Midsummer's Knight. Tori Phillips

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      “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 СКАЧАТЬ