Midsummer's Knight

by Tori Phillips

  Kat raised her brows. “Now? This minute?”

  Sondra’s eyes took on a merry look. In fact, she seemed to radiate excitement. Kat could not imagine why.

  “Aye, mistress.” Sondra pointed to the serving girls and their burdens. “’Tis near a fortnight to the wedding, and we have yet to begin Lady Katherine’s gown.”

  “My wedding gown?” Miranda squeaked, looking at Kat like a frightened doe in a trap.

  Sondra laughed. “Aye, bless you, my lady. ’Tis a great day when the mistress of Bodiam takes her true love for a husband. I’ll not stand by and see you do it in a made-over gown from a year ago. I’ve brought up bolts of cloth from the storeroom,” she continued, including both gentlemen in her conversation. “And I need the good offices of Mistress Miranda. She and my lady are much alike in form and figure, as I am sure you’ve noticed by now, my Lords. I will set the pattern to Mistress Miranda, and cut out the gown to her, so as to save my lady’s time. Lady Katherine, you can entertain the gentlemen as free in mind as a bird in the air. Mistress Miranda and I will do you a gown to make the sun blush for shame.”

  Kat frowned at her. By the rood! Sondra has danced too long in the moonlight, and has now a touch of the madness that comes from it! Using me as a dress form! Ha!

  Kat forced a smile while she answered in sweet tones. “Sondra, a word in your ear. My lady, my lords, pray excuse us.”

  “We shall count the moments of your leaving as tears, mistress.” Sir Brandon grinned at her, showing an alarming number of white teeth.

  God shield me! I shall go screaming mad if I have to marry that... that prattling honeycomb.

  Kat led Sondra to the nearby alcove. Once away from prying ears and eyes, the mistress turned on her housekeeper. “What do you mean by this, Sondra? Have you lost your wits? You know my size and shape better than I do, and can make up a dress for me in your sleep.”

  “’Tis true,” Sondra agreed. Her purple eyes sparkled, and her lips could barely contain her smile.

  Kat put her hands to her hips. “And I do not intend to waste good cloth on a special gown for my wedding to that babbling peacock. My blue silk with the lace will do well enough. After all. I am no virginal maiden, but a woman who is facing her third husband, God help me.”

  “’Tis true—if that were true, my lady,” Sondra replied with a wink. Her laughter bubbled like a waterfall on a spring day.

  Kat cocked her head. “How now? I spy some great mischief. What mean you by ’tis true if true? What has happened?”

  Leaning toward her, Sondra whispered, “Send the noble lords to the woods with Miranda. We must confer in utmost secrecy. I have news that will make your heart sing like a thousand larks. Trust me, my lady.”

  Kat regarded Sondra for a long moment. The woman was more than a mere housekeeper, but a friend and confidante since Kat had come to Bodiam. Some folk in the nearby village called Sondra a white witch because of her healing arts and herbal knowledge. Kat knew this to be false, yet Sondra possessed an intuitive power that had no explanation. Perchance she really could read souls. In any event, Kat trusted her implicitly.

  “My lady? Will you give me an hour of your time, and both your ears? You will not rue it.”

  Kat sighed then nodded. “Aye, Sondra. You knew I would. Go to my chamber, and I’ll attend you there in a moment. As for the cloth, tell the girls to bide with it awhile.”

  Sondra laughed and clapped her hands. She quickly hustled the maids with the fabric from the hall as Kat rejoined the others.

  “I trust that you did not weep too many tears for me in my short absence, Sir Brandon,” she remarked as she joined them.

  “Nay, mistress, he was afraid the torrent might wash off his smile,” Sir John muttered.

  “M...Miranda?” The real Miranda lifted one delicate brow in question. “How now?”

  “Sondra has given me good reason to tarry here. I am sure the talk of patterns, pins, laces and stitches would bore you to even more tears, Sir Brandon, than my mere departure did just now. Pray, all of you, ride out as you planned. Meanwhile, I will be trussed up like a gilded swan. We shall meet at dinner. Enjoy the morning, Sir John. Perchance the clean air will clear away the sugar from your palate.”

  “Perchance, mistress.” He glowered, not at her, but at Sir Brandon. “I regret that my speech offends you. At dinner, I promise to amend that, for I will not speak at all.” Nodding to Miranda, he continued. “My Lady Katherine, if my speech does not offend you, will you ride with me—and Sir Brandon?”

  Miranda, clearly surprised by Sir John’s sudden attention, flushed, then nodded. He offered her his arm, while Sir Brandon took the other. The trio went out into the bright sunshine of the day, leaving Kat harboring thunderstorms in her heart.

  ’Tis for the best, I suppose. I was growing too fond of Sir John. I must turn my mind to the other one. By my heel! That foppish bore is enough to make stones weep!

  Chapter Seven

  Kat closed the door to her chamber, then leaned against it. Sondra sat on the window seat, contented as a dairy cat enjoying the morning sun. Folding her arms across her chest, Kat tilted her head to one side. “How now, Sondra? What is this marvelous news you have for me?”

  Sondra patted the cushion next to her. “Do you want the long or the short of it, Lady Kat?”

  “Tell me the short first, then the longer version.” She settled herself next to her housekeeper.

  “What was sauce for the goose is now sauce for the gander.” Sondra’s smile deepened into laughter.

  Confused, Kat shook her head. “Riddle me no riddles, Sondra, but speak plain.”

  Sondra chuckled. “’Tis this—he, who calls himself Sir Brandon, is not that worthy lord at all. He is, in fact, Sir John Stafford. And he, that calls himself Sir John—and playing the fool of love with you—is none other than the real Sir Brandon Cavendish—and your intended husband by royal command.”

  Kat fell back against the deep frame of the window. Her cheeks flushed while her hands grew icy. She had difficulty drawing a deep breath. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  “How did you come by this information?” Kat managed to gasp. Her mind whirled like a weather vane in a storm. The most handsome, fascinating man she had ever met couldn’t possibly be the very one who was to marry her in two weeks. “Why the deceit?”

  Sondra tapped the side of her nose. “You will find the answer to the second question in yourself, my lady. ’Tis the same reason as your own counterfeit—to spy you out. As to the answer to the first...” She broke off with another laugh.

  “Peace, peace, good Sondra. Tell me all, before I fly out this window with distraction.”

  Sondra leaned closer. “Do you know which one of the Lord Cavendish’s men is the master huntsman—Jess, by name?”

  Kat considered the several dozen men who had taken up lodgings over the stables. “The tallest one?”

  Sondra nodded with a secret twinkle in her eye. “The very same, and a fine specimen of manhood he is, too.”

  “He told you?” Kat wondered if the huntsman had merely spun an amusing tale to entertain an interested admirer.

  “Aye, though he didn’t know it.”

  Kat cocked her head. “How now? What did you do to the poor man, Sondra?”

  Sondra rolled her eyes before answering. “What I did, and what he did, is not important, except to the two of us. But before we did anything together, I... I filled his tankard with a goodly portion of our best brew.”

  Kat began to understand. “You befuddled his mind.”

  Sondra dimpled. “He’s a very big man, my lady, so I did not water down the ale, but gave it to him full strength. By the turn of the night, that great long man was set afire with desire—and more than a little drunk.”

  “Sweet angels, Sondra! You could have killed him!”

  “Nay, but it did loosen him up a little more than I had planned. The night was well spent, indeed.” Sondra grinned at the recollection.
“In truth, I am stiff and sore this morning.”

  Kat chose to ignore the nature of Sondra’s ailments. “And the huntsman told you of his master’s switch in identities?”

  “Aye, afterward...as he hovered on the brink betwixt wakefulness and deep sleep, Jess murmured that he was the most satisfied man in Bodiam.” Pausing, Sondra blushed. “He said he was happier to lie with me in his arms, and be content, than to go to bed alone with only a false name for comfort like his master did.”

  “But did Jess say exactly what he meant by that?” Kat’s thoughts ran ahead of Sondra’s story.

  If John was indeed Brandon, that would explain his odd behavior this morning. With a fortnight before Midsummer’s Day, his conscience must have pricked him. Kat snorted as she recalled John’s...nay, Brandon’s kisses in the garden. The devil take the rogue! What did the churl mean by wooing her—his betrothed’s spinster cousin? Or was he merely toying with an innocent maid’s affections to amuse himself before he lost his bachelorhood? Biting her lower lip, Kat banished the unpleasant idea.

  “Did Jess name the lords by their proper titles?”

  “Aye, he did—with a little prodding from me.”

  “Good heavens, Sondra! Your huntsman is even now riding with his master and Miranda. He is sure to confess to them that he has spilled the secret.”

  Sondra shook her head. “Not so. As I said, the drink was more than he needed. In fact, he does not remember what was said, or done, this past night. He was most surprised to awaken at the cock’s crow this morning to find me a-lying in his arms.”

  Kat grinned. “I can well imagine.”

  Sondra winked. “Jess is a fine piece of work, my lady. He apologized for not remembering how I got there in the first place, but he made sure we’d both have something to remember before I left his side.”

  Kat’s ears warmed under her veil. She tried not to imagine Sondra and Jess sporting in her stable loft.

  Sondra turned more serious. “But the heart of the matter is still the same. All this time, you’ve been dallying with your bridegroom, and he has been dallying with a lady whom he thinks is not his bride.”

  “What a perfidious slug!” Kat rose and began to pace across the square patch of sunlight. “And once again, I will be wed unto a man with a false heart. God rot him!”

  “Peace, my lady. I think not.”

  Kat stared at her friend and wondered if the wise woman had read Brandon’s soul. Kat was half-afraid to know.

  “How now, Sondra?”

  “I think my Lord Cavendish is gone full over his head in love with you—not with Lady Katherine Fitzhugh, mistress of Bodiam, nor even with her quiet cousin, Miranda Paige. He is in love with yourself, by whatever name you choose to be called.”

  Sitting again beside Sondra, Kat took one of her friend’s hands in hers. “Tell me the truth. Are you certain of this?”

  “Aye, I am. ‘Tis as plain as the sun a-shining out there this minute. You only have to see the man a-looking after you to read the love in his face. Now your poor lord finds himself tied up in knots tighter than a rabbit in a poacher’s poke. He knows he is in love with one lady, while he thinks he must marry the other. All the while, ’tis one and the same woman that he loves. Sir Brandon has been caught in his own trap.”

  “How wonderful, Sondra!” A satisfying laugh welled up from deep inside Kat. She could not hold it back, nor did she want to. “This plan of mine has worked out even better than I expected! ’Tis too rich a dish to be gobbled all at once!” She leaned back against the wall, laughing even harder. Sondra joined her.

  After a few minutes, their merriment subsided into a few giggles and a hiccup or two.

  “Would you be in the market for a piece of advice or two?” Sondra asked with a knowing gleam in her eye.

  “Aye, you know I would. What do you suggest? A love potion to make my Lord Cavendish reveal the truth?”

  Sondra cocked her head in thought. “I could devise something of that nature, but methinks there is a better way.”

  “What?”

  “By letting Sir Brandon’s dilemma take its own course.”

  A plan began to form in Kat’s mind. “Meanwhile, I shall remain Mistress Miranda, and wait until Brandon makes his move.”

  “And Miranda herself? By our larkin, my ladyl I have not seen her so happy in many a year.”

  “Neither have I.” Kat considered the future, her thoughts leaping on top of each other as frogs on the same lily pad. “We will not tell Miranda this new information. If she knew that she was being wooed by a reasonably handsome, somewhat intelligent and eminently available man, she would retreat inside her shell and so throw away this sudden chance at love. Nay, let her be me awhile longer, and so ensnare John Stafford, until he begins to woo her for himself, and not for my Lord Cavendish. Indeed, I do believe Stafford has already fallen under Miranda’s spell. When Midsummer’s Day comes, and all truths are revealed, I will provide a generous dowry for her. My Lord Stafford will fall to the marriage yoke as if he had been poleaxed.”

  “And me, my lady? What if I bring my great hunter to heel?”

  Kat hugged Sondra. “Then you shall have a goodly dowry, as well, and a new gown to be wed in.”

  “All will come out pat in time, mark my words, my lady.” Sondra drew out her measuring string from her deep apron pocket. “Speaking of wedding gowns, Lady Kat, what of yours? Surely you do not want to go to the altar in your old blue dress now, do you? Not when you’ll be a-marrying for love.”

  “Do you really think so, Sondra?” Kat feared to hope for such a happiness. “Does he love me truly?”

  “Aye, my lady. They say the third time is the charm, and pays for all. Now as to your gown. What about that white damask brocade and golden lace you bought at the Whitsuntide fair for next Christmas? ’Tis a fine cloth, and all the maids are a-perishing to make a hundred love knots to adorn it.”

  Kat wrinkled her nose. “The damask would be heavy for this season of the year.”

  Sondra winked at her. “Mayhap, but you could wear fewer petticoats underneath it. I am sure your noble lord would not mind having less to peel away.”

  Kat swallowed. The vision of Sir John—no, Sir Brandon—untying the laces of her shimmering gold and white gown swam through her imagination. “Is there enough material for two gowns, exactly alike?”

  “Aye. What new mischief do you plot now, Lady Kat?”

  “And have we veiling thick enough to hide my features, if I wore it over my face?”

  “We do.” Sondra arched one brow.

  “Then here is my device. Come my wedding day, both Miranda and I will be garbed and veiled exactly alike, so that none can tell the difference. We shall not unveil, until after the vows have been exchanged.”

  “Even if the noble lords have confessed all?”

  Kat nodded with a smug expression. “Aye. Miranda and I will play our parts to the very end, and my cunning, crafty, double-dealing Lord Cavendish will not know whom he has married, until the sticking point. That should teach him that I can play his game as well as he—and beat him at it.”

  “And Miranda?”

  “She will never confess our disguising on her own, for she is tried and true to me. She will play my part, willingly or not. But, let us hope, Sondra, that, for good Miranda’s sake, my Lord Cavendish does not sound the retreat too soon. I think I shall much enjoy watching him spin around in this whirlwind of his own creation.”

  Stretching his feet out under the table, Brandon tried to concentrate on the chessboard before him. His mind was hardly on the game. He took a long swallow of his warm spiced wine. Considering the past twelve hours, he was forced to admit that this was one of the worst days of his life.

  Despite his honorable intentions to do right by his bride to-be, things had gone wrong from the start—beginning with the hurt expression on sweet Miranda’s face, when he had offered his arm to Katherine and had escorted her out of the hall. He knew that Miranda’s look o
f reproach would rise up and haunt him in the dark of night for years to come. All for the sake of honor. Honor be damned!

  And what had he gained for his sacrifice and Miranda’s pain? Absolutely nothing.

  Brandon cast a sideways glance at Jack and Katherine, who sat on the cushioned seat below the huge triple-light window of the great hall. Outside, a summer tempest raged, casting jagged streaks of lightning to the earth. Thunder rolled across the soaking fields like cannon fire. The fury of the weather went unnoticed by the pair, who enjoyed a private game of cards. Katherine’s laughter floated over the slash of the rain against the diamond-cut panes of window glass. Jack—the churl—whispered yet another compliment to her, judging from the blush on her cheeks.

  This morning, when Brandon had offered his assistance at the mounting block, Katherine had turned to Jack and had given him her hand to help her into her saddle. During that tiresome ride, Katherine insisted on staying by Jack instead of riding next to Brandon, no matter how often Jack obligingly dropped back. When they dismounted to look across a field of ripening hops, ‘twas Jack she asked to help her down. And Jack helped her up again, when ’twas time to return for dinner. Brandon could have been out alone with his falcon for all the good it had done him.

  Who was Katherine to be so choosy of her companion? A simpering, giggling, pale-faced ninny, who had not more than an ounce of sense in her brain. When she opened her mouth, which was not often, her speech was that of a girlish maiden and not of a woman brought twice to the marriage bed. No wonder she relied on Miranda so much! Without her steady, intelligent cousin to oversee the running of the household, Bodiam would have been in a state of complete shambles by now. How would Katherine survive without Miranda to help her? How would he?

  “’Tis your move, my lord, and has been this past quarter hour.” Miranda nudged his foot with her toe. “Have you gone to sleep, or are you merely trying to find a way of saving your bishop’s pawn?”

  Brandon blinked, then pulled himself up straighter in the chair. “Your pardon, mistress. I was woolgathering.”