Tori Phillips (13 page)

He cleared his throat. “With Sir Brandon’s huntsman, and no one knows where they have gone to ground.” The youth coughed, though not with a surfeit of ground pepper.

Kat grinned as she followed him down the corridor. Handsome enough boy, she reckoned, once he had filled out. One of these fine days, someone like Columbine or Laurel will take notice of Tod, and then he’ll be the one seeking cover.

Kat heard Fenton long before she got to his chamber. Squaring her shoulders, she drew in a deep breath.
Beard the lion in his den.

“About time!” Fenton bellowed when she entered the room. “What does a man have to do to get your attention, mistress?”

Kat set the candle down on the bed table, then cast him a stern look. “A sweet voice and pleasant speech go far in catching a woman’s ear, nephew.”

Fenton paled slightly when he saw her clearly. “I mistook. Methought you were Mistress Owens.” A bout of furious sneezing cut off Fenton’s further remarks. He clutched at the rumpled bedclothes. “The devil take all. Do something! My skin feels like it is being chewed in a thousand places. Don’t just stand there, Aunt Katherine. Oh, most delicate fiend!”

Putting her hands on her hips, Kat drew herself up. “Did you get me from out my warm bed to curse me, Fenton? Is that your recipe to make yourself well?” Picking up the candlestick, Kat turned to go.

Fenton flew out of the bed and fell to his knees on the bare floor. “Cure me, if you have any pity in your heart!”

The room erupted with more sneezing as both Tod and Fenton gave in to their distress. Even Kat’s nose twitched. She noticed that Fenton had thrown his sheets and pillows into total disarray. The closed air of the chamber must be swarming with the finely ground pepper and hellebore. After replacing the candlestick on the table, Kat shook out her camphor-scented handkerchief and breathed into it.

Now to add a bit of spice to this brew. “I confess, I am much amazed. I did not think the malady would strike you so soon, Fenton,” she said in a surprised voice. “It caught you and Tod much faster than the others.”

Fenton paused in the midst of clawing his shoulder blades. “What damnable pestilence are you talking about?”

Kat lifted her shoulders with an air of helplessness. “I did not want to worry you about it, my boy, seeing how you were so busy attending on His Majesty. I know how much the king dislikes any news of illness. ’Tis why I did not write you of it. This strange malady came upon us on May Day. All the castle began sneezing, wheezing and scratching fit to die.” Her handkerchief hid her grin.

Fenton trembled all over like a dog come in out of a rainstorm. “Aye? And what did you call this sickness?”

Kat shook her head slowly from side to side. “No one had ever seen the like before, not even Sondra,” she intoned in a solemn voice. “Not even the priest,” she added. Kat crossed her fingers behind her back and sent a quick prayer to heaven.
Lord bless me! I promise to confess this lie come Advent.
“For want of a better name, I called it Queen Mab’s Revenge.”

Fenton fell into a coughing fit. “Never heard of it!” He blew his nose with a wet-trumpet sound. “What quackery did you practice to rid yourself of this tomfoolery?”

“’Tis no sham, as you can experience for yourself, nephew. Sondra believed that one of the maids must have insulted the faerie queen—all unknowing, of course. You know how goose-brained our girls can be sometimes.”

Fenton scratched his head with both hands. “Fie upon it! I care not what is the name nor the cause. Give me the remedy!”

“Ah!” Putting her finger to her lips, Kat pretended to think deeply. “As to the remedy...”

“Aye?” Fenton practically sat up and begged.

Wrapping her arms around her sides, Kat pinched herself to squelch her mirth. “I cannot say.”

“What?” Fenton all but shot straight up in the air. “Bitch! You speak with malice.”

Kat narrowed her eyes. Her nephew had gone too far. “You have no right to insult me, Fenton.” She picked up her candlestick again. “Remember who took you in when my sister and her husband were killed in that carriage accident. Be advised, Bodiam is not your house, but mine. And soon, ’twill belong to my...my husband, Sir Brandon Cavendish.” Her lips trembled slightly as she thought of Midsummer’s Day. She drew herself up. “I doubt that my lord will take kindly to his wife being name-called and abused by one who should know better.”

“’Tis true,” Tod muttered from his corner, where he had been sneezing and scratching in miserable silence.

Kat started for the chamber door. “And so, my lordling, if there is nothing else upon your mind, I bid you a pleasant good night.”

Fenton crawled after her on his knees.

Oh, what sublime justice is this! I wish Miranda and Sondra could see this sight! ’Tis a shame I play this role in the dark with only poor Tod for an audience.

“One moment! You cannot leave me like this!” Fenton burbled. “For sweet charity’s sake, tell me. What did you do to get rid of this Mab’s Revenge?”

Kat pretended to think. “As I recall, we bathed in a tub full of vinegar. God save us! It hurt enough to make a strong man sing for his sins. Then, of course, we burned all our clothes.”

“All?” Fenton gulped. “Everything?”

“Every last lacing and codpiece, Fenton.”
He’s thinking of his expensive wardrobe now. I can hear the cogs in his brain whir around.
Kat stifled a giggle, then continued. “Then we ate a diet of lettuce leaves, chervil, cress, mustard—and water. No wine or ale, for fear of bringing the rash back.”

Fenton sneezed several more times during this recitation. Kat racked her brain to think of what other hideous thing she could add to the so-called remedy.

“Oh, aye, and no bed sport—in bed or otherwise. For fear of further inflaming a man’s...ah...private parts, you understand.”

Fenton’s only rejoinder was a strangled gargle.

“But the very best remedy of all...” Pausing, Kat gazed down at the twitching heap at her feet. Her lips curled up with smug satisfaction.

“What?” gasped the prostrate wretch.

“Why, is to leave Bodiam altogether, as quick as you can, my dear, before the infection takes root and grows.”

“Does that work?” He quivered.

Kat inhaled the camphor from her handkerchief. Please Lord, she couldn’t sneeze now! “Aye, Fenton. We found that was the best remedy of all. When we returned after a fortnight, we had no more ill effects. Methought the sickness had moved on, but alas, alack! I was mistaken!”

“Wormsley! Pack! Now!” Fenton coughed, then scratched even more furiously.

Kat pretended to be taken by surprise. “What? In the middle of the night. The storm has made the roads treacherous.”

Hopping about, Fenton jammed one of his legs into his hose. “This very minute! I will write to you soon, when I am well enough to hold my pen. Have the guard wake up those slugs in the stable and have them saddle our horses. We will not stay another hour in this perfidious pesthole. Not one more minute!”

“Aye, I think you take the wisest course.” Kat backed toward the door. “You were always a clever boy. Remember, it takes a fortnight for the cure to work.”

In his corner, Tod sneezed continuously as he struggled to unbuckle the saddlebag. Taking pity on the lad, Kat bent over him. “There’ll be a little packet for your trip on the chopping table, Tod. Here.” She held up her handkerchief to his nose. “Breathe in deeply,” she whispered.

Tod blinked several times as the camphor assailed his nostrils. His eyes widened with mute surprise.

Kat put her finger to her lips, smiled warmly at Tod and then winked. “God keep you on your journey, Fenton,” she said in a louder tone.

“Go to the devil,” he retorted, before collapsing into more sneezing and coughing.

Kat hummed to herself as she made her way back to her bedchamber. This past half hour was well spent. She drew in several deep breaths of clean air, then yawned. To bed, and a good night’s sleep. Kat knew she needed all the rest she could get, the better to match wits with such a crafty, handsome devil as Sir Brandon on the morrow.

I have not had so much fun in a month of Sundays, she thought, just before she blew out her light.

In the morning, the sun rose with welcoming rays above the new-washed world. No one at Bodiam rued Sir Fenton Scantling’s mysterious midnight departure. On the other hand, cleaning up his bedchamber took the combined efforts of six poor maids, all a-sneezing.

Chapter Nine

B
randon mopped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his torn sleeve. His tongue probed the split on his lower lip. His shoulders ached. The skin on his knuckles had already begun to swell.

“The devil take you, Jackanapes! Fall down, for sweet Jesu’s sake.”

Lumbering across the flattened grass opposite him, Jack blinked his blackening eye and shook his head. “Nay, Cavendish! My lady’s honor is not yet satisfied.” He slurred the last word, then spat out some blood.

“Whose
lady, again? Methought we were fighting over my wife.” Zounds! Brandon had forgotten how stubborn Jack could be when he put his nose into the wind.

“Not yet,” Jack gasped. He lunged at Brandon, hurling them both to the damp ground.

They spent the next few minutes rolling over and over, as first one, then the other combatant fought to get a good hold. A few grunts, an oath or two, and a great deal of wheezing accompanied the struggle. Finally Brandon managed to flip Jack over his head. His friend landed on his back with a loud “oof” as the air flew out of his lungs. Brandon fell on top of him.

“Do you yield to my superior force?” Brandon asked, straddling Jack’s chest. He felt far from superior at that moment.

Still fighting to get his breath back, Jack could only nod. With a grateful sigh, Brandon rolled off his friend and lay on the ground beside him.

“By my troth, Jack, I am not...as young...as I thought,” Brandon panted.

Jack groaned in answer.

“Ten years ago...in France...remember? King Henry’s visit to King Francis...Field of Cloth of Gold?”

“Aye,” Jack managed to reply.

“I used to wrestle all corners in the morning, and never be winded at dinner. Good sooth, Jack! You have a nasty right fist.” Brandon massaged his belly gently. Perhaps he would have only soup and some custard for dinner today.

“You haven’t lost too much of your cunning, either,” Jack responded, breathing easier now. “Though, methinks you have put on more weight since we last met in this fashion. ’Tis your weight that bested me.”

Brandon didn’t even have the energy to deliver a halfhearted punch. “’Tis not fat. Merely muscle.”

“Ha! I pity your poor wife, when she has to bear your load!”

Brandon allowed his gaze to wander to the leafy roof above them. A light breeze played amid the tree branches. His wife! Katherine Fitzhugh—she, whom he had called Miranda. A small smile flitted across his lips. Thank the stars, Jack was in no position to see it.

“Methinks my wife will not protest as much as you, clodpate,” Brandon murmured, envisioning the first time he would bed the delectable lady with the cinnamon and gold hair.

Pale ivory skin, green flashing eyes, a rippling laugh that started deep in her throat and bubbled out like pure springwater. Slim and supple like a willow tree, bending to his will. Velvet and silk under his exploring fingers.... Brandon’s body reacted with typical anticipation. Oh, heaven! His balls ached.

He flopped over onto his stomach. “Tell me, Jack, as one man to another, what do you think of Katherine?”

Jack squinted at him with his good eye. “Man to man? No holding back?”

“Aye. The plain truth. We are friends here.”

“I think the Lady Katherine must be the model for some master craftsman in church glass.” Jack sighed. “Her face is delicately carved in ivory tones, faint musk roses bloom upon each cheek. Her nose is exquisitely dainty. And her lips! Perdition take me, Brandon, I would long to drink the honey from those lush portals.”

Brandon arched his brows. Jack had the lovesickness worse than he first thought. “Go on. Tell me more. What about her body?”

Jack groaned. “I am winded and sore, and in no shape to save my skin, Brandon. If I continue in this vein, you must, in good conscience, flay me to the bone. Your bride has made me desire pleasures that are not mine to have, much less to describe them to the bridegroom.”

Brandon plucked a piece of grass and drew it between his teeth. He welcomed the bittersweet tang of its juice.

“I’ll grant you, Lady Katherine has been richly endowed with beauty, for a spinster of her years,” he added, watching Jack’s face through half-shut eyes.

Jack snorted. “She is a woman who knows no boundaries of age. Indeed, methinks she has grown better in wit and witticisms with each passing season.”

Brandon chewed the blade. Witticisms? He racked his brain to remember if he had heard Miranda say something clever.

“But once you are back at court, you’ll soon forget Katherine.”

Jack’s fist knotted at his side. “Do not speak to me of court. ’Tis garish, full of false faces and double-dealing. Your lady is true, virtuous womanhood. She is the one woman in the world that I value most. I envy you your happiness.”

Brandon hid his grin behind his hand. “Oh, I understand. You find her wealth just compensation for her country ways and simple interests. You had ever a nose for a good thing, Jack of Hearts.”

With another groan, Jack rolled over so that he could face his inquisitor, who lay less than a hand’s span away. “If my eyes did not see two of you just now, I would challenge you all over again for that last remark. You wound my pride, Brandon.”

Brandon licked his lips as Jack fell deeper into his trap. “Then, if it were possible, you would marry Katherine, even if she hadn’t a groat to her name?”

Jack stared at Brandon as best he could with one eye swollen shut. “Aye,” he answered hoarsely. “If that sweet lady came to the church door to be married in only her shift, I would honor her. But what of you? You throw pearls to pigs!”