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Kat arched one eyebrow at her cousin. “Only too true, I fear. He then goes on to say that he knows Sir Brandon Cavendish well.”
“I do not like the sound of that!” Miranda jabbed her needle into the collar of the night shift she worked upon.
“Sweet Saint Anne!” Kat erupted. “Oh, Miranda, I must be the most unfortunate of women on this green earth!”
Miranda put down her sewing and regarded Kat more intently. “How now?”
Kat rattled the offending paper. “Fenton warns me that this Cavendish toad is far too young for me. ‘Barely dry behind his ears,’ he says. This...boy has only just won his spurs, and he is much given to...God shield me!”
“What?”
Kat read, “‘Cavendish is a ruffian who will swear, drink, dance and revel the night away. He commits the oldest sins in the newest fashion. In short, dear Aunt, Sir Brandon is as lecherous as a monkey. He will top anything in skirts between the ages of seven and seventy.”’ Balling up the paper, she hurled it toward the fireplace. “Alack! I am undone by the king’s whimsy. First, I nursed an old man on death’s door, and then tried to tame a devil, and now I am offered to a half-grown rooster to school! ’Tis enough to make me consider taking the veil!”
Miranda watched Kat pace the newly waxed floorboards for a few minutes, then she quietly asked, “Do you believe Fenton?”
Kat stopped in midstride. “Not as far as I can throw him. We both know from experience that Fenton says and does nothing that is not to his own advantage. ’Tis not my happiness he is concerned for, but my purse strings. With me married to a husband, no matter how young, Fenton will experience more of a money problem than he already has. And if, perchance, this...whoring, lusting fledgling manages to get me with child, Fenton will stand to lose a great deal more—in fact, my whole estate.” Kat stroked her chin with her forefinger.
Miranda sighed. “A babe would be sweet to have in the house. Do you think it is possible?”
“How do I know?” Kat snapped. “My first husband was too ill to breach me, and my second...” She shuddered at the thought. “Let us not dwell upon the second at all. A babe.” She considered the idea. “Hmm. I fear I am past my ripe years. A babe would be a gift from God that I would bear willingly even if I had to raise its father alongside of it.”
“Do we still go forward with our plan?” Miranda asked. She sent a silent prayer to heaven. ’Twould be such fun to be wooed, even if the bridegroom was just a few years out of leading strings. A lusty youth! Perhaps he still had all his teeth, unlike Kat’s first two husbands.
Kat smiled grimly. “Of course we will.”
“Do you truly think it will work?”
Taking Miranda by the hand, Kat led her to the gold-framed glass near the bed. “Look you, dearest coz. We are as much alike as sisters, which is not surprising considering that our dear mothers were exactly that. Even though you are a few years younger than I, we are of like stature, of like figure—though, I do confess with envy that your waist is an inch or two narrower. Our hair is the same shade of auburn, our eyes the same green.” Kat turned Miranda toward her and cradled her face between her hands. “Best of all, no one at court, other than Fenton, has ever seen Lady Katherine Fitzhugh. No one will know that we have exchanged places.”
“I will know,” announced a dirgelike masculine voice from the doorway. “And I like it not.”
Kat laughed, this time with a happier note. “Ah, Montjoy! You never like anything at all, but only delight in pointing out the dark side.”
Montjoy sniffed as if his nose ran with a cold. “What you propose is a lie, my lady.” Wagging his forefinger like a schoolmaster, the castle steward shuffled into the room. He regarded both women with a doleful mien. “Mark my words, Lady Katherine, a relationship begun with deceit will end in misery.” He dragged out the last word in three long syllables.
Laughing all the more, Kat draped herself around the old man’s shoulders. “Montjoy, my good conscience, what would we ever do without your joyful presence to gladden our days?”
Montjoy took out a large stained handkerchief, and blew his nose loudly before answering. “You’d be gone to the devil, my lady, and there is the beginning and end of it.” He sighed deeply.
“How now, Montjoy,” Miranda said, taking his hand in hers. “Have you told everyone in the household of Kat’s plan? Will they all play this game with us?”
Blowing his nose even louder, Montjoy managed to look sadder than before. “Aye, mistress, I have told them, much against my will. Even down to the potboys and stable lads. Scamps, every last one of them! They love you too much, my lady. They have all agreed to this...this folly of yours. When the king’s man comes to court you, we are all to call Mistress Miranda by Lady Katherine’s name, and Lady Katherine will become Mistress Miranda. What will the poor man do when he learns the truth? How long do you intend to keep him hoodwinked? ‘Tis against nature. I am sure ’tis a sin.”
Kat tickled him behind his ear. “No doubt, Montjoy, so storm heaven with your prayers for us. In the meantime, we shall make merry sport with this youthful bridegroom of mine. Only for a day or two, until I can spy out his true nature. He will not put on a false front with the poor cousin of Lady Katherine.”
“Only a day or two?” Miranda asked a little too brightly. She had hoped for a week, at least. A week of sweet love words whispered in her ear, of flowers and poetry, and perhaps even a song sung just for her.
Kat crossed around Montjoy’s spare form and hugged Miranda. “Mayhap a week then, if ’twill please you, Miranda. I am in no hurry. Midsummer’s Day lies three weeks away.”
“It does not please me—not one hour of it!” Montjoy moaned.
“But you will play the part, won’t you, dearest, sweet Montjoy?” Kat wheedled with a smile.
The older man sighed as if he balanced the weight of the world on his shoulders. “Aye, my lady. You know that I will, as long as I do not have to tell the lie direct.”
“We will pray most earnestly that the occasion will never arise,” Kat soothed him, with a wink to Miranda over the steward’s gray head.
Miranda managed to smother her giggle. She would never offend Montjoy’s dignity for all the world, but he was such fun to gently tease.
Outside, the blare of a hunting horn trembled through the warm forenoon. For a moment, maid, mistress and man gaped at one another with wordless wonderment. Then all three rushed to the window and stared out across the moat toward the fields beyond.
“By our larkin! ’Tis the lusty youth come to woo at last, or else, I am much mistaken. That was Granger’s horn. I stationed him in the high meadow to give us fair warning.”
Miranda crumpled her embroidery in her hands. Her mouth went dry and her heart began to beat faster. Despite the sweet breeze coming through the open window she felt very light-headed. “Now? This minute?” Leaping trout! She was about to become the lady of the manor and she had yet to decide what to wear.
“’Tis the knell that summons us down the primrose path of perdition,” Montjoy predicted in an ominous tone.
Kat smiled, though Miranda saw the corners of her mouth tremble. Good! I am glad that Kat is as nervous as I.
“I am filled with much good cheer that you are so happy, Montjoy.” Kat clapped her hands. “Quickly! Let us be about our preparations. Montjoy, receive our guest, and conduct him to the hall. Have Columbine take her place in the minstrel’s box, and tell her to play something soft on her lute. Miranda, do not stand there like a goose—hurry! Put on my pale green silk at once!”
Miranda blinked. “Why your green? Mine is of the same material.”
“Aye, but mine is richer trimmed as befits a lady of my station. ’Tis only right and proper for the Lady Katherine to receive her betrothed in one of her best gowns. So be about it! Montjoy, send us Laurel to help my cousin dress. Oh, do hurry, everyone! They shall be upon us at any moment.” Kat shooed the reluctant steward out of the room, then started to unlace Miranda’s brown woolen day gown.
“M...my betrothed.” Miranda’s hand fluttered to her throat. Even if this masque lasted only a day, she would remember it for the rest of her life. All her dreams were coming true—a silken gown with gold lace and seed pearls—and a real live suitor to charm.
The horn sounded again. Miranda swallowed hard. Kat swore under her breath when she tore a nail on one of Miranda’s points. Laurel, a short, dimpled girl of sixteen, rushed into the room.
“My lady, they come! I saw them from the battlements. What a grand sight, to be sure! They are still far-off, but you can just spy their banners waving near the crest of the hill,” she informed her mistress with a great deal of giggling. She relieved Kat of Miranda’s knotted laces. “Aye, and a right colorful display they are, too. Mistress Miranda, how did you get yourself into such a tangle?”
Kat paused in smoothing the wrinkles out of her dove gray woolen gown. “Not Mistress Miranda this day, Laurel. She is now my Lady Katherine—and don’t you forget it.”
Laurel giggled again. “Oh, aye, my mind mistook. What a piece of tomfoolery this will be! Miss...your pardon, my Lady Katherine, would you kindly not wiggle so much? How can I dress you properly if you must dance a galliard while I do it?”
Standing on her tiptoes, Miranda tried to see out the window. “Are they in sight yet? What does he look like?”
Adjusting her plain gray coif, Kat glanced out the window again. “Stars! He has brought half the king’s army with him.”
“Goodly men?” Laurel’s voice sparkled with interest.
“Where?” Miranda asked at the same time. Both women joined Kat at the window. All three leaned far out over the stone ledge and fixed their gaze upon the opposite hill where a large, colorful group of men paused on their horses. “Great wailing wolves, coz! We are about to be invaded!”
“Is all our company drawn near?” Brandon’s gaze swept over the group: two squires, his master huntsman, his falcon, several panting greyhounds, three grooms, a dozen men-at-arms and a grinning co-conspirator, Jack Stafford.
“Aye, my lord,” replied Jess, the huntsman. “Is that the lady’s home?”
Brandon swallowed down the knot that had formed in the base of his throat, Ridiculous! Ten years jousting in the lists of England and fighting on the fields of France had not made him feel half as nervous as he did at this moment.
“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?
