Czytaj książkę: «Midsummer's Knight»

Chapter One

Why, this is very midsummer madness.

—Twelfth Night

Hampton Court, England

May 1530

“Ma...marriage?” Sir Brandon Cavendish, gentleman of the king’s bedchamber, stammered out the loathsome word. His stomach twisted into a hard knot.

Even though he was winning the set, Brandon lowered his racket. A tennis ball whipped by him, missing his ear by inches. He barely noticed its passing. “Me, your grace?”

His opponent, Henry, the eighth of that name and king of England, roared with glee. “My point, Cavendish! Ha! Have I ruffled your fine feathers at last?”

Brandon flexed his broad shoulders. “Nay, sire! I see you are jesting to put me off my game.” At least, Brandon hoped that was the king’s only motive for introducing such a vile subject on such a lovely day.

Henry’s answering laughter reverberated around the dark green wooden walls of Hampton Court’s tennis hall. “Aye, I would put you off your game, my lord, but we do not speak of tennis. Look you, second service!” With that barked warning, the king drew back and fired another buff-colored d all at his victim.

This time Brandon managed to return the serve, but without his usual strength. God’s nightshirt! What piece of deviltry was the king up to now? His Grace seemed to be in unusually good spirits, even if he was down by two sets. Brandon mopped the perspiration out of his eyes with the loose, frilled sleeve of his shirt, then ran his fingers through his damp blond hair.

“This game is mine, sire, though I warrant you took that last point most unfairly.”

“How so, Cavendish?” The king crossed to the side gallery where a page waited with silver goblets and a pitcher of chilled wine. “I think you are growing fat with old age.”

Brandon bit the tip of his tongue lest he point out that the king was both older and more stout than he. Brandon knew just how far he dared to go when speaking to the large, perspiring man next to him. Great Harry played the part of the bluff and hearty sportsman, but underneath that smiling exterior, there lurked a vain and vicious temper. What was the loss of a game or two of tennis to the loss of one’s place in court—or worse?

Brandon drank deeply from his goblet. The crisp white wine cleared his throat of dust, and of the sour taste that the mere thought of marriage always left in his mouth. He knew he was poor husband material; his interest in wooing a woman never lasted longer than a fortnight. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “’Tis unfair to speak of wedded bliss to a man when he is at serious play, your grace,” he remarked mildly.

The king’s gray eyes twinkled behind the narrow folds of his lids. “Aye, but in this matter, I am serious, Cavendish.”

Taking a deep breath, Brandon tried to clear the humming in his ears. “If you speak to me of marriage, sire, I fear you toss your words into the wind.” I would tire of a wife in a month’s time.

The king’s thin lips pursed under his red mustache. “Ha! This bachelor state does not please your father.”

Brandon groaned inwardly. What had his sire done now?

“Last week, Sir Thomas sent me a long letter, begging my assistance in a grave family matter.” Henry signaled the page to pour another round. “It seems that you have turned a deaf ear to all his entreaties concerning your future.”

A very unfilial thought crossed Brandon’s mind. Why couldn’t his well-meaning father have left him alone? “My future is to serve your pleasure here at court, your grace,” he replied, picking his words with care.

“Aye, and so you shall—but not at court.” With a roar of laughter, the king whacked Brandon between the shoulder blades.

Brandon nearly slopped his drink on the king’s brown suede shoes. He licked his dry lips. “May I know what boon my father has asked of you, your grace?” Do not saddle me with a wife, I pray.

“Aha! Now you have hit upon the subject of my speech, you wily rogue!” He gave Brandon another bone-crunching whack. “The good Earl of Thornbury has grown tired of waiting for his firstborn to choose a bride and settle down. He has grown weary of requesting you to do so. In his wisdom, he has turned to me, his king and liege lord.” Henry’s brow furrowed and his countenance grew dark. “How well I know the yearning for an heir!”

The nearby spectators in the gallery went deathly still. Not even Brandon dared to respond to such a dangerous statement. The king’s frantic desire for a son to succeed him had sent the saintly but sonless Queen Catherine to a distant manor in the midlands. In her place, Viscount Rochford’s younger daughter, Lady Anne Boleyn, kept Henry and his court dancing to her tune with her promise to give the man she married a house full of sons. The subjects of marriage and heirs constantly played a raucous tune in the king’s besotted mind. Henry’s Great Matter, as he called it, obsessed him.

Now, thanks to the prompting of Sir Thomas Cavendish, that obsession had turned outward, and Brandon did not like the direction in which it was aimed.

“The choosing of a wife is not a thing to be taken lightly,” Brandon murmured, not daring to look the king in the eye. He twirled the handle of his racket in his hand. “And certainly not when there is still one more game to be played.” He prayed that Henry would drop the uncomfortable subject.

“You speak the truth, Cavendish.” The king’s mood brightened again. “And your last game draws apace.”

Licking his lips again, Brandon wished for a third cup of wine. The wicked gleam in Great Harry’s eyes unnerved him. “A game of tennis, your grace?” he bantered.

The courtiers in the gallery, including many of the ladies with whom Brandon had flirted over the years, leaned forward to hear the king’s reply. Lady Anne Boleyn and her companion, Lady Olivia Bardolph, smiled openly at Cavendish’s discomfort.

“A pox on tennis, you clodpate!” roared the king, his voice shaking the rafters of the tennis hall. A wide grin spread across his thin lips. “I speak of the marriage game—for you, my fine friend. Since you have danced out of Cupid’s way for many years now—” the king swept a glance over the colorful, bejeweled company in the gallery “—much to the disappointment of many a fair lady here, we have taken it upon ourselves to arrange a match.”

Brandon gritted his teeth as he heard a breeze of female tittering behind him. “A wife for me, sire?” His heart thudded within his chest. “You have so many affairs of state, your grace. My father’s request will take up too much of your most valuable time.”

“Let your fears take flight, Cavendish! ’Tis done!”

“The match is already arranged?” The humming sound grew louder in his mind.

The king’s laughter drowned out everyone else’s. “Aye! And to a fine lady with a fat estate in Sussex. Lady Katherine Fitzhugh of Bodiam Castle! By my command, Cavendish, you shall wed her on Midsummer’s Day. The banns were proclaimed this morning at Lambeth Palace by the Archbishop of Canterbury himself. This week, you will ride into Sussex to woo your betrothed.”

The laughter, which filled the cavernous tennis hall, could not drown out the hammering of Brandon’s heart. Marriage to an unknown lady in less than a month? An end to his freedom? Why had his father decided that he needed another heir? Several children already scampered around the family home at Wolf Hall in Northumberland. Brandon saw no reason to take a wife. He had enough domestic responsibilities as it was.

Belle, his daughter, would turn the household into a merry hell if Brandon brought home a new mother. And what of Francis Bardolph, his page? Brandon cast a quick glance at the boy’s self-absorbed mother who sat in the gallery. Francis didn’t suspect his true parentage as yet, but daily he grew to look more and more like a Cavendish. How could Brandon present an unsuspecting bride with two love children?

“What ho!” cried the king to his amused court. “Regard my Lord Cavendish! He looks like a great, goggle-eyed turbot caught in a net. Perchance you have won this tennis game, knave of hearts—but methinks, I have won the match! Ha!”

“Sweet angels! What have I done to deserve this fate?” Lady Katherine Fitzhugh sank to the cold comfort of one of the stone benches in her rose garden at Bodiam Castle. She fanned herself with the parchment she held in her hand. The letter dripped with the thick, red wax seal of the king himself.

Miranda Paige, Kat’s gentle cousin and companion, abandoned her trug basket on the newly turned flower bed. “Sweet Kat, is it ill news from court? What has that peevish nephew done now?”

“Marriage,” Kat managed to gasp when she got her breath back. The bodice laces of her green gown had suddenly become too tight.

“Fenton has married without your knowledge?” Taking out her handkerchief, Miranda began to flap it in front of Kat’s face.

“Nay, nay, worse than that!” Kat reread the king’s missive, in the vain hope that she had misunderstood his message. Alas, she had not. “God shield me, Miranda, I am doomed.”

“Shall I call Montjoy to help you to your bed, coz?” Miranda stopped waving her handkerchief, much to Kat’s relief. “Do you require a cordial for a headache? Shall I call—”

Kat cut her off. “Call down thunderbolts and hail to rain on Hampton Court, Miranda! Send a storm of fiery arrows into every bleating idiot who utters the word ‘marriage’ to me!” Remembering her two disastrous forays into matrimony, she shuddered.

“Who is to be married?” Miranda asked, taking Kat’s hand in hers and giving it a squeeze. “Is it me?”

Despite her distress engendered by the king’s command, Kat smiled into her cousin’s hopeful eyes. Poor Miranda! Ignoring the unhappy examples of Kat’s late husbands, she had always harbored a childish romantic fantasy of true love.

“Am I to have a husband at last?” Miranda prodded, craning her neck so that she could read the letter in Kat’s hand.

“I wish that were so! Nay, ’tis I the king commands.”

“To marry him?” Miranda’s jaw all but dropped. “But he is already wed to good Queen Catherine these past twenty years—and they say he has a paramour besides.”

“Nay, Miranda! ’Tis to some popinjay of the court named...” Kat consulted the letter again. “Sir Brandon Cavendish, eldest son of the Earl of Thornbury—whomever that might be. After the good Lord saw fit to take Fitzhugh to his eternal reward—”

“May God have mercy upon his soul,” Miranda murmured at the name of Kat’s second husband.

“Save your breath! That man is roasting his backside upon the devil’s spit!” Kat closed her eyes in the effort to blot out her last memory of Edward Fitzhugh’s face, mottled with insane rage.

Miranda quickly made a sign of the cross. “’Tis bad luck to speak ill of the dead, Kat. Say a prayer!”

“Say one for me,” Kat retorted. “Fitzhugh heard enough of my prayers and pleading during his lifetime. I shall not taint my mouth any further for his sake.” She shook the king’s letter, causing the red seal to bounce merrily on its white satin ribbon. “These past two years have been a paradise for me. After surviving two such husbands as mine, I had hoped to spend the rest of my life in gardening, and caring for my people. I did not expect to be saddled with yet another piece of vermin such as this...Cavendish! I will never be any man’s property again!”

“Perchance he will be different,” Miranda suggested, a faraway look glazing her green eyes.

“Perchance the piglets in yonder sty shall sprout feathered wings and fly! Bah! I am sick to death of husbands!”

“You could write to the king and beg him to change his mind,” Miranda suggested in a soothing tone.

Kat snorted. “Ha! An angel from heaven would be unable to dissuade His Grace once he has made his decision. Alack, I am undone, Miranda!”

Miranda picked up the parchment from the bench where Kat had dropped it. She ran her finger across the name of the suitor. “I wish you could give him to me. I am willing to take a chance.”

“You are moonstruck, dear coz. Marriage is heaven for a man, but hell for the woman. All husbands want are housekeepers and broodmares.” Kat chewed her lower lip as she thought of her barren womb. “Our good king has got marriage on the brain. He should settle his own affairs. Let him marry the Boleyn woman, and leave me in peaceful widowhood.”

“Hush, sweet coz!” Miranda glanced over her shoulder. “’Tis not wise to speak of the king in such a disrespectful manner, even here.”

Kat sighed. “Aye, gentle coz, you give me good counsel. But what am I going to do with this horse’s backside who claims me?”

“When does the letter say he arrives?”

“’Twas written a week ago Monday. The king states that I should expect to receive this Lord Cavendish very soon. Sweet angels! For all I know, the man could be here by supper time today!” Kat rose and began to pace up and down the crushed shell path of the rose garden. She must find a way out of this marriage, or else her hard-won happiness would soon vanish like snowflakes in July.

“Mayhap he will get lost along the way here,” her cousin suggested with a grin. peace, Miranda. This marriage is no laughing matter. I wish I could spy out this proffered husband, then I would know better how to deal with him.” She could not face a loveless marriage again.

Returning to her task of pulling weeds, Miranda sang a child’s silly tune. “‘A Cavendish came a-hunting in the wood, to-woo, but the white-tailed doe was not at home, to-woo. The Cavendish came a-hunting in the wood, and though his aim was true and good, he shot a rabbit and not the doe, to-woo.”’

Pausing at the end of the path, Kat cocked her head, as Miranda repeated the nonsense song under her breath. An outlandish idea bubbled up in Kat’s mind. Her grin deepened into trilling laughter. The sound startled Miranda out of her song.

“Sweet lark, you have hit it! I have the very plan when this Cavendish comes a-wooing!” Grabbing her cousin’s hand, Kat pulled her out of the flower. bed. “Come, we squander the precious daylight with our idle chatter. There is much work to be done.”

“What did I say?” Miranda asked as Kat hurried them back to the castle. “What are we going to do?”

“To exchange a doe for a rabbit!” she answered with a mischievous grin.

“They have gone, my lord.” Tod Wormsley tweaked his master’s bedsheet. “’Tis safe to come out”

Poking forth his head from under the covers, Sir Fenton Scantling glowered at the door of his small chamber. God’s teeth! How dare those London merchants send their hirelings into the king’s palace here at Hampton Court to seek Fenton and loudly demand payment of his bills! Fenton hoped that no one of importance had heard the ruckus. How dare those minions call him such disgraceful things through the keyhole!

Fenton kicked away the rest of the covers, then swung his legs over the side of the bed. He studied his reflection in the glass that hung on the wall opposite him. He brushed the wrinkles out of his sleeveless doublet made of a rich mulberry brocade and straightened the slim gold chain that hung around his neck. His sniveling body servant, Wormsley, stood behind Fenton and fluffed out his white silken puff sleeves that had become crushed under the bedclothes.

“This color suits me, does it not, Wormsley?” Fenton mused as he leaned closer to the glass to inspect his teeth. Good. No unsightly remnant of food clung there from the noonday dinner.

“Right well,” Wormsley murmured, holding out Fenton’s flat hat fashioned in a matching shade of velvet mulberry. He curled the cream-colored feather through his fingers. “And costly, if those tailors who came to call are to be believed.”

Wheeling on his servant, Fenton raised his hand to strike him for his impudent tongue. Then he thought better of it, as the youth regarded him with a smug expression. One day, churl, you shall push me too far. “By that gleam in your eye, Worm, there is something in the wind. Out with it!”

Wormsley blew on the feather, causing it to flutter. “Since you stayed in London until late last night, you have not heard the news.”

“Has the king finally gotten his bloody divorce? Or has Mistress Anne Boleyn announced that she is with child? Ha! That would set the whole court in an uproar!”

“Neither, my lord. The news I speak of pales next to the king’s Great Matter, but it touches upon you personally.” Wormsley flicked an invisible speck of dust off the cap.

Fenton itched to wipe the hint of a smile from the rogue’s mouth. “Out with it, varlet! I have no patience today to play the fool with you.”

Wormsley ran his tongue around his lips before replying. “There is to be a marriage, my lord. The groom is none other than Sir Brandon Cavendish—”

Fenton burst out laughing at this surprise. “So the knave of hearts has been trapped at last! Did he get some poor damsel with child? Has her father threatened to kill him? Ha! I cannot wait to rub this in his face. I warrant, he does not go to the altar willingly. This is news, indeed!”

Wormsley cleared his throat. “It is an arranged match requested by Sir Brandon’s father and commanded by Great Harry himself. The bride is no maiden, though she is quite wealthy. We speak of your aunt, Lady Katherine Fitzhugh, and the wedding date is in four weeks—on the twenty-fourth of June, Midsummer’s Day.”

Fenton’s tiny ruffled collar suddenly choked him. He couldn’t breathe. He opened his mouth but no sound emerged. He pointed to the half-empty flagon of wine on the side table. Wormsley filled one of the gray-and-blue salt-glazed cups to the brim with the deep red burgundy. Fenton drank it down in one gulp, though its slightly sour taste curdled the back of his tongue.

What had Fenton ever done to deserve these ill tidings? Hadn’t he been a dutiful, though often absent, nephew to Kat? Hadn’t he always been polite enough to that mewling cousin of hers, Miranda? Didn’t he always bring them a little present or two whenever he had to visit Bodiam—when his funds had run low again? How he had danced the galliard when his late, unlamented Uncle Edward had worked himself into a fatal stroke two years ago! In due time, all those prosperous estates and rents of Bodiam Castle should be his as Kat’s only heir. Marriage to a healthy—and lusty—stallion like Cavendish would ruin his hopes of a wealthy future.

“My lord, are you well?” Wormsley asked, pouring another cup of the vile drink.

“Are you brainsick?” Fenton roared back at him. He quaffed the wine. “Of course, I am not well. Nor should you be, for where my fortune and fate go, yours will follow. Where is Cavendish now? Has he left Hampton Court yet?”

“Nay. He tarries, hoping that the king will change his mind.”

Fenton paused in his fuming. A slow smile cracked his lips. “Then the match does not sit well upon the bridegroom’s shoulders?”

“I hear that he all but fainted on the tennis court when the king informed him of his future happiness.”

Chuckling, Fenton rubbed his palms together. “I can well imagine, considering his amorous reputation with the ladies. This is better than I first thought.” He snatched up his cap and set it at a jaunty angle on his head. “I shall seek out Sir Brandon and have a little talk with him pertaining to family matters. Look for me after supper, though I may tarry awhile at the gaming tables. God’s breath, suddenly I feel that fortune smiles upon me this day.”

Locating Cavendish was not difficult, despite the maze of galleries at Hampton. Every tongue at court wagged of Sir Brandon’s romantic downfall. The closer Fenton drew to his quarry, the more tales he heard whispered behind lace fans and perfumed handkerchiefs. Fenton found his man deep in conversation with Sir John Stafford, his boon companion. The two lounged under one of the arches in the palace’s cobbled courtyard.

The knights were as alike as most brothers. As tall as the king himself, both men boasted the blond hair, broad shoulders and slim hips that made the women of Hampton Court, from countess to scullery maid, hungry to gaze upon them. When the king’s golden duo strode by, other men straightened their own postures. Before confronting the pair, Fenton pulled back his shoulders and lifted his chin a notch. Though they spoke in low tones, he caught the tail end of their discussion.

“Take good heed, my friend,” Stafford counseled Brandon. “Though your father might be swayed to forget this marriage, you know the king will not. Nothing annoys our sovereign lord more than the idea of not getting his own way. Be wise. The anger of our most noble prince means death.” The speaker caught sight of Fenton. “Here comes a flattering rascal.”

Stifling his contempt at that description, Fenton executed a flourishing bow. “Good day, my Lord Stafford, my Lord Cavendish—or should I call you my uncle Brandon, since we are soon to be related?”

A thunderous expression crossed Cavendish’s face as both men returned Fenton’s bow.

Good. My unwilling uncle-to-be is as unhappy over this match as I am—perhaps even more so.

“What ill wind blew you here, Scantling?” Cavendish rumbled.

Fenton took a small, prudent step backward.

“Judging from the odor that hangs about him, I would say he came directly from the haunts of the London stews.” Stafford’s clear blue eyes sparkled with merriment at Fenton’s displeasure.

Fenton forced a wide smile across his trembling lips. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, I do protest your unwarranted remarks. Especially as I have made it my urgent business to forewarn you, my Lord Cavendish, before you seek my aunt’s favor.”

“What are you prattling about, Scantling?” Brandon growled. His chiseled features furrowed with barely concealed impatience.

Drawing closer to the men, Fenton lowered his voice. “’Tis Lady Katherine, Sir Brandon. I feel it best you know about her before—”

Gripping Fenton’s shoulder, Cavendish shook him like a wet rag. His fingers bit painfully through the thickness of Fenton’s padded brocade. The young man chewed his lower lip to keep from swearing a loud oath in Cavendish’s face. Best not to annoy a wounded bear.

“Out with it, man! Is she poxed?” Brandon shook him again.

“Nay!” Fenton winced. “As far as I know, she is pure as snow. ’Tis her age I speak of.”

Brandon released his grip on Fenton’s shoulder. “You babble riddles to me, and I am not in the mood for games.” He lowered his face to Fenton’s. “I am more in mind to stab something—soft. Be plain and quick. My dagger itches to be free of its sheath.”

Fenton swallowed. Cavendish’s forthcoming marriage had certainly soured his usual good humor. “’Tis this, my lord. My Aunt Katherine is...er...quite old. Indeed, I am much surprised that the king chose her for you. She is past the time of childbearing. And she has always been barren—at least, with her first two husbands.”

“How old?” Brandon exploded the words out of his mouth.

Fenton allowed himself a small laugh. “Ah, you of all people should know the ladies, Sir Brandon. They are forever changing the dates of their births to suit their purposes. I cannot say my aunt’s exact age. But I think she is closer to your lady mother than to you.” He coughed behind his hand to hide his grin.

Cavendish said nothing, but stared out across the courtyard at the chapel windows gleaming in the midafternoon sunlight.

“Two husbands, you say?” Lord Stafford whistled through his teeth. “Pray, what happened to them?”

Fenton controlled his glee. Like massive trout, these mighty lords were rising to his colorful bait. “I am surprised ! Did no one tell you that my aunt had been married before?”

Brandon threaded his fingers through Fenton’s chain. He tightened his hold on it, pulling the younger man closer. Fenton prayed the golden links would not break. The chain had cost him several months’ allowance.

Icy danger lurked within the depths of Cavendish’s startling blue eyes. “Tell me now,” Brandon murmured in a warning tone.

Fenton inhaled a deep breath. “Aunt Kat was first married to my Lord Thomas Lewknor. They say he took sick on their wedding night, and then spent eighteen painful months in bed. Nursed, of course, by my good aunt. He died finally—foaming at the mouth,” Fenton added for good measure.

A look of horror crossed Cavendish’s face.

“And her second husband?” prompted Stafford.

“’Twas Sir Edward Fitzhugh.”

“I knew of him.” Brandon narrowed his eyes. “He was a brawler of the first order, as I recall, and had a temper like wildfire. I knew he often beat his servants. I felt sorry for the lady who was married to him.”

The softened tone in Brandon’s voice did not suit Fenton’s purpose at all. “Aye, you speak the truth. My step. uncle was the devil’s own spawn. ’Tis no wonder that my aunt grew weary of him. Even an angel would have lost patience with Fitzhugh the Furious.” Fenton lowered his voice. “They say he died of a sudden stroke in his brain.”