“’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.”
He allowed the implied accusation to hang unspoken in the air before he continued. “I had just come up to court at the time, so I cannot speak from personal knowledge as to the exact manner of his death. Fitzhugh was buried under the chapel stones by the time I had returned to Bodiam Castle.” He did not mention that it was six months after Fitzhugh’s death before he had found time to visit his widowed aunt. No need to muddle the tale with petty details.
“I see.” Cavendish’s blue eyes took on a cloudy aspect.
Fenton had no idea if this change boded good or bad for his intent. Licking his lips again, he plunged on. “I thought to warn you, my lord. After all, two husbands have met with dubious endings while in Aunt Katherine’s care.”
Brandon turned his full attention back to Fenton. “You have done well to speak to me. I am in your debt, my lord.”
“Once the king understands your concerns of marriage with my aunt, I am sure he will change his mind, and match you with another, more agreeable lady,” Fenton suggested smoothly.
“Who knows what the king will do, save God and the Lady Anne Boleyn? But I shall pursue the matter.” Brandon bowed. “Your servant, sir.”
Fenton returned the courtesy. “God give you a pleasant day, my lords.” He left the two golden giants with the thoughts he had planted. Now to pen a loving note to dear Aunt Kat, and warn her of the lecherous fortune hunter coming her way. If Sir Brandon failed to move the king against this marriage, Lady Katherine Fitzhugh would surely do the task.
Brandon watched Scantling’s thin figure retreat down the colonnade. He curled his lips with distaste.
Stafford whistled again. “An old crone who is a husband killer? Zounds, Brandon! You have landed in a fine pickle barrel this time.”
Brandon rubbed his chin. “Perchance, but consider the source of this news.” He hated to admit that Scantling’s wasp tongue had stung him.
Jack met Brandon’s gaze. “I heard that Scantling’s creditors grow daily in number, especially since your forthcoming marriage has been broadcast.”
“Aye.” Brandon nodded. “Scantling’s resources are very slender, and his waste is great. Methinks the devoted nephew speaks with his own interest in mind.”
“The boy has a peacock’s air about him,” Jack agreed. “’Twould be no surprise to find the print of his lips upon his own looking glass.”
Brandon merely grunted in reply. If only there was a way he could meet this elderly widow without her knowing who he was. A good soldier always scouted the lay of the land before engaging in battle.
Jack grinned. “As to his aunt, if I were you, I’d hie down to Sussex and see this lady for myself. If she is withered, or a witch stirring a poisonous brew, then I’d—”
Brandon’s laughter cut off Jack’s further speech. Good old Jack! Brandon clapped him around the shoulders.
“You have struck the bull’s-eye, my friend! Aye, let us be off for Bodiam Castle at first light tomorrow. ’Tis time you went a-courting.”
Jack’s eyes widened, and his skin took on a paler hue. “I, a-courting? What do you mean?”
Brandon laughed again as the intriguing idea continued to take shape in his mind. “’Tis called a midsummer’s madness. Jackanapes. And we have much work to do twixt now and then.”
“Meihinks you have already been touched by the moon,” Jack muttered, shaking his head.
Chapter Two
Miranda looked up from her embroidery hoop as Kat entered their chambers on the second floor of the central square tower. Sunlight streamed pleasantly through the open casement window, and a light breeze carried the scent of fresh-mown hay and hot mint into the room. Kat waved another letter in her hand.
“More news, coz?” Miranda tried to keep the note of disappointment from her voice. She had been looking forward to enacting Kat’s bold masque, especially since she had the starring role. She prayed the letter’s contents wouldn’t scotch the plan. “Has...has the king changed his mind?”
“Nay, no such luck as that!” Kat settled herself amid the plump woolen cushions on the window seat. She slit the wax seal with her fingernail. “’Tis from Fenton,”
“Ah, I should have guessed.” Probably another plea for more money, Miranda thought as Kat unfolded the thick paper. “What does he say now?” She paused, then changed her voice to mimic Fenton’s whine. “‘Dearest Aunt Katherine, how I miss you, and I pray daily for your continued good health!”’
Kat smiled over the top of the paper. “His opening words are something like that. Go on, soothsayer. Tell me what else does my loving nephew write?”
Miranda threaded her needle with buttercup yellow silk. “Let me think. Ah! ‘The court is ever busy here, and all turn upon the king’s fancy. We are to enact a new masque, and the costumes are quite elaborate. I am to take the part of...”’ Miranda considered a moment as she knotted one end of the floss, then she continued, “‘Of Apollo, a high honor indeed. But, dearest Aunt, the costume requires a great deal of golden thread and cloth-of-gold material. Alas, I fear my allowance, generous as it .is from you, cannot cover this unforeseen expenditure...’ And so on, and so on. How much does the little beggar want now?”
Kat shook her head. “Not this time!”
Miranda rolled her eyes. “May the clouds rain cats and dogs!”
Kat frowned as she perused the letter. “He writes of my marriage, and wishes me joy in it.”
“Ha! There is something else between the lines. I can feel it.”
Kat arched one eyebrow at her cousin. “Only too true, I fear. He then goes on to say that he knows Sir Brandon Cavendish well.”
“I do not like the sound of that!” Miranda jabbed her needle into the collar of the night shift she worked upon.
“Sweet Saint Anne!” Kat erupted. “Oh, Miranda, I must be the most unfortunate of women on this green earth!”
Miranda put down her sewing and regarded Kat more intently. “How now?”
Kat rattled the offending paper. “Fenton warns me that this Cavendish toad is far too young for me. ‘Barely dry behind his ears,’ he says. This...boy has only just won his spurs, and he is much given to...God shield me!”
“What?”
Kat read, “‘Cavendish is a ruffian who will swear, drink, dance and revel the night away. He commits the oldest sins in the newest fashion. In short, dear Aunt, Sir Brandon is as lecherous as a monkey. He will top anything in skirts between the ages of seven and seventy.”’ Balling up the paper, she hurled it toward the fireplace. “Alack! I am undone by the king’s whimsy. First, I nursed an old man on death’s door, and then tried to tame a devil, and now I am offered to a half-grown rooster to school! ’Tis enough to make me consider taking the veil!”
Miranda watched Kat pace the newly waxed floorboards for a few minutes, then she quietly asked, “Do you believe Fenton?”
Kat stopped