by Betina Krahn
“My experience has nothing to do with this. I was charged with helping to administer this test of yours, and I will do my part. But I don’t have to like it.”
Clearly she had struck a nerve.
“Why do you detest marriage so?” She came right out with it. “You’ve never been wedded yourself. Were you disappointed by someone? Was your parents’ marriage a horror? Or were you poisoned by the opinions of others?”
“Marriage is a necessary evil. Required for the continuation of mankind.” He tossed off the words so quickly and lifelessly that they sounded rote.
“Evil?” She was genuinely surprised. “It was instituted by the Almighty Himself. Did God not create us male and female so that we could come together in marriage?”
“It was and still is an accommodation for the lusts women cause in men. It was meant as a solution for the desires that distract us from spiritual pursuits.”
“Ahhh.” A twisted little nugget of theological wisdom … relic, no doubt, of his monastic upbringing. The abbess had railed about the way some men retreated into monasteries not so much to be close to God, as to escape women. “So you believe that those who marry are flawed and weak.”
“Something like that.” He glanced at her from the corner of his eye.
“And this includes all men who marry?” She tilted her head, studying him and his prickly attitude. “I was thinking of our good king. Do you consider him weak and flawed because he has married?”
“That is entirely different.”
“How so? Is he not a man?”
“No. Not in the usual sense. He is the God-appointed sovereign of the kingdom. The lives of his subjects and the welfare of his lands are in his keeping. He is obligated to beget an heir to secure the succession and the peace and order of the realm.”
“Obligated? Lady Marcella says the king visits the queen often and, by all accounts, enjoys her company. Does he sin in taking pleasure in his ‘obligation’ to his wife and the begetting of his children?”
His nostrils flared with noble outrage.
“If you think to trick me into condemning the king—” He stepped back and gave her horse a sharp smack on the rump that sent it shooting forward.
She struggled to maintain her seat and regain control. The wretch. Let him think he might lose to a well-reasoned argument, and he resorted to unfair tactics. By the time her mount reached the far side of the green, she was able to turn it and urge it into a trot that carried her right back to him.
“You will not condemn the king … but you will blame my sisters, who are ordered into marriage to secure their father’s freedom, and these good lords whom the king has seen fit to send into marriage with them. They are not to blame for these requirements in their lives. Do they have any less an obligation to fulfill their appointed duty than the king has?”
With his jaw clamped tight, he gave her horse another smack and sent it charging full tilt up the length of the green. Again she managed to rein the beast, turn, and ride back to him.
“You disappoint me, Sir Hugh.” Her chest was heaving. “You freely allow for the variation in horses, but not in the hearts and minds of womankind. You declare animals must be handled according to their individual natures, but then treat all women with the same unearned contempt. Saints—do not women deserve at least the consideration you would show to beasts?”
The disturbance visible behind his rigid expression was some satisfaction.
“I confess, I expected greater fairness of mind in you,” she said. “I am sorry to have been so wrong.”
This time he didn’t need to give the horse a smack. She reined sharply around and urged the beast to a run that carried her down the length of the field.
Hugh felt strangely both furious and powerless as he watched her ride away. She believed him to be a woman-hating beast.
And why shouldn’t she? The things he’d said—both in her hearing and outside of it—certainly constituted proof. He suddenly thought of his discussions with Graham. Did his closest friend also see him as narrow and rigid and even a little ridiculous because of the things he’d said about women and marriage?
Memories of a hundred different smirks and titters aimed his way by other courtiers came rushing in on him. The ladies’ resentful looks and taunting winks … the men’s jests about his monkishness … the king’s tongue-in-cheek reference to his experience with women. For the first time, he truly glimpsed himself through the eyes of others: a superior, self-righteous aesthetic given to criticism of women, marriage, and all things pleasurable.
That assessment might be accurate, but it wasn’t entirely fair. The monks who raised him preached fervently that emotion and pleasure were to be experienced and expressed solely in the service of God. He had tried to believe that, but in his heart he had held such dogma at arm’s length, never embracing it fully. Something fundamental in him—fundamentally flawed, he had feared—refused to believe that there should be no love or pleasure or devotion in the world except that which was offered to God. Was that why he so often spouted that belief? Hoping to, trying to own it more fully?
Over the last several years at court and abroad with the king, he had come to see that many of the things he had been taught belonged within a set of cloister walls. There were other truths, different interpretations and expectations for life in the world outside of the monastic community. He had come to see the validity and even the necessity of both ways of living. The change in him had come gradually. He had been aware of and accepted the new developments in his thinking, but had not yet allowed them to transform his speech or his actions. Why was that?
Because it would seem to others that he was simply giving in to the pressures and temptations of the world, he realized with no little shame. Others would say he was just succumbing to his own sinful nature … his flaws and weakness … and he couldn’t bear to be thought of as flawed or weak. Chloe’s troubled face appeared in his mind’s eye. The irony was, she had uncovered in him a fault more insidious than any indulgence in a bit of pleasure: false pride.
Instead of living and upholding something he devoutly believed in, he found himself pretending to revere something he had long since left behind. That dissonance between his beliefs and actions shook him to the depths of his soul.
There was a word for men like him.
Hypocrite.
Chloe persevered in her riding lesson, in spite of the fact that her instructor had retired to the shade of a group of trees overhanging the rock wall and left her on her own. Gradually she made peace with her willful mount and learned to start and stop a horse and to turn in whatever direction she desired. The more proficient she became, the more the tension in her middle uncoiled; the less anxiety she showed, the better the aging mare responded.
Ironically her success came in part from her preoccupation with her volatile exchange with Sir Hugh. It had left her strangely disheartened. She had wanted him to prove to be more wise and fair-minded than he appeared. She had wanted to believe—hoped earnestly, in fact—that his glib disdain for women and marriage didn’t extend all the way into his deepest thoughts and feelings. Just why she wanted to believe that was not something she was prepared to examine too closely, especially now that she’d been proven wrong.
The devil take him, she told herself. Let him stew in his arrogant delusions and grow old and curdled inside before his time. She had sisters to marry off and a family to find.
As they rode back to the stable a short while later, she watched the others plodding along ahead of her. They were not a pretty sight. The once elegant Sir Jaxton now looked sweaty and frazzled, and Margarete’s chin was quivering. Lord William would not walk within six feet of a sullen, snappish Helen or her inexplicably carnivorous mount. Lord Simon trudged along behind Alaina’s horse wearing a pained expression, watching her bounce determinedly all over the saddle. And Sir Graham … gentle, courteous, affable Sir Graham … looked as if he might be willing to help Lisette fall from her horse if she di
dn’t quickly develop a functional spine.
When she glanced at Sir Hugh, he seemed to be studying them, too. But before she had a chance to learn what new complaint lay behind the grim expression he wore, they encountered a party of riders with falcons and hawks perched on their arms, returning from a hunt. As they poured into the stableyard together and the king’s falconers scurried to remove their hooded charges to a nearby wagon filled with cages, the groups merged into one chaotic mass.
She lost sight of Sir Hugh, and when a pair of burly arms reached up to help her down, she accepted the assistance and soon found herself on the ground facing none other than the Lord Treasurer himself.
“Oh, thank you, my lord,” she said breathlessly, clutching his sleeves as she struggled to stay upright on suddenly boneless legs. “Forgive my boldness—I seem to have difficulty standing.”
“Pleased to be of service … Lady Chloe, is it?” Bromley said with a smile that did not entirely hide the keenness of his scrutiny.
“It is. And how kind of my lord to remember.”
“It is no kindness, my girl, to recall the name of a beauty who happens to be clutching your sleeves.” He chuckled at the way she blushed and lowered her lashes. “Your first time riding, I hear.” When she looked up in surprise, he informed her: “News travels quickly inside Windsor. How did you fare?”
“Alas, none of us seems to be a born rider,” she confided. He had the sort of face that seemed to elicit confessions … a useful trait, no doubt, in a Lord High Treasurer … the keeper of the tax rolls. She suddenly brightened. Her distress at the discomfort in her lower half was suddenly outstripped by her delight in having unexpected access to the source of information she so desperately wanted. “But neither did any of us fall off a horse or get thrown.”
The treasurer looked pleased. “Then you’ve done well enough this day. Would you care for some assistance back to the hall?”
“Yes, thank—”
“Part of learning to ride is learning to deal with the consequences after,” Sir Hugh’s voice broke in on them. Suddenly he was beside them, glowering, and Chloe felt as if she’d been caught filching sweets from the convent’s pantry.
“Well, one of the consequences today is my sympathy.” Bromley offered her his arm, and with a glance at her sisters—finding them escorted—she accepted.
As they walked slowly up the slope with Sir Hugh in tow, she seized the opportunity to ask the Lord Treasurer the question burning in her heart.
“My lord, can you tell me if there is a house of ‘Gilbert’ ?”
“Gilbert?” He thought for a moment. “There are some Gilberts to the south—Sussex, I believe. Small estate. A barony, I believe. Why do you ask?”
“I was told I have relations—Gilberts—in England. I hoped to one day meet them. Do you know if they ever come to court?”
He scowled, thinking. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen them. I don’t think they sent any men with us to France. I could inquire—”
“My Lord Bromley!” A page came running up just then with word that the king wished to see the treasurer immediately.
Bromley sighed and squeezed her hand as he returned it to her.
“Another time, perhaps, Lady Chloe. The king will not be denied.”
She felt Sir Hugh’s disapproval like a flame scorching her back. Lifting her skirt, she started again for her quarters, and he seized her elbow, propelling her along.
“They say ‘a word to the wise is sufficient,’ ” he murmured just loud enough for her to hear. “Take care what favors you accept at court … especially from well-fed lords like Bromley. They always expect payment.”
She halted and glared up at him.
“What payment could the Lord Treasurer of England hope to have from me? I’m virtually penniless—” She faltered, realizing that the “payment” he spoke of was made in an altogether more worldly sort of currency. The wretch.
“I, too, have a word to the wise.” She raked him with an accusing look as she jerked her elbow from him to walk back to the hall on her own. “ ‘Beware of measuring other men in your own half bushel.’ ”
The duke’s daughters dined in their chamber that evening. None of them was fit to descend the stairs and sit for hours on a hard wooden bench under the relentless scrutiny of king and court. They had bruises on their thighs, strains in their backs and limbs, and aches everywhere else.
Lady Marcella sent her serving women for some fresh willow twigs, mustard, and goose grease, and together she and Chloe brewed a tonic that eased the aches and made a rub that drew heat to the maids’ abused nether regions. After that bitter brew, Lady Marcella insisted each drink a full cup of sweet, undiluted wine, which not only relaxed their aching muscles, it loosened their tongues.
“That Lord Simon”—Alaina needed no coaxing with her complaint—“seemed so handsome and dignified at first. But he treated me like the veriest simpleton. Said I was bouncing about like a puppet. Can you imagine?”
“He couldn’t have been any worse than that smirking Lord William,” Helen declared irritably, brushing her hair. “I could swear I saw him pinch that awful beast to make it bite at me.”
“Really, Helen.” Chloe tried to inject a bit of reason. “I can’t imagine he would intentionally—”
“I kept telling Sir Jaxton I felt about to swoon, but he refused to let me down,” Margarete said in a petulant tone. “Then he complained that I wasn’t sitting up straight enough. How could I when I was hanging on for dear life?”
“If only I’d had Sir Hugh to teach me,” Helen said, giving Chloe an envious glance. “Did you see how well Chloe was doing?”
“And without him prattling constantly and harranging her,” Alaina added. “If only we had several Sir Hughs … there would be no question of who should marry whom.”
“And we could all have a perfect husband,” Margarete declared, nodding.
“Listening to you, I feel a bit guilty,” Lisette confessed. “I had a rather enjoyable ride. Sir Graham is so chivalrous. When I had difficulty staying in the saddle, he kindly held me there until I got my balance.” She looked to Chloe. “I hope I get to stay with him for tomorrow’s lesson.”
Chloe was so caught up in her own thoughts and emotions that she was scarcely aware that she nodded. Margarete’s words were circling around and around in her head like a devilish taunt—“perfect husband … perfect husband … perfect husband.” She looked from one of her surprised and annoyed sisters to another, thinking that their reactions mirrored hers.
How could they possibly think Sir Hugh would make any sort of husband, much less a perfect one?
* * *
The next morning the horses were saddled and waiting when they reached the stable. The maids were helped aboard their mounts and taken down the slope to the green by different instructors … except for Lisette. Sir Graham was a bit bewildered by the other maids’ seeming avoidance of him and grimly offered Lisette his arm and his knee for mounting. Soon the four pairs were on their way down to the green, and Chloe was once again watching her sisters strike off toward their futures without her.
“I thought you said they were to change partners each day.” When she turned, Sir Hugh was standing behind her with his arms crossed, scowling. “Why is Graham saddled with Lisette again?”
“They were the only pair who weren’t ready to draw and quarter each other after yesterday’s lesson. Why upset the one bit of harmony that was achieved?” She picked up the reins and waited for him to offer her assistance.
“Lack of conflict does not mean harmony,” he declared, making no such offer. “Did it never occur to you that Graham’s silence might conceal a deep dislike or even contempt?”
“For Lisette? Don’t be absurd.” She glanced toward the gate where the pairs had just disappeared. She should have known better than to allow Lisette’s headstrong desire for Graham to sway her judgment. Sir Hugh was looking for an excuse to call the wife test into question, and she’d just ha
nded it to him. “Lisette is a beautiful, graceful young woman—”
“Who looks at men as if they’ve been dipped in honey and she is one exceedingly hungry bee.”
She copied his stance, chin up and arms crossed, while scrambling for a response … a defense … a means to redirect his challenge. Miraculously, when she opened her mouth, one came out.
“There you go, measuring others in your half bushel again.” When his arms dropped abruptly to his sides, she quickly thanked Heaven for that bit of assistance. “Just because your mind strays frequently into the fleshly realm doesn’t mean others are so afflicted.”
“I am not afflicted with immoral thoughts,” he declared hotly.
“I’m not passing judgment,” she said calmly. “I’m merely making an observation.”
She watched him struggling for self-control. After a moment he lost.
“Keep your ‘observations’ to yourself, and get on the damned horse!” He bent one knee under the stirrup and, with his jaw muscles flexing visibly, extended a hand to help her.
“The worrisome thing isn’t the lustful thoughts, you know,” she said as she settled onto the saddle. “They’re simply the result of the way men are fashioned … with a weakness for looking at women’s bodies.”
“I do not have a weakness for—” He turned away and pulled on the halter to set the horse in motion.
“The worrisome thing is the way you refuse to admit it,” she said, enjoying having the upper hand and reluctant to relinquish it. “Lustful urges themselves are not necessarily sinful. It is the way you choose to act upon those urges that determines whether or not you sin.”
“Did they teach you that in the convent,” he snarled over his shoulder, “or is it just a little heresy of your own devising?”
“What have I said that is wrong?” she demanded.
He halted and turned to look up at her.
“Everything. Firstly, I am not plagued with lustful and immoral thoughts.” He jerked a thumb at his chest. “Not all men desire to look upon a woman’s nakedness. Furthermore, the church teaches that we’re all sinful from the start … from the moment we’re born into the world … every single day of our lives … for as long as we live. Our thoughts as well as our actions condemn us.”
