Authors: Midsummer's Knight
Brandon patted her bottom as he bounded down the stairs. “In due time, my love!”
Behind them, Kat saw that Jack cradled Miranda in his arms. Not fair!
She
was wrapped in his woolen cloak, and her cousin didn’t seem to mind this midnight abduction in the least.
Within five minutes, Kat found herself standing barefoot and in her shift in front of old Father Robert. Her only ornaments were the blue ribbons that tied the neck and sleeves of her flimsy garment. Beside her. Brandon blazed brightly in his blue satin doublet with gold trim, white satin slashing on his sleeves, and his black-and-white-striped hose. Her unbound hair hung about her shoulders, without even a veil to cover her head in the house of the Lord. Kat stared at her toes in shame.
Brandon lifted her chin with a gentle touch. “I love you so much, sweet Kat, that I will marry you in your smock, and I will still assume your debts, if you have any.”
Startled, she looked up at him, He winked at her. Married in her shift! ’Twas an ancient but still honorable way for a maiden to be wedded. Still, poor Sondra had worked so hard on her gown—two of them, in fact.
Just then Father Robert began the marriage ceremony. Brandon took her cold hand in his and squeezed it. She relaxed against him. When the moment came to pledge him her troth, she did so with all her heart. His hand shook a little when he placed his thick golden band around her left ring finger. His kiss was long and lingering.
After the brief ceremony, Brandon wrapped his blue velvet cloak around her, then swept her into his arms with much more tenderness than before. The three witnesses signed the marriage register, Guy paid a golden angel to the yawning priest, then everyone stole back upstairs. Less than ten minutes had elapsed.
Instead of returning Kat to her room, Brandon went farther down the hall to the chamber Kat had come to regard as “theirs.” A single candle burned on the table beside the bed, and a pitcher of wine with two goblets stood with it. The fresh sheets were turned back invitingly.
“I see that Jack arranged things well,” Brandon murmured in her ear. “He is ever the romantic.”
After another kiss, much more lingering than the one they had shared before Father Robert, Brandon quickly shed his finery. Then he lifted the white lawn shift from Kat.
“Sweetheart, my
love,
you are a feast for my eyes, and my soul!” So saying, he swept her up into his arms. Together they fell back on the bed.
“By the book!” A dozen thorns pricked Kat’s backside.
Uttering a string of oaths, the like of which Kat had rarely heard, Brandon hopped out of the bed, then pulled off the covers. The bottom sheet was strewn with several dozen roses from the garden, all with their thorns intact. A small note lay among them. Snatching it up, Brandon held it under the candle.
“Joy upon your wedding night, Papa and Kat!
Your loving daughter,
LaBelle Maria Cavendish”
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Kat laughed until her sides ached, while Brandon swept the sheets clear of Belle’s gifts.
“How did she know your intent?” Kat asked much, much later as she lay next to her most loving husband.
Brandon chuckled low in the back of his throat. “I did warn you, my Lady Cavendish. Sometimes methinks our beloved daughter is a faerie changeling!”
Midsummer’s Day dawned in brilliant sunshine. “King’s weather,” Sondra called it. High up in the north tower, where they had hidden themselves in Jack’s room, Kat and Miranda watched the wedding feast being laid out by Montjoy, Philippe and the kitchen servants.
“Do you think we shall get to eat any of that?” Miranda asked with longing. She and Kat had had only some bread and cheese brought up to them by Jess.
Kat didn’t care. She still wafted on the cloud of her wedding night with Brandon. Only an hour ago, she had slipped back into her room, hurriedly dressed in her plain gray wool gown, while Brandon again donned his blue satin clothing. After a soft knock, Jess had entered, foullowed by Mark, Christopher and Sondra. The squires looked far from happy. Sondra, on the other hand, had positively glowed with suppressed excitement
“’Twill be the talk of the shire for a decade,” the housekeeper had chortled, arranging the two identical wedding gowns over the bed. “Hurry now, Lady Kat”
Brandon gave her another kiss, followed by a wink.
“Take care, my love,” Kat whispered. The seriousness of his undertaking had hit her with full force, when she saw the gowns that she and Miranda would never wear.
“Aye,” he said as he kissed her again. “I have not finished with you yet, my
love.”
Jess had spread out an old gray cloak on the floor. Brandon helped her lie down on one end. Just before he rolled her up in it, he whispered, “I love you, my lady wife.”
The cloak muffled Kat’s answer. The next minute, Jess had thrown her over his shoulder like a grain sack, and had carried her out of the chamber. Though she couldn’t see his progress, she knew that the huntsman took her to the north tower. There she and Miranda were to remain until Fenton had been apprehended.
Jess hummed to himself as he made ready to leave.
“Joy on
your
wedding day, Jess,” Kat remembered to tell him. “And mind that you tell Sondra that you love her.”
“Aye, my Lady Cavendish.” He grinned widely. “She hasn’t let me forget it.” With a jaunty whistle, Jess departed.
Lady Cavendish! The mere name gave Kat goose bumps of delight. Miranda, cloaked and hooded, joined her ten minutes later.
“’Tis very strange to be an observer at one’s own wedding,” Kat murmured, watching as the villagers gathered on the greensward beyond the freshly flowing moat.
“And mine, I hope,” Miranda murmured. Kat hugged her.
Scanning the crowd, Kat wondered if Fenton was really down there. It had cut her to the quick to learn he had been Brandon’s attacker, and was also the one who had left Tod for dead. Thank God, the youth had survived the night. Sondra assured her that the boy would recover in due time. It relieved her to see so many of the men-at-arms dressed as commoners and standing among the people.
A hunting horn sounded beyond the wood. Miranda dug her nails into Kat’s arm.
“Do you think ’tis the king?” she asked with a thrill in her voice. “I have never seen him before.”
“Nor I,” Kat replied. She watched the crest of the rise.
The horn sounded again, then over the hill the most splendid company of outlaws rode down toward Bodiam.
Kat clasped the brooch pinned to her simple bodice. “’Tis he in the flesh!”
A large man astride a gleaming chestnut warhorse came to a halt before the causeway. He was dressed in the traditional Lincoln green from feather to boot, and wore a black mask over his eyes. Even so, his reddish gold beard and his regal bearing were unmistakable. The many rings on his fingers flashed in the sunlight.
Lady Alicia, acting on behalf of Kat, came forward and greeted the king and his company of a dozen or so courtiers.
“That must be the Lady Anne Boleyn.” Kat pointed to the only woman in the company. She was dressed in a simple gown made up in shades of brown, orange and gold. The materials appeared to be satin, damask and velvet. A flower wreath circled her head and her dark brown hair fell unbound almost to her waist.
Miranda made the sign against the evil eye. “They say she is a witch,” she whispered.
“Be still, Miranda! You’ve been listening to too many of Sondra’s tales. Oh, no! There goes Sir Thomas straight to the king. I’ll wager he hopes to put aside the match.”
Miranda giggled. “He is too late!”
Kat sighed, remembering the past few hours. “Aye, I am now properly wedded and bedded. But I hate to begin my marriage incurring the wrath of that old man. I liked him in the beginning, and his wife, Lady Alicia, is delightful.”
Tapping her on the shoulder, Miranda pointed. “Speaking of the lady, look! She is pulling Sir Thomas back, and the king is laughing.”
Both women jumped as a fanfare of horns sounded from the parapet just outside their door. The crowd set up a roar as two tall figures, both clad completely in jousting armor, walked in step with each other over the causeway toward the king.
“Who?” Miranda looked at Kat.
A slow smile flitted across Kat’s lips. “Unless I am gravely mistaken, yonder are our knights. Few men are as tall as they, and I spy Guy Cavendish over there next to his wife.”
Miranda wrinkled her brows. “But why armor without horses, and with their visors lowered? None can tell which from which!”
“Clever, clever!” Kat leaned farther out the window. “That is the whole point, good coz. Fenton will not know whom to shoot! And their armor will protect them, if he does.”
“He wouldn’t dare! Not with the king at hand!”
Kat grew more serious. “Aye, methinks Fenton’s mind has gone so far over the brink that he has become quite mad, and does not know a hawk from a handsaw.”
Another fanfare blared from the castle wall.
“Now who?” Miranda asked, craning her neck. “Leaping trout, Kat! Look! They are wearing our gowns.”
Two veiled figures, one on each side of Montjoy, glided over the causeway. Sondra’s masterpieces elicited cries of pleasure and applause from the gathered crowd. The king roared with laughter, his deep voice carrying up to the tower window. As the figures turned toward the king, Kat saw their backs. She giggled.
“No wonder Mark and Christopher looked much out of sorts this morning! Methinks they are the blushing bride and her handmaiden. See? The bodices are not laced up all the way. The squires’ shoulders are much broader than ours.”
The veiled squires both executed deep, though wobbly, curtsies to the king, and another one to the mysterious knights. Montjoy, stiff with decorum, managed to support the youths. Then one of the knights stepped forward, bowed from the waist as much as his armor permitted, and offered his arm to one of the “ladies.” The second knight followed suit with the other “lady.” Thus paired, the couples began to proceed toward the little country church that nestled beyond the meadow.
“Oh!” Miranda began. “They will be out of sight soon, and then we will not see—”
Suddenly everything happened at once. A shout from the crowd on the left drew their attention. At the same time, one of the knights stumbled, then fell forward. The two “ladies” dropped to the ground much quicker than a normal lady could. The remaining knight drew his sword and advanced toward the disturbance among the spectators. Just then, the king’s hat, festooned with fine pheasant’s feathers, flew off his head and landed far beyond the outer ring of the gathering. Many women screamed at once.
Kat, watching with rising horror, fixed her eyes on the fallen knight. Ice enveloped her heart. Not Brandon!
“What has happened!” Miranda gasped, watching the scene below erupt into a seething, boiling mass of people.
Dashing across the room, Kat yanked open the chamber door. “I know only one thing, Miranda. ’Tis your lord or mine that is down, and I will be at his side come rack or ruin.”
She ran down the spiral stairs, her skirts billowing out as she went. Miranda clattered behind her. With each step, Kat stormed heaven with her prayers.
I love him! I love himl Dear God, please do not make me a widow, before my wedding day is done/
The day started well enough for Sir Fenton Scantling. He had enjoyed a good night’s sleep in a tenant farmer’s cottage. The murders of the peasant and his family did not weigh upon his conscience any more than did that of Wormsley. What were they, but expendable clods? By the time their bodies were discovered under a pile of hay, Fenton would be master of Bodiam. ’Twould be an ironic jest to initiate an investigation of their foul end!
The farmer’s clothing, stale and stinking, fit well enough, and a plain brown cloak covered the crossbow. After a good breakfast, Fenton loaded up his double bow with two arrows. Two shots—one for Cavendish, and one for Aunt Kat Why not? Why wait years for her to die before he could inherit the estate?
After that, while the jabbering villagers clustered around the fallen bridal pair—united in death; how tragic!—he would slip into the castle through the garden gate, where a change of clothing in his chamber would turn him into Sir Fenton Scantling, the grieving nephew. As the new master of Bodiam Castle, he would demand full justice for this unhappy affair. Fenton snickered as he cut through the forest. The plan was too perfect!
Rounding the huge oak, Fenton slapped the trunk. “Sleeping well, Wormsley?” He chortled at his own joke, then hurried on.
As he had anticipated, the villagers and folk from miles around had already gathered on the greensward. Banners hung from the castle and waved in the light summer’s breeze. Under a cluster of oaks, long trestle tables waited for the wedding feast Minions from the castle ran back and forth with covered dishes and platters. Fenton sniffed the mouthwatering aromas. A pity that all that food would go to waste! Nay! When he took command of the tragic scene, he would offer the cooked meats and pastries to the crowd. That would keep everyone occupied, while the bodies were carried away.
Fenton chose a spot with the sun behind him. Good view for him, and poor for anyone else seeking the origin of his arrows. Holding his bow under his cloak, Fenton relaxed and waited.
The arrival of the king proved to be the first nick in his well-laid plan. What the devil was Great Harry doing here, in the middle of nowhere? And why were he and his closest friends dressed up like foresters of an earlier age?
“Greetings, good people!” The king acknowledged the crowd. “I am Robin Hood, and have heard of your festivities this day. Fair Maid Marian and I, and many of my men, have traveled far from Sherwood Forest to bring the happy couple good luck upon their wedding day!”
The gabbling mob cheered.
Geese!
Fenton curled his lip.
A woman whom he did not recognize, but dressed very richly in cloth of gold and green satin, curtsied and welcomed the royal arrivals. Fenton took a deep breath to steady his nerves. No matter if the king was here. ’Twould make a better diversion for him. No one would cast a second glance at a lowly farmer on the edge of the crowd.