by Betina Krahn
“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, “tha
t 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.”
“N-no hunting?” Old Ketchum clutched his chest with a bony hand, breathing harder as he stared at her.
“You have heirs to make. And no more rich foods or two-day routs with a barrel of ale. She’ll be certain you’re around to see a whole raft of little Ketchums spring up. She’s studied herbals in the convent, you know.” When the old man shook his head, Hugh smiled benevolently. “Oh, yes. Always brewing up some smelly concoction or other and insisting everyone rub it on them or take it as a tonic. And did I mention how pious she is? Confesses constantly and hears mass twice daily. She will have you on your knees in no time …”
The old boy was wild-eyed, teetering on the edge of either an explosion or a collapse. Hugh couldn’t resist giving him one more little push.
“You may, however, have to dig a new well on your estate. She bathes frequently and insists on using plenty of water. And soap. Go on, give her a sniff.”
The old fellow bit his lip, leaned warily toward her, and inhaled. The scent of lavender was apparently too much for him.
“Ohhh!” He clutched the front of his doublet with both hands and sank to his knees. “My heart … my spleen … my liver …”
Hugh and Graham rushed to his side, and he clutched their sleeves as they lowered him to the floor and called for the servants to bring a litter.
“Let me see him. I can help,” Chloe said anxiously, trying to kneel beside them, but prevented by the old boy’s outstretched arm fending her off.
“No, no—it’s just one of my spells.” On closer inspection his eyes seemed more widened with panic than pain. “Have awful fits an’ spells … my liver goes cold and my spleen fluxes … nerves go all swarmy …” As a pair of servants scooped him onto a sling litter and carried him out, he halted them long enough to push up and address the king.
“Highness … I must beg that in my grievous infirmities I be excused from”—he glanced at Chloe with unmistakable dread—“the rigors of marriage.”
The king rose and stared gravely at the old fellow.
“You are released, milord Ketchum. Retire to your home to recover your health … with our best wishes for God’s restorative blessings.”
Chloe burned with humiliation as she watched the earl being carried out. The horror of it—having the old man swoon publicly and plunge into a fit of illness rather than wed her!
She could feel the eyes of the crowd turning on her with reactions from amusement to confusion to outrage. Could they be persuaded so easily that she was a monster … a virago … a harridan with unnatural proclivities? She turned on Hugh with her eyes stinging with the threat of tears.
How could he do this to her? He knew her as no one else did, yet he described her in such a way that her virtues all sounded like hideous vices. He had cast her in such a vile light that she would probably be tainted and infamous—unmarriageable—forevermore!
“Well”—the king broke into her agonized thoughts—“that was certainly unexpected. It seems you no longer have a husband, Lady Chloe.” He looked her up and down, clearly reconsidering her in the light of all he had just heard. “You read? Is this true?”
“It is,” she said, her throat so constricted that it came out a whisper.
“And write in several languages and cipher and create herbal nostrums?”
She could only nod. He made such accomplishments sound freakish.
“What the devil am I to do with you, Lady Chloe?” The king sat down abruptly on his great chair and propped his chin on his fist. “I suppose I shall have to add you to my own household until I can find someone to take you off my hands. I doubt I will find another unmarried noble as rich and exalted as the Earl of Ketchum.”
There were both mutters and laughter in the throng behind her, and she wished the earth would open and swallow her whole.
“Saints—who would take on such a woman?” He tilted his head from side to side, studying her with a dubious expression. “It would have to be a man of great wisdom and learning … and uncompromising standards and prodigious virtue … with the patience of Job, the inner strength of a saint, and the stamina of a warhorse … not to mention a curious indifference to hunting and wagering.”
With each requirement, both his shoulders and her prospects for matrimony sank a bit lower.
“Wait!” He suddenly sat straighter and broke into a broadening smile. “Educated, uncompromising, virtuous, strong … I believe I have just described Sir Hugh of Sennet!”
More laughter rippled through the hall as the king looked to Hugh with thinly disguised determination.
“Sir Hugh, as it happens, is unmarried and in need of an heir.” What came next caused the hall to erupt with excitement. “By all the saints—why not? It is my decree that Sir Hugh of Sennet shall marry Lady Chloe of Avalon. I know, Sir Hugh, that you have long aspired to the religious life. But Heaven seldom consults us in making its plans. It seems you’ve just been chosen for something far more difficult than a life of prayer and fasting … being a husband.”
Edward turned immediately to his chamberlain and privy councillors.
“Send riders out to locate Norwich and Avalon and tell them to hurry. And rouse the bishop. Tell him I want these nuptials solemnized the moment the duke gets here.” He rose and dusted his hands together with an air of finality. “Thank Heaven that’s done … I have a child being birthed upst
airs.”
Chloe watched in disbelief as the king strode for the steps that led to the queen’s chambers and Sir Hugh strode for the doors that led to anywhere his future wife wasn’t. Her emotions, her thoughts, her entire being were in turmoil. Sir High-and-Mighty had wrecked her marriage to the old earl only to be snared into marrying her himself. And while the thought of marrying old Ketchum had filled her with sadness and despair, the prospect of being forced to contend with an irate Hugh of Sennet for the rest of her days filled her with terror.
He was adamantly opposed to marriage and he openly disliked women. Including her. Especially her. And despite the fact that he had sealed his own fate with his outrageous descriptions of her, he would undoubtedly find a way to blame her for it. A husband could find a thousand ways to punish an unwanted wife for being unwanted.
Her sisters hugged her, and Lady Marcella, who was a bit bewildered by the drastic turn of events, embraced her and wished her the best. When they retreated to their chamber to prepare for the vows, her sisters came one by one to thank her for seeing into their hearts and making their wishes come true. She smiled and nodded numbly as Lisette added with an admiring wink:
“What a clever thing you are. However did you persuade Sir Hugh to talk you out of a marriage to the old earl and into a marriage with himself?”
As shocking and tumultuous as the morning had been, the afternoon proved just as eventful. When the time arrived for the vows, the bishop sent for the maidens. Freshened and fortified, they descended to the great hall and were greeted there by a portly man in costly armor, with graying hair, lively eyes, and an air of authority that rivaled the king’s.
“These are my daughters?” he said, his face lighting as his gaze flew from one comely face to another. “But of course they are. Bon Dieu—are they not a garden of earthly delights?”
As they were introduced, he embraced them with great dignity and a sense of ceremony, kissing them on both cheeks. He seemed generally pleased and parental until he came to the last maid.