England.”

“The abbess merely offered the king assistance in deciding who marries whom.”

“And
you
—a mere maid—to put yourself forward as some authority on the mating of men and women—”

“I have not claimed any sort of authority,” she hissed back. “I have simply offered to administer the convent’s test of compatibility.
The wife test.
If you were getting a wife, wouldn’t you—”

“If
I
were getting a wife, I’d impale myself on the nearest blade!” he snarled, lengthening his stride.

She glared at the back of his rigidly held shoulders as he pulled her along.

“And probably not even leave room on it for your bride to join you!”

The great hall proved to be larger than most churches and inspired the same sort of awe and reverence. The beams that supported the roof were handsomely carved, the windows were made of colored glass, and above the long tables hung great wrought-iron chandeliers. The floors were made of smooth slate and covered with rushes only under the massive U-shaped table.

The daughters of Avalon were escorted through the hall and handed over to an older lady with a pronounced squint and a rather distracted air … the aforementioned Lady Marcella of Hector. They followed her through a series of passages and up at least two sets of steps … which took a while, since her eyesight was quite poor and she had to move slowly.

At last they arrived in a sizable chamber furnished with four raised cots topped with straw-filled mattresses, an open hearth, and a great beaten-copper tub for bathing. Lady Marcella squinted good-naturedly up at each of them, trying to put faces to names. Chloe was last, and just as Lady Marcella took Chloe’s hands, she dropped them.

“Virgo’s Virtue,” she declared, counting the maids again. “Five! There are more of you than there are beds. This will never do. How could we have made such a mistake?” She hurried out to call servants to correct the imbalance.