The Wife Test (3 page)

The abbess looked to the formidable Sir Hugh, who pulled back across the table, glowering, but gave a nod of approval. She turned to Chloe with a grim smile of approbation.

“Habits, it is. I shall leave it up to you and Sister Archibald to find some old habits and fashion whatever will be needed.”

Two mornings later, as a pale silver sun began to pierce the mist of the damp spring dawn, the main courtyard of the convent filled on one side with armed soldiers on horseback and on the other with nuns and maidens clustered in skittish little knots that tightened whenever an oath or a burst of laughter issued from the soldiers. Between the two factions stood three overloaded hay wagons and a large mule cart meant to carry the maids themselves. On the seat of each conveyance sat a driver handpicked by Sir Hugh himself … mostly grizzled veterans who waited with undisguised resentment at having to abandon a perfectly good saddle for such duty.

Inside the inner gate the abbess was giving the maids last-minute admonitions and Mother Archibald last-minute advice, all while demanding to know where Chloe was with the packet of legitimation and marriage documents. Then one of the young girls rushed to her side with a leather folio bearing the seal of the convent, and the abbess relaxed a bit.

“Godspeed.” She kissed each of the maids on both cheeks and sent them out to the cart. Then she embraced Mother Archibald. There were tears in her eyes when she released her closest friend.

“Please, dear Archie, reconsider. It won’t be an easy journey, and I couldn’t bear it if something should happen to you. Let me send Sister Rosemary or Mary Montpellier—”

“No, Reverend Mother.” Archibald seized the abbess’s hands and squeezed them. “I must go. They’ll need a seasoned head to see to their good and make sure they’re dealt with proper. Even if I stayed, I would not sleep a wink until I knew our sweet lambs were safe an’ well-wedded.”

The abbess straightened her spine and inserted her hands into her voluminous sleeves. Her expression was so grave as to be almost suffering.

“Then go with God, Archie. May He work His good and generous will through you.” The abbess turned quickly and stepped out into the court to speak with the knights into whose hands she was placing four of her precious maidens and her beloved friend.

Sister Archibald sighed as she watched the abbess take up the heavy mantle of office again, and wiped away a tear. In truth she dreaded the journey and what lay at the end of it. Halfway through a deep breath, she was startled by a tug at her elbow. It was one of the youngest girls at the convent.

“Ye mus’ come, Sister. It’s Chloe—she needs ye bad.”

“Where is she?” Without an instant’s hesitation Archibald lurched into motion and followed the child toward the novices’ chambers.

But the girl was running on ahead, leaving the venerable Archibald no choice but to trail along behind. The child took her through several turns to the stairs that led down to the cellars. Archibald slowed and paused to glance back over her shoulder, wavering. They expected her, were waiting for her. But then she thought of Chloe—dear, bright, and loving Chloe—and feared that the departure of the others was causing her great distress. Still burdened by her conviction that Chloe should have been included in the duke’s adoptions, she had to answer the girl’s cry for help.

A lighted lamp sat on the landing of the steps, and the child picked it up and waited for Archibald to catch up before taking her deeper into the cellars. When they reached the cold cellar, the girl handed her the lamp and raced back up the corridor. Scowling, Sister Archibald pushed open the door.

It took a moment for her to spot Chloe, who stood on the far side of the cellar beside a chair that looked suspiciously like one from the abbess’s own solar. Beside her, planks laid across upturned casks formed a makeshift table that was spread with linen, bread, cheese, fruit, and a flagon of wine. It took yet another moment for Archibald to realize why she had difficulty spotting Chloe. The girl was wearing a wimple and a veil.
A habit.

“Bless you for coming, Sister Archie!” Chloe seemed vastly relieved as she hurried toward her friend and mentor with outstretched arms.

“What’s this about, child?” Archibald peeled Chloe from her shoulders and thrust her back to look into her anxious eyes. “What’s wrong? I’m due to leave any moment—”

“I know, Sister Archie.” She seized the nun’s hands and pulled her toward the chair. “I must beg your forgiveness for what I am about to do. I know the abbess thinks me unworthy to be a bride, but I know in my bones that she is wrong.”

“Oh?” Archibald’s eyes flew wide. “Oh,
no,
child.”

“I have to go to London with the others.”

“No, no,
no,
child!”

“I promise I’ll do my best—I’ll make the convent proud. I’ve explained it all in this letter.” She stuffed a folded parchment into Archibald’s hands and pushed her gently but firmly back toward the chair. “I’m taking your place.”

“But ye cannot!” Archie tried to resist. “I have to go myself—to see our girls matched and mated proper—”

“I know, I know—I’ll take care of them for you, I promise.” Chloe was near tears as she gently pushed the elderly nun onto the chair. “I give you my sacred vow that I will see each of them well-wedded before I finish my quest.”

“Quest?” Archibald was now both alarmed and confused. “What nonsense is this, child?” She tried to rise. “Ye must let me go.”

But Chloe refused to move or to allow Archibald to leave the chair.

“I heard the abbess tell you I am came from the English
Gilberts,
not the town of Guibray.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “Don’t you see? I have to go to London and discover my real parents. Unless I do, I can never have a family of my own. And as much as I feel a duty to the convent, I cannot help believing I have a duty to learn the truth about my birth. Please. Sister Archie”—her voice cracked—“please understand and don’t hate me.”

Her tear-filled eyes met Archibald’s, and in that moment the depths and longing of her heart lay open and exposed, vulnerable. It was a plea for help as much as for forgiveness.

Compassion rose in the elder nun’s heart. The tension in her rotund form melted, and she reached up to cradle Chloe’s damp cheek in her hand.

“I could never hate you, child.” Her age-faded eyes filled with tears. “Go. And may all Heaven be with ye.”

Chloe gave a small sob and pressed her forehead against Archibald’s. A moment later she backed away and swiped at her tears with her palms.

“I promise you, I’ll take good care of your girls. They’ll have the best husbands England can offer.” She backed toward the heavy ironbound door. “I’ve brought you some things to eat and there are blankets and some extra oil for the lamp. The kitchen sisters come often to get things from the cellars, and if you call out after a while, someone will find you.” She paused, said, “Goodbye, Sister Archie,” then darted out and slammed the heavy door.

Archibald heard the bolt being thrown, crossed herself, and bowed her head. When her fervent prayers were finished, she issued a great sigh, reassured to leave it in the Almighty’s hands. Then she leaned forward to inspect the repast Chloe had provided.

There were the special sweet grapes they got from the Champagne region. That pungent cheese with the blue veins and yellow rind … her very favorite. She felt the crusty loaf of bread and realized it was still slightly warm. Creamy butter, too. Then her gaze caught on a footstool to the side, beneath the stack of blankets and furs, and she smiled ruefully. That Chloe. She had thought of everything.

The remaining conflict in her heart began to still.

Their lambs were in good hands.

She broke off a piece of bread and lay a slab of the cheese on it, sniffing the pungent aroma. Then she poured a cup of wine and sat down to savor the tastes. After a few moments she dragged the footstool over, propped her feet on it, and pulled two blankets from the pile to tuck around her.

The Reverend Mother was going to be furious. If experience was any guide, she would storm and rail and order penitent rations for the entire convent as a lesson in the wages of disobedience. Archibald reached for a bunch of the plump, sugary grapes and popped them in her mouth one at a time. No doubt the abbess would send someone after the bridal party to haul Chloe back to some grave and horrible punishment. Unless … unless the bridal delegation was already too far away …

She was warming up nicely in the blankets. She wiggled her feet and took another sip from the rich wine in her cup. She really ought to call out … get rescued … warn the abbess what was afoot …

“Help,” she said softly. Then she sipped again and leaned her head back with a mischievous bit of a smile. “Help me. I’m locked in the cellar with the convent’s best wine and cheese …”

Hugh of Sennet held his breath as the last habit-clad figure emerged from the inner gate and hurried toward where he stood waiting at the back of the cart. At last. He hoped the fact that the old nun was late didn’t mean she would cause delays on the journey. He had enough to worry about.

Extending gauntlet-clad hands, he averted his eyes and gave the old sister what should have been a boost up into the cart. But she proved lighter than he expected, and there was a muffled cry and then a thud. When he looked, she was sprawled on the floor of the cart with her habit bunched up around her knees, baring much of her legs. He grabbed a handful of habit and yanked it down over the exposed flesh, mumbled something of an apology, and abandoned her to the assistance of the maids in the cart.

He wheeled and looked up to find Graham’s eyes the size of goose eggs. Clearly
he
had seen it, and there were half a dozen other men staring fixedly at the cart and its occupants, trying to decide if they’d seen what they thought they had. With an audible groan, Hugh headed for his mount and climbed aboard, giving the order to move out before his rear even touched the saddle.

The creak of wooden wheels, the clank of armor, and the thud of hooves mingled with calls of “Godspeed” from the sisters and maidens huddled on the far side of the yard. It should have been a relief to be under way, but deep in his gut Hugh had a feeling that something was not right. And as the first miles rolled by, his intuition proved correct.

The trouble, he realized with no small horror, began with himself. All he could think about was those bare legs. Long … smooth … shapely … he scowled as he examined the image branded into his mind’s eye. He couldn’t believe that those were the knees of a old nun who had spent a lifetime on them in prayer and penitence. But, as anyone at Edward’s court would gleefully confirm, he was scarcely an expert on women’s legs. Or any other female part, for that matter. How would he know what an old woman’s knees should look like?

Not that he had
looked,
really. He had merely glimpsed.
Seen.
And “seeing” was not the same as “looking.” As the old brothers from the monastery had often said: one couldn’t help seeing, but, with God’s help, one could keep himself from looking.
Looking
involved intent. And it was often the beginning of a chain of actions that, left unchecked, would carry a man straight to Perdition.

A burst of girlish laughter interrupted his high-minded thoughts. He looked back and spotted Graham wending his way back to the maidens’ cart. Reining sharply around, he went charging toward the cart himself. As he reached Graham’s side, he followed his friend’s gaze to a bevy of wimple-wrapped faces turned their way. Clear young faces … cream-smooth and sun-blushed … set with big, vivid eyes and rosy lips upturned in smiles …

God in Heaven.

“Graham!” he barked out, startling his friend. “Take the lead!”

As his second in command pivoted his horse and rode to the front of the column, Hugh realized that the men assigned to ride behind the cart were staring at the maids and listening intently. It was eager, girlish talk from lilting young voices. His stomach began to knot. He had been so concerned about disguising their appearance that it hadn’t occurred to him that their
voices
could give them away!

“Silence!” he ordered, turning his mount to ride alongside the cart. “You must be quiet.” Their smiles and chatter evaporated. He looked through the group for the elderly sister, trying to recall her name. He didn’t see her and scowled. Wasn’t she the one he had “tossed” into the cart? “From now on, you will speak only to each other and only in whispers.”

“Why?” one of the maids, who looked oddly familiar, demanded.

“Because it is necessary”—then he added, more for his own conscience than for them—“for your safety. Where is the sister who accompanies you?” He craned his neck to see past them. “I would speak with her.”

“She was taken ill at the last moment and could not come,” the familiar one declared, rolling up onto her knees on the bench built into the side of the cart and gripping the top edge. “She asked me to see to the others. Whatever you would have said to her, you may say to me.”

It took a moment to register.

“Do you mean to say”—he forced himself to remain calm and lowered his voice—“that there is no nun amongst you?”

“There is not,” the appointed one declared. “Are we in some kind of danger? I was given to understand that the countryside was quiet.” He felt his gaze drawn to hers and frantically forced it to the top of her head instead. Was she the one he had tossed arse-over-elbows into the cart?

“Blessit, yes, you’re in danger. And you will be until you’re wedded in London. From now on … you’re not to gawk at the countryside or my men … you’re to talk only to each other … and never above a whisper.”

“A whisper?” She indicated what she thought of his edict by flagrantly violating it. “We are not criminals or madwomen,” she said succinctly, “to be forbidden that most normal and natural of human intercourse.”

He felt color draining from his face.

Natural … intercourse.

“You have your orders, Sist—” But she wasn’t a sister. “Just who the devil are you, anyway?”

“Chloe of Guibray.”

“Very well then.
Sister Chloe.
Keep your group together, their heads down, and their voices low.” He glanced down at her face, and his gaze dropped inexplicably lower. Was it her legs that had been burned into his— A muscle near his eye twitched, and he jerked his head irritably. “I wouldn’t want to have to haul the lot of you to London trussed up like gooses for roasting.”

He jerked his reins sharply and shot off toward the head of the column, leaving Chloe staring after him in disbelief. Her cheeks caught fire and her eyes burned as if he’d thrown sand in them … which, after a fashion, he had.

“Chloe?” The others crowded around, and she turned to find herself facing four alarm-filled faces. “What’s happened?” Helen spoke for them all. “Did we do something wrong?”

Chloe had no more idea than they did about what they might have done to deserve such a ban on their behavior. But she did have the vivid memory of the high-handed knight taking one look at her and demanding that the abbess put bags over all their heads. Her face flamed. It seemed he hated the sound of women’s voices as much as he hated the sight of women’s faces.

Wretched man.

“We’ve behaved with nothing but maidenly virtue.” she declared, to bolster her own confidence as much as theirs. “We will continue to do so, and Sir Hugh can save his blessed ‘goose-trussing’ for someone else.”

“Being ordered to speak only in whispers is a grave punishment,” rosy-faced Margarete said, clearly unsettled. “We must have offended someone with our thoughtless chatter.”

“My chatter is not thoughtless,” Alaina said imperially.

“Nor is mine.” Helen copied the stubborn tilt of her friend’s chin.

“They
don’t seem to mind us talking.” Sultry Lisette de Mornay had turned to smile boldly at the soldiers riding behind them.

Chloe followed Lisette’s gaze and saw the nods and smiles that answered her overture. They certainly didn’t mind. But something made Chloe remember that Sister Archibald seemed to think that Sir Hugh took his duty to safeguard them quite seriously. Perhaps he had a reason beyond his own personal distaste.

“I will speak with Sir Hugh when we stop for a rest and find out why he believes we’re in such danger.”

Talk in the cart gradually returned to normal, except for volume, and centered on the rest of the journey and what lay ahead for them in London.

“They say it is nothing like Paris,” Alaina said grimly. “It rains all of the time. I imagine the streets are always foul with mud.”

“Surely not,” Margarete said, frowning. “It’s the king’s own city … surely there will be some fine roads and grand houses. There is a bishop in London, is there not? That means a great church, perhaps even a cathedral.”

“They ship wool to other cities on the Continent,” Helen contributed a voice of reason. “So there must be a good bit of trading and some fine markets.”

Lisette, who sat nearest the driver, turned impulsively and tapped the fellow on the shoulder. When he grunted and glanced her way, she smiled sweetly. “Have you been to London, Mattias?”

How she knew his name, Chloe could only guess. Lisette had a way of learning such things. Chloe made a mental note to observe more closely Lisette’s methods of gathering information.

“I ’ave,” the burly driver said, sitting a bit straighter.

“Ooooh!
Would you tell us what it’s like?”

“Wel-ll …”

“Oh,
please,”
Lisette entreated in her most musical and compelling tones.

A moment later she was rewarded by a nod, and she eagerly beckoned everyone else forward in the cart to hear.

“There’s lots of folk there,” Mattias said, rubbing his bristled chin. “Some god-fearin’, an’ some wicked an’ shameless rascals. There’s houses stacked up like sheaves in a hayrick … set so close they lean out over the streets. An’ food—why there’s every thin’ to eat ye can think of. Stout ale on ever corner. Soft bread an’ pasties … meat pies, sweet cakes, an’ honey wafers … capons big as heifers … sows the size of oxen …”

“And markets and shops? Are there good shoemakers?” Margarete asked.

“And silk merchants and goldsmiths and furriers?” Alaina demanded.

Mattias nodded. “Plenty of them … an’ more.”

“Have you seen the king’s castle?” Chloe asked.

“Windsor? That ain’t in London. But I been there. We camped just outside the bailey an’ walls, once.”

“What’s it like?” Chloe held her breath, hungry for images to feed her imagination.

“There’s a great round keep in th’ middle … sits up on a hill … wi’ good arrow slits and plenty o’ high walls around. Ye can see the country for miles around …”

Hugh looked back to find that the cart and the wagons had fallen well behind the front of the escort party. As he rode back to see what was the matter, he found the maidens clustered at the front of the cart, beaming with interest as old Mattias rattled on about something. The driver had all but abandoned the reins, and the two mules were virtually ambling along at will. And if that weren’t bad enough, the men who were supposed to be maintaining a rear guard for the column had ridden up nearer the cart and were watching with great interest as the young “nuns” conversed with old Mattias.

“Dammit.” He flinched at his profane lapse. He’d have more than usual to confess when he got back to the priest at Windsor. “Mattias!” He drew his horse up with a jerk. “What the devil do you think you are doing?”

“Sarr!” The driver snapped to attention and tightened his grip on the reins, giving the mules a crack on the rumps to get them moving. “Drivin’, sarr.”

“The devil you are.” Hugh reddened, chagrined to realize that the old soldier wasn’t too old to appreciate that bevy of fetching smiles and sparkling eyes. He groaned silently. There probably wasn’t a man in all of Christendom old enough for that. “Stop the cart and get down.”

“But, sarr—”

“Down!” He shifted in his saddle and called to the driver of the first baggage wagon: “You there—Withers! Come and replace him.” Then he turned to Chloe and the others. “And you”—he lowered his voice—“I told you to keep your heads down and not to talk to any of my men.”

The one called Chloe surged to the front of the group and stood up to equal his height as he sat glowering from horseback.

“We’ve done nothing wrong, sir.” She moved to the edge of the cart. “Mattias”—she nodded toward the old soldier’s retreating back—“was graciously answering a few questions for us about London and the king’s palace.”

“Which has nothing to do with his orders to drive the cart and keep his eyes and ears to himself.” He glowered at the soldier approaching the cart. “You understand this duty, Withers? You drive and keep strictly to yourself.” The fellow glanced briefly at the “nuns,” nodded, then climbed onto the seat board and took up the reins.

“We are not a contagion, Sir Hugh,” the appointed one declared.

He wheeled his mount and headed for the front of the column, muttering.

“I wouldn’t bet on that.”

But he had bet on it, he realized as he looked over his shoulder at least fifty times during the next hour. And once again he had lost. Their second driver had quickly been infected with the same plague of garrulousness and affability, and now the cart was veering off the road, heading for the edge of a broad forest.

“What the devil?” He charged back to order the driver to keep to the road and again found himself facing a hot-eyed Chloe of Guibray.

“We
asked
him to pull the cart over.” She stood braced at the front of the cart. “We must stop long enough to see to our personal needs.”

“Absolutely not.” He spotted the wagons and mounted riders following them and furiously waved the wayward wagons back onto the road. “We’ll stop only when we reach a village where we can get feed and water for the horses.”

“But we
must
stop.”

“We will stop when I say we stop, and not before!” he roared. Then she folded her arms and lowered her voice so that he had to concentrate to hear her.