The king waved away the idea. “All bridegrooms have second thoughts on their wedding morning. ’Tis natural, eh?” he asked the crowd.
The people cheered and applauded. Then the lady dragged Sir Thomas back to the side, speaking rapidly in his ear. Cavendish’s wife, Fenton surmised. They will have much on their minds anon.
The second nick in his plan happened just then, when the trumpets from the castle announced the entrance of the bridegroom. Fenton started, when he saw two knights in brilliant armor cross the causeway. What scurvy, shageared, knavish trick was this? With their visors lowered, how could he tell which one was which? Could he reload and fire a second set of bolts? No time.
While Fenton mulled over this problem, the third nick appeared. The horns sounded again, and two veiled ladies made their entrance, escorted by that crow in satin hose, Montjoy. The crowd, always eager for a new sport, shouted their approval.
Which one! Whom should he shoot first? When? This was not what he had planned. ’Twas not fair!
Fenton slipped his finger to the first trigger pin. He must make his decision in the next few seconds, or all would be for naught! One of the knights stepped forward and took the first lady’s hand. It had to be Aunt Kat and Cavendish, though Fenton did not recall his aunt being as tall as the lady who now grasped the knight’s arm. Perchance she wore a pair of those high-heeled pantofles, so that her slippers would not get muddy when she walked across the meadow to the church.
Do it now! Now ! Now! Something inside his head buzzed, as if an angry bee had flown into his ear. Must do it now!
In one swift move, Fenton lifted the crossbow and fired the first bolt. The knight crumpled. Next to Fenton, a woman screamed. For a split second, he was tempted to send the second bolt through her. No time! No time! Shoot!
Someone pushed against him as he pulled the second trigger. Fenton had no idea where the arrow flew. At that moment, someone wrenched the weapon out of his hands. He felt a blow from behind, and his knees gave way under him.
Nay! This can’t be happening! ’Tis not supposed to be this way! Fenton fell to the ground. The buzzing grew louder in his ears. Then it stopped.
King Henry heard the whine of the first arrow. Horrified. he saw one of the knights collapse. Flee! his brain prompted him. A traitor is in the crowd! The king fought to control his horse, which pranced to the side as the people suddenly surged forward. A second arrow sang through the air. For one long, terrible moment Henry saw it aimed squarely at his head. It came on and on, its razor-sharp barb pointed directly between his eyes, like the finger of an avenging god. As a terrified rabbit cornered by a fox, the king of England discovered that he could not move, nor utter a sound. Then the bolt skimmed over his head, taking his green velvet cap with it in its flight.
The sights and sounds of the moment swirled back into focus. The king’s voice worked again. “Arrest that man!” he bellowed. “He is the wickedest varlet that ever chewed with a tooth!” Henry wheeled his horse, then reined in the frightened animal.
The crowd parted, as one of the knights dragged a half-conscious man into the clearing. He dropped the felon on the ground before the king, then raised his visor and saluted his monarch. A wave of relief washed over Henry when he recognized Brandon Cavendish.
“The traitor, your grace.” Brandon poked the villain with his steel-clad foot
“God’s death, ’tis Lord Scantling!” The king eyed the shaking man. “A pox upon you! You are not worthy to have your name repeated.”
The miserable cur, dressed in common garb, attempted to pull himself into a kneeling position. Blood ran from a cut on his head, and his face showed the marks of many blows.
“Mercy, your grace,” the wretch burbled. “My arm was jostled. I did not mean to aim at you, but—”
“Rogue!” the king roared. “You have lived too long! Away with. him!” he ordered his shaken bodyguards. “This vermin offends my sight. We shall meet again, Scantling—in the Tower of London.”
At this pronouncement, the traitor fell forward into a gibbering heap. The guards hauled him away, the miserable wretch’s heels scoring two furrows through the grass as he went.
“Lock him in the dankest cell you can find,” the king called after the departing men. Let him drink sewage until doomsday! Henry thought to himself, as he waited for his heart to stop pounding. Sir Brandon bowed, then turned into the pressing crowd.
Lady Anne rode to the king’s side. “Your grace? Are you well?” she asked, her large dark eyes made even wider by her fear.
Henry smiled fondly at her. “Aye, my love, I am. God has preserved me from such a miserable end.”
Leaning over her saddle, she took his hand in hers. “England would be lost without you, sire, and so would I.”
Henry regarded her, then nodded. “You speak the truth, my dear.”
Kat pushed her way through the crowd to the fallen knight. The feathered end of the arrow protruded between his breastplate and the shoulder guard. Both squires had thrown off their veils and were attempting to crawl toward the injured man, but the long skirts of the gowns impeded their movements. The other knight had plunged into the crowd, seeking the source of the attack.
Kat dropped to her knees beside the knight. “My lord, my love! Dearest Brandon, are you in much pain?”
A deep chuckle welled up from inside the knight’s helm. “I thank you for your sweet words, Kat, but you shower them on the wrong man. As for me, ’tis but a scratch. Where is that rascal squire of mine? A plague on this armor! I cannot get up!”
Kat didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at Jack’s assurances. She glanced at the struggling squires. Truly ‘twas comical to see them flailing about in volumes of skirts and petticoats. “Miranda, ’tis Jack who is in need of your assistance. He’ll prefer your healing touch to mine. I’ll help Mark and Christopher, before they rip up Sondra’s handiwork.”
Miranda descended upon Jack like an anxious butterfly. Stifling her laughter, Kat untied Mark’s laces, then she turned to help Christopher.
“Methinks you should keep them in their skirts, sweetheart. They make very pretty girls, indeed!”
Kat whirled around to find a large knight in armor towering over her. She resisted her impulse to throw herself into his arms, at least, until after he had shed his gleaming scales.
“You are looking well, my lord,” she remarked demurely, as Mark unbuckled Brandon’s helm, then lifted it off his master.
Brandon shook his hair out of his eyes. He inhaled a deep breath. “’Tis a fine morning for a marriage, my lady, and we have a goodly number of friends and family who have come to see us wedded—including Robin Hood and his court. Do you suppose you would mind marrying me again?” He grinned down at her.
Kat curtsied, spreading the skirts of her plain gray gown. “’Twould be a pleasure, my lord, considering that Robin Hood looks a little impatient.”
Brandon lowered his head to whisper in her ear. “After such a fright, our royal lord is impatient to eat. He keeps eyeing the wedding feast.” Brandon cocked his head. “By my troth, Kat, your lips look as if they are waiting for a kiss.”
She stood on tiptoe. “They are, my love.”
Kat felt his lips feather-touch hers like a whisper. She quivered at his sweet tenderness.
“Sweet Saint Anne, Papal Say your vows again, and be done with it!” Belle stood a few feet away from the happy couple, her blue eyes sparkling with excitement. “Let us marry everyone off, so that we may start the feasting and games!”
Brandon sighed against Kat’s lips before he drew away. He regarded his daughter with a stern expression. “Aye, but before we do, Mistress Long-ears, let us discuss the matter of a bed of roses with the sharpest thorns in England.”
Belle stared right back at her imposing father, then rubbed her nose. “Philippe has made a mountain of tansy cakes, with mint cream,” she replied, wisely choosing to ignore the question. “And Francis says he will eat them all!”
B
randon shook his head with defeat. “Then by all means, we shall hasten to the church, so that you may get your share of the tansy cakes.”
“Good!” Belle whirled away with a flurry of blue skirts, yelling as she went. “Francis Bardolph, stop eating those at once! Papa says they are mine! Francis, do you hear me? I hope you puke!”
Brandon chuckled as he took Kat’s hand in his. “Welcome to the Cavendish family, lady wife.”
Kat hugged him, armor and all. “You do not know how glad I am to be a part of it, my husband!”
Epilogue
Wolf Hall, Northumberland
November 1530
“What’s this?” Sir Thomas Cavendish stared down at the dish his page had just set before him.
Lady Alicia covered her smile behind her napkin. “Roasted crow, I believe,” she replied with a straight face.
Sir Thomas’s gray brows rose up his forehead. “How now? Crow? Has our larder sunk so low that we must dine upon crow?” He poked at the bird with the tip of his eating knife.
Lady Alicia maintained a bland exterior though inside she quaked with mirth. “Nay, my good lord. ‘Tis a fowl I especially ordered for you today. You’ll like it. ’Tis stuffed with sage, onion and rosemary—for remembrance,” she added pointedly.
He sawed at one of the legs with a distasteful expression on his face. “Explain, please. What have I forgotten this time?”
“Your manners, for one thing.” Lady Alicia pulled out a packet from her deep sleeve. “I received a long letter from Bodiam Castle this morning.”
“Humph!” Sir Thomas chewed the morsel thoughtfully.
“Brandon is pleased to announce that Kat is with child.”
Sir Thomas swallowed loudly, slurped a large mouthful of wine and then stared at his smiling wife.
“A child? When?”
Lady Alicia’s smile broadened. ’Twas such a pleasure to tease her husband, and this time he certainly deserved it. “In March, at the coming of spring.”
Sir Thomas regarded her solemnly. “Pass the mustard, my love,” he requested in a softer tone. He took another mouthful of the burnt crow. “I acted badly with Katherine, didn’t I?” he mumbled through the mustard and meat.
“Aye, you did,” Lady Alicia agreed.
“Never even gave her a wedding present, did I?”
“I don’t believe so, my sweet.”
Sir Thomas gnawed on a scrawny wing. “I suppose she would not mind it too much if I sent her a little something now, do you think?”
Lady Alicia patted the letter. “I should think a rather large something might be more appropriate, like a service in silver and gold, perchance?”
Sir Thomas slathered more mustard on the crow. “My thoughts exactly! A large something, indeed.” He munched some more, then asked, “And I suppose that a letter of apology is in order, as well?”
Lady Alicia smiled, then nodded. “A very long letter.”
“I shall write it immediately after dinner,” he proclaimed. Then he added, “You know, this crow isn’t half bad with a lot of mustard—and seasoned with contrition.”
Leaning toward him, Lady Alicia whispered in his ear. “And I have ordered your favorite for the sweet course—tansy cake.”
Sir Thomas’s face broke into a boyish grin. “With mint cream?” he asked hopefully.
“Is it served any other way, my love?” Lady Alicia replied.
Author Note
Bodiam Castle in East Sussex is owned and operated by the National Trust of Great Britain. Built in the fourteenth century, Bodiam today is a hollow but romantic shell of its former glory. Despite its ruined condition, visitors can still sit on the window seat of the great hall, climb the curved stairs to the battlements and peer out the window of Kat’s second-floor bedroom, located in the southern square tower. The moat, now filled with water lilies, still laps against the outer walls of the castle.
I am deeply indebted to Francie Owens, a docent at the Folger Shakespeare Library, for her expertise in Tudor herbs and remedies.
I hope you have enjoyed Brandon and Kat’s story. Please write, I love to hear from my readers. My address is: PO Box 10703, Burke, VA 22015-0703.
ISBN : 978-1-4592-6119-8
MIDSUMMER’S KNIGHT
Copyright © 1998 by Mary W. Schaller
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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