Midsummer's Knight

by Tori Phillips

  He avoided looking into the green eyes that sparkled a challenge to him from the other side of the chessboard. He knew, if he gazed into those orbs of flashing fire, he would be lost—all his fine intentions blown out the window. He must maintain his control and his honor. Be courteous but not familiar with Miranda.

  Brandon shot another glance at the pair on the window seat. Blast Katherine! She had turned him down as flat as a griddle cake, when he had suggested a game of chess after supper. She had even acted insulted at his offer of his company. She preferred Jack, the grinning ape, who merely shrugged at Brandon, then engaged the lady with his own wit and wiles. What does she think I am---a squawking crow?

  “By the stars, Sir John!” Miranda blew a wisp of her auburn hair out of her eyes as she bent over the board. “You have already lost three pawns and a knight to me. What’s one pawn more?”

  Brandon sent her a quick glance from under his hooded lids. He drew in a small breath. How utterly delectable she looked with the candlelight playing the wanton with her hair, turning it into a riot of reds and golds. Gritting his teeth, he moved his bishop one place on the diagonal

  Miranda’s eyes widened. “By the book! You’ve opened your queen to my attack! In faith, I will not let you take your move back, Sir John. I mean to win this game.” She swooped her castle deep into his side of the board.

  ’Tis no matter. I am lost to you already, sweet minx. Take my queen, my bishop, my heart. I am a condemned man.

  “My mind dwells upon other things,” Brandon murmured. He hardened his voice with a deliberate ruthlessness, then pointedly stared at Katherine.

  Miranda followed the direction of his look. “Oh? The wind blows in that direction now, does it?” She smiled with a perverse pleasure. “Does my cousin please you, Sir John? Do you think she will make Sir Brandon a good wife?”

  “She will make him—” Brandon caught himself before his true thoughts slipped out “—a wealthy man,” he finished. He sought solace in his wine cup.

  “Indeed?” Miranda regarded him with a smug expression playing about her full, luscious lips. “Methought my Lord Cavendish was heir to a large estate in the north.”

  “He is,” Brandon snapped, staring at the bottom of his empty cup. “But a man can never be too rich.” Weep, my good mother, for the lies I must weave for blasted honor’s sake.

  Miranda lifted the jug beside her, and poured them both more of the sweetened drink. “And do you think my cousin will make Sir Brandon a happy man?”

  She will render me stark, staring mad within twelve months. Aloud, Brandon replied, “I am no soothsayer, mistress. I have no idea what their marriage will be like. Only time will tell.”

  “Just so, my lord.” Removing her coif, Miranda shook her head. A tumbling waterfall of red-gold cascaded over her shoulders. “Your pardon, Sir John, but this coif pinches, and I am beginning to get a headache. Your move, I believe.” Her eyes glittered.

  Knotting his hand into a fist under the table, Brandon dug his nails deep into his palms. His move? Don’t ask me what I would move to do, delectable chit. ’Tis a wonder I don’t sweep this table clear of the pieces, and lay you down right here. Why couldn’t she keep her hair covered like every other respectable spinster? His fingers itched to comb through those tresses that dangled so enticingly near.

  With a low groan, Brandon pushed back his chair and rose abruptly. “Pray excuse me, Mistress Miranda. I must attend an urgent call of nature.”

  She smiled up at him. “Then you have my leave. But hurry back, my lord, before your strategy grows cold.”

  “Never fear on that score, mistress,” he growled. “My thoughts are always hot. Indeed, they burn me up.” Turning quickly, he strode out of the hall toward the nearest garderobe. Her laughter followed him, echoing down the corridor.

  Wrapped in his own dark brooding, Brandon failed to see Montjoy until he bumped headlong into him. The old man stumbled backward, and would have fallen, had not Brandon caught him in time.

  “Your pardon, steward,” Brandon apologized. “I was lost in my thoughts.”

  Montjoy drew himself up to the top of his frail height. “The passage is dark, my lord.”

  “Aye, but not enough to warrant my blindness. Are you well?”

  Montjoy sniffed. “I am never fully well in my joints, my lord, especially on such a vile night as this.” He sighed deeply. “’Tis a cross I must bear alone.”

  Brandon hid his grin behind his hand. The castle servants called the poor man, Melancholy Montjoy, and, unfortunately, the name was most appropriate.

  “To save your steps, and the pain in your joints, is there some office I can perform for you?” Once he was lord of Bodiam, Brandon decided he would settle Montjoy in dignified retirement.

  The steward bowed gravely. “I am unworthy of your kind attention, my lord. However, if it is not too much trouble, would you inform my mistress that Sir Fenton Scantling has arrived?”

  The shock of Montjoy’s announcement hit Brandon with the force of a mailed fist in his gut. “Scantling? Here? Now?”

  Montjoy’s heavy lids flickered. “You know my Lord Scantling?”

  “Aye, at court.” Brandon glanced over his shoulder into the hall. No one seemed to have heard Montjoy. “Where is Fenton now?”

  “In the antechamber, my lord. He is much covered with mud and the filth of the road, and...”

  At that moment, the subject in question appeared at the top of the entry stairs. Scantling’s long cloak ran with rainwater, creating a series of puddles as he advanced.

  “There you are, you malmsey-nosed knave!” Scantling strode up to Montjoy. “The devil and his dam take you for leaving me in that bunghole to shiver myself into a chill.”

  “I thought to inform your aunt—”

  “I will tell my aunt what she needs to know. You attend to my needs this minute, old man.” Fenton snapped his fingers. “A bath, fresh dry garments, a hot supper and—”

  Stepping between the pair, Brandon glared down at his nephew-to-be. The rain had plastered Fenton’s hat to his head, giving the young man the unappealing appearance of a drowned rat.

  “A good master is known by the way he treats his servants, Scantling,” Brandon remarked with cold contempt in his voice. To Montjoy, he added, “Prepare my lord’s room, Montjoy, and he shall be there presently, after his aunt has put a flea or two in his ear.”

  “You overstep your bounds, my lord,” Fenton bristled. Brandon gripped his arm and flung him against the wall. Scantling gasped. “Does my aunt know of your roughshod ways?”

  “I ought to tear out your lying tongue and give it to the dogs for their breakfast, you sniveling vermin! Why did you tell me that your aunt was an old crone and a witch? Look you!” He stepped aside, so that Fenton could see into the lighted hall. “Does that good lady look like either one to you now?”

  Scantling narrowed his eyes at Brandon. “Nay, she looks more like a wanton jade, with her hair all in her face like that.”

  About to defend Katherine against Fenton’s slander, Brandon halted before he spoke. He stared again into the hall. Katherine and Jack still played at their card game. Though she leaned her head closer to Jack’s, Brandon could see that her headdress was still firmly in place. On the other hand, Miranda sat back in her chair with her eyes closed, idly running her fingers through her bare, loosened tresses.

  “Though why Aunt Kat is wearing one of Miranda’s dresses, I can’t begin to guess,” Scantling continued with a sneer. “Perchance, she hopes you will think she is a poor widow. Be advised, my lord. My aunt is truly a conniving shrew.”

  A small nerve jangled in Brandon’s temple. He licked his dry lips. “Your aunt looks pleasing in her cousin’s dress. It becomes her figure right well. I asked that she wear it especially for me.” God’s nightshirt! Had Brandon been served up in his own juices? Who had hoodwinked whom?

  Fenton’s lips curled. “You are much besotted then, my lord. You do not know my aunt’s true
colors.”

  “For once you speak the truth, Scantling. Fear not, for I will unmask her ere I wed her. On that, you have my promise.” Brandon stared at Miranda—or was it Katherine—basking in the firelight.

  “And take a hellcat into your bed?”

  Closing his hand around Scantling’s throat, Brandon banged the varlet’s head against the stone wall of the passageway. “Be mindful of that tongue of yours, Scantling. The dogs are hungry. Now get to your chamber, for your greensick face offends my eyes. I will tell the lady of your arrival. I am sure the news will bring her much good cheer.”

  Brandon released Scantling. The youth pulled away from him, as if Brandon harbored the plague. Without another word to either the knight or the hovering Montjoy, Fenton stamped up the stairs to the bedchambers. His wide-eyed servant scampered close behind with a bulging saddlebag over each arm.

  Brandon spied Montjoy easing down the hallway toward the kitchen. “Worthy steward, a word with you.”

  Montjoy’s eyelids blinked several times in rapid succession. “My...my lord?”

  Brandon dropped an arm around the old man’s thin shoulders. “Montjoy, I know you are an honest man.”

  “As God in heaven is my witness, my lord.”

  “Falsehood is your sworn enemy, no doubt?”

  “A-aye, my lord.” Montjoy’s lips trembled.

  Brandon tightened his grip. “So tell me the truth, as God in his heaven is your witness, Montjoy. Is yon lady in the plain green gown and without her headdress—the lady who is beating me in chess—is she, in sworn truth—your mistress, Lady Katherine Fitzhugh?”

  Montjoy wavered for an instant, then drawing himself up, he stared squarely at Brandon. “She has always been so, my lord. Do you require anything else?”

  Chapter Eight

  “My Lord Scantling has arrived, my lady,” Columbine whispered into Kat’s ear.

  Kat bolted upright in her chair. Fenton would give the game away, unless he thought it would be worth his while to keep quiet. Thank heavens, John—nay, Brandon—was still out of the hall. “He’s here? At Bodiam?”

  Columbine’s head bobbed. “Aye, he’s in his chamber now, screaming for food and hot water.” Leaning closer, the maid whispered in Kat’s ear. “There’s more, my lady. Tod Wormsley took me aside. Methought he was trying to steal a kiss, but instead he asked me to warn you. Sir Fenton is overwhelmed by debts. Tod said they left the court to escape his lord’s creditors. Now your nephew has come to make you sign over the guardianship of the estate to him before your wedding day. Tod says Sir Fenton carries a paper in his pocket drawn up by a lawyer.”

  “By the rood! We must do something quickly.”

  “’Tis what I thought, my lady. But what?”

  Blast Fenton! Creditors and coercion? The ungrateful little wretch! As if Kat didn’t already have enough on her hands, and an approaching marriage that she still preferred not to ponder.

  “Give my regards to my Lord Cav...Sir John when he returns from the privy. Tell him I’m...I’ve been taken with a sick headache, and I have gone to bed.” Kat cast a quick glance at Miranda. Still playing their game of cards, she and Stafford appeared lost in their own world. “Make no mention of this to Miranda—not yet.”

  Slipping out of the hall, Kat headed for the stairs to the kitchens. “And tell my noble partner that I concede the chess match to him this time,” she tossed back over her shoulder.

  “Aye.” Columbine bobbed her head.

  Kat sighed with relief when she found Sondra sipping a mug of warm ale and spinning ghost stories by the kitchen fire. As the summer thunderstorm battered the castle walls, the housekeeper held spellbound a dozen of the younger servants with her tales of sprites and supernatural creatures.

  “Sondra! A word in your ear! Make haste!”

  A dozen pairs of bright eyes looked up at Kat.

  Sondra put down her mug and clapped her hands, scattering the group like a wind among autumn leaves. “Away with you, my poppets! Our lady desires private conference with me. And Pansy, stay out of the sugared nuts, if you please. They are put by for the wedding feast.”

  Wedding feast! Kat gulped. She couldn’t think of that now. She sank down on a low stool next to Sondra. “Fenton has returned and is up to no good. He plans to force me to sign over Bodiam to him! Sondra, give me good counsel. What am I to do?”

  Sondra raised her brows to a point in the middle of her forehead. “Aye? That explains why the potboys scampered away so fast. Montjoy asked for hot water for a bath. Methought ’twas for you or Mistress Miranda.”

  “My mind is at sixes and sevens, Sondra. I cannot think, save to wring Fenton’s mangy neck. Tell me. Is there any of your potions or elixirs that could make him sleep for a week or two?” Then let my Lord Cavendish deal with the boy. There may be yet one or two saving graces to this match.

  “Nay, my lady, but you have put your finger on the problem. He must be gotten rid of.”

  Kat nodded. “Aye, before he can wave his silly paper about, or speak with either of the knights, and tell them who I really am. Hang it all! He might even seize upon this gentle game as proof that my mind is unhinged. I would not put such a ploy past him. Where Fenton goes, trouble skulks close behind.”

  Sondra eyed a huge cauldron on the fire with a critical squint. She snapped her fingers. “I have it, Lady Kat! Yonder is my lord’s bathwater. I will steep nettles and the leaves of crowfoot in it. The mixture will render your fine nephew with such an onerous rash that he will think the castle is suffering from a plague of fleas. Furthermore, ’twill give a devilish burning to those private parts that all men cherish most dear.”

  Kat tried to suppress a giggle but failed miserably. “Oh, admirable Sondra! I like that very much.”

  “Meanwhile, I will insist that fresh sheets be put on my lord’s bed—sheets that I will rub with rue and more nettles. I promise you, my lady. He will have the worst night’s sleep of his life.”

  Catching Sondra’s enthusiasm, Kat added, “And do you have a way to make him sneeze his head off?”

  “Aye, we’ll stuff his pillows with black pepper and ground hellebore.”

  Kat’s smile broadened with approval. “And we will instruct everyone to tell Fenton that a rare malady lurks about Bodiam, one that we have all suffered this spring. Fenton has such a childish horror of any illness, he will take himself back to court in a wink.” Kat shook her head. “Poor Tod! I fear we must treat the lad as badly as we do his master. Slip a packet of Philippe’s special spiced toast into Wormsley’s bag before they go. Perchance the treat will help sweeten Tod’s itchy spirits.”

  “Aye, that, and a bright silver shilling will cure Tod of any discomfort,” Sondra suggested.

  “You speak wisely, as always, my dear friend. Above all, let no one else, save you and me, know of this trick.” Sighing, Kat rolled her eyes. “Sweet angels! There are so many plots thickening under this old roof! Pray we do not find ourselves in our own hot soup!”

  Sondra winked at Kat. “Just so long as there is none of my pepper and nettles in that pot with us, my lady.”

  “Methinks your game has run its course long enough, Brandon.” Jack observed as they tended to their horses before retiring.

  Brandon merely grunted in reply. Murmuring soothing words in his horse’s ear, he brushed his huge chestnut charger with long, smooth strokes. Windchaser was a noble steed in the tiltyard, but thunderstorms made him skittish. Meanwhile, Brandon’s thoughts were far from the realm of clean straw and leather tack. Scantling’s revelation had so confounded him that he had barely spoken a word to anyone since the young lord’s unheralded arrival.

  Jack continued. “By morning’s light, that peevish whipster will have sniffed out our secret. Then there will be hell to pay. And pay, and pay, if I know anything about Scantling.”

  “Aye,” Brandon answered, barely listening to Jack.

  God’s teeth! For the past two weeks Brandon had been dancing court to his intended
bride, instead of her poor cousin! And Jack...Brandon glanced over Windchaser’s withers at his friend’s back. And Jack—the most notorious heartbreaker in Henry’s court—had tripped over his own feet and fallen for a shy country maiden.

  Brandon grinned in the darkness. What an infinite jest! All the sophisticated wiles, all the rich gowns, elaborate coifs, dazzling jewels, enticing perfumes and artful cosmetics employed by the court beauties had merely entertained Jack, never ensnared him. Yet one unadorned spinster, past her bloom of youth, had him bending to her whims. High time Jack felt the sting of Cupid’s arrows!

  “What do you think?” Jack asked over his shoulder.

  Brandon shook his head. Think about what?

  “Your pardon, Jack. My mind wanders amid the whirl of recent events.” He ran his hand over his horse’s sleek flank. Windchaser nickered with pleasure.

  Jack snorted. “Your mind has been a bubbling stew pot ever since we left Hampton Court. Indeed, it grows thicker daily. I said, why don’t we abduct Fenton and his man in the dark hours of the night, truss them up in sacks like a couple of roosters and leave them on a roadside far away from here?”

  Brandon walked around to Windchaser’s near side. “’Tis a tempting thought, but one that will do us no lasting good. Like an unwanted cat, Scantling will return within a day, and he will know where to lay his grievance.”

  “Then I repeat, the jig is up. Our little piece of mummery is over. Draw the curtain. Put out the light and—”

  “Peace, Jack! Your chatter makes my head pound.”

  “Nay. ’Tis the spiced wine that does that.”

  Spiced wine... and the cunning minx who poured it. In his mind, he heard her ask him again, ‘Do you think Lady Katherine will make him a happy man?’ Aye, if she doesn’t drive me to distraction first

  Brandon massaged the bridge of his nose. Kat must be taught a lesson—one that she would never forget once they were married. She needed to learn the importance of honesty and truth. Brandon gnawed on his lower lip as he thought of how this might be accomplished. As for Scantling, let the devil take the morrow, and the knave with it.