Tori Phillips (12 page)

Columbine’s head bobbed. “Aye, he’s in his chamber now, screaming for food and hot water.” Leaning closer, the maid whispered in Kat’s ear. “There’s more, my lady. Tod Wormsley took me aside. Methought he was trying to steal a kiss, but instead he asked me to warn you. Sir Fenton is overwhelmed by debts. Tod said they left the court to escape his lord’s creditors. Now your nephew has come to make you sign over the guardianship of the estate to him before your wedding day. Tod says Sir Fenton carries a paper in his pocket drawn up by a lawyer.”

“By the rood! We must do something quickly.”

“’Tis what I thought, my lady. But what?”

Blast Fenton! Creditors and coercion? The ungrateful little wretch! As if Kat didn’t already have enough on her hands, and an approaching marriage that she still preferred not to ponder.

“Give my regards to my Lord Cav...Sir John when he returns from the privy. Tell him I’m...I’ve been taken with a sick headache, and I have gone to bed.” Kat cast a quick glance at Miranda. Still playing their game of cards, she and Stafford appeared lost in their own world. “Make no mention of this to Miranda—not yet.”

Slipping out of the hall, Kat headed for the stairs to the kitchens. “And tell my noble partner that I concede the chess match to him this time,” she tossed back over her shoulder.

“Aye.” Columbine bobbed her head.

Kat sighed with relief when she found Sondra sipping a mug of warm ale and spinning ghost stories by the kitchen fire. As the summer thunderstorm battered the castle walls, the housekeeper held spellbound a dozen of the younger servants with her tales of sprites and supernatural creatures.

“Sondra! A word in your ear! Make haste!”

A dozen pairs of bright eyes looked up at Kat.

Sondra put down her mug and clapped her hands, scattering the group like a wind among autumn leaves. “Away with you, my poppets! Our lady desires private conference with me. And Pansy, stay out of the sugared nuts, if you please. They are put by for the wedding feast.”

Wedding feast! Kat gulped. She couldn’t think of that now. She sank down on a low stool next to Sondra. “Fenton has returned and is up to no good. He plans to force me to sign over Bodiam to him! Sondra, give me good counsel. What am I to do?”

Sondra raised her brows to a point in the middle of her forehead. “Aye? That explains why the potboys scampered away so fast. Montjoy asked for hot water for a bath. Methought ’twas for you or Mistress Miranda.”

“My mind is at sixes and sevens, Sondra. I cannot think, save to wring Fenton’s mangy neck. Tell me. Is there any of your potions or elixirs that could make him sleep for a week or two?”
Then let my Lord Cavendish deal with the boy. There may be yet one or two saving graces to this match.

“Nay, my lady, but you have put your finger on the problem. He must be gotten rid of.”

Kat nodded. “Aye, before he can wave his silly paper about, or speak with either of the knights, and tell them who I really am. Hang it all! He might even seize upon this gentle game as proof that my mind is unhinged. I would not put such a ploy past him. Where Fenton goes, trouble skulks close behind.”

Sondra eyed a huge cauldron on the fire with a critical squint. She snapped her fingers. “I have it, Lady Kat! Yonder is my lord’s bathwater. I will steep nettles and the leaves of crowfoot in it. The mixture will render your fine nephew with such an onerous rash that he will think the castle is suffering from a plague of fleas. Furthermore, ’twill give a devilish burning to those private parts that all men cherish most dear.”

Kat tried to suppress a giggle but failed miserably. “Oh, admirable Sondra! I like that very much.”

“Meanwhile, I will insist that fresh sheets be put on my lord’s bed—sheets that I will rub with rue and more nettles. I promise you, my lady. He will have the worst night’s sleep of his life.”

Catching Sondra’s enthusiasm, Kat added, “And do you have a way to make him sneeze his head off?”

“Aye, we’ll stuff his pillows with black pepper and ground hellebore.”

Kat’s smile broadened with approval. “And we will instruct everyone to tell Fenton that a rare malady lurks about Bodiam, one that we have all suffered this spring. Fenton has such a childish horror of any illness, he will take himself back to court in a wink.” Kat shook her head. “Poor Tod! I fear we must treat the lad as badly as we do his master. Slip a packet of Philippe’s special spiced toast into Wormsley’s bag before they go. Perchance the treat will help sweeten Tod’s itchy spirits.”

“Aye, that, and a bright silver shilling will cure Tod of any discomfort,” Sondra suggested.

“You speak wisely, as always, my dear friend. Above all, let no one else, save you and me, know of this trick.” Sighing, Kat rolled her eyes. “Sweet angels! There are so many plots thickening under this old roof! Pray we do not find ourselves in our own hot soup!”

Sondra winked at Kat. “Just so long as there is none of my pepper and nettles in that pot with us, my lady.”

“Methinks your game has run its course long enough, Brandon.” Jack observed as they tended to their horses before retiring.

Brandon merely grunted in reply. Murmuring soothing words in his horse’s ear, he brushed his huge chestnut charger with long, smooth strokes. Windchaser was a noble steed in the tiltyard, but thunderstorms made him skittish. Meanwhile, Brandon’s thoughts were far from the realm of clean straw and leather tack. Scantling’s revelation had so confounded him that he had barely spoken a word to anyone since the young lord’s unheralded arrival.

Jack continued. “By morning’s light, that peevish whipster will have sniffed out our secret. Then there will be hell to pay. And pay, and pay, if I know anything about Scantling.”

“Aye,” Brandon answered, barely listening to Jack.

God’s teeth! For the past two weeks Brandon had been dancing court to his intended bride, instead of her poor cousin! And Jack...Brandon glanced over Windchaser’s withers at his friend’s back. And Jack—the most notorious heartbreaker in Henry’s court—had tripped over his own feet and fallen for a shy country maiden.

Brandon grinned in the darkness. What an infinite jest! All the sophisticated wiles, all the rich gowns, elaborate coifs, dazzling jewels, enticing perfumes and artful cosmetics employed by the court beauties had merely entertained Jack, never ensnared him. Yet one unadorned spinster, past her bloom of youth, had him bending to her whims. High time Jack felt the sting of Cupid’s arrows!

“What do you think?” Jack asked over his shoulder.

Brandon shook his head. Think about what?

“Your pardon, Jack. My mind wanders amid the whirl of recent events.” He ran his hand over his horse’s sleek flank. Windchaser nickered with pleasure.

Jack snorted. “Your mind has been a bubbling stew pot ever since we left Hampton Court. Indeed, it grows thicker daily. I said, why don’t we abduct Fenton and his man in the dark hours of the night, truss them up in sacks like a couple of roosters and leave them on a roadside far away from here?”

Brandon walked around to Windchaser’s near side. “’Tis a tempting thought, but one that will do us no lasting good. Like an unwanted cat, Scantling will return within a day, and he will know where to lay his grievance.”

“Then I repeat, the jig is up. Our little piece of mummery is over. Draw the curtain. Put out the light and—”

“Peace, Jack! Your chatter makes my head pound.”

“Nay. ’Tis the spiced wine that does that.”

Spiced wine... and the cunning minx who poured it. In his mind, he heard her ask him again, ‘Do you think Lady Katherine will make him a happy man?’
Aye, if she doesn’t drive me to distraction first

Brandon massaged the bridge of his nose. Kat must be taught a lesson—one that she would never forget once they were married. She needed to learn the importance of honesty and truth. Brandon gnawed on his lower lip as he thought of how this might be accomplished. As for Scantling, let the devil take the morrow, and the knave with it.

Jack returned his brush and currycomb to the shelf above the stall. “What do you think Lady Katherine will say when she learns ’tis you, and not I, she is to wed?” He tried to sound noncommittal but failed in the attempt.

Methinks she’ll be relieved, if I have read her mind correctly.
Brandon cleared his throat. “Methinks we start at shadows before we know the substance behind them. Let us see why Scantling has abandoned the pleasures of court, and come in the middle of the night to visit his aunt. Patience, my friend. My good mother used to tell me that all things come to them that wait.”

Jack pulled on his jacket “Aye, but your good mother is not here, Cavendish, and waiting was never a virtue of mine.”

Brandon clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Tomorrow, if the weather proves fair, methinks you and I should go hunting at sunrise, and stay out of Scantling’s eye until the evening. If he doesn’t see us, he will not tip our hand.”

Glancing at his friend, Jack pursed his lips. “So you mean to persist in this subterfuge?”

“Aye, I do.”

“Till when?”

Brandon twitched his lips with silent amusement. “Does Lady Katherine grow tiresome to you, Jack of Hearts? Are you so anxious to be rid of her?”

Jack gripped his companion by his sleeve. “By my troth! The lady is new-made every morning, and she grows in beauty as the day lengthens. You, you dolt, have not the wit to see it! If you were not my friend...” Jack cursed under his breath.

Brandon cupped his hand around his ear. “How now? I did not hear that. What would you do to me if we were not pledged to each other by friendship?”

“I’d beat the devil out of you,” Jack growled. “Then, perchance, some good sense might find room in that pulp you call your brains.”

Throwing back his head, Brandon laughed. The deep, rich sound filled the stable. “Then I accept your physic, Jackanapes. At dawn, instead of hunting, we will ride to a convenient spot beyond the prying eyes of ladies, servants and surly nephew. There you may have at me—if you can.” Stretching his arms over his head, he cracked his knuckles. “Methinks I have grown soft and fat this past fortnight. I need some good exercise.”

“And I,” muttered Jack.

“Mark you, dawn comes early.” Brandon cuffed Jack lightly on the back of his head, then danced out of range.

“Not early enough,” Jack replied, his teeth glowing blue-white in a flash of lightning.

“Wormsley! You whoreson villain! Do something!” Another head-exploding sneeze ripped through Fenton. He wiped both his nose and his streaming eyes on the sleeve of his nightshirt. “Death and damnation! What plague has visited us?”

He scratched the back of his neck with one hand, while massaging his tender manhood with the other. Devil’s tongs and pitchforks! His balls burned and itched.

Wormsley’s sneeze answered him. “I do not know, my lord,” he replied. Two more sneezes followed in quick succession.

“’Tis fleas, I vow,” Fenton growled, as he heaved one of the pillows across the room in Wormsley’s general direction. “Methought you said the maid had changed the sheets.”

“Aye, she did,” Wormsley gasped. “I watched her.”

Fenton heaved another pillow. “Wart-nose! You watched her little ass a-twitching, and not what she was doing. I have been cursed with foul linen.” He sneezed again. “When I find her, I shall beat the wench black and blue!” Another sneeze.

Tod gulped. “Not so, my lord. My pallet was untouched, yet I—” He sneezed and coughed at the same time.

“Cease your tittle-tattle, slug. Get you below stairs, and find the healer, Sondra Owens. Don’t come back until you have that blond witch in tow. God’s death!” Fenton sneezed again. “The first thing I will do when I have mastery of Bodiam is burn that chit. Fetch her, before all my skin peels off!”

Fenton hurled the chamber pot after the lackwit to speed him on his way. It hit the door as Wormsley shut it behind him.

“My lady?” Leaning over Kat, Laurel held up a lighted candle.

Kat sat up in bed. “Aye, Laurel, I am already awake. Who is it at the door?”

“Tod, my lady. He looks awful, and he says his master is sore afflicted with flea bites and sneezing.”

Kat grinned.
Bless you, Sondra!
“I come, but quietly. Let us not wake Miranda.” After sliding out of the covers, Kat hastily donned a long, quilted dressing gown.

Standing just outside the door, poor Tod presented a pitiful sight Laurel’s candlelight made his reddened eyes, swollen nose and blistered skin look all the more grotesque.

“How now, Tod? Your face has swollen up like a ripe strawberry.” Poor lad!

“Aye,” Tod replied with a mournful groan. “’Tis a plague for sure.”

Despite his stricken appearance and obvious discomfiture, Kat had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from bursting into laughter. The poor boy looked ten times worse than she had expected. Perhaps Sondra had been a bit overzealous with the ground pepper and nettles.

“What ails you, Tod?” she asked, trying to keep a straight face.

He rolled his watery eyes, sneezed again and scratched his thighs as the same time. “If I knew the answer, my lady, I’d be a scholar of renown,” he gasped. “I itch and sneeze. My throat is like a raw wind in January.” He sneezed once more.

Kat assumed a concerned expression. “Then we must brew you up some chamomile and coltsfoot tea with honey.”

Tod shook his head and sneezed. “Nay, mistress, not for me. ’Tis Sir Fenton. He has not slept a wink since he lay down. Indeed, he has not lain much abed. He has tossed and turned, and even hopped up and down in the middle of the mattress, as if he had a devil on his back.”

Kat pretended to ponder Tod’s description. “This illness sounds more serious than I first thought. Have you spoken to Mistress Owens?”

“Your pardon, my lady,” Tod muttered in between sneezes. “I looked for her in the maids’ dormitory, but they said...that is, I could not find her.”

Kat glanced at Tod out of the corner of her eye. He looked redder in the face than before.

“How now, Tod?” she asked with a small chuckle. “Where did the maids say she was?”