“Aye, and an avaricious father. Katherine was wed again before the turning of the year. For all his monstrous ways, Fitzhugh had a vast fortune in land and tenants in this shire. My congratulations, Cavendish. You are marrying a beautiful lady, who owns most of Sussex. ’Tis time you gave some thought to her.”
Brandon glared over his shoulder at Jack. “What do you mean by that last remark?” he growled.
Jack narrowed his eyes. “’Tis high time you pay court to your future wife. In the past week you have barely spoken to her save for courtesy.”
Brandon tightened his fingers around his wine cup. “’Tis because I cannot get a word in edgewise with you singing, jabbering or composing rhymes to her,” he muttered.
Jack hurled one of his stockings at Brandon. The smelly article hit him on the back of the neck. “I have been speaking and singing for you, you hedgepig. Remember? I have been wooing that innocent lady in your stead, while you go prancing off behind hedges with her comely cousin. ’Tis time to bring this charade to an end.”
“Before you fall in love with Lady Katherine yourself?” Brandon asked softly, not looking at Jack. He didn’t need to.
The fire crackled in the silence.
“How I feel is mine own affair,” Jack finally replied. He climbed into the wide, canopied bed they shared and slipped between the sheets. “Look to yourself, Brandon. Katherine has been sorely used by her first two husbands. She does not deserve that fate a third time. In fact, I gave her my oath, in your name, that you would not.”
Brandon spun around. “The devil take you, Stafford! I would never hurt her, no matter what. You should know that!”
“Not with your hands, no, but what about your heart?” he asked from the depths of the bed. “And what about your children? When do you plan to surprise her with them? Think on that.”
“Aye, I will.” Brandon set the cup down on a stool, then pulled his heavy wool cloak from the peg.
Jack hitched himself up on his elbows. “How now, man? You need not go wake her, and tell her your secrets this minute. Tomorrow will suffice. She’ll need a good night’s sleep, before you reveal who you really are, then spring two nine-year-olds upon her.”
“I will tell her about Belle and Francis in my own good time, and ’twill not be at breakfast—on that you may lay a winning wager.” Brandon fumbled for his golden brooch that held the cloak together, then swore under his breath when he recalled where it had gone.
Jack’s frown penetrated the chamber’s semidarkness. “Where are you going? ’Tis near midnight.”
“To the devil, for I am in hell already.” He flung open the door.
Jack flopped back against the pillows. “Give him my regards, and don’t fall off the wall walk. ’Twould be a nasty swim in that stinking moat. I bid you a pleasant evening’s stroll.”
“You were begot between two fishmongers!”
“And shut the door behind you. The draft is bone chilling.”
Brandon slammed it with a resounding thud.
The night guard on the northern battlements gave a startled nod as Brandon stalked past him. The half-moon hung in the dark bowl of the night, and an errant cloud teased about the diamond points of a thousand sparkling stars. Brandon drew to a halt at the center of the walkway, directly over the giant winches that raised and lowered the portcullis. Resting his arms on the chest-high wall, he stared unseeing at the black silhouette of the home park forest.
I am a very knave and my lying tongue will double back upon itself, and choke me. Aye, and a good riddance too! Brandon gnawed his inner cheek. What a hell broth he had brewed by this simple-seeming deceit! Hadn’t his good mother told him that liars are always trapped within the web of their own making? Now he strangled in it.
What was he going to do? Jack was not the only one who had lost his heart where he least expected. Jack still had an ounce of his wit about him. For himself, Brandon had refused to mark each passing day as one closer to his wedding. Instead, he pretended he was on a straw-hatted holiday in the company of too-fair a maiden.
Kinswoman to my new wife! What a lack-witted dolt I am! I do not have half as much brains as earwax! And what will I do after I am married to Katherine, when I must face each new day with Miranda’s shining presence on my left hand? Come, hot tongs and cruel spikes, sear me for I am on the rack now.
Miranda! Her image swam up in his mind’s eye. Just today he noted how the early June sunlight caught the many different shades of red and gold in her hair, creating a vision most pleasing to the eye. How could he bed the shyer cousin, and not dream that it was Miranda he held in his arms in the dark of night? His marriage vows would be a lie, even worse than the one he was living now.
Nay, for the sake of his soul, and for the loyalty his honor compelled him to give to Katherine, he must send away the tempting cousin as soon as the wedding feast was over. Jack could take her back to Henry’s court. Miranda would have no dearth of suitors there within a fortnight. Brandon gritted his teeth. The court—where far too many hot-blooded men had far too much time on their hands. Where Miranda’s good virtue would not last a month. The bored nobles needed a good war to occupy their lusty minds.
Send Miranda to a nunnery? Brandon grimaced in the dark. God help the abbess who had her for a novice! Nay, the lady was as unlikely for the nunnery as his brother was to become a monk—which, thanks to a French angel named Celeste, he hadn’t. But the nut and core of the argument still remained. Miranda must go. As her new kinsman, the most honorable thing he could do would be to set her up at court with a goodly dowry. ’Twould be for the best that she marry.
Bowing his head, Brandon dug his knuckles into his closed eyelids. He didn’t want to think of anyone touching her except himself! Miranda had gotten under his skin, into his dreams, invaded his heart and befuddled what was left of his wits. ’Twas true what the wise old folk said: love turns scholars into madmen.
Love! Brandon swallowed down the knot in his throat. Aye, he did love Miranda, and she must never, ever know it. ’Twas one truth he would never tell, come rack or ruin.
Jack was right. Brandon needed to clean his slate of all falsehood. The wedding was a fortnight away. So be it, but let him be Jack Stafford for two more days to ease himself gently out of Miranda’s good graces. Then, with his honor frayed but intact, he would spend his last two weeks of freedom wooing the poor, hoodwinked Lady Katherine. Jack would have to take Miranda out of the castle daily to go hunting, or whatever, while Brandon mended his marital fences. Brandon knew he could never pay court to Katherine under Miranda’s beautiful, watchful eyes.
Belle! The face of his love child rose in his mind. Great Jove! What would Katherine say when he told her she was going to be a mother as well as a wife? He prayed she would not succumb to an attack of the vapors. She would need all her strength once she had met Brandon’s little sprite. He shuddered at the thought. Perhaps it might be better to wait before revealing Francis’s true relationship. He hoped Katherine would not notice the resemblance—at least, not at first. One child at a time.
Great Harry! You may be my king and liege lord, but, by Jove, ’tis well you are not within the reach of my fist this moment!
“Wormsley! Where are you hiding that poxed carcass of yours?” Sir Fenton Scantling’s voice echoed throughout the servants’ hall in the cellars of Hampton Court Palace.
Hastily wiping his mouth free of clinging drops of ale, Tod Wormsley detached himself from a cluster of his fellow servants and hurried toward his fuming master. He tried to ignore the giggling of the maids behind him. It was an embarrassment for a master to have to search out his man below stairs. A good servant should always be wherever his master expected him to be. Tod cursed the swaggering braggart under his breath, as he took the stairs two at a time. He prayed Sir Fenton wouldn’t box his ears in front of everyone.
Tod’s hopes proved short-lived, as Scantling roundly dealt him a stinging blow.
“Ass-head! I have been seeking you this
past quarter hour!” Fenton kicked Tod out the door into the passageway.
Tod stumbled but managed not to fall onto the dank paving stones. He bit back the stream of words that bubbled to his lips. Instead, he murmured, “Pray excuse me, my lord. Methought you had gone to London, and—”
“Aye, and now I have returned again, as you can plainly see!” Sir Fenton shouted into Tod’s ear.
By his high color and the smartness of his blows, Tod guessed that something had gone foully awry. “Pray you, sir, what’s amiss?” He jumped back to avoid another kick.
“I have been ill-used by that whore!” Scantling screeched. Clasping Tod’s elbow in a painful grip, Sir Fenton pulled his manservant down the corridors to his small bedchamber.
“Which whore is that, my lord?” Tod asked, between gasps of breath. Hang it all! Had his master contracted the pox from his latest jade?
“The bitch that holds my purse strings!” Scantling rounded a corner sharply.
Tod clipped his shoulder against a low stone corbel and sucked air through his teeth as much in surprise as in pain. “Do you speak of the Lady Katherine?”
“Aye, that she-devil!” Flinging open his door, Sir Fenton pushed Tod inside. “Pack!”
Tod massaged the pain in his arm and shoulder. “Where do we go? For how long, my lord?” He fought to keep the anger out of his voice. When Scantling got into one of his tearing rages, he became like a maddened dog, and equally dangerous.
“Pack it all! Thanks to Aunt Kat’s pending nuptials, I am now the most sought-after man in London.” Scantling snatched up the ever-present jug of wine and poured himself a large cup.
Scrambling under the bed, Tod tugged at the two large saddlebags stored behind the trundle. He cracked the back of his head on the bed board. Cursing the pain, he succeeded in hauling the thick leather packs out to the middle of the room. Scantling flopped onto the only chair and stared moodily out the window. Tod breathed a small prayer. Perhaps the violent fit had passed. Tod opened the chest and began stuffing his master’s linen into one of the large side pockets.
Sir Fenton took a deep drink of his wine. “Hi-used, Worm, that’s what I am. Not more than ten minutes after I had left the barge at the foot of London Bridge I was accosted by tradesmen.”
“Very distressing, I am sure,” Tod remarked. He folded Scantling’s gold satin doublet, before wedging it on top of the shirts. Casting an appraising look into the chest, the young servant calculated that he would need either a third saddlebag or a canvas roll to carry his master’s enlarged wardrobe in its entirety.
Sir Fenton snorted. “Damnable ass-licking curs! When I gave them my custom, they were happy enough to extend my credit twice over. The name Fitzhugh was well-known among the tailors and jewelers of London Bridge. My business was their boundless pleasure.” He poured himself more wine.
Tod stuffed handfuls of gold chains into the toes of Scantling’s white satin dancing slippers. Just one of those chains would have fed Tod’s brothers and sisters for a year or more. “You have always had good taste in fashion, my lord,” he murmured.
“Aye, and now, thanks to the news of my aunt’s marriage flying about the city, I shall be reduced to rags and tatters.”
When hell freezes over. Tod ground his teeth as he rolled up one silken pair of hose after another. The spoiled son of Lady Kat’s dead sister had never known a minute of want, thanks to the good lady’s tender heart for taking in the sniveling boy.
“Did my lady stop your line of credit at the goldsmith’s?” Tod ventured to ask. He knew he might get another cuff on the head for the impertinence of the question, but the words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.
“Not yet, but my creditors have decided not to wait. They want payment in full now, before Cavendish wraps his grasping hands around Kat’s estate, and stops all my payments cold as coffin nails.” Scantling sipped his wine as he drummed his fingers on his knee. “One of the fat-lipped churls even insinuated that my days of spending have come to an end.”
And then there will be the devil to pay. Tod shuddered inwardly at the thought. He piled Scantling’s velvet bonnets one on top of the other, expertly curling the feathers of one inside the crown of the next in the stack.
Sir Fenton pulled on his lower lip—a habit that indicated deep thought. “It appears that my plan to sour this pernicious nuptial between the bride and groom has missed its intended mark. I had hoped one or the other of the couple would have taken my advice to heart, and would have persuaded the king to change his mind. Instead, I have news from Bodiam that both parties find each other pleasing.” Leaning forward, he skewered Tod with the pinpoints of his hard dark eyes. “‘Tis not pleasing at all to me. God rot Kat’s soul! Aye, and Cavendish’s too! I will not be made a fool’s hat stand by either of them. Nor do I intend to be dealt out of my uncle’s inheritance. ’Tis mine!”
Tod hunched over the saddlebags and whispered a quick prayer to mend the terrible curse of his master. Lady Kat was too kind. If Tod possessed half her spark and fiber, he would leave this monster’s service immediately. But Tod knew himself to be a coward. As vile as Sir Fenton could be on occasion, he still gave Tod a far better living than the boy would have had as the third son of a pig farmer.
“You have a plan, my lord?” he asked, struggling to buckle up the bulging pack.
“Aye. We will steal out this night, and ride for Bodiam. Don’t turn your mouth down at me, boy, or I’ll do you a turn that will leave you more thankful to walk instead of ride. There are only a few hours of darkness these nights, and I know the way well. Once there, I will speak with honey words to my aunt, expressing my desire for her happiness and my concern about the tedious management of her estate.
“On my way back to the barge, I stopped at the Inns of Court, and had one of those watery-eyed students draw me up a paper of guardianship. ‘Tis a bastard piece of composition, but ’twill suffice. If Kat is as besotted as my sources tell me she is, she will sign the paper in a twink, then return to the arms of her lover. After that, I care not a fig if she swells up with a bellyful of brats. The estate, the lands and the rents will be in my care. Cavendish can whistle up the chimney!”
Hoisting the first pack over his shoulder, Tod sagged under its weight. He dropped it in the corner, then returned to fill the second.
Sir Fenton rose from his seat, then paused to admire himself in the looking glass. He straightened his bonnet and adjusted the fall of his latest gold chain. “I will take my supper with the king in the hall. I expect our horses to be saddled and ready by eight of the clock.” He turned to go.
“My lord?” Tod licked his lips. He rarely interfered with Scantling’s plans, but the Lady Kat had been good to the boy and he wanted to give her some warning. “If we are discovered gone in the night, your creditors will assume that you have fled straightway to Bodiam, and they will pursue you there. Methinks you would not want your debts and your aunt brought face-to-face.”
Scantling paused. “For once, you speak with a grain of sense. Go on.”
“If, instead, we leave openly on the morrow, with many words in many ears that you have gone north to visit friends at Oxford, then your creditors will hie themselves in the wrong direction.”
Sir Fenton grinned like a tickled cat. “I like this pretty plan. And then?”
“Meanwhile, we shall ride westward as far as Bath, before turning south and from there to Bodiam. That way we shall elude those who seek you.” And I shall try to send warning to my lady.
Fenton ran his fingers down the jaunty white plume in his bonnet. “Finish packing, then take yourself back to your hall and enjoy your supper. Dally with a maid. Drink with your scurvy fellows and spread the word of my trip to Oxford. You have done well, Worm.” Turning on his heel, Fenton went out the door, banging it behind him.
Sinking down on the floor next to the bed, Tod drew in one or two deep breaths. His master’s changeable moods always unnerved him. He knew that Sir Fenton was mos
t dangerous when he seemed the calmest. Glancing at the table, he spied writing materials there, beckoning to be used. The boy swore against the Fates that had left him unlettered. He prayed he could find someone in the servants’ hall who was Sussex-bound.
The new day dawned as bright as the seven before it. Kat hurried through her dressing and barely tasted the bread and butter that Laurel had brought to break her fast. Miranda hummed as she prepared for the day, as well. All in all, this past week had flown most agreeably. Thank heavens, Miranda had ceased to ask when Kat planned to end the game! Just another week in Sir John’s company, then...
“Well met, ladies, and a joyous good morrow to you both!” Sir John bowed as Kat and Miranda joined the handsome knights in the hall.
“Well spoken, Sir John,” Kat returned. “Have you been taking lessons from my Lord Cavendish?”
Sir John wobbled a smile. “Aye, mistress, I fear he has bent my ear of late for my lack of good manners.” He glared at Sir Brandon, who merely smiled in return.
“Then permit me to order some lemon juice for your dinner, in case the honey of your speech sticks to the roof of your mouth and renders you useless for the rest of the day,” Kat replied with a grin.
“What shall we do betwixt now and dinner?” Miranda, as the lady of the house, asked her guests. “What is your pleasure?”
Sir Brandon opened his mouth, then shut it and glanced at Sir John. Stafford cleared his throat.
“Perchance you will accompany me on a ride in the forest, my Lady Katherine?” he mumbled, not looking at the real Katherine.
Kat looked at him with amazement. How now? Did Sir John get up on the wrong side of his bed this morning? Have my teeth turned green? And why is he looking at Miranda in such a sickly fashion?
Before Kat could speak, the housekeeper, Sondra Owens, hurried into the hall. Daisy and Violet followed close behind her, their arms laden with bolts of colorful fabric.
Sondra bobbed a quick curtsy. “Your pardon, Mistress Miranda, but I have much need of you.”
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