Tori Phillips - Midsummer's Knight

Miranda crumpled her embroidery in her hands. Her mouth went dry and her heart began to beat faster. Despite the sweet breeze coming through the open window she felt very light-headed. “Now? This minute?” Leaping trout! She was about to become the lady of the manor and she had yet to decide what to wear.

“’Tis the knell that summons us down the primrose path of perdition,” Montjoy predicted in an ominous tone.

Kat smiled, though Miranda saw the corners of her mouth tremble. Good! I am glad that Kat is as nervous as I.

“I am filled with much good cheer that you are so happy, Montjoy.” Kat clapped her hands. “Quickly! Let us be about our preparations. Montjoy, receive our guest, and conduct him to the hall. Have Columbine take her place in the minstrel’s box, and tell her to play something soft on her lute. Miranda, do not stand there like a goose—hurry! Put on my pale green silk at once!”

Miranda blinked. “Why your green? Mine is of the same material.”

“Aye, but mine is richer trimmed as befits a lady of my station. ’Tis only right and proper for the Lady Katherine to receive her betrothed in one of her best gowns. So be about it! Montjoy, send us Laurel to help my cousin dress. Oh, do hurry, everyone! They shall be upon us at any moment.” Kat shooed the reluctant steward out of the room, then started to unlace Miranda’s brown woolen day gown.

“M...my betrothed.” Miranda’s hand fluttered to her throat. Even if this masque lasted only a day, she would remember it for the rest of her life. All her dreams were coming true—a silken gown with gold lace and seed pearls—and a real live suitor to charm.

The horn sounded again. Miranda swallowed hard. Kat swore under her breath when she tore a nail on one of Miranda’s points. Laurel, a short, dimpled girl of sixteen, rushed into the room.

“My lady, they come! I saw them from the battlements. What a grand sight, to be sure! They are still far-off, but you can just spy their banners waving near the crest of the hill,” she informed her mistress with a great deal of giggling. She relieved Kat of Miranda’s knotted laces. “Aye, and a right colorful display they are, too. Mistress Miranda, how did you get yourself into such a tangle?”

Kat paused in smoothing the wrinkles out of her dove gray woolen gown. “Not Mistress Miranda this day, Laurel. She is now my Lady Katherine—and don’t you forget it.”

Laurel giggled again. “Oh, aye, my mind mistook. What a piece of tomfoolery this will be! Miss...your pardon, my Lady Katherine, would you kindly not wiggle so much? How can I dress you properly if you must dance a galliard while I do it?”

Standing on her tiptoes, Miranda tried to see out the window. “Are they in sight yet? What does he look like?”

Adjusting her plain gray coif, Kat glanced out the window again. “Stars! He has brought half the king’s army with him.”

“Goodly men?” Laurel’s voice sparkled with interest.

“Where?” Miranda asked at the same time. Both women joined Kat at the window. All three leaned far out over the stone ledge and fixed their gaze upon the opposite hill where a large, colorful group of men paused on their horses. “Great wailing wolves, coz! We are about to be invaded!”

“Is all our company drawn near?” Brandon’s gaze swept over the group: two squires, his master huntsman, his falcon, several panting greyhounds, three grooms, a dozen men-at-arms and a grinning co-conspirator, Jack Stafford.

“Aye, my lord,” replied Jess, the huntsman. “Is that the lady’s home?”

Brandon swallowed down the knot that had formed in the base of his throat, Ridiculous! Ten years jousting in the lists of England and fighting on the fields of France had not made him feel half as nervous as he did at this moment.

“Bodiam Castle,” he snapped.

“A pleasant place to look upon,” Jack observed.

“Aye, I have seen worse prisons,” Brandon remarked, his brows furrowed above his eyes.

The men behind him guffawed. Brandon twisted the reins between his fingers. God’s death! Why did his stomach play havoc with his breakfast? ’Twas only an old woman. At least, her castle looked welcoming, he thought as he studied his new estate-to-be.

Situated comfortably in a gently rolling valley on the banks of the river Rother, Bodiam’s white limestone walls reflected the bright sunlight. Brandon guessed that the square fortress had been built several hundred years ago, but he could see it was well maintained. Stout barrel towers guarded each corner with square towers at the center of the north and south curtain walls. Above each tower, a colorful banner waved in the breeze.

The bright sun glinted off the diamond panes of glass that filled the wide arched windows on the second and third floors—as curious to the eye as lacy-cut paperwork. The open drawbridge lay snug against the near bank of the moat, and a bevy of white swans glided leisurely across the still green water. Above the open portcullis, a flag, larger than the others, snapped against its pole. A silver unicorn lay on a green silken field—the Lady Katherine’s personal device, Brandon presumed.

“Well?” Jack poked Brandon with his crop. “Do we ride to yon castle, or do we turn tail?”

Brandon glared at his best friend. Jack winked back at him. With a sigh of exasperation, Brandon turned his horse and faced his party. If only his men would stop grinning like monkeys! Thank all the saints that his brother Guy was safely five hundred miles away with his French wife and baby daughter! Guy would be hooting at him by now.

“Men,” Brandon began, then cleared his throat to banish the high-pitched frog that lurked therein. “From now on, you will render the service due me to Sir John. Until further notice, he is Lord Brandon Cavendish, and I am Jack Stafford. That goes double to you varlets.” Brandon glared at the squires, Mark and Christopher.

The two seventeen-year-olds nodded with wide smirks on their faces.

“One word of our disguising from any of you, and I will personally take a whip to your backs.” Brandon tried to sound as if he meant it. The trouble was, he didn’t—and the whole company knew it. “On the other hand, if this farce plays out well, there will be a golden angel in each of your pockets come Midsummer’s Day.”

“You can rely upon us, my Lord...ah...Stafford,” Jess answered for the company.

Jack adjusted his new blue velvet hat and straightened the red felt traveling cloak about his shoulders. “Do I look like the high-and-mighty Sir Brandon Cavendish, eldest son of the Earl of Thornbury, my Lord Stafford?” he asked with a merry gleam in his eye. “Do I look the part of the panting bridegroom?”

“You look like the very devil,” Brandon muttered. He glared at the castle again, then threw back his shoulders and took a deep breath. “Sound your hom, Jess. They know we are here. Let us make a brave charge and engage the enemy in her lair.”

Brandon urged Windchaser into a gallop down the hill, followed closely by Jack and the others. The greyhounds gave tongue, while Jess blew his horn like the angel Gabriel announcing the final judgment day. The halloo of the men and hounds, and the thudding of the great horses’ hooves on the soft greensward did much to relieve the tension of Brandon’s coiled nerves. If this was to be a battle of wits and hearts, he would attack bravely.

The two lords reined their horses into a sedate walk as they approached the drawbridge. A clear girlish giggle sang over their heads. Brandon and Jack glanced up just in time to see three women, two with reddish brown hair, and the other one with hair the color of ripe wheat, duck back from the tower window. The entire south battlements appeared to be filled with many smiling maidens and a few stern-looking men-at-arms.