Free The Wife Test by Betina Krahn

the Almighty’s lap. Let’s hope
He
has more success with her than I did.” But she couldn’t help one last flare of annoyance. “And I suppose, in Christian charity, we ought to light a few candles for whoever gets saddled with her for a wife.”

Chapter Five
    “Don’t like this, sarr.” Withers jammed a finger beneath the edge of the wimple constricting the edges of his face and gave it a tug. “It ain’t nat’rul.”
    “I believe that is the point, Withers,” Hugh said, studying the five newly appointed “Sisters” as they stood beside the campfire enduring muffled chuckles and taunts from their still-armored comrades. Upon volunteering for a “dangerous and important” mission, the five had been stripped of their arms and garments and every last vestige of masculinity—even whiskers—then were handed the maidens’ habits to don. Their sullen faces were now reddened from both the shaving they endured and their embarrassment at being turned into females … even temporarily.
    “Why d’we ’ave to wear these things at night?” Mattias snatched the black woolen out from his chest, stretching it as far from his skin as possible.
    “We don’t know when they’ll attack,” Hugh said with strained patience. “But they didn’t get what they came for the first time, and we must assume they will be back. You five will have to be prepared at all times … until we’re safely aboard the king’s ship and under sail.”
    “It’s chokin’ me,” burly Hiram complained, yanking on his wimple. Stitches popped. “Won’t sleep a wink wi’ this cursed thing ’round me neck.”
    “I don’t look like no ‘Sister,’ ” the gangly swordsman who went by the name of Fenster growled. He raised the hem of his habit, which was already perilously short, and looked down at his hairy knees and enormous feet. “You ever seen a female wi’ feet like this?”
    “I can honestly say,” Hugh responded, “I have been spared that horror.” He turned to Graham, who was working to keep a sober face. “We may as well get them settled in the tent.”
    “Oughta at least get t’ wear me own bags b’neath,” Willum the axeman muttered as he fell in behind Sir Graham. “Got a right big draft up me arse.”
    Some of the goods had been removed from one wagon and placed in the cart to make a protected space for the maids to sleep. There was a singularly awkward moment as the maids were filing out of their tent and the men were lumbering in to take their places. Each contingent glared at the other, then at the garments they had been forced to forfeit. Both sides swallowed their objections and moved grudgingly along.
    While Sir Graham went over the plan with the Sister-impostors one more time, Sir Hugh led the maids-in-men’s-tights around the wagons, keeping to the shadows so they would be shielded as much as possible from his men’s sight. He averted his own eyes as he helped them climb into the wagon and told them to stay put. As they found places to sleep on top of the crates and barrels, they scratched vigorously and complained.
    “This is indecent,” Alaina declared, tilting her nose up and as far as she could from the tunic she was wearing.
    “Ungodly. Un-Christian,” Helen gritted out, rubbing the coarse fabric against her itching arms.
    “A man is forbidden to wear a woman’s garments. It’s against the laws of the holy church,” Margarete said, staring in horror at the stained and baggy tights she had been assigned. “And to force us to wear men’s clothes is
twice
the abdom … abiminiom … abdominatium …”
    “Abomination
is undoubtedly the word you’re looking for,” Chloe said, folding her arms irritably. “But I don’t think it applies here. The brigands are still at large, they know we’re not real nuns, and they have orders to carry us off. I hate to have to agree with Sir Hugh’s reasoning, but our good and honorable habits can only protect us now if his men wear them in our