by Betina Krahn
“Open up!”
She gasped and clasped her throat with both hands. Then the door rattled and thumped against the crude latch.
“No! Stop!” She lurched from the tub onto one of the water-soaked wooden planks they’d laid on the dirt floor, just as the aged wood around the latch splintered with a resounding “crack.” The door flew open and she was caught halfway between tub and table. A large, dark form surged inside the cottage, and she screamed and dived for her toweling.
She banged into the table—“Owww!”—and then dropped behind it as she frantically wrapped the linen around her. With her heart beating in her throat, she stuck her head up over the edge and found herself facing none other than Sir Hugh. He stood with his head bent to avoid the low roof beams, staring at her.
“What are you doing?” Her voice was thin and shrill. “Get out of here!”
“Y-you were supposed to stay with the others.” He sounded a bit reedy himself.
“How dare you break in on me?” She glanced down to make certain she was decently covered, then rose. “Have you no shame?”
“I didn’t know you were still … the others said … I thought you were just …” He staggered back, but forgot to duck and smacked the low door frame with a resounding thunk. He grabbed his head between his hands and stumbled back outside. “Dammit, dammit, dammit!”
“At least have the decency to close the door!”
But the rotten planking now hung askew, attached by only one hinge, and he was staggering around dazed and doubled over. Frantic to cover herself, she seized her shift and managed to pull it over her head. It caught on her damp toweling and wet hair, and she had to wrestle it down over her body.
“The ship is here and we’re leaving tonight … now,” he called out, bracing on his knees. “I came up here to haul you down to the boat.”
“And all but ripped the door from its hinges,” she said, tugging furiously on the toweling beneath her garment and finally succeeding in removing it.
“You were supposed to be finished.” He straightened abruptly and turned his back to the door opening. “And if you had been, I wouldn’t have had to—”
“It’s not my fault you charged through a latched door like a wounded bear.” She wanted desperately to throw something at that broad set of shoulders.
“But it was your fault that I—”
He halted, but her eyes flew wide as his statement finished itself in her mind … saw her naked. Then he confirmed it.
“What the devil were you doing standing there without a stitch on?”
She covered her heart with her hand, truly shocked. He made it sound so vile, so … intentional.
“I was bathing. That’s the way it’s done, without garments. Or don’t you English practice that particular refinement?” She reached for her gown and yanked it over her head. “Your men seem never to have heard of it.”
“Oh, we English bathe all right. At the proper time. In the proper manner.”
How dare he suggest that her mode of bathing was in any way improper?
“I had a thousand fleabites to treat. What could possibly be improper about washing myself and dabbing on a bit of—” She paused, glaring at his back, realizing what he meant and dumbfounded by the implication that she had somehow contrived to have him glimpse her as God and Nature made her. She blushed from the core out. Every inch of her body was suddenly red with humiliation … which quickly gave way to anger.
Trembling now, she settled her gown over her shift and freed her hair from beneath it. Her fingers felt as thick as sausages when she tried to draw and tie the laces at her sides.
How dare he say such a thing to her? What had she ever done to make him think her wanton or immoral? As she paused, struggling to stay in control, an earlier insight returned. His snarls and insults weren’t about her, they were about him. He was embarrassed, so he accused her.
She wiped off the soles of her feet and stepped into her slippers.
Looking again at his impenetrable back, she recalled what Sir Graham had just said about his monastic ambitions. It was his desire to forsake “the flesh” and all worldly pursuits and pleasures. No doubt the sight of her nakedness was an unwelcome reminder of the “flesh” he intended to forswear.
Then she thought of the austere and unflappable brothers she had seen when they stopped for lodging at the convent while on pilgrimage. A brief, unintended glimpse of nakedness would have proved no trouble for them … or for any monk truly committed to a life of purity and contemplation.
The memory of the way Sir Hugh had trapped and held her in the darkened woods came flooding back, causing her to catch her breath. Clearly, Hugh of Sennet was not as monkish as he would like to think. Then it wasn’t the sight of her nakedness that infuriated him so, it was his own wayward response to it!
She plopped her cap on her wet, tousled hair, gathered her belongings into her arms, and pushed him aside as she bolted from the cottage. He bristled at the contact and glowered as she halted before him and looked him in the eye.
“What bothers you more, Sir Hugh?” she demanded with stubborn insight. “That you saw me naked or that you liked it?”
She could hear him sputtering and storming along the trail behind her as she strode down to the beach. She could see his incendiary glare on her as Mattias helped her into one of the longboats and the sailors rowed her out to the ship. She could feel his need to respond weighting the air around her as he followed her onto the ship’s deck and ushered her and the other maids into a hastily constructed corral of trunks and crates lashed to the rear of the main deck.
After ordering them to “sit!” on the trunks and to stay there until told otherwise, he paused near her and lowered his voice.
“I did not.”
After an hour of hugging the coast and waiting for a favorable wind, the sails filled and the ship turned westward. The Channel was unusually calm for springtime, and the maids’ fears of being washed overboard soon dispersed. When they were permitted to visit the aft railing to answer nature’s requirement, she took a circuitous route back to their makeshift berth on the cargo and passed close enough for him to hear her.
“Did, too.”
He flinched visibly, and as she climbed the two steps to their makeshift quarters on deck, she could feel his frustration simmering. As the waxing moon rose in the east, he secured a stack of blankets from the captain and carried them to the maids. He refused to look at her, but as he turned to go, he made certain to veer close enough to her to mutter audibly.
“Did not.”
She wrapped herself in one of the blankets and took her place amongst the others curled up on the trunks for a bit of sleep. But as the other maids dozed and the men of their escort nodded off, she found herself strangely awake and aware of Sir Hugh’s location. Propping herself up on her elbow, she located him and watched him pace the deck. He reacted with a start each time one of the ship’s crew moved across the deck in the moonlight.
He was tense and unsettled inside, and she guessed that their confrontation was at least partly responsible. Good, she thought. As the abbess sometimes said after a confrontation with Father Phillipe, men needed to have their delusions challenged. Especially ones regarding themselves. It kept them honest and humble. And if there was anything Sir Hubris needed, it was a bit of humility.
He must have felt her gaze on him, for he turned slowly toward the stack of cargo, searching it visually and finally spotting her. He stilled and stared at her across that moonlit space.
They had a great deal in common, she thought. Upbringing. Education. Sense of duty. In another life, at another time, they might have been allies, comrades, fellow pilgrims, or even teacher and pupil. But here and now they were set irrevocably at odds by the fact that they had been born into separate divisions of humanity: male and female. And the desire that the Almighty intended to bring men and women together was, for them, the very obstacle that prevented all possibility of mutuality or understanding
.
It was a sobering insight and produced a sense of limitation that would shape her world for some time to come. She was a woman, and because of that, some doors, some minds, and some hearts would be forever closed to her.
But the sense of loss that discovery produced in her was something he would never suffer. For him, the longings of the human heart were worldly dross that would only interfere with his scholarly and spiritual ambitions.
Wretched monk.
In the moonlight she soundlessly lashed him with one last accusation before settling back beneath her blanket.
“Did, too.”
The next morning, as they reached the English shore and started up the tidal waters of the Thames River, there was an air of expectation aboard the small barque. The men of the escort party lined the railings, pointing out various landmarks, quays, and villages, and a flotilla of barges which was said to be something of a town for sailors who superstitiously shunned dry land altogether. Here and there the vistas broadened to include views of fields being planted and flocks newly sheared and set out to pasture once more. It was a glimpse of home for the men and of the future for the maids, who watched anxiously from perches on the crates and barrels of their collective dowry.
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. Tog
ether 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.”