by Betina Krahn
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.
But when you listen at corners and window ledges and door latches, she told herself as she made her way from column to column along the cloister walk, sooner or later you’re going to hear something you wish you hadn’t. Whether eavesdropping was an official sin or not, she was being punished for it. To hear herself assigned a dismal fate and to be unable to utter the slightest protest …
When she reached the small upstairs chamber she shared with one of the novices of the order, the misery she had been struggling to contain overwhelmed her. She collapsed on her straw-filled pallet and let the tears and sobs come until she seemed to run out of salt and her breath came in convulsive gasps. Hearing voices approaching her door, she sat up, wiped her face, and righted her garments to make herself presentable. But the voices passed by and she was left sinking again into despair, staring at the rush-strewn floor through bleary prisms.
There would be no husband, no children, and no home except the one she had always known. The longing for family sharpened to an ache in her chest that made it difficult to breathe. How could the abbess be so cruel? Just because she didn’t bear the name of a noble—
Gilbert. The second shock of that purloined conversation struck her anew. She wasn’t from the city of Guibray as she had always believed, at least not anymore than she was from any other place. It had been an English name, Gilbert, that had accompanied her in the basket that bore her into the sisters’ care. Her heart beat faster as the full impact of it descended on her. This was the first real clue she had ever had to her true identity. Her spirits began to rise.
Had her father been an Englishman, as the abbess said? Or was it her mother who had borne that name? The truth of it could only be found in England … land of woolly sheep and greedy kings and victorious armies … and Gilberts … some of whom might belong to her.
England. Suddenly it sounded like the Promised Land. She had to go, to search for her beginnings and learn the secrets of her past. She would never have a future unless she did. What did it matter who was sent to London, as long as they were suitable for matrimony? The duke was claiming daughters that weren’t his own; he could scarcely object to being claimed as her father until she could discover hers.
Sister Archibald was right; she was perfect for the duke’s ransom. The abbess was just too stubborn—or selfish—to see it. Resolve straightened her spine and filled her heart with fresh hope. She had to take matters into her own hands, had to find a way to include herself in that bridal delegation.
Her gaze darted around the small chamber, and she slowly began to smile.
Becoming the duke’s fifth daughter shouldn’t be so hard for someone who, of late, had become the abbess’s reading eyes and writing hand.
Chapter Two
The crude wooden door of the loft over the tavern banged open, and the opening filled with a huge, black-clad form with burning eyes and white-knuckled fists. On the sour straw pallets that filled the chamber there was a flurry of curses and bare body parts as men-at-arms scrambled to untangle themselves from their partners in illicit pleasure.
“Worthless sons of curs—on your feet!” Sir Hugh of Sennet ducked through the doorway and charged inside, grabbing first one groggy soldier and then another, yanking them to their feet and shoving them toward the door, where his lieutenant waited. “I ordered you to stay on duty, at the ready, and out of the cursed taverns!” He ripped a tunic from beneath a fleshy pair of buttocks—eliciting a feminine squeal of protest—thrust it into its owner’s fumbling hands, then planted a boot in the wretch’s backside. The fellow shot out the door, glanced off the knight waiting outside, and went careening down the steps to join his comrades.
When the chamber was cleared of men, Hugh of Sennet ducked back outside, stomped down the steps, and stood with his fists jammed onto his waist, glaring at the soldiers struggling to don their garments. His sniff of indignation quickly turned to a wince.
“They smell like piss pots. Get them cleaned up,” he ordered their sergeant, “and ready to travel at a moment’s notice.” Then he addressed the men themselves. “If I have to pull any of you out of a tavern again before we reach London, I’ll personally deal each of you a hundred lashes! Is that clear?”
The prodigals turned a bit pale beneath their sun-weathered skin, nodded, and stumbled off toward the nearby stream under a tirade from their sergeant.
“A hundred?” Sir Graham of Ledding, Hugh’s second in command, lifted an eyebrow. The number had grown all morning. This was the fourth tavern he had cleaned out, and from the tightness of Hugh’s broad shoulders and big fists, it appeared he was on the verge of mayhem.
“Should have been two hundred. This is the last tavern?”
“I believe so.” Graham looked around the small but bustling village. “Amazing that there should be so many taverns in so small a berg.”
“Every hut and hovel becomes a tavern when there are soldiers nearby,” Hugh said with disgust, striking off for their camp at the edge of the village.
“This waiting is hard on the men.” Graham fell in beside him and watched him peel his fists open and stretch his cramped fingers.
“Three bloody long days,” Hugh said, lengthening his stride and setting his heels down harder as irritation overtook him again. “What the devil is taking them so long?”
Graham shrugged. “They’re women.”
“They’re not women, they’re nuns. And what’s so hard about packing up a few maids and shipping them off?”
“They’re not just maids, they’re brides. And brides travel with stuff.”
Hugh stopped in the rutted path and glowered down at him.
“And you would know this because … ?”
“I was wedded once.”
“What?” Hugh frowned and searched Graham’s broad, pleasant face.
“It’s true. I was wedded early on … at seventeen … to an heiress who was all of thirteen. She came with enough stuff to fill Windsor Castle.”
“But you’re not married now. What happened to her?”
“She died in a fever that swept through the shire.” The knight’s face took on an odd, wistful cast. “She was a sweet thing. Cheerful. Biddable. Pleasant.”
“So it was you who got the one,” Hugh said, continuing on.
Graham sighed and followed.
“Women aren’t so bad.”
“Yes, they are. They’re a plague upon mankind. Fickle, flighty, irrational, undisciplined, faithless … carnality embodied … smoldering heaps of ensnaring d
esire …”
“Sweet Jehoshaphat, have you been translating Saint Augustine again?” It was Graham’s turn to look disgusted. “I wish the king would keep you out of that monastery library.”
“And I wish he’d let me stay there. Instead he sends me charging off at the head of a column of randy, home-starved soldiers to haul back a clutch of nubile, marriageable young temptresses—”
“Who have been raised in a nunnery,” Graham inserted.
“Where all of their true urges and inclinations have been suppressed.”
Graham brightened visibly. “You think so? You think they’ll be ripe and eager for the plucking?” He grinned. “God, I hope so! If any of them have red hair, I want to be first in line!”
“Not you, too.” Hugh gave his friend a shove, but had to work to avoid a smile. “I’ll have enough trouble with the rest of these drooling idiots.”
“Not drooling. Just anxious to be home.” Graham canted a look at him as they reached the tents. “Aren’t you the least bit curious about these maidens?”
Hugh paused in the midst of settling on a folding bench in front of his tent and looked up with a faintly wicked smile.
“Have you ever seen the Duke of Avalon?”
“No.”
“Well, I have. And if these females are any of his seed, they’ll be nothing to look at, believe me.”
Graham seemed a bit deflated. “Still … even plain as burlap, a woman who is willing can be worth a lot to a man who is wanting.”
If that was meant to be reassuring, it missed the mark by a mile.
“In any case,” the goodly Graham continued with a shrug, “it’s a measure of the king’s trust in you that he would send you on such a mission.”
Hugh thought about that for a moment, remembering the twinkle in Edward’s eye and the snickering in the great hall when he was charged with the responsibility of retrieving the Duke of Avalon’s daughters from a French convent. Edward trusted him? Edward was taunting him. His jaw flexed in annoyance. Sending him on such an errand and assigning him a force of intemperate, ignoble wretches who had been away from home for so long they’d forgotten every bit of Christian behavior they’d ever … and after all of the loyalty and service he had rendered …
A thatch-headed fellow running toward them caught Hugh’s eye, and he straightened, drawing Graham to attention as well. The fellow called out his name and when Hugh beckoned with a wave, he lumbered up and stood heaving for breath before gasping out a message.
“She wants ye.” More wheezing and panting. “Th’ abbess.”
Chloe stood in the colonnade across from the inner gate with her heart beating in her throat, watching the abbess welcome the English king’s men to the convent. They were huge and plated with armor and, as they passed, they smelled of horse and leather mingled with a peculiar vinegary tang that piqued both her interest and anxiety. Drawn by the unknown and compelled by her desire to find a way to join the maids leaving for England, she followed the abbess and the Englishmen and slipped inside the paneled audience chamber behind them.
The abbess seated herself in her ornate chair and motioned the knights to take the chairs across the large center table from her. They removed their helms, tucked them under their arms, and sat down heavily. Their expressions, as Chloe moved around the wall to better observe them, were utterly grim.
“I have sent for you so that we may agree on the time of your departure and so that you will know our requirements for the maids’ conveyance,” the abbess declared. “You will be escorting our maidens to London and marriage, for which they must take dower goods. We require three wagons for the baggage—large hay wagons will suffice—and drivers who can be—”
“Three wagons?” The tall, dark knight’s voice rumbled forth like the Almighty’s must have from Sinai. “For baggage?”
“Along with drivers who can be trusted,” the abbess finished her thought and adamantly continued. “And of course, we shall need someone to help load them. Then there is the matter of transporting the maids themselves. We shall require two smallish or one good-sized cart.”
“Out of the question,” the tall knight declared, meeting the abbess’s gaze full on … a potentially disastrous bit of bravado. “Tell me how many females will be traveling with us, and I will secure them mounts.”
“Our maids are unfamiliar with horses,” the abbess declared tautly. “As I said. Sir Hugh, carts are required.”
“And we must supply drivers,” the shorter, fairer knight echoed, catching Sir Hugh’s gaze and leading it directly to Chloe, who stood several paces away, watching with widened eyes.
She felt the commanding knight’s attention fall on her like a touch, then travel boldly over her, lingering on her hair, her face, and her breasts. She watched his mouth draw into a grim line and blushed furiously.
He bridled at her modest reaction and turned a dark look on the abbess.
“Perhaps I should see the rest of these maids I am to escort.”
“Their looks are not important.” The abbess folded her hands on the table and narrowed her eyes.
“Not to you, perhaps,” Sir Hugh declared irritably. “But if my men are to be in close contact with them for the duration of the journey, I may have to take precautions to ensure their safety.” This time something in his intense gaze communicated his full intent to the abbess, who frowned.
“Chloe”—the abbess motioned her forward—“go and find Alaina, Helen, Lisette, or Margarete.”
Chloe’s mind was racing, so as she hurried along the colonnade and through the courtyard she nearly bowled over Alaina and Lisette as she rounded the corner toward the maids’ dormitory. They flushed and sputtered excuses as they righted themselves, and Chloe realized they had been lurking at a corner, peering toward the doors of the main hall.
“The abbess sent me for you. Come with me.” Chloe seized them by the hands and dragged them toward the hall.
“Have you seen them up close?” Alaina asked anxiously.
“What are they like?” Lisette demanded, halting and pulling on Chloe to make her stop as well. She turned to face them and, seeing their anxiety, responded with all of the poise she could muster.
“They’re just our escorts,” she declared, “but they’re large and powerful and, unless I miss my guess, not especially happy to have such duty.”
It was only when they reached the audience chamber and she opened the door that she realized she had said “our escorts” … included herself in the group … and that the others had by all appearances accepted it. She smiled weakly. There were advantages in being known throughout the convent as the abbess’s able and trustworthy clerk.
When she ushered them into the audience chamber, the men turned to watch them approach, and the silence that fell was almost deafening. The abbess beckoned them forward, and Chloe pulled the others to the side of the table, where they squeezed her hands and nudged closer to her, making it all but impossible for her to withdraw. The ambiguity of her presence between them made her heart beat faster, but no one questioned her being there.
Sir Hugh rose with his scowl deepening and a muscle in his very square jaw flexing. He glared pointedly at his comrade, whose huge eyes and gaping mouth communicated something akin to delight, then turned to examine the trio with mounting horror.
“These are the maids I am supposed to escort all the way to London?” He seemed to choke on those last words. “The Duke of Avalon’s daughters?”
“Of course,” the abbess said, rising, her face paling so that it blended seamlessly with her wimple. “Why? Is something amiss?”
“I cannot take them like this.” The tall knight continued to stare in horror at them, then forcibly shook off the effects of his shock. “They will have to be … disguised … their faces hidden, their shapes disguised.”
“Disguised? Whatever for? You have men to protect them, do you not?”
“It is my men that—see here, the men I lead are not my own. They crossed
the channel with Edward, fought heroically, and have held these lands for months without relief.” Seeing that his words missed their mark, he dropped his gauntlet-clad fists onto the table with a thud and leaned over them with eyes glittering. “They are far from home, starved for comfort, and not to be trifled with. Do I make myself clear enough, Reverend Mother?”
Apparently so. The abbess looked downright skewered by his words. She turned to look at the girls on either side of Chloe, evaluating them in a new light. After a moment she turned back to the knight, scowled, and nodded.
“For their own safety, then,” she said irritably. “But just how do you suggest I disguise both their faces and forms? Put bags over their heads and wrap them in horse blankets?”
Three pairs of eyes now turned on Chloe and the others; one registering motherly dismay, one monastic horror, and the third, bold male appreciation.
“H-how about habits, Reverend Mother?” Chloe spoke up impulsively. “Wimples and veils on bowed heads obscure faces.” When no silencing scowl descended, she hurried on. “And they have plenty of room for stuffing. In truth, no one looks twice at a group of plump, prayerful sisters on pilgrimage.”
Habits. Her heart seemed to beat in her throat as she waited for their response to her flash of duplicitous inspiration. Habits, she had just realized, could be made to hide identities from more than just homesick soldiers.
The abbess looked to the formidable Sir Hugh, who pulled back across the table, glowering, but gave a nod of approval. She turned to Chloe with a grim smile of approbation.
“Habits, it is. I shall leave it up to you and Sister Archibald to find some old habits and fashion whatever will be needed.”
Two mornings later, as a pale silver sun began to pierce the mist of the damp spring dawn, the main courtyard of the convent filled on one side with armed soldiers on horseback and on the other with nuns and maidens clustered in skittish little knots that tightened whenever an oath or a burst of laughter issued from the soldiers. Between the two factions stood three overloaded hay wagons and a large mule cart meant to carry the maids themselves. On the seat of each conveyance sat a driver handpicked by Sir Hugh himself … mostly grizzled veterans who waited with undisguised resentment at having to abandon a perfectly good saddle for such duty.
