The Wife Test (21 page)

She scrambled back, trying to escape, but her way was blocked by the side of the stable and some wooden fencing. Frantically she began to feel her way along the stable wall toward the corner. Just as she reached it, everything in the deserted stableyard went silent. She hurled herself toward that corner and what would hopefully be the cloaking darkness of the interior of the stable.

But someone grabbed her arm and pulled her back, and she began to kick and flail with all her might.

“Lady Chloe! It’s all right. You’re safe! Chloe, listen to me—”

The voice slowly penetrated her panic. A familiar voice. A welcome voice. She stilled and held her breath. The bands of sinew wrapped around her relaxed. She pushed back and looked up to find the one person in the world who meant safety to her.

“Are you all right? Did they hurt you?” Sir Hugh’s voice was raspy and his words came in bursts. As he brushed her hair back from her face, his hand trembled with the energy of unspent violence. “Tell me—are you hurt?”

She managed to tell him “no” before her knees buckled. He caught her, and at his urging, she clamped her arms around his neck, buried her face in his shoulder. William and Jax arrived just then with blades drawn, having tracked the sounds of the fighting. He assured them that she was all right and had them take the attackers’ bodies to the castle and carry word to Chloe’s sisters that she was safe.

“Are you well enough? Do you want to ride or can you walk?” he asked.

“Walk,” she managed.

Looking at her dazed face, he propped her against the wall on a barrel top while he led one of the aged horses in the stable from its stall. There was no saddle readily visible, so he simply lifted her onto the animal’s bare back and kept one hand at her waist to hold her there. They proceeded so slowly that Jax and William soon caught up with them on the way to the castle, and he waved them ahead.

“What were you doing, anyway, running into town by yourself and after dark?” he demanded, hoping an irritable tone would cloak the anxiety that still had not released its grip on his throat.

“I—I was looking for you.” She sounded oddly far away. “To tell you about Lady Marcella’s dog. It was poisoned. In our chamber. I saw that boy … the one who brought the food to us last night … and when he ran, I ran after him. He led me to the stables and those men. They were French …” A fresh sense of urgency entered her voice and she sat straighter. “They argued and—my sisters—they’re going to attack my sisters!”

“Your sisters are safe.” He had to clamp both arms around her to hold her on the horse. “I sent Graham and Simon to guard them. They’re safe!”

It took a moment for that to register. The last of her fear-generated strength suddenly drained, leaving her drooping … then sliding. He caught her as she fell and pulled her limp form against him to keep her from smacking the ground. He coaxed her arms around his neck, then was able to wrap his arms about her and hold her more effectively. The shock of the attack was wearing off, and she was literally melting in his arms.

“You’ll be all right,” he insisted, telling himself not to stare down into her upraised face, but unable to resist it. Her widened eyes glistened hauntingly in the moonlight. “You just need some wine and a good night’s sleep.”

Her chin began to quiver, tears rolled down her cheeks, and she buried her face in his chest and released the horror of her experience in sobs. He stroked her hair and made low, shushing noises he had never made before in his life. As he did so, it seemed that some of her tumult was migrating into his own chest, tightening around his lungs, clutching at his heart.

After a few moments, she wiped her face with her palms and pushed back in his arms with a deep breath that signaled the worst had passed.

“Better now?” he asked.

“I think so. I was just … so frightened.” Her eyes again filled with tears. “And all I could think was that if they killed me, I wouldn’t ever …”

“Wouldn’t ever what?” he said, lifting her chin toward him.

He was so close and so gentle with her that she couldn’t have held back the truth if it meant she would drown in it.

“See you again.”

A throng of people burst from the castle gate and came rushing down the road toward Chloe and Hugh. Jax and William led the group, which included Graham and Simon, who was still limping along with Helen’s help, the rest of Chloe’s sisters, Lady Marcella and Moll, Lord Bromley, and several knights and castle guardsmen. They called and waved, and shortly Hugh and Chloe were engulfed in a sea of bodies and a jumble of emotions.

When they reached the great hall, the king was standing outside in a circle of torchlight, surveying the bodies of the Frenchmen who had lain in wait on his very doorstep. He watched as they approached, then pulled Chloe up from her unsteady curtsy and looked her over with what appeared to be genuine concern.

“You aren’t injured, Lady Chloe?” When she said that she was not, he seemed relieved. “Thank God for that. I am sure Sir Hugh will report to me on the particulars, I won’t trouble you for those. What with cut cinches, wild boars, poisoned food, and now this …” He glanced at her sisters, then back at her. “The daughters of Avalon have had a harrowing introduction to life in England. I assure you, there will not be another opportunity for anyone to harm you while you are under my roof. I gave you a week for your abbess’s wife test, Lady Chloe, but in the interest of your own safety, I must declare an early end to it.

“Sleep well. Refresh yourself,” he ordered gently. “Tomorrow morning, just past
tierce,
you will present to me the results of your test. And with my blessing, the nuptials will be held shortly after. I want this business concluded before
none.”

Chloe was so exhausted when she sank onto her cot, later, that she couldn’t rise again. Her sisters quietly set about tending to her needs: helping to remove her gown, bathe her face and hands, and then plait her hair for the night. They tucked her beneath her blanket and gathered around her, stroking her hair and holding her hands as she released the last of her tension in tears and finally drifted off into a deep sleep.

“Poor Chloe,” Margarete said, dabbing at her own eyes. “To have suffered such a terrible thing …”

“She is strong,” Helen said, giving Chloe’s hair a gentle stroke. “With rest and care she will recover quickly.”

“I hope so,” Alaina said quietly. “For this is her last night as an unmarried maid.”

Lisette had some difficulty summoning her customary insouciance.

“Tomorrow night we will all lie in the arms of a husband,” she said with a surprisingly tentative edge. “Let us hope Chloe didn’t think we were serious when we all chose that puppy.”

Some distance away, in the king’s dimly lighted privy chamber, Bromley and the Duke of Bedford were closeted with the king.

“Damned close, this night,” Bromley said tightly, then sipped from his wine cup.

“Too close. Four of them. Under our very noses.” The king pounded a fist on his chair arm. “How could four strangers speaking French go undetected in a town no larger than Windsor? Where the hell were our informants, our spies?”

The duke scowled. “We generally depend on locals hereabouts—the bailiff, the reeve, the wardens—to spot strangers and report possible troubles. They were busy, distracted of late. They’re not used to so many people here in early summer. Your Highness is usually on progress by now.”

“And would be again if the queen weren’t about to come to her term,” the king said grimly. “They were French. No doubt about that. And well armed, with coin in their purses. Sir Hugh’s reports were right on target. There must be a lord or lords behind them. The questions that remain are ‘how many’ and ‘who.’ I’ve got to have more information.” He looked over at Bromley. “Any word on Avalon?”

“Norwich sent a rider ahead, Highness. They’ll be here by midday tomorrow.”

The king sighed. “Just in time to see his daughters wedded.” His eyes narrowed as he contemplated the French duke’s possible role in this deepening plot. “I want to see Avalon with my own eyes, talk with him. I have to know if he is the kind of man who would send his daughters—even bastard daughters—to their deaths in the service of French sovereignty.”

“Greater treacheries than that have been carried out in the name of royal dominion,” Bedford declared grimly.

The king nodded, recalling all too well his own battles, a few years past, to wrest control of his kingdom from his greedy and treacherous mother. The worst power struggles were often the ones that engaged the passions of those who were intimately related. Brother against brother. Nephew against uncle. Mother against son.

After a few moments he returned to the problem at hand.

“I need information. Bedford, Bromley, set your best ‘secret hounds’ loose on the trail of these conspirators. I have to know more about who is behind these attempts on the duke’s daughters and what they will do when they learned that they’ve failed.”

The next morning, well after daylight, a small army of servants appeared at the maids’ door carrying buckets of water, an armload of fresh lavender, and piles of clean linen toweling. The maids staggered from their beds, said their morning prayers, and fell upon the tray of fruits, soft rolls, and cheeses that the king’s kitchens provided, along with a new feature … a taster.

Lady Marcella roused herself from mourning to attend and keep them company. While they bathed, she consulted the stars—declaring that they favored unions made that day—and surprised them all with marital advice that was a great deal more specific than that which the good Sisters had provided.

Chloe felt her sisters tiptoeing around her, avoiding the topic that saturated the chamber like the scent of fresh lavender … the matter of the pairings she would recommend to the king. To their credit, they neither importuned for nor demanded their choices; they knew Chloe well enough to know that she would hold firmly to what she believed to be the best decision. And at bottom they trusted both her and the wisdom of the convent’s wife test. The thing that tempered their confidence in her was the fact that one of their number would have to marry the hound-obsessed Earl of Ketchum.

The hall was crowded with a motley assortment of Windsor’s people when they arrived, midmorning. As they threaded their way to the center of the hall and approached the king’s chair, there was a collective sigh of approval.

The king was in his great chair, flanked by Lord Bromley and the other privy councillors, and the appointed husbands sat in a tense row on a bench at the king’s right. A herald greeted the maids and ushered them to a bench by the first table on the king’s left. Wary smiles and covert glances of anticipation flew both directions across the hall.

Chloe’s nerves were pinging with both dread and anticipation. This was the moment she had dreamed of and prepared for since the day she learned of the duke’s unique ransom payment, yet she felt so ill-prepared.

She had risen while it was still dark and gone to the chapel for first mass. Afterward, she spent an hour in earnest prayer, asking for wisdom, guidance, and blessings upon the outcome of her choices. As she meditated and mulled over various combinations of maids and men, it became clear that no set of pairings was without some difficulty. Sir Hugh was right. In the end it all came down to preferences. The only question was: whose?

As they took their seats, she looked around for Sir Hugh and didn’t see him. Asking to postpone this audience so that she might confer with him was probably out of the question. As the king had said: they wouldn’t be truly safe until they were wedded, bedded, and well away from Windsor, on their way to their new homes. Still, she couldn’t help wishing she had had a chance to speak to him one last time. She needed to somehow rid herself of the ragged, exposed feeling created by the words she had uttered to him on the road last night. She closed her eyes, shrinking inside, wishing she could recall that naked admission—

“Well, Lady Chloe,” the king called to her, “are you prepared to make your recommendations?” The noise in the hall died as all awaited her response.

Was she prepared? To lose the sisters she had only just gained? To sentence those same sisters to lives with men they had known only a few days? To never again see or touch the one man who could make her heart beat faster with a simple glance?

“I am, Your Highness.”

“Proceed.” He transferred power to her with the wave of a hand.

Her stomach was jittery and her head felt light and strange as she rose.

“If the bridegrooms will come and stand with me …”

Lord Simon led the way, though he had to do so while leaning on a walking stick. Graham, Jax, William, and old Ketchum followed, and together they arrayed themselves in a semicircle before the king.

Chloe went to her sisters and extended her hand to Helen, who blushed with maidenly pleasure when Chloe led her to Lord Simon’s side. Next she escorted Alaina to Sir Jaxton, and saw with relief that both looked rather pleased. Then it was Margarete’s turn, and as she was placed beside Lord William, he beamed … until he encountered Sir Graham’s disbelieving stare. That left only Lisette and Chloe herself. Sir Graham glanced between them and paled. Then Chloe looked at her sister and smiled, sending her to stand by him.

When he saw Lisette coming toward him with an elegant sway and eyes filled with earthy allure, Sir Graham looked as if he might run for his life.

Chloe could feel both her sisters’ gratitude and their pity as she moved to stand beside old Ketchum … who was so busy picking bits of dried food off his tunic that he didn’t notice her until she touched his sleeve. He cocked his head at her, looking a bit confused, then seemed to understand why she was there.

She turned at the earl’s side to face the king and struggled desperately to keep tears from forming. Thank Heaven Sir Hugh wasn’t there.

“These are your pairings, Lady Chloe?” the king said, studying the couples before him. “And what does Sir Hugh say to these matches?”

Hugh had watched the proceedings from the side of the hall with growing turbulence. Jax and Alaina, Simon and Helen, William and Margarete … the maids were smiling and the men seemed content enough. He couldn’t argue with those pairings. And much as he regretted seeing affable, even-tempered Graham paired with a woman would could strip hide from bone with a single glance … it was Graham’s own damnable fault for putting himself in harm’s way.

No, the thing that had him churning inside was the sight of Chloe of Guibray—proud, fiery, infuriating Chloe—seeing to her sisters’ futures and then taking her place meekly beside old Ketchum. Anything that could reduce the vibrant and passionate Chloe of Guibray to such insipid virtue was nothing less than obscene. Stifling the protest of his inner monk, he pushed off from the wall and headed for the dais and the king’s throne.

“I say, Highness,” he called out, causing every eye in the hall to turn to him, “that the wisdom of the abbess of the convent of the Brides of Virtue should be celebrated.
And …
I say that the husbands of these fair maids should be congratulated on their good fortune.” He paused between the king and the couples. “Lord Simon is wedding his match in both ability and ambition. Baron William has found someone who can bear his jests with good humor. And Sir Jaxton is marrying the one woman in the realm who is prettier than he is.”

Laughter skittered through the onlookers, then was quickly snuffed in expectation. He did not disappoint.

“Then there is Sir Graham”—he crossed his arms and stroked his chin as he studied Graham’s taut expression—“who will save a fortune on bed furs and firewood this winter.” He glanced at the king and raised his eyebrows. The king’s chuckle ignited a similar response in the crowd, and Graham looked as if he were a hair’s breadth away from taking a swing at Hugh.

“But the one who truly deserves our praise is the Earl of Ketchum.” He strolled toward Chloe and the old earl, giving them a visual inspection. He couldn’t tell if the alarm in her huge blue eyes was caused by the prospect of marrying the juiceless old cod or by anxiety over what he might have to say.

“You have our admiration, milord. You exemplify courage and fortitude. A lesser man might have flinched at taking such a wife to his bosom … a woman so trying.

“T-trying?” Old Ketchum looked from Chloe to the king, confused by what he was hearing.

“Regrettably so.” Hugh gestured to Chloe, inviting all present to judge for themselves the truth of his words. “A woman of great learning … educated beyond most men. A woman who reads and writes, can quote the Greek poets and philosophers, and ciphers like the wind. A truly prodigious intellect.”

“S-she
reads?”
the old boy said, suddenly alert and absorbing every word.

“Several languages,” Hugh answered, beaming. “But, being a man of letters yourself, you will no doubt be able to advise and correct her … save her from the vices that prey on those who stuff their heads with learning.”

“Vices?” Ketchum’s eyes darted anxiously over that disturbing tableau.

“Further, she is a woman of great thrift, practicality, and ingenuity. She will refurbish your household, and repair your barns, and even”—he looked at the old boy’s besmirched garments—“re-upholster your hide. No doubt you will hand over your ledgers and accounts to her, and she will establish a program of frugalities to improve your income and cut your expenses. No more wagers on cockfights and horse races for you, milord.” He shook a finger of genial chastisement. “And no more ‘out-hunting-with-the-hounds-until-the-crack-of-dawn,’ either.”