Midsummer's Knight

“Bodiam Castle,” he snapped.

“A pleasant place to look upon,” Jack observed.

“Aye, I have seen worse prisons,” Brandon remarked, his brows furrowed above his eyes.

The men behind him guffawed. Brandon twisted the reins between his fingers. God’s death! Why did his stomach play havoc with his breakfast? ’Twas only an old woman. At least, her castle looked welcoming, he thought as he studied his new estate-to-be.

Situated comfortably in a gently rolling valley on the banks of the river Rother, Bodiam’s white limestone walls reflected the bright sunlight. Brandon guessed that the square fortress had been built several hundred years ago, but he could see it was well maintained. Stout barrel towers guarded each corner with square towers at the center of the north and south curtain walls. Above each tower, a colorful banner waved in the breeze.

The bright sun glinted off the diamond panes of glass that filled the wide arched windows on the second and third floors—as curious to the eye as lacy-cut paperwork. The open drawbridge lay snug against the near bank of the moat, and a bevy of white swans glided leisurely across the still green water. Above the open portcullis, a flag, larger than the others, snapped against its pole. A silver unicorn lay on a green silken field—the Lady Katherine’s personal device, Brandon presumed.

“Well?” Jack poked Brandon with his crop. “Do we ride to yon castle, or do we turn tail?”

Brandon glared at his best friend. Jack winked back at him. With a sigh of exasperation, Brandon turned his horse and faced his party. If only his men would stop grinning like monkeys! Thank all the saints that his brother Guy was safely five hundred miles away with his French wife and baby daughter! Guy would be hooting at him by now.

“Men,” Brandon began, then cleared his throat to banish the high-pitched frog that lurked therein. “From now on, you will render the service due me to Sir John. Until further notice, he is Lord Brandon Cavendish, and I am Jack Stafford. That goes double to you varlets.” Brandon glared at the squires, Mark and Christopher.

The two seventeen-year-olds nodded with wide smirks on their faces.

“One word of our disguising from any of you, and I will personally take a whip to your backs.” Brandon tried to sound as if he meant it. The trouble was, he didn’t—and the whole company knew it. “On the other hand, if this farce plays out well, there will be a golden angel in each of your pockets come Midsummer’s Day.”

“You can rely upon us, my Lord...ah...Stafford,” Jess answered for the company.

Jack adjusted his new blue velvet hat and straightened the red felt traveling cloak about his shoulders. “Do I look like the high-and-mighty Sir Brandon Cavendish, eldest son of the Earl of Thornbury, my Lord Stafford?” he asked with a merry gleam in his eye. “Do I look the part of the panting bridegroom?”

“You look like the very devil,” Brandon muttered. He glared at the castle again, then threw back his shoulders and took a deep breath. “Sound your hom, Jess. They know we are here. Let us make a brave charge and engage the enemy in her lair.”

Brandon urged Windchaser into a gallop down the hill, followed closely by Jack and the others. The greyhounds gave tongue, while Jess blew his horn like the angel Gabriel announcing the final judgment day. The halloo of the men and hounds, and the thudding of the great horses’ hooves on the soft greensward did much to relieve the tension of Brandon’s coiled nerves. If this was to be a battle of wits and hearts, he would attack bravely.

The two lords reined their horses into a sedate walk as they approached the drawbridge. A clear girlish giggle sang over their heads. Brandon and Jack glanced up just in time to see three women, two with reddish brown hair, and the other one with hair the color of ripe wheat, duck back from the tower window. The entire south battlements appeared to be filled with many smiling maidens and a few stern-looking men-at-arms.

“Methinks the enemy has spied us, and has appraised our strength,” Jack remarked with a chuckle. “Comely wenches. This little holiday in the country may prove quite diverting for me.”

“Your eyes are only for the Lady Katherine, until I say otherwise,” Brandon growled as he walked his horse across the wooden planks of the drawbridge. “Best remember that, my friend.”

Jack feigned a sigh. “I shall woo up storms of tears and swoons. I shall give my very best performance to date. Too bad ’twill be wasted on a lady of advanced years,” he added, arching his eyebrow. “And one reputed to be a witch.”

“Bite your tongue, Stafford,” Brandon rumbled under his breath. He did not like to be reminded of that uncomfortable possibility. Having to marry her was bad enough.

With a grin, Jack shook his head. “Nay, not so. I am Sir Brandon, and you are his boon companion, Jack Stafford.” They passed through the double gateways into the castle courtyard. “And now, let our play begin.”

Chapter Three

Running her fingers along the round, whitewashed wall of the tower’s stairwell, Kat descended the spiral stone steps that led into the hall. The cool stone under her fingertips gave her a welcome reassurance. The dulcet tones of Columbine’s music told Kat that everything was proceeding according to plan—so far. At the base of the steps, she straightened her coif, fluffed out its white veil over her shoulders, then took a deep breath. Let us see what manner of schoolboy has come to call. Lifting the trailing hem of her skirts, she swept into the lofty central chamber.

At the sound of her entrance, two blond giants turned in her direction. Halting abruptly, Kat nearly fell over a small footstool. Sweet angels! Who were these men, and where was Sir Brandon?

“Good day, fair lady,” said the first. Doffing his blue cap, he swept her a low courtly bow. His mellow baritone voice sang pleasantly in her ears. “Do I have the honor of addressing Lady Katherine Fitzhugh?”

“I...that is...” To cover her confusion, as well as to give her time to think, Kat dipped into a graceful curtsy. Her knees wobbled under her skirts. Had she mistaken the identity of her visitors? Were these gentlemen emissaries from the king, and not her betrothed at all? If that was the case, she should reveal herself immediately. And yet...

Rising slowly, Kat smiled with a false brightness. “Pray, forgive me, my lords. We do not often entertain such noble gentlemen as yourselves here at Bodiam. I fear you must think me a ninny.”

She advanced closer to them, praying that one or the other might introduce himself. Kat caught her breath. What a handsome pair! The one in the velvet hat easily stood six feet in height. His blue eyes reminded her of a summer sky reflected in a pool of clear spring water. He held his lean body gracefully, perhaps a little too gracefully for her taste.

The second man cleared his throat, then bowed in turn. though he did not sweep so low to the floor as the first. “Forgive us, my lady. Methought your usher had announced our arrival. In truth, it seems your whole castle saw us ride in. Permit me to introduce Sir Brandon Cavendish of Wolf Hall.” He pointed to his companion.

Kat blinked at the smiling man, then dropped into another curtsy. Cavendish? This was no beardless youth—though his handsome face was clean shaven—but a man in his full prime. This was the bridegroom whom the king had chosen for her? Miranda will swoon on the spot when she claps an eye on him.

“And I am Sir John Stafford, come to bear witness of your joy to the king.” Stafford cleared his throat again.

Kat looked up fully into the second man’s face. This time her traitorous knees deserted her. She swayed. Moving swiftly, Stafford caught her before Kat collapsed into an undignified heap of petticoats and gowns. With a hint of a smile playing about the corners of his lips, he guided her to one of the high-backed armchairs.

“Are you well, my lady? Shall I call for your usher?”

“Nay,” Kat gasped. “My thanks, good sir. I slipped upon the floor. I...er...we take pride in keeping the floor tiles polished with beeswax. How very clumsy of mel” I sound like a complete fool!

Kat’s cheeks flamed. If Sir Brandon presented a picture of a Greek god come down to her hearth, he paled in comparison to Sir John. Slightly taller than his friend, Stafford’s shoulders filled—nay, strained—the seams of his forest green doublet, as if he would burst out of them at any moment. While Sir Brandon’s voice reminded her of warm honey dripping from the comb, Sir John’s deeper tones promised something more dangerous and exciting.

The room wavered before her eyes. Kat gripped the arms of the chair. She must get hold of herself. She was no giddy maiden on a May morning, but a woman of nearly thirty years. ’Twas almost the dinner hour. No doubt her dizziness stemmed from hunger.

Stafford knelt by her chair and took one of her ice-cold hands in his. “Clumsy is not a word I would use to describe you, my lady.” Stafford’s brilliant blue eyes twinkled with open amusement. He brushed his lips lightly across the back of her hand.

Angels in heaven! What magic is this stranger working upon me? And in full view of my betrothed—no, not my betrothed. Not yet. I am not Kat.

“I fear I am no lady...” she began, then stopped, realizing how scandalous that must sound.

Sir John’s smile widened as he continued to hold her clammy hand within his large warm ones. “No lady?” His gaze roved from her eyes, to her shoulders to the outline of her breasts under the plain bodice of her gown. “Your beauty gives the lie to that.”

Kat’s pulse skittered alarmingly. This man is seducing me in my own hall—before dinner, or even before proper introductions.

Kat sat up straighter. “I am Mistress Miranda Paige, cousin to the lady of the house.”

“My loss,” Sir John whispered under his breath.

Not sure what he meant by that, Kat plunged on with her part. “My Lady Katherine begs your patience, my lords. The suddenness of your arrival has put us all in a whirl. She is above, preparing herself to receive you, Sir Brandon.”

Poor Miranda! What a shock this handsome gallant was going to be to her! Kat prayed that her cousin would keep her wits about her upon first introduction.

“A masterpiece of perfection takes time to prepare. ’Tis made all the more desirable by the wait,” Sir Brandon replied, shooting a quick glance to his companion.

“Just so,” Sir John murmured. After pressing his lips on the sensitive skin of her palm, he released Kat’s hand.

Like a lark caught in a snare, her heart fluttered wildly within her breast. An uneasy silence settled over them. Kat thanked her foresight for having Columbine play her lute. The girl’s sweet music filled the gap in the conversation. Biting the inside of her lips, Kat struggled to think of something clever to say. Neither Lewknor nor Fitzhugh had bothered to pay her court. She had never set eyes on either of her husbands until they had met at the church door to take their wedding vows. During thirteen years of loveless marriages, the opportunity for witty conversation and harmless flirtation had never presented itself—until now. Sweet Saint Anne, help me!

“I must confess, Mistress Paige, I did not expect to find so agreeable an interior to your lady’s castle when we first rode through its gate.” Sir Brandon surveyed the room with approval in his expression. “A fortress on the outside, and a pleasant bower within.”

Kat released a pent-up breath. At least, the man—her betrothed, she had to remind herself—had given her a blessed opening. “Yes, I am...we are quite pleased with the result of the plaster and paint over the rough walls. The linen-fold carving on the paneling is my...cousin’s especial pride. Much work has been done since my...my lady’s husband died.” Careful—watch every word. Miranda! How long does it take to change your gown?