by Betina Krahn
She could only stare at him, surprised by the intensity of his response and the depths of unrelieved guilt it revealed in him.
“So you and the holy church are in complete agreement, then?” she finally said. “Every single soul is steeped in sin and degradation from birth?”
“Absolutely.”
“We sin ceaselessly … by every thought, word, and deed?”
“Yes.”
“We cannot escape it?”
“That’s right.”
The game suddenly lost its savor. Something in the middle of her collapsed and sank, taking her spirits with it.
“Then what about forgiveness? Compassion? Love? Where do they exist in this hopelessly wicked world that you and the holy church inhabit?”
His gaze climbed slowly, irritably to hers. For a moment she glimpsed the confusion in him … the desire to be righteous and blameless … the turbulent passions that he struggled constantly to conquer. She watched the tumult rise to an alarming level before he slammed that portal closed.
He wheeled and gave the animal a stinging slap on the rump. “He-ya!” The horse shot forward like an arrow released from a longbow, and all she could do was grip the saddle frantically with her knees and one hand. Pulling back on the reins did no good; the animal was too excited or too frightened to respond. It raced pell-mell down the green with her, headed straight for the low stone wall.
“Nooo! Sto-o-o-p—”
When it was clear the horse wouldn’t stop, she held on to the saddle with both hands and held her breath. Beneath her, the animal gathered itself and jumped.
Time seemed to slow, every instant seemed to last a lifetime. For a brief, soaring moment elation replaced pure mortal terror. Then the horse touched down, and she slammed back down on the saddle with a bone-jarring thud. Her heart lurched in her chest to beat wildly as the horse continued to run across the open field before them.
She was scarcely aware of the distant commotion … the screams of her sisters, the shouts of the husband candidates, and the alarm sounded among the knights at the far end of the tilting field she had just invaded. She had no way of knowing that Sir Hugh had cleared the wall himself on foot, and was racing after her and yelling frantically to the mounted knights to go after her. All she heard was the pounding of hooves, the rasp of the animal’s breathing, and the roar of her blood in her ears.
The horse continued to run for a time, slowing gradually, giving way to the hindrances of age and inactivity, but not before she experienced the thrill of horse and rider settling into a rhythm and working together. It was marvelous. Her fears melted away as they reached another low wall and the horse responded to direction and turned to follow it to a broad, open gate and a well-used path leading off into the countryside. As they exited the opening, her winded mount slowed to a walk, and she leaned down to pat its neck before turning to head back to the castle.
She hadn’t gone far when she spotted a horse and rider barreling toward her at a dead run. As he neared she recognized Sir Hugh, and as he reined up and maneuvered his horse beside hers, she realized he was red-faced and furious.
“Are you all right?” he bellowed, his chest heaving, his shoulders and arms swollen with tension as he grabbed her arm and visually scoured her for signs of damage.
“Yes,” she said, “I’m fine. I was frightened at first, but—Sweet Heaven—what a ride! Did you see her?” She reached down to stroke the horse’s neck. “She jumped the fence and then ran like the wind.”
Hugh tightened his grip on her arm, searching her glowing face, her sparkling blue eyes and wind-whipped hair. She was not only unharmed, she seemed downright enlivened by her brush with catastrophe.
“You might have been killed!”
“Well, I didn’t exactly have a choice,” she said between breaths. “The horse bolted, and all I could do was hold on for dear life.”
“You’re sure you’re all right?”
“A bit shaken, but otherwise, fine.” She realized her cap was dangling down the back of her hair, and righted it with trembling hands. “Saints—I can see now why people love riding fast and furious.” She took a deep breath, sighed with cleansing relief, and smiled. It was a glowing, pleasure-filled expression that dazzled him momentarily.
How could she have survived something that would have injured or at least terrified most women and then smile about it? Clearly, the shock of the near calamity had eclipsed her recollection of what had caused the horse to run away with her.
“We’d better get back to the others,” he said gruffly. Forcing his gaze from her, he looked toward the great round tower visible in the distance and saw in the blue sky all around it the vibrant color of her eyes. Clear and unaccusing eyes. They rode in silence for a few moments before she spoke again.
“Thank you for coming after me,” she said, and he felt a pang of guilt that clamored for expiation.
“It was the least I could do.” He sat straighter in the saddle and made himself say it. “Considering that it was me who caused the horse to bolt in the first place.”
He could feel her looking at him, searching his grim expression, no doubt remembering his dangerous burst of temper.
“I never meant to … I never intended …”
She had every reason to be furious with him. His knightly oath demanded that he protect and defend her and his personal code of conduct demanded even more: respect and Christian concern. In one overwrought moment he had violated both standards and put her in jeopardy.
Her silence quickly became unbearable. He glanced over at her and found her looking at him with a strangely intent expression. Then she broke into a small, speaking smile that caused everything to contract inside his chest, making it hard to draw air.
“I know you didn’t mean any harm,” she said. And clearly meant it.
In that moment Hugh of Sennet felt the foundations of his world being turned over like sod before the share of a plow. Suddenly everything he had been taught and had assumed to be true was being exposed to new air, new light, and new questions. The realization that it all began with and centered on Chloe of Guibray was nothing short of alarming.
She forgave him.
Dammit.
They were greeted by a chorus of concern the instant they came into view of the greensward. Picking up the pace, they rode quickly through the main gate and paused to reassure Chloe’s sisters that she was unharmed. To Hugh’s relief, no one in the bridal party seemed to have noticed what caused her mount to bolt. Equally annoying was the fact that everyone had seen her heroic jump over the wall. It was all they could talk about as they started back to the stable.
Then, as they rode up the rise to the gate in the curtain wall and the maids continued to turn in their saddles to talk to her, one of their number suddenly cried out and fell from her horse.
Hugh paused long enough to lift Chloe down and set her on her feet before rushing to see who was hurt.
Lisette lay on the ground beside her saddle, her face pale and her eyes closed. Even in distress her limbs were gracefully arrayed and her dark tresses had spilled in a fetching tangle around her. Graham knelt beside her, warily shaking her shoulder and calling her name.
“Let me through!” Chloe fell onto her knees to check her sister’s head and limbs. Everything seemed to be in order. She stroked and patted Lisette’s cheek and called to her. Soon Lisette’s eyes fluttered open and began to focus.
“W-what happened?” She moaned softly, holding her forehead.
“You fell from your horse,” Chloe told her. “Can you see? Are you in pain? Do you hurt anywhere?”
“Just my head.” Lisette moved her other parts one at a time, testing them. “Ooooh, and my derriere.”
Chloe looked up to reassure their worried sisters. “I think she will be all right.” Then she turned naturally to Hugh. “We need to get her to our chamber, where she can be checked more thoroughly.”
Hugh kicked the saddle out of the way and knelt by Lisette’
s feet. “Can you sit up?” As she did so, his gaze fled back to the saddle and narrowed. “No wonder you fell, your saddle came loose.” He reached for the cinch strap and pulled it up, expecting to see ripped stitching dangling from one end. Instead, he pulled up half of a strap … straight and smooth across most of the end, as if cut more than half through, then torn the rest of the way.
When Lisette tried to stand she grew dizzy and her legs buckled. Hugh was drawn back to the problem at hand and declared that he and Graham would carry her to her chamber. They formed a makeshift chair by crossing their arms at the wrists and grasping each other’s hands. Chloe and Lord Simon helped Lisette to a seat between them and placed her hands on their shoulders, telling her to hold on.
Hugh charged Lord Simon with seeing that the other maidens dismounted safely and were escorted to their quarters.
“And Simon,” he added.
“Yes, Hugh?”
“Take that damnable saddle to the tack shed and find out who let a damaged saddle—a lady saddle at that—out of the king’s stables.”
As they carried Lisette toward the great hall and the maidens’ chambers, she moaned softly and leaned against Sir Graham. Soon her arms were around his neck alone, and one of her breasts was pressed strategically against his chest. Graham’s face heated a bit more with each increase in contact. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead and upper lip.
The sight of a swooning maiden being borne through the great hall by two eligible nobles set the entire castle awag. By the time they reached the maidens’ chamber, Lady Marcella arrived with cloths for bandages, medicinal herbs, and two stout serving women. She was relieved to find that they were not needed.
“Thank you, Sir Graham, for your kindness to me.” Lisette’s arms lingered for a moment around Sir Graham’s neck as they lowered her onto her cot. Out of sight of the others, she gave him a brush on the cheek with her lips. “I promise I shall do better next time.”
Graham sprang away from her like a startled buck, then, realizing that he had overreacted, reddened and backed stiffly to the door.
“Mend quickly, Lady Lisette.”
When they left the maids’ chamber, Hugh and Graham headed for the stable to see what Lord Simon had discovered. They found the earl in the tack room, where he informed them that nearly all of the lady saddles had cinches that were cut … including all of the ones the duke’s daughters had just used.
They sent for the saddlemaker, who declared in bewilderment that the cuts seemed fresh and did not seem the result of accidental damage or even misuse. Judging from the narrow strips of leather that held some of the cinches together, they were fortunate not to have had maidens hitting the ground all around them.
As the saddlemaker hurried off to get supplies to make repairs, Hugh stared at the damaged leather and chilled at the memory of the way Chloe’s horse had plunged headlong over the fence with her.
Dear God. Such a jump … and with a bad cinch … she might have been …
His gut tightened.
“Why would anyone do such a thing?” Graham asked as they headed back to their own quarters.
“Most of the saddles maintained here are for the king’s unmounted guests and functionaries of the castle,” Hugh observed. “Knights keep their saddles in their quarters, and nobles visiting Windsor generally bring their own squires and grooms who see to their horses and equipage.” Hugh turned it over and over in his mind. “Why would anyone tamper with lady saddles … saddles that no one of great importance would ride?”
“No great importance?” Graham halted, and when Hugh stopped to look back at him, he was highly indignant. “I’ll have you know, one of those lovely maidens will someday be the Lady of Ledding.”
“Ah, yes,” Hugh said with a wicked look. “Lady Lisette of Ledding. It has quite a ring to it.”
Graham’s face lost all trace of humor.
“That’s not funny.”
Late that night, in the town of Windsor, a stealthy figure slipped inside a sour-smelling tavern and made his way around the long tables of ale-soaked planking to the rear, where a pair of men wearing hooded tunics sat huddled over tankards of cheap ale.
“Oui?” one of the two, the French knight Valoir, asked the newcomer.
“The one who fell … she was not hurt badly.”
“Are you sure?”
“I have bought the favors of a wench who works in the castle kitchens. Word travels quickly in that cursed pile.”
“Sacrebleu!” Valoir responded. “What does it take to get rid of one of les putaines?”
“They are charmed cats,” the other snarled, then turned to their informant. “Keep your ears and your eyes open, eh?”
With a nod, the informer drew his hood closer about his face and stole from the murky corner toward the door.
“They will surely ride again,” Valoir said, rubbing his grizzled face. “Sooner or later they will have to go beyond the castle grounds.”
“We will be ready, Capitaine,” his companion declared. “I have learned of a gang of poachers who are said to be able to deliver any kind of wild game for a price.”
Chapter Eleven
The duke’s daughters spent the next morning in their chamber with Lady Marcella and her two perky little dogs. Since she could no longer see well enough to stitch, the old lady spent her time collecting bits of information and gossip gone astray, and proved to be a veritable fountain of knowledge. She took the maids’ birthdates and promised to chart their stars, then launched into news of the queen’s condition and the latest castle gossip.
“The Lord Treasurer—who keeps a huge kitchen and spends a fortune on foods from Italy and Spain—brings the queen those or-anges from Spain each time he comes to court,” the old lady rattled on. “The queen loves them. Just like the king and his French wine.” She leaned toward them and lowered her voice. “Troth—that Bromley is a master at currying favor with food.”
Chloe sat with her needle poised over the lace Lisette had given her for the neck of her gown. The old lady’s mention of the Lord Treasurer’s political use of food suddenly gave her a much-needed idea.
“Speaking of eating …” Chloe looked brightly at the others. “Are you ready to hear your next task in the wife test?”
Her sisters received her great inspiration with less enthusiasm.
“We have to go down to those hot, stinky kitchens?”
“We have to tend a hearth like common pot-minders and spit boys?”
“Among all that grease and ash? We’ll ruin our clothes!”
“How do we know what our beloved lords will like?”
“That’s the best part,” Chloe declared, making rules up as she went. “You don’t know. You’ll simply make your favorite dish, and let ‘taste’ help decide who belongs together.”
There was silence for a moment as they thought it over. It was Helen who signaled their acceptance of the challenge:
“How will we know what foods the cooks may have in their cellar?”
Lady Marcella sent for the king’s chamberlain, who called for the head cook. Soon they were all huddled in the whitewashed kitchens, amidst worktables and piles of baskets filled with wrinkled wintered turnips, dried beans and peas, and pungent onions. After learning of the availability of foods and spices, the maids retreated to their chambers to decide on the dishes they would present to their prospective husbands.
By the time they delivered their lists of ingredients to the kitchen, the place was atizzy with talk of them and their culinary “test.” The story worked its way through the various outbuildings, including the knights’ quarters, then into the round tower, and finally into the great hall itself.
Hugh was there with Lord Simon, informing the king and the captain of the king’s guards about the damaged saddles, when Graham, Sir Jaxton, and Lord William hurried in to demand if it were true that the maids were now required to cook for them as part of the wife test. With the king looking on, Hugh was forced to admit:
“I … haven’t discussed it with Lady Chloe.”
“I’m surprised at you, Hugh,” the king said, with a glint of amusement. “I would have expected greater diligence in this duty. Perhaps you should go and discuss it with her now.”
As he watched the blanched Hugh withdraw and charge out the door leading toward the maids’ chamber, Edward smiled.
Hugh was met in the upstairs passage by a serving woman who directed him outside. He found Chloe and her sisters in the queen’s courtyard, basking in the sun and enduring the avid curiosity of courtiers stationed at windows overlooking the court or lurking just outside the arched entry.
“I want a word with you, Lady Chloe,” he declared, planting himself before her with his fists on his hips.
“Certainly, Sir Hugh.” She set her little-used birch hoop with its hopeless tangle of colored yarns aside. “I meant to speak with you—”
“Come with me,” he growled, taking her by the wrist and pulling her out of the courtyard and down the gravel path that wound between plots of herbs and sheltered niches stacked with weathered barrels and old poultry ricks.
At first a few intrepid hangers-on followed them, but as he darted with her down little-used paths, they eventually fell away, and Chloe found herself alone with him and being dragged to thither-and-gone.
“What is this about?” She pulled against his grip, trying to get him to stop, but he stalked grimly on. “Has something happened?”
He remained stubbornly silent until they reached an isolated stretch of wall that was sheltered by one of the round towers. There he wheeled, grabbed her by the shoulders, and thrust her back against the sun-warmed stones.
“I don’t like being made a fool,” he growled.
“No one does,” she said, seizing his wrists and trying in vain to remove his hands from her shoulders. “Do you mind?”