The Wife Test

“I am sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, Your Grace, but it seems that the delegation bearing your ransom has arrived and the sum is … short.”

“Short?”

“Not enough, Your Grace.” The Earl of Norwich winced at the sight of a nobleman of such stature, even a French one, caught in such a circumstance. Of all of the duties that followed a major victory like the battle at Crecy, this was to him the most disagreeable: ransoming nobles back to their homes and families. It was in such trials that a nobleman learned his true worth to his family and the value of his alliances.

“How can it not be enough?” The Duke of Avalon looked as if he might choke on his tongue. “You accursed English!” He strode angrily away and then back, running his hands down his face. “Edward has bled me dry—paupered my lands and tenants—all but beggared my relations with his demands. There is nothing left to give him!”

“Surely there is something more, Your Grace.”

There was the crux of the matter. King Edward, feeling both the flush of victory and the press of finances, was determined to wrest a bit more gain from his newly conquered French subjects.

“There is nothing, I tell you,” Avalon declared hotly. “Not another sou’s worth of value to be scraped from my holdings.”

“Truly? No more horses … oxen … flocks … furnishings … ironwork? No more of that marvelous wine your lands—”

“No more,
I tell you. Edward has taken my coin and plate … my horses, cattle and sheep … plundered the squeezings of my grapes … stripped the tapestries from my walls and the furs from my beds! He’s even emptied my falconry … taken my prize hawks!” Avalon threw himself onto a nearby bench, his burly frame braced against pain stirred afresh by this recitation of his losses.

Norwich studied the embattled duke and experienced a guilty tinge of relief that it was the French undergoing these humiliations and not his countrymen. Drawing a hard breath, he settled on the bench beside his prisoner.

“Then perhaps your forests—”

“I’ve hardly a bush left for a bird to nest in.”

“How about craftsmen? Smiths, coopers, or goldsmiths … or shoemakers … Edward is exceedingly fond of a fine pair of boots.” He looked over to see Avalon shaking his head and felt some of the duke’s despondency creeping into his mood. “Or
cooks.
God knows Edward’s kitchens could stand improvement. His table is widely considered an embarrassment.”

“If I were to go home to my lands this moment,” Avalon said bitterly, “I would do well to eat bread and curds prepared by my own hand. My people have been picked clean and my brother is seeing the bare bottoms of
his
coffers as well. My son will inherit naught but bare land!”

Norwich sighed again, crossed his arms, and propped his chin in his hand.

“A pity you don’t have a few nubile young daughters. In time-honored tradition, you could have them
marry
you out of your ransom debt.”

There was a moment’s silence as Avalon absorbed that worldly sentiment. His eyes began to flit back and forth and his body slowly tensed.

“But I do have daughters.” He strained to keep his face impassive and his rising hope in check. “A veritable covey of daughters. Lovely young things … accomplished, modest, biddable girls … who will make true
brides of virtue.”

“You have daughters?” Norwich sat up straight and stared at Avalon in bewilderment. “Your lineage is well known. Why have we not heard of them?”

“They’ve been secreted away at a convent not far from Rouen. To be honest, they are … well … not born of my wife. But their legal status as my issue can be remedied with the stroke of a pen.” His gaze focused intently on some unseen tableau. “The funds I donated when they entered the convent could serve as dowries …”

“Saint Juniper’s Wounds!” Norwich bounded up, his countenance ruddy with relief. “Why didn’t you say something before? King Edward is scrambling for a way to compensate his nobles. Brides! Good God—
a duke’s daughters
—he’ll be ecstatic!”

Avalon shoved to his feet, looking as if the weight of the world were sliding from his shoulders.

“If you would be so good as to send in my aide-decamp, Norwich, I can send to the convent to make arrangements straightaway.”

The English earl was at the door when he turned back for a moment.

“How many daughters did you say you have?”

“Ahh … four or five, I suppose …”

“You
suppose?”

Avalon quickly recouped.

“Four—I have four eligible daughters.” He drew up to his full height. “And you tell that bastard Edward he’s got to give me back my birds if he wants to improve his mongrel English bloodlines with
my
daughters!”

“Dearest Heaven. He’s gone mad.”

The abbess sat down with an undignified thud.

“Who, Reverend Mother?” Elderly Sister Archibald asked, squinting and bending to steal a peek at the parchment drooping in the abbess’s hand.

“The Duke of Avalon. He says he has officially ‘recognized’ his daughters and commands that they be prepared to travel to London to be ‘wedded by King Edward to his valiant nobles.’ And I’m to provide them a dowry from the donation he made when each entered the convent.”

“His daughters?” Venerable Sister Archibald frowned and settled on the edge of a chair across the polished table. “But ’e hasn’t any daughters.”

“He hasn’t made any fatherly ‘donations,’ either.” The Abbess stared in deepening outrage at the letter, which was signed in the duke’s own unmistakable hand. “Another little detail that seems to have slipped his mind.”

“Defeat and captivity ’ave been known to do odd things to a man,” Archibald ventured.

The abbess responded with a snort. “Avalon has the constitution of a wild boar and the tenacity of a bear-baiting dog. It would take more than a few English battle blows to make him forget the number and sex of his offspring.”

Battle blows.
The abbess sat bolt upright and pored over the letter again, reading between the lines on the parchment and adding in the fact that the missive was delivered by a contingent of English knights and men-at-arms, who even now were waiting for a response in the nearby village. They had said the duke was being held for ransom after the defeat of the French forces at Crecy.

“It can only be”—she shoved to her feet, her gaze darting back and forth as she put the pieces together—“the old fox is having trouble raising his ransom and intends to pass off our charges as his daughters to help him pay.” The idea, given form in words, weathered all of the tests of plausibility she could put to it. “How dare he even think of using our maidens in such a deception?”

But she knew how. The duke had long provided protection for the renowned Convent of the Brides of Virtue. Even through the perilous days just past when the fighting was at its fiercest, he had sent a contingent of soldiers to secure their gates. Those men, combined with the convent’s stout walls, had kept them from being overrun in the fighting and then protected them from the bands of soldiers pillaging the countryside after the fighting ceased.

And it was well known that the worldly duke didn’t believe in waiting for Heaven to reward his good deeds. He insisted on payment from more earthly and immediate sources.

“Not only does he demand we send him four dutiful and accomplished daughters … he expects us to furnish them with dowries. Four dowries! We’ll be no better off than the Convent of the Claires … the
Poor
Claires!”

Roundly furious now, the abbess began to pace the polished stone floors of the richly paneled and draped audience chamber, clasping and unclasping her hands. Her black veil and robes billowed ominously with each abrupt turn.

“How dare he behave as if the maidens in our care line his purse like coins … to be spent at his discretion?”

“It’s an outrage, it is.” Sister Archibald’s eyes narrowed. “Our girls may be poor an’ orphaned, but they’re noble-born, every one. They’re meant for proper, noble husbands, not
Englishmen.”

The abbess aimed and leveled a gaze on her best friend and confidant.

“English nobles are no different from any others, Archie … except perhaps a bit more preoccupied with stealing one another’s property.” She gave a hiss of disdain. “Avalon must be taking lessons from them.”

No different from any other noblemen.
She stopped short, suddenly seeing the duke’s demand in a different light. He wanted to marry their charges off to noblemen … which, when she thought about it, was exactly what she and the rest of the good sisters had in mind for them.

The maidens placed in the care of the Order of the Brides of Virtue were nobility’s lesser daughters … orphaned by illness or conflict, declared surplus in a house filled with girl children, or fallen victim to mismanaged and failing fortunes. What they lacked in family and property, they were groomed to more than make up for in character and capability. Wives obtained from the Convent of the Brides of Virtue were widely considered to be pious, pleasing, well mannered, diligent, and learned in household arts and management … considered worthy keepers of the keys in houses great and small.

What did it matter, the abbess asked herself, if those houses belonged to the conquering English?

What did matter—
and mattered a great deal
—was the fact that the convent and the order were expected to supply each with a dowry worthy of a duke’s donation. Instead of adding to the convent’s treasury—bridegrooms were required to make generous donations—these marriages would all but deplete it! There had to be a way to comply without beggaring the convent.

Sister Archibald watched all-too-familiar lights stealing into her friend’s expression and folded her arms emphatically.

“Tell me yer not thinkin’ of sendin’ them to him.”

“What choice do I have? Sooner or later he’ll be freed, and he’s not the sort to forgive a refusal to help him in his hour of need. All I can do is try to reduce the damage done to the convent’s coffers.” The abbess turned her attention to the door and consideration of what lay beyond it. “We have that wonderful wine the Earl of Whitmore sent as a part of his tithe …”

“Ye’d turn our lambs out into th’ world bearin’ th’ unearned shame of bastardy?”

“According to the letter, the maidens will be sent to the King of England himself, who will marry them to his nobles. That and the duke’s considerable renown will go a long way toward countering any stigma they might face.” The abbess’s eyes began to dart back and forth over some mental balance sheet. “I suppose we could scrape together a few bolts of cloth. Baron Beaufort sent some fine woven goods not long ago …”

“But the maids … how will ye know they’re matched proper?”

“I’ll send someone—one of the sisters—to see they are dealt with fairly.” The abbess produced her keys and opened a large carved cabinet sitting to one side of the hearth. She glowered at the ironbound chest stored in the bottom of it. “I suppose there’s no getting around it. We shall have to send
some
coin …”

“It’s decided, then?” Archibald sagged in disbelief. “As simple as that?” It was some time before the elder sister spoke again, and when she did, there was sadness in her voice.

“Who will ye send, Reverend Mother?”

Chloe of Guibray bit her lip as she arched her aching neck, then quickly reapplied her ear to the edge of the tapestry-draped niche. Every word had etched itself into her mind. Taken all together, they made staggering news. Four maidens from the convent would be transformed into daughters of the Duke of Avalon and sent to the English king to be wedded to his nobles. The process by which this change of parentage would occur was a little fuzzy to her just now, but the abbess and Sister Archibald seemed to think it possible.

Imagine—her mind swam with possibilities—being claimed as a daughter by the great Duke of Avalon. She had heard of his splendid castle, his many knights, his fine lands and horses and vineyards. He was a rich and powerful lord. And he was claiming four young women from the convent as his daughters and sponsoring them in marriage.

Sister Archibald’s final question stopped her breath.

Who would they send?

“Alaina, of course. And Helen. Probably Lisette de Mornay.” The abbess paused. “I shall have to think about it. Perhaps Claire de Lyon or Margarete of Cologne.”

“There is another, Reverend Mother, who would be perfect,” Archibald said haltingly, suggesting either deliberateness or trepidation.

“Who?”

“Chloe.”

The sound of her own name on the elder sister’s lips made Chloe’s heart begin to race. Just as suddenly the abbess’s answer stopped it.

“Out of the question.”

“She’d be right as rain for it,” beloved old Archibald insisted.

“Don’t be absurd, Archie.”

“Well, she’s got no father of ’er own,” the elder nun continued.

“Precisely. We know nothing about her parentage. We cannot sponsor a girl as a noble bride without knowing she was born of noble blood.”

“She
could
be of noble blood. She is clean of limb and delicate of face. She’s quick of wit an’ winnin’ of way … as much as any of the maids ye just named. Why not let the duke claim ’er?”

“The duke counts on the brides we send being suitable in every aspect …
noble
daughters, of proper birth. God knows who fathered Chloe … on what sort of unfortunate creature … under what inauspicious stars. All there was on the bit of parchment tucked in the basket with her was the name ‘Gilbert.’ ”

“Don’t ye mean Guibray?”

Archibald sounded as puzzled as Chloe suddenly felt. There was a brief pause in which the abbess sighed heavily.

“I read that scrap of parchment myself. It was Gilbert. An
English
name. No doubt some English churl set upon some poor, innocent French lass and—” She paused a moment. “It became Guibray after some of the sisters misunderstood the name and thought it to be the French town. The old abbess and I didn’t see any reason to correct them. She may as well be from Guibray.”

“But ye’ve said she’s not for takin’ vows,” Archibald persisted.

“She has a permanent place here as my clerk.”

“But surely ye know, she hopes to marry someday and have babes—”

“And paupers have hopes of being kings!” There was a stark silence after the abbess’s outburst, and her next words came taut and filled with strain. “I’ve spent years training her to read and write and cipher. Chloe is useful to me here, and it is
here
she will stay. Is that clear Sister Archibald?”

The elder sister’s reply was slow in coming and laced with resignation.

“Yes, Reverend Mother.”

Chloe peeled herself away from the niche and shimmied out of the narrow space between the wall and the great wooden cupboard where the convent’s surplus linens and fabric were stored. Reeling, she wobbled down the passage and out onto the colonnaded cloister that lay at the heart of the great stone convent.

The sun was out, the sky was robin’s egg blue, and the wisteria that wrapped the stone columns was showing pale green leaves. A damp, earthy scent of spring renewal mingled with the warmth of the chatter of girls hurrying along the colonnade and sitting in the courtyard working on their stitchery. The fair Alaina, the regal Helen, and the bewitching Lisette sat together in the sunshine, plying busy fingers over birch hoops as they exchanged confidences and shared dreams of futures that, unknown to them, were already in motion around them.

Chloe of Guibray stood in the shadow of the colonnade, watching, just as she would soon stand at the convent gates and watch until the cart bearing them toward the English court was out of sight. Chloe, the abbess had just declared, was not destined to take such a journey. She would have to wave and wish the lucky brides “godspeed,” then return to her parchments and ink-stained fingers and to the drone of prayers and the bells marking the hours of the endless days. Chloe of Guibray was fated by the shameful circumstance of her birth to be caught in a vowless nether region of femininity … considered neither pious enough for holy vows nor pedigreed enough for marriage vows.

The realization was devastating.

She had always known that the questions associated with her origins set her apart somewhat from the covey of maidens tended by the sisters. But if her murky parentage had sometimes occasioned whispers and dubious looks, her strong personal qualities had earned her special opportunities … an education in Latin and letters; access to the convent’s precious books—even Holy Scriptures; and permission to be present whenever the abbess and her assistants met to entertain visitors or to make decisions. She had always believed that the extra training was meant to compensate for her lack of a pedigree and diligently applied herself to the learning.

Her knees now buckled and she stumbled against a cool stone column. All of that study and extra work … they hadn’t been grooming her for a marriage, they had been sharpening her wits and skills to make her into something useful for the convent. A tool. Destined to give full and faithful service. A tool. Nothing more.

It didn’t seem to matter to the abbess that a marriage into a real family, even one of modest means, was the abiding dream of her heart.

Her early years at the convent, listening to girls speak of the homes and people they had been torn from, had bred in her a yearning for the deep and lasting connection of “family.” She had no memories or stories of her own, so she privately created some for herself, piecing them together from details of the families and homes she had heard described. But as time went by her curiosity about her origins outgrew that girlish pacification of her longings. Unable to satisfy her need to uncover that most fundamental of secrets—her parentage—she became driven to discover other secrets instead … any and all other secrets.

In time, nothing in the convent escaped her … not the special ingredient the kitchen sisters put in their prized hot-cross buns at Easter, where the stableman slept when he went into the village, how many chickens the pot boy filched to take to his uncle, the various rivalries among the girls, the wine that old Sister Galletea sneaked to her chamber each night, nor the resentment the abbess felt toward Father Phillipe, who came each day to say their masses and hear their confessions. There wasn’t a secret in or about the convent that she hadn’t searched out and claimed as her own. And always she had justified her passion for secrets by keeping the tantalizing tidbits to herself and by Father Phillipe’s assurance in the confessional that learning another’s secret, even by subterfuge, was not an officially recognized sin.