by Betina Krahn
Chloe watched with rising concern as he paced furiously, uttered several colorful variations on “damnation”—which caused her to put her hands over Margarete’s ears—and then dragged Sir Graham out of earshot for what appeared to be a volatile consultation. At length they returned to the wagon to announce that the ship had undoubtedly weighed anchor to outrun some weather and would return soon. They would descend to the beach and camp there for the night, in order to be ready to leave the instant the ship appeared.
“We are not going to the village?” she asked, glancing toward the cottages huddled a half a mile away, at the top of the cliffs.
“No need,” Sir Hugh declared, averting his eyes as he climbed back onto the wagon seat.
“Of course there is need.” She took up that gauntlet, scuttling across the barrels and crates to once again stand on her knees beside the driver’s seat. “We’re hungry and the hampers the sisters provided are empty.”
“We’ll eat aboard ship,” he responded tersely.
“Which, presumably, will be before we all die of hunger.”
“One can only hope.” His tone left ambiguous the nature of that hope.
“We have other reasons for wanting to visit the village,” she said irritably. “We need certain curatives.” That got his attention.
“Someone is ill?” He turned slightly and gave them a furtive glance.
“Bitten, actually.”
He showed a satisfying alarm. “Who? Where? By what?”
“All of us. All over.” She pulled out the neck of the tunic she wore. “By the disgusting vermin that inhabit these garments along with us.”
“Fleas.” He gave a snort of dismissal and again slapped the reins.
She rolled up her sleeve and shoved a naked arm in front of him, causing him to jerk to one side to avoid contact with it. But he couldn’t avoid seeing that her skin was marred by a dozen small red bites and streaks from scratching.
“We look more like plague victims than noble brides.” She watched him glance quickly at her arm, then away. “You need further proof?”
Instantly he was surrounded by a forest of bared arms that were peppered with angry red spots and well-scratched patches.
“Of course, I don’t have much experience in such matters,” Chloe said, glaring at him through that alarming display. “But I imagine that arriving at the king’s castle looking like half-eaten fleas’ dinners could damage our value as ‘matrimonial pearls-of-great-price.’ ” When he glanced up, she smiled with a vengeful air. “It could appear as if we hadn’t been treated well on the journey.”
He turned, against his better judgment, and beheld five blotchy, well-scratched faces. Then they began to open their tunics to show him the bites on their slim, elegant throats and the tops of their creamy breasts.
“Damnation.” He slammed his eyes shut. “Why didn’t you just tell me they were being eaten alive?”
Despite its location and frequent traffic with seagoing vessels, the village was not especially well supplied with fresh water, herbals for nostrums, or clean accommodations. After an exhaustive search, Sir Hugh managed to find a large metal tub and a cottager on the upland side of the village who for a few pence would allow them the use of his hearth. And while Graham was busy locating and retrieving the maids’ trunks for them, Hugh was forced to escort Chloe from cottage to cottage in search of some acceptable goose grease, dried spurge, a bit of fresh cowslip, and some ground oats.
From her trunk she produced a mortar and pestle, and while the others began to bathe in the oat water she mixed for them, she worked to concoct a soothing unguent on a small table outside the cottage door, while Hugh paced nearby. He paused periodically to inspect what she was doing.
“Are you certain you know what you’re doing?” Hugh demanded.
“I studied herbal remedies with our convent physician.”
“Studied?”
“Of course.”
“Maids in a convent study?” He gave a snort of disbelief. Then, snagged by the memory of something she’d said, he began to search and assess her anew. “How do you know about the Trojan horse?”
“I read Homer’s great poem. The convent had a goodly number of books. The abbess taught me Latin and English and some Greek and Italian.”
“You read?” He nearly strangled on the words.
“All of us do … at least church Latin. Though, in truth, some of my sisters have no real interest in it. And unless used, it is a skill quickly forgotten.”
“Females who read.” He gave a skeptical roll of the eyes, then peered over her shoulder at the grease and herbs turning into a green salve. “Are you sure that stuff won’t burn holes in their skin?”
“It’s just grease and herbs. But perhaps you should test it.” She dipped her finger in the bowl and deposited a glob on the back of his hand.
“Hey!” He jerked back, but she grabbed both of his wrists to keep him from wiping it off. “Let go.”
“Give it a moment,” she ordered, tightening her grip on him. “Do you feel anything?”
“No!” he declared adamantly.
“You’re certain? No burning? No itching?”
“No.” He reddened, both embarrassed and relieved.
“The only thing you’re in danger of,” she said tartly, “is having softer skin.”
“I don’t want to be any softer.” The minute he said it he felt strangely exposed and wished he could unsay it. Clearly, she sensed how revealing a comment it was. After a moment she looked up, searching his face. He refused to meet her gaze.
“Very few of us get to be what we want, Sir Hugh.” Her hands gentled on his wrists. “Heaven makes its plans without us.”
Whatever Heaven’s plans, he told himself vehemently, they could not include the unholy anticipation surging in his veins or this overpowering urge to lose himself in the sky-blue eyes that were tugging at him. And while the Almighty undoubtedly created those rose-petal soft lips and that curvaceous little body, He could never have intended them to send salacious heat boiling up the walls of a man’s body the way it was his. Clearly, Heaven wasn’t the only agency making plans for the inhabitants of the here-below!
In spite of that inner theological debate, he found himself gravitating closer to her and turning his head to meet her gaze.
Fire-kissed locks were threatening to escape the thick braid lying on her shoulder. His throat tightened. Her throat was so slender and soft … skin delicate as lily petals. His jaw clenched. The sun had caused her cheeks to bloom with becoming color—
“Where do you want these?” Sir Graham’s voice broke over them and caused them to lurch apart. Chloe bumped into the table, whirled, and looked up to find him holding a small trunk and leading a contingent of men in habits carrying other baggage.
“Here, by the door.” She busied herself with settling the trunks and missed the amusement in Sir Graham’s face and the anger in Sir Hugh’s.
“I’ll be seeing to the horses,” Hugh declared. “The rest of you get back to the damned beach and get out of those damnable women’s weeds!”
With her cheeks aflame, Chloe watched him stride away.
“That is the most profane man I’ve ever seen,” she said irritably.
Sir Graham, who was bending toward a sizable crack in the rough cottage door, snapped upright and looked at her in surprise.
“Hugh? Not hardly.” He strolled over, bent to take a sniff at the stuff she was concocting, and then straightened and followed her frown to his friend’s back. “The man’s as close to a monk as can be found at Edward’s court.”
That jolted Chloe.
“A monk? His every other word is a condemnation of someone or something to everlasting torment. What order would permit such blasphemy?”
“He isn’t always like this.” Graham smiled ruefully. “Ordinarily he is the sanest, most rational man I know. He has the king’s full trust and richly deserves it. It’s just that … he doesn’t exactly …”
“Oh, no. That is, I don’t believe he personally bears women any ill will.” Graham extended a hand for hers and led her to a bench by the cottage door. “He has associated with too few actual females to be able to judge. Mostly the ladies of Edward’s household—who, admittedly, are not always the highest and best representatives of their sex—and the serving women he must deal with in the ordinary course of days.”
“Has he no mother or sisters? No kinswomen?”
Graham raised his eyes overhead as if looking for guidance in answering.
“His mother died early. She bore only the three sons. Hugh was the third, and not required for assuring succession to the title, so he was sent to a monastery to be trained for a life in holy service.”
“He was raised in a monastery?” She looked with surprise toward the place where Sir Hugh had disappeared. “It’s a wonder he hasn’t shaved his head and donned a hair shirt.”
“Not for lack of trying.” He chuckled. “Growing up, he wanted nothing more than to take vows and spend his life in scholarly bliss among the books and illuminations in the abbey library. I was sent to the abbey for a time and was tutored along with him. He was a quick and able student. But the abbot had other plans. He insisted Hugh be trained additionally in languages and the arts of diplomacy and war … made him into a warrior-monk, like the Templars. Then he handed him over to the king … a gift, as it were. A very useful gift. One that would constantly remind the king of the abbot’s loyalty.”
“A tool,” she said quietly, her mood suddenly sober.
Graham nodded. “He still believes he will one day be dismissed from court to enter the monastery and take vows. But I doubt that will ever happen.”
“Why do you say that?”
“His eldest brother was killed five years ago in a border skirmish. His second brother was killed at Crecy. Like it or not, when his father dies, Hugh will succeed him as Earl of Sennett.”
The irony of it struck her to the very core. Both she and he had been raised in religious orders. But while she yearned to make a life outside the narrow confines of religious life and vocation, he would gladly reject precious family ties and worldly freedoms to return to them.
“Chloe?” Lisette’s voice intruded on her thoughts, and she looked up to find her sister-by-adoption peering at her and Graham from the edge of the partly opened door. “Oh, I did not know you were busy with le bon monsieur. I beg you, look inside my trunk for a length of toweling. I would not ask it of you, but”—she glanced with unabashed flirtatiousness at Sir Graham—“I have already taken off all my clothes.”
He sprang to his feet as if shot from a bow.
“I have duties.” He backed away, his gaze fixed adamantly on the toes of his boots. “If you need assistance, you have but to say the word.”
As he fled, Chloe planted her hands on her waist and scowled at the one responsible for his haste. “You must learn to be more modest of eye and speech, Lisette. If you continue to look at men the way you just did Sir Graham, they will most certainly misunderstand.”
“Oh”—Lisette glanced after the retreating Graham with a sultry smile—“I doubt that.”
Hugh made his way down the darkened path that hugged the side of the cliff, headed for the fires on the beach below the village. The food and ale that lined his belly had improved his mood. Now, as he paused to survey the camp, he didn’t see anything that indicated female presence, and his mood improved still more. He took a deep breath of sea air and strolled down onto the sand.
Two days were gone and, with any luck, only two remained before he discharged his duty and deposited the five maids in the king’s privy chamber. It was heartening to think of the surprise in store for Edward when he beheld Avalon’s surprisingly fair and nubile progeny. It was less so to think of what would happen to the maids when they reached Edward’s court.
He recalled their artless questions about Windsor. Their girlish hopes and dreams shone through their carefully edited curiosity. They wanted young and handsome husbands … men of knightly birth, priestly morals, and princely disposition. And they were bound to be disappointed. Edward would realize instantly what a plum had fallen into his lap and would undoubtedly give them to the most advantageously wealthy and militarily capable of his unmarried nobles. Men like the old Earl of Ketchum … with his fat purse, rickety legs, and fanatical passion for hunting hounds.
Just imagine Chloe of Guibray with—
No, don’t imagine.
He shook off thoughts of what their arrival at Edward’s castle would mean and trudged on through the sand.
The driftwood fires cast a golden sphere of security over the wagons and the men camped on the beach. The tide was beginning to come in and the gentle rush of breaking waves provided a rhythmic and restful background for the sounds of their voices. For them, the coming voyage signaled the end of an arduous and uncertain journey. They had boarded ships bound for France more than a year and a half ago and in the intervening months had battled their way across the Aquitaine, then contended with rogue lords and defiant houses on the border between French- and English-held territory. Now they were on their way home. He watched their faces and envied them their anticipation.
For him, home was not a possibility. A small, gray stone abbey near Oxford was as close to a home as he had ever known. But it would likely be a long time before he would see its gates and cloister again, much less take up a life there. He was bound to Edward for as long as the king desired his service. And even when the king did release him, there would still be the problem of his inheritance and his old father’s dynastic demands.
He settled himself just outside the circle of firelight, on an upturned barrel beside one of the wagons. His thoughts began to drift, and he found himself stroking the back of his hand … trying to decide if it felt softer in any way.
Alarmed, he sat upright. He was not softer. Not in any damned way. He was a seasoned warrior … a soldier in the armies of both his God and his king … impervious to the wiles and enticements of the world. Immediately the memory of Chloe of Guibray’s face—the details of her hair, her skin, and eyes—rose in his mind’s eye to challenge that claim.
An embattled soldier, honesty demanded he admit.
Banishing those images of her took such concentration that he failed to realize, at first, that another object had entered his vision. Pale and rectangular. Bobbing between sea and horizon. Moving steadily closer.
When he succeeded in wrestling Chloe of Guibray back behind the door of the forbidden in his mind, he finally saw it.
A sail.
Chapter Seven
Hugh jumped up and looked around for Graham. Spotting him across the fire, he called out and pointed toward the sail.
“The ship!”
Suddenly the entire camp was on its feet, looking seaward and cheering.
The ship Fairwind followed the tide in to a boisterous welcome. By the time the first longboats reached the beach, Hugh had already organized his men into work details, setting them to transferring cargo from the wagons into the longboats and ultimately into the ship’s hold. They worked eagerly, exchanging banter of home, and some even broke into song.
After consulting with the ship’s mate on the space available, Hugh positioned himself on the beach to sort the horses they would take and oversee the hazardous process of swimming them out to the ship. He assigned to Graham the task of driving the wagons and cart back up the cliff road, delivering them to the local stableman, and collecting the payment they had negotiated. Against his better judgment, he also charged Graham with collecting the maids and their belongings and hauling them down to the beach.
He was thigh-deep in surf, helping to drag one of the longboats ashore when Graham returned with the cart full of trunks. Behind him in a tightly knit group, came the maids on foot. Hugh waded out of the water toward them and st
opped by the fire, momentarily speechless.
They’d been a serious distraction before, but now were nothing short of a temptation. Their gowns were simple and they wore small, plain caps over their unbound hair, but such modest dress only emphasized the extravagance of their natural beauty. One was tall, cool, and delicate, with flaxen hair and skin like alabaster … another was short and freckled, with a torrent of vibrant red tresses and pouty-child lips. The third was a sultry, dark-eyed vision with a swirl of black hair and curves that tried the seams of her gown. And the fourth was as elegant and regal as a Greek statue, with eyes like emeralds and skin like polished marble. It was as if they had been purposefully chosen to represent the full range of feminine attractions.
He glanced around and found that every man left on the beach had stopped dead and was staring slack-jawed at them.
Chagrined by his own silence, he motioned Graham to begin loading their trunks into the longboat, and then looked out at the ship they would have to share. By the time they reached London, it was going to seem awfully damned small. He wondered if it would be possible to stow the maids somewhere below deck and out of sight … say … with the horses. He could just imagine what she would say to that.
“Chloe of Guibray,” he demanded, turning back to them with a scowl. It was a testament to their powers of distraction that he only now realized she was missing. “Where is she?”
“She told us to come ahead,” the one called Alaina answered as she and the others stared in wonder at the longboats and the ship anchored offshore. “That is our ship? We’re leaving soon?”
“With the tide,” he said irritably. “You just left her there?”
“She said she would be a while yet,” the little redhead informed him.
“We don’t have a while … we’re leaving now.” He rubbed his face vigorously. “Graham! Get these females loaded on the next boat and stay with them.” He struck off for that isolated cottage, muttering, “If she makes us miss this tide—”
The others were gone and she was finally alone. Heaving a sigh of relief, Chloe added another log to the fire, filled two buckets from the rain barrel, and laid out her precious soap and toweling. As much as she loved her new “sisters,” she was in dire need of a bit of peace and solitude just now. She stripped her male garments, muttering “good riddance,” and stepped into the oat water. Closing her eyes to the state of the gray slurry, she knelt in the tub and began to splash it on her and rub handfuls of it over her skin. When she was well-scrubbed and covered with a thin, oaty paste, she reached for one of the buckets of rainwater and rinsed herself clean. Then she wetted her hair and used her soap on it. She had just finished her hair and stood for a final rinse when a loud voice outside the door caused her to nearly jump out of her skin.
