Midsummer's Knight

“Ah, yes, I had heard that the Lady Katherine was married before,” Sir John remarked with the suddenness of a duck snapping at a water beetle.

Kat wrinkled her nose. “Twice,” she answered shortly. Why spoil her appetite for dinner, or the good company of these worthy gentlemen, with wretched thoughts of Fitzhugh?

“And were they happy matches?” Sir John persisted.

“Nay, my lord, they were not. I pray you, for my lady’s sake, do not mention her past husbands.” Have done with them for once and all!

“Good day, my lords, and welcome to my...oh, squealing piglets!” Miranda stood transfixed in the doorway, staring at the guests. She flushed a charming rosy hue.

Miranda looks ten years younger!

Kat hastened to her side. She clasped her cousin’s cold hand. “My lords, I present to you the Lady Katherine Fitzhugh.”

A startled look passed between the men, then, as one, they swept off their caps and bowed low.

“Leaping trout!” Miranda moaned softly. She gripped Kat’s hand like grim death.

“Does heaven weep for loneliness since you flew down to earth, sweet lady?” Sir Brandon gushed.

“Your servant, my lady,” his companion added in a brisk tone.

“Say something!” Kat hissed at her cousin.

“Welcome to Bodiam,” Miranda chirruped.

“You have said that already,” Kat whispered, guiding her transfixed cousin closer to the men. Don’t bolt, Miranda , she silently begged. Please do not give the game away just yet.

“Wa-was your journey long?” Miranda looked from one man to the other. “Which one is Sir Brandon?” she whispered to Kat out of the side of her mouth.

Kat spied a ghostly smile flit across Sir John’s lips. He must have heard Miranda’s question.

Sir John poked Sir Brandon’s rib cage with his elbow.

“I—I... fair lady, I have the honor of being the eldest son of Sir Thomas Cavendish, Earl of Thornbury. I am Sir Brandon Cavendish. I bring you the greetings and good wishes of my family and of our great king, Henry, who has made my present happiness possible.” Sir Brandon bowed low for a fourth time.

Kat winced inwardly as she watched Cavendish dive toward the floor again. Hang it all, my betrothed is full of foppery!

“Oh!” Miranda squeaked. She turned a little pale.

“Do him courtesies,” Kat prompted in Miranda’s ear. “And for the love of all that is holy, don’t faint.”

“’Tis I who am honored, Sir Brandon.” Miranda sank into a full curtsy. She remained frozen in that position.

Sir Brandon dropped to one knee before her and took her hand in his. “The honor of your fair hand is a gift I shall cherish all my days. Believe me, sweetest lady, when I tell you that I shall ever remember this moment in my heart and in my dreams.” He kissed each of Miranda’s fingers in turn.

Kat happened to glance at Sir John and caught him rolling his eyes toward the vaulted ceiling. Aye, Sir Brandon’s greeting was a bit thick—like butter oozing on a slice of hot bread—but his words certainly had quite an effect upon Miranda. Kat wondered if the two of them were going to remain kneeling in the middle of the floor for the rest of the day. Kat shot another glance at Sir John.

He acknowledged her look with a slight lowering of his eyelids. Then he cleared his throat again. Kat wondered if he was coming down with a cough. Perhaps Sondra could prepare an elixir for his sore throat.

“Permit me to introduce myself, my Lady Katherine.” Sir John arched one golden brow at the couple before him. “I am Sir John Stafford, gentleman groom of the king’s bedchamber.”

“Aye,” Miranda replied, not glancing at the speaker. She seemed to have lost herself in the depths of Sir Brandon’s blue eyes.

Get up, coz, and behave yourself. That is supposed to be my husband. Kat looked across the couple to Sir John. He shrugged his shoulders in reply. Though his motion seemed outwardly simple, he radiated a vitality that drew her like a dancing moth to a candle flames. Her heart bounced. That one was a rogue, she decided. Such an attraction would be perilous. Why couldn’t her betrothed have been Sir John? At least he didn’t talk in sugared subtleties.

. “The lady may find the noor—polished though ’tis to an enviable shine—to be a bit chill,” Sir John suggested. His golden eyebrows arched with meaning.

Kat caught herself admiring Sir John’s clean, straight jawline. She swallowed with difficulty.

“Your pardon, my lady.” Sir Brandon rose in one fluid motion, bringing Miranda up with him. “I was enraptured.”

“Has my...my cousin offered you some refreshment after your journey?” Miranda gripped Sir Brandon’s hand.

“Nay.” Sir John gazed boldly at Kat, which made her feel hot and cold at the same time. “But I am willing to take whatever refreshment she may offer.”

The very air crackled around Kat like lightning come to earth. The implication of his softly spoken words sent tingling waves of forbidden excitement crashing through her. Sir John’s eyes appeared to turn bluer as his gaze caressed her. Though the day was warm for May, a cluster of goose bumps sprouted along her arms. Angels in heaven! What was this churl insinuating? What an utterly improper, utterly rude, utterly...delicious idea! Impossible! I am fast losing my wits!

“I need no other refreshment, now that I am bathed in my lady’s eyes,” Sir Brandon murmured, drawing closer to Miranda, who, for her part, stood rooted to the floor tiles.

Kat tittered—something she had not done for almost two decades—and twisted a knot within the folds of her gown. “We do not often hear such goodly speech, as we live so far from the court.”

“I fear my friend may have overstepped his bounds at this first meeting, Mistress Miranda.” Sir John glared daggers at Sir Brandon’s back, as if to remind him of his manners. “Jack...jackanapes; Brandon! Mayhap the Lady Katherine would like to see the gift you have brought her?”

Sir Brandon dropped Miranda’s hand. “Forgive me, I pray you. I find myself most marvelously at sixes and sevens.” He drew out a red velvet pouch from inside his gold-embroidered doublet. With a brilliant smile, he held out the gift to Miranda. “For you, sweet lady, as a pledge of our betrothal.”

“You are too kind,” Miranda murmured. She almost let the bag slip between her trembling fingers. Glancing at Kat, she raised her eyebrow in question.

“Pray seat yourself, coz.” Kat pushed her toward the chair.

Clutching the bag to her breast, Miranda melted into the safety between the chair’s carved wooden arms.

“’Tis all the excitement of meeting such noble gentlemen,” Kat babbled to their guests. “It has quite overcome my lady.”

“That feeling is shared by one who desires to draw closer to her heart,” Sir Brandon replied with a flourish.

“God’s teeth!” muttered Sir John.

With shaking fingers, Miranda managed to untie the red tasseled cord and spread open the pouch. She lifted out a golden chain made up of dainty rose-shaped links. A swan, fashioned from a large freshwater pearl, its wings tipped with square-cut diamonds, dangled from a gold-and-pearl clasp at the center.

“Crickets!” Miranda gasped, holding up the jewel to catch a sunbeam.

“Sweet Saint Anne!” Kat exclaimed at the same time.

In the minstrels’ gallery, Columbine missed a note. The lute clattered to the fioor, then lapsed into silence.

“But I cannot accept such a gift as this!” Miranda’s green eyes glistened with a watery sheen as she glanced from Kat to Sir Brandon, then back to Kat.

“The necklace does not please you?” Sir Brandon shot a puzzled expression to his friend, then looked at Miranda once again. “You do not care for pearls—or swans?”