The Wife Test Page 4

  Hugh looked back to find that the cart and the wagons had fallen well behind the front of the escort party. As he rode back to see what was the matter, he found the maidens clustered at the front of the cart, beaming with interest as old Mattias rattled on about something. The driver had all but abandoned the reins, and the two mules were virtually ambling along at will. And if that weren’t bad enough, the men who were supposed to be maintaining a rear guard for the column had ridden up nearer the cart and were watching with great interest as the young “nuns” conversed with old Mattias.

  “Dammit.” He flinched at his profane lapse. He’d have more than usual to confess when he got back to the priest at Windsor. “Mattias!” He drew his horse up with a jerk. “What the devil do you think you are doing?”

  “Sarr!” The driver snapped to attention and tightened his grip on the reins, giving the mules a crack on the rumps to get them moving. “Drivin’, sarr.”

  “The devil you are.” Hugh reddened, chagrined to realize that the old soldier wasn’t too old to appreciate that bevy of fetching smiles and sparkling eyes. He groaned silently. There probably wasn’t a man in all of Christendom old enough for that. “Stop the cart and get down.”

  “But, sarr—”

  “Down!” He shifted in his saddle and called to the driver of the first baggage wagon: “You there—Withers! Come and replace him.” Then he turned to Chloe and the others. “And you”—he lowered his voice—“I told you to keep your heads down and not to talk to any of my men.”

  The one called Chloe surged to the front of the group and stood up to equal his height as he sat glowering from horseback.

  “We’ve done nothing wrong, sir.” She moved to the edge of the cart. “Mattias”—she nodded toward the old soldier’s retreating back—“was graciously answering a few questions for us about London and the king’s palace.”

  “Which has nothing to do with his orders to drive the cart and keep his eyes and ears to himself.” He glowered at the soldier approaching the cart. “You understand this duty, Withers? You drive and keep strictly to yourself.” The fellow glanced briefly at the “nuns,” nodded, then climbed onto the seat board and took up the reins.

  “We are not a contagion, Sir Hugh,” the appointed one declared.

  He wheeled his mount and headed for the front of the column, muttering.

  “I wouldn’t bet on that.”

  But he had bet on it, he realized as he looked over his shoulder at least fifty times during the next hour. And once again he had lost. Their second driver had quickly been infected with the same plague of garrulousness and affability, and now the cart was veering off the road, heading for the edge of a broad forest.

  “What the devil?” He charged back to order the driver to keep to the road and again found himself facing a hot-eyed Chloe of Guibray.

  “We asked him to pull the cart over.” She stood braced at the front of the cart. “We must stop long enough to see to our personal needs.”

  “Absolutely not.” He spotted the wagons and mounted riders following them and furiously waved the wayward wagons back onto the road. “We’ll stop only when we reach a village where we can get feed and water for the horses.”

  “But we must stop.”

  “We will stop when I say we stop, and not before!” he roared. Then she folded her arms and lowered her voice so that he had to concentrate to hear her.

  “Unless you have some way of convincing our nether parts to cease their natural function, Sir Hugh, I suggest you allow Withers to continue with us toward the trees.” There came a whimper of distress from the group behind her. “And quickly.”

  She had him, Hugh realized. There was a chuckle off to his left, and when he looked over, Graham was a few feet away leaning on the pommel of his saddle, trying not to grin.

  “All right, dammit!” He flung a finger at the nearby woods. “Take the cart over there!” As the heavy wooden wheels groaned and labored toward the trees, he glowered at Chloe. “You’d better be quick about it. We have a long way to go to reach the coast, and the ship is waiting.”

  Chloe and the others jumped down from the cart without assistance and scurried into the trees. Hugh jerked his gaze away and spotted several of his men dismounting.

  “Back on your mounts!” he bellowed. “We’re not stopping here!” Their dark looks and grudging compliance caused him to climb down from his horse and plant himself squarely between his men and the maiden-infested forest.

  Saints Abundant, he hated this duty … protecting a clutch of headstrong maidens from both themselves and his own comfort-starved men. What could the abbess be thinking, sending them off without an older, wiser head to act as chaperone and disciplinarian? He should have headed straight back to the convent the minute he learned the old sister wasn’t among them.

  He glanced longingly north and west, in the direction of the ship that was waiting for them. It was still a hard day’s ride to the coast … a day’s sailing across the Channel and a day up the Thames. Three more days—four if the winds and tides didn’t favor them—before he would be rid of the lot of—

  He spotted Graham dismounting and heading for him with clenched fists, and he drew a long-suffering breath.

  “A bit harsh on them, weren’t you?” Graham spoke in compressed tones, looking off into the trees so that his annoyance wouldn’t carry to the men.

  “They survived the battle at Crecy. They’ll survive this.”

  “I meant the maids. They’re not prisoners, you know.”

  Hugh leveled a hard look on him.

  “I have a charge from the king to get these females back to London safely.” He jerked his head toward the men scanning the edge of the woods for stray glimpses of his charges. “Can you imagine what would happen if our little ‘sisters’ decided to try out their new womanly wiles on this wolf pack? We’d have to run the poor bastards through to keep them from ravishing the chits.”

  He drew Graham’s gaze with his to where a couple of soldiers had edged their mounts near Mattias’s wagon to talk with him. He could just imagine what the old veteran was telling them about the little nuns with the big eyes and soft lips and musical voices—

  A scream tore through both the air and Hugh’s preoccupation in the same instant, and all he could think was that it couldn’t be. His men were all there in front of him, all accounted for—

  A second scream, from a different voice, jolted him to action. Ripping his sword from its scabbard, he shouted at Graham to “Come with me!” and plunged through the underbrush, into the trees. Graham hesitated only long enough to signal several soldiers at the front of the column to follow, and the men had their weapons drawn before their feet even touched the ground.

  As Hugh charged through the trees, slashing at low-hanging branches and ducking snags and broken limbs, he prayed that he was overreacting. Let it be just a rat or snake or wild pig … something that had startled them. But a sudden chorus of screeching terror caused every muscle in his body to tighten to battle readiness. No wintered pig ever caused such caterwauling.

  When he finally burst into the small clearing, there it was—his worst nightmare come to life. His charges had stumbled onto what appeared to be a band of brigands lurking in the forest. Two of the maids were already captive in the thieves’ arms, kicking and thrashing furiously as they were being dragged toward the trees, and the rest were fighting desperately to keep from being taken.

  “Release them!” he bellowed as he charged across the clearing. At the sound of his voice, the maidens’ cries intensified, and two of the men broke away from them to meet him with blades drawn.

  The clang of metal on metal unleashed battle-honed responses, and instantly he was fully engaged and bearing down on his ragged opponents. He hacked and slashed and thrust, his blue-edged steel glancing off their blades, his practiced military footwork matched by surprisingly adroit movements. His senses sharpened to anticipate every arc and angle of their blade work. Their counters and slas
hes had an unexpected crispness and precision that required him to focus entirely on the fight. He was scarcely aware of Graham and some of their men arriving to join the battle. The brigands fought savagely at first, but then, finding themselves outnumbered, abandoned their prizes and withdrew with a cry that any soldier who had fought Frenchmen in recent months knew full well: “Fall back!”

  The cry distracted his remaining opponent just enough for him to find an opening in the wretch’s shoulder. The bandit fell with a thud, and Hugh staggered but managed to remain upright, bracing on his thighs to gulp air.

  The sudden stillness was just as disorienting as the sudden violence had been. As his breathing returned to normal, he sheathed his blade and turned back to check his men and see to his charges. There had been no casualties on their side, and the maidens were still here. As his men watched anxiously, he helped the young women to their feet and handed them off to Graham. Four … only four?

  He knew instantly which one was missing. The bold and presumptuous one … the brazen and audacious chit who always … He spotted a lump of faded black in the tall grass not far away.

  Chloe of Guibray lay in a crumpled heap. He dropped to his knees, rolled her over, and gathered her unwieldy but thankfully not-dead weight into his arms. The bastards had struck her; she had a red mark on one cheek, just below a lush crescent of dark lashes.

  “Sister …” He gave her uninjured cheek an awkward pat. “Chloe of Guibray.” Alarmed, he gave her a gentle shake. “Can you hear me? Open your eyes.”

  His heart began to beat again as her eyes fluttered open. She blinked and licked her lips as if to speak, but no words came out. Her arm flopped uncooperatively as she tried to reach up to touch her injured cheek.

  A wail went up from one of the others, and immediately he was assailed by hysterical females talking and weeping all at once. They bore down on him and Chloe with outstretched arms, reaching for and demanding reassurance of each other.

  “Stop—you’re going to make me drop—”

  He felt a brief, disorienting tilt and then a jarring thud that was accompanied by squeals. He was suddenly on his back at the bottom of a jumble of limbs and veils and straw-stuffed habits. He froze with a protest trapped in his throat as the scent of women—ripe, lilac-and-linen scented femininity—engulfed him. They were pressed against every living inch of his overheated body and showed no inclination toward vacating that volatile territory.

  “For g-godssake!” he finally sputtered, pushing at something alarmingly small, round, and pillowy. “Get up—get off me!”

  Graham’s ruddy face appeared above him, and the maidens were lifted from him in short order. He pushed up to a sitting position and found a limp, familiar form still draped across his lower body. The injured Sister Chloe came to life, struggled up onto her arms, and raised her head. This time her eyes focused and looked up to meet his. They were big and blue … astoundingly clear … as open and unsullied as an April morning. He experienced a strange sinking sensation … as if he were being drawn into a pool of warm, soothing water …

  After what seemed an eternity, she seemed to realize where she was and scrambled off him, landing on her rear with a thump.

  “Chloe!”

  “Ohhh, look at you!”

  “Are you all right?”

  The other maids crowded around to pull her to her feet, right her veil, and smooth her habit. She collected herself with a deep breath, then brushed aside their concern to confront him. The change in her caught him a bit off guard.

  “Who were those men?” she demanded.

  “B-brigands and thieves,” he answered, struggling to recover his own self-possession. “Exactly the sort of danger I’ve been warning you about.”

  It was a lie, out and out. He had been so concerned about his own men’s wayward impulses that he hadn’t even considered someone else might try to assault them. Lying and ineptness in his duty. More to confess when he got back to the—

  “Uncommonly good fighters, for common thieves,” Graham mused, breaking into his thoughts.

  The observation jarred together several impressions in Hugh’s mind, and he strode over to where the injured thief lay. He scrutinized the man’s ragged garments and then stooped to brush back a torn flap on his shirt. Beneath it was an expanse of mail. Scowling, he picked up the man’s weapon and then examined his hands. Such calluses came only from wielding a blade, and often. He sensed Graham’s presence beside him and pointed to the exposed armor and the man’s hands. As he rose, he examined the sword, then handed it to Graham.

  “Not your ordinary brigand,” he observed.

  “No indeed.”

  “He’s not dead …” For the first time in several days he had a rational thought. “We’ll take him along and question him when he wakes.”

  They turned and there stood Chloe of Guibray, with her face pale and her brow knitted into a frown.

  “What do you mean, ‘not an ordinary brigand’ ?”

  The sound of men crashing through the trees all around set the maids screaming and running for him. Hugh and Graham drew their swords, and their men rushed to help them form a shield around the women.

  The rest of the escort party burst from the trees, their blades drawn and their battle-honed bodies primed for action. It took a moment for the two groups to realize that they were in fact on the same side.

  “What the devil are you doing here?” Sir Hugh demanded of his men.

  “Tho’t ye might need help, sarr,” Withers declared, lowering both his sword and his chin.

  “Be the li’l Sisters safe?” old Mattias asked, moving toward their huddle but halting in his tracks at Hugh’s fierce expression.

  “Safe enough. Now, get your worthless hides back to the wagons!” He motioned the rest of the company to join them. “All of you!” Then he turned to the rattled maidens. “You, too. These woods are not safe, and we still have many miles to go before we reach the coast.”

  He should have known better. Whatever made him think they would climb blithely back aboard their cart and continue on as if nothing had happened?

  “Absolutely not.” Chloe stepped forward, her determination growing as the others crowded together behind her. “My sisters have survived an ugly shock. They need rest and nourishment, not more jostling in that awful cart.”

  “You can rest along the way.”

  “We will do no such thing.” She straightened her shoulders and glanced up at the lowering sun. “We must make camp and continue on tomorrow.”

  “Camp?” For a moment that was the only word he was capable of saying. Frustration choked off all others.

  “That might not be a bad idea, Hugh,” Graham mused, looking at the one called Margarete, who stood nearby, as pale as her wimple and starting to sway.

  “Not you, too.” He glowered, then caught the concern in his lieutenant’s face and turned just in time to see little Margarete hit the ground.

  A lone figure watched from high in the canopy of trees as the wagons and cart left the road and the drivers pulled them into a circle. He quietly shifted branches and then squinted to make out the fact that the women were hovering in concern over one of their number. The soldiers hurried to fashion a makeshift tent for them from the felts used to cover the goods in the wagons, while the tall, black-clad knight sent a detail of men into the trees. He held his breath as they neared his perch—but only to gather firewood.

  Camp. The watcher smiled. They were making camp for the evening.

  As twilight fell and fire bloomed in the middle of the circle, the observer climbed down to join the shadows on the forest floor and slipped from tree to tree, pausing, listening for signs of detection. But there were none. The arrogant English hadn’t pursued the “bandits,” and, now that they were camped, hadn’t even posted sentries. If only Edward’s men had been so careless at Crecy!

  Keeping to the edge of the trees, he made his way toward a wrecked stone cottage at the far edge of the woods and a horse that
had been left for him. Soon he was riding, charting his course by moonlight toward the ordained rendezvous.

  After some time in the saddle, he approached a set of ancient ruins, slowed, and whistled into the silence. Men materialized from among the scattered stones to greet him, and soon he was ushered to the center of the ruin. There, a number of small fires lighted a military camp in which some men wore rags and others wore armor.

  “It’s about time.” A short, stocky man in elegant velvets rose from the center of the camp and glared at the arrival. “What news have you?”

  “They made camp, seigneur. I waited to be sure. The women … one was injured or overcome, and they would go no further.”

  “And the man they took prisoner?” the lord demanded.

  “Has not yet come to his senses. They have posted no sentries.”

  “So they do not yet know …” The nobleman scowled and paced away, then back, rubbing his hands together, thinking. “There is still time to prevent the little tarts from reaching the coast and boarding a boat bound for London.” He turned a fierce look on the captain of his guards. “If you cannot steal them away, then you must at least render them unfit for matrimony. Do you understand what I am saying, Valoir?”

  “Oui, seigneur.” The knight Valoir’s face twisted into a smirk. “I understand.”

  The lord took a deep breath and looked to the east, scanning the moonlit ridge of the horizon, calculating their best odds of success.

  “Dawn would be the best time to catch them unawares.”

  Chapter Four

  Their camp that evening was a modest victory, as victories go, but a significant one in Chloe’s eyes. She had gone toe-to-toe with the arrogant knight and, in the end, gotten what she wanted. It meant that even if she could not control what happened to them, she could at least influence it. More important, it put a seal on her leadership for the other maids, who had been badly shaken by the attack. Their first experiences in the world outside the cloister wails were proving to be somewhat harrowing.