Midsummer's Knight

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Miranda licked her own lips, which felt as parched and cracked as empty wineskins. “In due time, my lord, in due time. I am an honest woman, and would wait until after the wedding vows are spoken before any bedding is done.”

Sir Brandon pulled himself upright, though his arm still held her waist. “You speak the truth, dear lady, and remind me of my manners. I fear I have become too lax at court. Pray forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive, my lord. I am glad to see that the bridegroom is so eager for the wedding day.”

“He’d better be,” Sir Brandon growled under his breath.

His changed tone jarred Miranda. “My lord?”

“Nothing, my love. ’Tis but a vow I have made. On your wedding day, your bridegroom will be all that you deserve—and more.” He caressed her cheek with his forefinger, then brushed a stray tendril of her hair from her forehead.

A light crunching sound on the shell path interrupted further conversation and action. Violet, one of the chambermaids, dashed up to them, and bobbed a curtsy.

“Mistress...my Lady Kat,” she babbled. “My...your cousin suggests that the air has grown too cold for dallying in the garden, and she prays that you join her and my Lord Stafford by the fire in the hall.” The girl paused for breath. “Are you dallying, mistress?”

Sir Brandon stood up and stretched. His height towered over the young maid. “Not anymore.” His teeth flashed white in the rising moon’s light. He offered Miranda his arm. “Shall we join your vigilant cousin, my lady?”

Standing, Miranda brushed down her lavender skirts. “Aye, methinks ’twould be a good idea. Thank you, Violet. Tell my cousin that we are coming.”

The girl curtsied again, winked at Miranda, then ran off into the shadows giggling like a magpie.

Sir Brandon’s lips twitched. “Sweet Katherine, is there some malady that effects your servants?”

Miranda slipped her arm within his. “How so, my lord?” Together they strolled slowly down the path in Violet’s scampering wake.

Sir Brandon rubbed his chin before answering. “Ever since our arrival at your home, all your maids have taken to winking, giggling and giving each other sly looks and elbow prods. Tell me, are my face and form worthy of their mirth?”

Night’s welcome darkness hid Miranda’s grin. “Nay, my lord. I suspect ’tis because we have so few men around here. When you and my Lord Stafford arrived, accompanied by such a handsome army of retainers, our maids did not know what to do. Please forgive their behavior. They are simple country girls at heart.”

Sir Brandon unlatched the wicket gate in the yew hedge and held it open for Miranda to pass through. “That brings me to another question, sweet lady. I have noticed that all your maidservants have the names of flowers. Daisy, Pansy, Rosemary, and now, this one is Violet. Pray how is this so? Were all their mothers gardeners?”

Miranda couldn’t control her sudden burst of laughter. “I am sure you must find it puzzling, my lord. Nay, originally they were called Mary, Anne or Margaret. ’Tis understandable when you know that the three parishes hereabouts are Saint Mary, Saint Anne and Saint Margaret.”

“I see,” Sir Brandon said, but in such a manner that Miranda realized he was as confused as before.

“When Fitzhugh died, my cousin dismissed all his retainers. Instead, she took in as servants many daughters of the poor farmers in the area.”

Pausing midstep, Sir Brandon looked down at her. “You say your cousin did this? Not you?”

“I...” Miranda could have bitten her tongue in two. “My cousin has acted as my housekeeper for many years, Sir Brandon. She knows much better than I how to run the estate, so I am pleased to let her do it ’Twas her idea to rename the girls for all the flowers of the garden, instead of calling them Mary One or Mary Two. Much less confusing.”

Sir Brandon resumed their stroll. Miranda breathed a small prayer of thanksgiving. How could she keep her wits about her, when every time the handsome lord looked at her, she wanted to melt into a puddle at his feet?

He coughed, then cleared his throat. “I do not mean to distress you, especially on such a sweet evening as this, my love, but since you mentioned it, how did your late husband expire? I am told ’twas sudden.”

Miranda gritted her teeth at the loathsome memory of Fitzhugh the Furious and his last moments on earth. “The doctor said ’twas a stroke in his brain that caused it, my lord. He died in the midst of beating my cousin.”

Sir Brandon stopped so suddenly that Miranda bumped into him. He caught her around the waist, then drew her closer. “He struck your gentle cousin?” His voice rose with a fury she had not heard before.

Squaring her shoulders, Miranda looked him straight in the eye. Kat hated to recall Fitzhugh, and with good reason, but Sir Brandon should know what a hell her life had been during her second marriage. Perhaps he would treat Kat with the loving kindness she deserved.

“Aye, ’twas his custom. Sometimes he used a belt, sometimes a small whip of leather thongs, sometimes merely his hand. It pleased him in some devilish perverse way to hear her cry, and to see her bleed.”

“God have mercy,” Sir Brandon whispered. “Why didn’t you stop him? You were his wife!”

Miranda hung her head. The memory of her hiding in the stable loft or under beds was a shameful one. She answered in a barely audible voice. “Fitzhugh treated his wife as shamefully as he did his servants. No one dared to interfere with the master of the house. ‘Twas a sweet relief when he went to court for a month or two. ’Twas paradise on earth when he died. I fear no tears were shed at his funeral.”

Enfolding Miranda in his embrace, Sir Brandon hugged her with a fierce possessiveness. “Sweet Jesu!”

She reveled in the moment of such overpowering love, then she placed her palms against his chest and looked up at him. “There is one boon that I beg you, Sir Brandon.”

“Name it. ’Tis yours for the asking,” he replied in a husky tone.

“When you are married, I beg you to promise me that you will never raise your hand to your wife, and to treat her kindly every day. Please. Swear to me this vow.”

Sir Brandon took one of her hands in his. “Upon my soul’s hope for eternal salvation, I swear to you that Sir Brandon Cavendish will never touch his most precious wife except with gentle love.”

Closing her eyes, Miranda sighed with relief. “I am in your debt, my lord. You do not know how happy you have made me.”

“And I would make you happier, if it were in my power.”

He bent his head to kiss her, but Miranda perceived his intent and stepped out of his embrace. If she let him kiss her now, she might not be able to hold back.

Hugging her arms, she shivered. “The night grows colder, my lord. Let us hurry indoors.”

Sir Brandon nodded, then tucked her arm around his again. “You speak with great wisdom, my lady,” he muttered.

As they mounted the low steps to the garden door of the castle, Miranda turned to him. “One final request, Sir Brandon. I beg you not to speak of this matter to my cousin. Even now, the memory of that terrible time grieves her.”

Cavendish placed his hand over hers. “You have my bond and my oath upon that, my lady. I shall not speak a word of it—to her.”

Chapter Six

“He beat Miranda?” Brandon slammed his fist against the chimney flue in the guest chamber. The rough stone scored his flesh, but Brandon barely noticed the pain.

“Aye, both of them, and often. Lady Katherine was loath to speak of it.” Jack poured his friend a cup of wine. “Drink some of this. ’Twill take the taste of gall from your tongue.”

“That vile, creeping, venomous viper dared to lay his hand on that sweet lady?” Brandon snatched the cup, then tossed back the contents in a single loud gulp. The roughness of the unwatered wine made tears spring to the corners of his eyes.

“On both ladies, my friend,” Jack reminded him in a chiding tone. He poured Brandon another drink.

“I remember that villainous toad at court.” Brandon’s lips curled like a snarling dog’s.

“And I, as well. A barrel-chested bruiser—blustery, shouting the rafters down, and always red in the face.” Jack yanked off one boot, then the other in preparation for bed.

“A poor sport in the tiltyard, and hard on his squires.” Brandon rubbed his forefinger across his upper lip.

And while her husband sported at court, his poor Katherine and sweet Miranda cowered within the cold walls of Bodiam, waiting in terror for the master’s return. The thought of them under the hands of that barbarous brute made Brandon shake with anger.

“Did no one try to protect them?” Turning away from the fire, Brandon stared at Jack.

Meeting Brandon’s look, Jack returned its intensity. “Who could? That laughable chamberlain, Montjoy? Too old. The paltry men-at-arms? Too cowardly. The cook? The maids? The potboy? Who would dare challenge their lord in his own household?”

“What about Lady’s Katherine’s most loving nephew, Fenton?” Brandon sneered. He already knew the answer to that one.

“Katherine told me he was Fitzhugh’s willing pupil. That sniveling malt worm knew where his future lay, and ’twas not with his aunt.” Jack flung his other boot against the far wall. “Of course, things changed the moment Fitzhugh dropped dead.”

Brandon released a long breath. “At least, we know that Lady Katherine didn’t poison her last husband. God’s teeth, Jack! I wouldn’t have blamed her one whit if she had!”

Jack untied his sleeves. “That slandered lady is blameless of the first one’s death, as well. I asked her chambermaid. Lewknor was in his eighties when he married Katherine. She was but fifteen at the time.”

“A pox of wrinkles! What was her father thinking to shackle her to a dithering graybeard?” For the first time in nine days, Brandon gave a caring thought toward his intended bride.

“Lewknor’s fortune.” Jack peeled off his brown velvet jacket, then tossed it onto the nearby chest. “Bodiam was originally Lewknor’s castle. The old man didn’t want a bride, he wanted a nursemaid. It took him eighteen months to finally cough his last.”

“Leaving a rich, young widow.” Brandon resumed his contemplation of the fire.

“Aye, and an avaricious father. Katherine was wed again before the turning of the year. For all his monstrous ways, Fitzhugh had a vast fortune in land and tenants in this shire. My congratulations, Cavendish. You are marrying a beautiful lady, who owns most of Sussex. ’Tis time you gave some thought to her.”

Brandon glared over his shoulder at Jack. “What do you mean by that last remark?” he growled.

Jack narrowed his eyes. “’Tis high time you pay court to your future wife. In the past week you have barely spoken to her save for courtesy.”

Brandon tightened his fingers around his wine cup. “’Tis because I cannot get a word in edgewise with you singing, jabbering or composing rhymes to her,” he muttered.

Jack hurled one of his stockings at Brandon. The smelly article hit him on the back of the neck. “I have been speaking and singing for you, you hedgepig. Remember? I have been wooing that innocent lady in your stead, while you go prancing off behind hedges with her comely cousin. ’Tis time to bring this charade to an end.”

“Before you fall in love with Lady Katherine yourself?” Brandon asked softly, not looking at Jack. He didn’t need to.

The fire crackled in the silence.

“How I feel is mine own affair,” Jack finally replied. He climbed into the wide, canopied bed they shared and slipped between the sheets. “Look to yourself, Brandon. Katherine has been sorely used by her first two husbands. She does not deserve that fate a third time. In fact, I gave her my oath, in your name, that you would not.”

Brandon spun around. “The devil take you, Stafford! I would never hurt her, no matter what. You should know that!”

“Not with your hands, no, but what about your heart?” he asked from the depths of the bed. “And what about your children? When do you plan to surprise her with them? Think on that.”

“Aye, I will.” Brandon set the cup down on a stool, then pulled his heavy wool cloak from the peg.

Jack hitched himself up on his elbows. “How now, man? You need not go wake her, and tell her your secrets this minute. Tomorrow will suffice. She’ll need a good night’s sleep, before you reveal who you really are, then spring two nine-year-olds upon her.”

“I will tell her about Belle and Francis in my own good time, and ’twill not be at breakfast—on that you may lay a winning wager.” Brandon fumbled for his golden brooch that held the cloak together, then swore under his breath when he recalled where it had gone.

Jack’s frown penetrated the chamber’s semidarkness. “Where are you going? ’Tis near midnight.”

“To the devil, for I am in hell already.” He flung open the door.

Jack flopped back against the pillows. “Give him my regards, and don’t fall off the wall walk. ’Twould be a nasty swim in that stinking moat. I bid you a pleasant evening’s stroll.”

“You were begot between two fishmongers!”

“And shut the door behind you. The draft is bone chilling.”

Brandon slammed it with a resounding thud.

The night guard on the northern battlements gave a startled nod as Brandon stalked past him. The half-moon hung in the dark bowl of the night, and an errant cloud teased about the diamond points of a thousand sparkling stars. Brandon drew to a halt at the center of the walkway, directly over the giant winches that raised and lowered the portcullis. Resting his arms on the chest-high wall, he stared unseeing at the black silhouette of the home park forest.

I am a very knave and my lying tongue will double back upon itself, and choke me. Aye, and a good riddance too! Brandon gnawed his inner cheek. What a hell broth he had brewed by this simple-seeming deceit! Hadn’t his good mother told him that liars are always trapped within the web of their own making? Now he strangled in it.

What was he going to do? Jack was not the only one who had lost his heart where he least expected. Jack still had an ounce of his wit about him. For himself, Brandon had refused to mark each passing day as one closer to his wedding. Instead, he pretended he was on a straw-hatted holiday in the company of too-fair a maiden.

Kinswoman to my new wife! What a lack-witted dolt I am! I do not have half as much brains as earwax! And what will I do after I am married to Katherine, when I must face each new day with Miranda’s shining presence on my left hand? Come, hot tongs and cruel spikes, sear me for I am on the rack now.

Miranda! Her image swam up in his mind’s eye. Just today he noted how the early June sunlight caught the many different shades of red and gold in her hair, creating a vision most pleasing to the eye. How could he bed the shyer cousin, and not dream that it was Miranda he held in his arms in the dark of night? His marriage vows would be a lie, even worse than the one he was living now.

Nay, for the sake of his soul, and for the loyalty his honor compelled him to give to Katherine, he must send away the tempting cousin as soon as the wedding feast was over. Jack could take her back to Henry’s court. Miranda would have no dearth of suitors there within a fortnight. Brandon gritted his teeth. The court—where far too many hot-blooded men had far too much time on their hands. Where Miranda’s good virtue would not last a month. The bored nobles needed a good war to occupy their lusty minds.

Send Miranda to a nunnery? Brandon grimaced in the dark. God help the abbess who had her for a novice! Nay, the lady was as unlikely for the nunnery as his brother was to become a monk—which, thanks to a French angel named Celeste, he hadn’t. But the nut and core of the argument still remained. Miranda must go. As her new kinsman, the most honorable thing he could do would be to set her up at court with a goodly dowry. ’Twould be for the best that she marry.