The Wife Test

by Betina Krahn

  “That will be sufficient, thank you.”

  “But I have quite a number of instructive passages. Like: ‘A woman is a deep ditch, and a strange woman is a narrow pit. She lieth in wait for a prey.’ ”

  “That”—she shook a finger at him—“is despicable. Misquoting Scripture to suit your purpose.”

  The accusation clearly surprised him.

  “I do not misquote Scripture. To do so is blasphemy.”

  “So it is.”

  “I have most certainly not committed blasphemy.”

  “It is not ‘woman’ condemned in that passage, it is ‘whore,’ ” she declared, sending an audible gasp through the maids behind her. “It refers to an infamous and immoral woman.”

  “Whatever gave you such a ridiculous idea?” he demanded.

  “My own two eyes. I have read that passage myself, numerous times.”

  “Read it where?”

  “In the convent library.”

  “Pardon … Lady Chloe?” Sir Graham’s voice intruded.

  “Yes? What?” she snapped.

  “We are prepared to recite a Bible passage now.”

  Chloe glanced at Sir Graham, who drew her gaze to the other men, who nodded.

  It was only when she turned back to Sir Hugh that she realized her nose was scarcely an inch from his and that she was flushed and breathing hard. She lurched back a step. It was all she could do to nod to Sir Graham to begin and then stalk back to a seat on the bench among the others.

  The men’s recitations came largely from the customary catechism for lads of noble birth: the Pater Noster, the Ten Commandments, the Beatitudes, and sundry well-known Psalms. As they recited she forced her attention to their chosen passages and the way they presented themselves.

  Feeling oddly removed from the possibilities they represented, she looked instead to the rapt faces of her sister maidens, on the bench beside her. Their demeanor was admirably modest and their cheeks were blushed with virtuous pleasure. But their eyes—bright with eagerness, anticipation, and a hint of determination—told their true state. They were already sorting out which man they liked best.

  It struck her forcefully: what if she didn’t agree with their choices? Worse still—what if two decided they liked the same man?

  “That’s done. Thank God.” Sir Hugh strode into her line of sight and stopped with his arms crossed, the very picture of indignation. “What’s next? Reciting the provisions of the Magna Carta? Recounting the lineages of every English king back to Alfred the Great? Or perhaps tracing the Biblical ‘begats’ back to Adam himself? All useful stuff.” He leaned tauntingly closer. “A husband never knows when he might need to recite his wife into a deep sleep.”

  His sardonic tone sliced through the bonds that had confined her authoritative little abbess to the dark recesses of her heart. She rose, determined to retaliate by turning his scorn to her advantage.

  “I appreciate your efforts, my lords. We all do. In all fairness, I had planned to have my sisters recite their favorites as well … as a demonstration of their mental ability and attention to religious duty. But I see now it would only bore you.” She ignored the four shaking heads behind Sir Hugh and the accompanying protests of interest. “I have heard my sisters recite on numerous occasions and already know which passages they favor. Clearly, Sir Hugh feels no need to hear them.” Her sisters sent her heartfelt smiles.

  She struck a pose and clasped her hands together with a deliberateness copied from the earthly template of her inner abbess.

  “As to what comes next … I can say without fear of error that all five of us share a common and regrettable deficit.” Her sisters, no less than their intended husbands, stared at her in dismay. Even Sir Hugh was caught back by her declaration.

  “But it is a deficit that with your help may be remedied. In providing assistance, you will test our willingness to learn, to apply ourselves, and to meet life’s challenges with courage and resourcefulness.”

  “Just what is this deficit?” Alaina demanded, a heartbeat ahead of Sir Hugh’s demand to know the same.

  The husband candidates, the maids, Sir Hugh, the people crowding the archway and hanging from the windows above … all strained closer to learn the duke’s daughters’ singular flaw. It was as if the castle walls themselves inhaled in expectation.

  “None of us knows how to ride a horse.”

  There was a collective murmur of surprise and, among the husband candidates, a covert exhalation of relief.

  “That is hardly news,” Sir Hugh declared testily. “We had to cart you all the way from France like barrels of—”

  “Rare and precious wine,” she supplied. “What is news, my lords, is that you will be required to teach us how to ride. The quality of your instruction will prove an aspect of your character, and our willingness to learn will prove an aspect of ours.”

  This time not a single word of contention was raised.

  It was brilliant, actually. A contrivance that would have done the abbess herself proud. Learning to ride was a time-consuming process that would require considerable interaction between maids and men, but would not focus so directly on the fact that they were both evaluating and being evaluated.

  As they adjourned to the stables, she had a further brainstorm: each day each maid would be taught by a different man. That way she could observe all the possible pairings, and they would have the chance to get to know one another better. When they arrived at the stable doors and she announced that condition, the men were amenable, declaring it reasonable, and the maids acquiesced.

  She was feeling almost smug as the lords arranged for and brought out saddled palfreys and the group sorted themselves rather naturally into pairs of teacher and pupil. As one by one the men helped the maids onto the side-facing saddles, Chloe found herself standing and watching. Just standing and watching. There were five maids and only four husband candidates.

  Why was it that her brilliant plans always had one devastating flaw?

  As the lords began to lead the horse-mounted maids down the hill to the grassy park that lay just beyond the inner curtain wall, Lisette saw Chloe standing alone by the stable doors and called out, “Oh, but, Chloe, you must come, too.”

  “No, no. You go on,” she called with forced enthusiasm. “I will make up the lesson later, when the Earl of Ketchum arrives.”

  She watched them turn quickly back to the business of becoming acquainted. Their eagerness caused a physical tug at the center of her chest. A potent and totally unexpected longing swept over her, not unlike the ones she had experienced at the convent as she listened to the other girls speak of their families. She straightened, squared her shoulders, and reminded herself she was keeping her promise to Sister Archibald, seeing to her sisters’ welfare. She was doing her duty.

  She really should walk along after them … watch to see how they were getting along and who seemed to pair well with whom. But the prospect of watching their pleasure in discovering both the young lords and their own feelings filled her with a dread she hadn’t anticipated. Raising her chin, she glanced distractedly around and slammed into Sir Hugh’s formidable glare.

  He was leaning back against the corral fence with his arms folded and his legs crossed at the ankles, staring at her as if he were trying to evaporate her with just the heat of his gaze. She froze, feeling oddly panicky and exposed. Then, just as her discomfort reached the do-something-do-anything stage, he dropped his fists to his sides, rolled off another word of the sort one had to report in the confessional, and strode furiously into the stable.

  Chapter Ten

  “Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn!”

  Hugh stalked down the stable alley, refusing to count those among his tally for the confessional. He damned well deserved a bit of leniency; his worst nightmare was coming true. He was saddled with Chloe of Guibray … having to talk to her, having to look at her, and, unless he could think of some way around it, probably having to touch her, too. If the road to perdition
was paved with looks, that pavement was greased every step of the way with touches.

  Selecting an older, gentle-looking mare, he led it out of the stall and sent one of the grooms for a lady saddle and a leading halter.

  Infuriating female. He felt his heart beating faster. She had just stood there, watching the others ride off together with that look on her face. The memory of it clung to the walls of his mind like pitch … a trace of sadness in her eyes, a hint of wistfulness …

  The groom returned and he grabbed the halter and bridle and fitted them over the horse’s head. When he emerged from the stable, she was already through the gate in the curtain wall and halfway down the slope leading to the green.

  “Stop right where you are!” He lengthened his stride to catch up with her.

  She turned, looking startled, and continued backing several steps as he thudded down the slope toward her with the horse in tow.

  “You didn’t think you were going to be exempted from this, did you?”

  “It’s not necessary. I have plenty to do until—”

  “Oh, but it is necessary. I have a test to give, too, remember?” He grabbed her by the waist and instinctively dragged her against him. Not a good idea. Thrusting her back to arm’s length, he lifted her off the ground and shoved her up onto the saddle, where she teetered and flailed.

  “You cannot mean to make me ride this beast in this fashion,” she declared, struggling for both balance and dignity.

  “Lady saddle or astride … it makes no difference to me.” He gave an exaggerated wince as he seized one of her knees between a thumb and forefinger and directed it over the wooden bow of the saddle to stabilize her. “But you should know that if you choose ‘astride,’ you will scandalize other ladies of the court who consider this saddle a great improvement, and you probably won’t be able to walk for a week.” He watched her absorb that information and weigh the possible consequences. A lowering of her shoulders betrayed her decision.

  “You grip the bow of the saddle with your legs. That’s how you stay on.” Then he gathered the reins and handed them to her. “These are what you use to direct the horse.”

  “I know that,” she snapped. “I was raised in a convent, not a barrel.”

  “Your left foot goes in the stirrup.” He placed it there.

  “And my right?” She wagged the slipper-clad foot hooked around the bow of the saddle.

  “Can do whatever it pleases, as long I don’t have to watch.”

  Watch. The word stirred an unwelcome eddy of anticipation in him. Those legs … bared that first day in the cart … clad in a man’s tights … standing naked in a dim cottage. Memory melted into possibility as his mind filled with an image of those cool, silky limbs wrapped around his—

  A tug on his hands caused him to look down, and he realized with no little horror that he was still holding the foot resting in the stirrup. Dropping it as if it had just sprouted fangs and scales, he grabbed the guide rein and pulled the horse toward the grassy expanse of the castle green.

  “How am I supposed to watch the others if I am busy trying to hold life and limb together on the back of this beast?” she demanded, gripping the edge of the saddle with both hands as she swayed back and forth.

  “You don’t have to watch them. I will.”

  “You haven’t the faintest notion of what to watch them for.”

  “I don’t?” He refused to look up. “Well, then … why don’t I just watch to see which one of these poor wretches is most likely to put up with Alaina’s preening and appetite for adoration … which will be able to live with Helen’s royal airs and ambition … which one can suffer Margarete’s inability to apply her wits for more than a heartbeat … and which is least likely to be reduced to a cinder by Lisette’s all-too-visible heat?”

  “Is that what you see when you look at my sisters? I’ll have you know … Alaina is a good bit more than just a vain girl. She took it upon herself to gather the remnants of woven goods from all over the convent and used them to make garments for children whose mothers had died. And during an outbreak of illness last year, aloof, ‘ambitious’ Helen went without sleep for days in order to tend the sick. I’ll have you know … Margarete is not so scatter-witted that she cannot make certain everyone around her has water to wash, fresh garments to wear, and a clean place to sleep. And our Lisette is as true-hearted and capable as she is passionate.”

  He paused to look up, considering her words as he studied her.

  “And you? What have I missed about you … besides that you’re querulous and stubborn and unholy full of yourself?” A vengeful glint appeared in his eye. “Oh, yes—you’re scared to death of horses.”

  “I am not.”

  “Then I think it is time you demonstrate your ability to ‘apply yourself’ and—how did you put it—your ‘willingness to meet life’s challenges.’ ” He smiled at the way her face paled, then continued on down the greensward with her, sending several goats, sundry domestic poultry, and a bedraggled pair of peafowl scurrying out of the way.

  “Use your heel on the horse’s side to get her to move, pull back on the reins to get her to stop. And keep your mind on what you’re doing,” he called back over his shoulder. “The moment a horse thinks you don’t have the upper hand, you’ll find yourself dumped flat on your arse.”

  “Sounds like the abbess’s advice on husbands,” Chloe muttered.

  “What?” He glanced over his shoulder, and she gave him a determinedly blank look. “Another thing,” he continued, looking forward again. “Every horse is different. Some are stubborn and some are eager to please. Some are wicked smart and others are dumb as dirt.”

  “Just like husbands,” she murmured.

  There was a hitch in his stride.

  “Did you say something?”

  “Not me.”

  “You have to treat each horse differently,” he went on, glancing irritably over his shoulder. “Some need a firm hand, others a kind word. Some will kill themselves to please you—literally run their hearts out. Some would just as soon kick you through a wall. Establish your authority early on and you won’t have any trouble.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  This time he heard her and turned with a testy look.

  “Riding involves a good bit more than just climbing aboard a horse and roaring off.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Too many people believe that telling the front from the back end of a horse is all they need to know.”

  Her inner abbess seized control and sank her gaze straight into his.

  “In that way, riding is a great deal like marriage,” she said irritably. “Too many people think they know all about it, when, in fact, they don’t know heads from tails.”

  He refused to look at her again until they reached the flattest part of the green, where he pointed to a low stone-and-rail fence that separated the greensward from the knights’ practice field.

  “Ride down to that fence, turn, and ride back.”

  Summoning all of her courage, she complied and soon found herself sitting on horseback, wedged headfirst against that barrier, unable to get the horse to move. No amount of pleading, banging her foot against the beast’s side, or pulling on the reins seemed to make a difference. She was stuck.

  Looking down the fence, she spotted three of her four sisters in a similar predicament and sagged with relief. It wasn’t just her!

  “Having difficulty?” When she turned around, Sir Hugh was striding toward her looking entirely too justified by her performance.

  “It’s this horse. I don’t think he likes me.”

  “She doesn’t have to like you. She just has to obey you.”

  “I believe I would do better with another mount,” she said stubbornly.

  “And just which horse do you think you would do better with?” He gestured toward the others as he took hold of the horse’s halter and pulled the animal around to start them moving again.

  He had a
point. None of the palfreys looked a day under “ancient,” and their temperaments seemed to range from indifferent to oblivious.

  “Perhaps I would benefit from a change of teacher,” she said shortly.

  “Martyrs are in regrettably short supply.” He swept a hand toward the others. “But if you think you’d do better with one of them, be my guest.”

  She rode across the green and then pulled back on the reins to halt and observe the husband candidates.

  Sir Jaxton was clearly annoyed at the way Margarete refused to sit up in the saddle and threw herself around the horse’s neck at the slightest bit of jostling. An irate Lord Simon was arguing with Alaina as he tried to adjust her posture and suggested she relax in the saddle so that she didn’t bounce with every step her mount took. A grim Lord William kept having to rescue Helen from a horse that seemed determined to bite her and then rescue the horse from Helen’s indignant swats of retaliation. Even more exasperated was Sir Graham, who was having to hold a strangely boneless Lisette by the waist continuously to keep her from sliding out of the saddle. If the rising volume of the instruction was any indication, her brilliant plan was turning into a colossal failure.

  Sir Hugh arrived and rested a hand on the rump of her horse as he followed her gaze to the contentious pairs.

  “Not a pretty sight, is it?” He didn’t try to hide his pleasure in that fact.

  “I believe it would be fair to say that these are not the pairings we will recommend. But I have confidence”—more like a desperate hope, really—“that we will find a satisfactory combination before the week is out.”

  “Assuming they don’t strangle each other first.”

  “An excessively gloomy outlook. I would be more concerned if they were all perfectly patient and polite. With all of your experience of the world, Sir Hugh, I should think you would understand that there are many ways for men and women to come together. Sometimes it takes a while for them to come to appreciate each other’s strengths and accept each other’s weaknesses.”

  He slid his arm from the horse and his expression chilled.