Tori Phillips (24 page)

Brandon hugged her again. “And what color is this dress?” he asked. Lord! It was good to have them close by him again.

“Blue, to match my eyes!” Belle regarded him over her shoulder. “Still, I don’t understand why you must marry, Papa. What are you ever going to do with a wife?”

Guy and Jack, as well some of the Cavendish men-at-arms, roared with laughter at her innocent question. Brandon sent Guy a withering look. “Lady Katherine will be a mother to you, sweetling,” he answered.

Belle snapped her fingers in the air. “Ha! What do I need with a mother? I already have Grandmama and Aunt Celeste telling me what to do. I don’t need one more lady to order me about!”

Sir Thomas Cavendish edged his horse beside Windchaser. “Your papa is getting married because I want him to,” he rumbled to his granddaughter.

“Oh.” The child thought for a moment, then remarked, “Well if
you
say so, Grandpapa, then I suppose it must be so.”

“You look well, Brandon,” Sir Thomas continued, eyeing his son from helm to boot. “How goes the courtship? Or is that why you are dressed for combat?”

“Good morrow, Father.” Brandon inclined his head to his sire. Sir Thomas looked as hearty as ever, despite his advancing age. Lady Alicia had always said that her husband would not die happy, unless he keeled over in his saddle while chasing some four-footed beast through a forest. Perhaps she was right, Brandon thought. “We were about to go hunting when we heard your horn.”

Sir Thomas’s bushy gray brows went up. “A-hunting, is it? Nothing like a good hunt first thing in the morning. Stirs up the blood. What is it you hunt that you need to wear chain mail?”

“A mad dog,” Jack said quickly:

“A wild boar,” Brandon answered at the same time.

Sir Thomas glanced from one to the other. “Methinks you are hoping to find both. Now if ’twas a bear, that would be good sport, indeed.” He scanned the woods on the side of the road. “You don’t suppose there would be a bear hereabouts?” he asked hopefully.

“Thomas!” Lady Alicia fixed him with a stern glare. “Let us meet your son’s intended bride first, before you take the boys off to the forest for half the day.”

Sir Thomas pulled one end of his gray mustache, then nodded. “Of course, my dear.” He turned in the saddle and called to the men who milled about the wagons. “Don’t sit there a-gawking all morning. To Bodiam!”

“Hold tight, Francis,” Brandon spoke over his shoulder.

“Aye, sir,” the boy replied, gripping Brandon’s waist.

Wheeling Windchaser, Brandon urged him up the hill, instead of following the road. Best to take the shortcut back to the castle, to give Kat some warning—and to introduce the children to her.

As they trotted over the crest, an arrow sang from the trees. With a sharp cry of pain, Francis toppled off the horse.

For Brandon, everything seemed to freeze on the spot. Then events sped up as if happening within a flash of lightning. Brandon brought the charger to a halt. Dismounting, and pulling Belle with him, he threw them both to the ground.

“Papa! You’re hurting—” Belle protested, trying to push him off her.

“Quiet!” he growled, “Someone in the wood is firing arrows at us.”

A second arrow whizzed less than a foot over Brandon’s head. Francis lay just out of his reach. The boy’s face was ashen and his eyes shut.

’Twas Scantling’s doing! Seeing his injured son sent a red tidal wave of anger surging through Brandon. That villain was a walking dead man. Brandon vowed to kill him with his bare hands, wringing the last drop of life out of the vermin. For now, he had to protect his children from the viper.

Lifting his head, Brandon shouted the family war cry, “A Cavendish! To me!” Then to his daughter, he whispered, “We must try to get to Francis. When I move, you must move under me. Can you do that?”

“A-aye, Papa,” the little girl stammered. “Is Francis dead?”

Brandon gritted his teeth. “I don’t know, Belle, but we must get to him. Ready? Now!”

With one arm still firmly around Belle, he lifted himself, then scuttled, crab-fashion, over the turf to Francis’s side. Belle did her part by moving as quick as a cat. A third arrow embedded itself in the spot Brandon had just left. God rot the cursed knave! His aim was too good. Shielding the children with his body, Brandon called again for help.

His summons was answered by a deeper, thundering call to arms. Brandon could not remember the last time he had heard his father lift his voice in the battle cry, but the Earl of Thornbury’s shout heartened him. Guy and Jack galloped past Brandon’s prostrate form.

Raising himself up, Brandon shouted, “In the woods to the right.” He pointed. “Take a care. The whoreson is damnably good with that crossbow.”

The two plunged into the thicket of the trees, followed by Sir Thomas, still bellowing, and the combined forces of the men-at-arms.

Brandon knelt beside his son. The bolt had gone through the child’s arm; its wicked steel barb protruded on the other side. When Brandon touched the shaft, Francis moaned, then opened his eyes.

“Lie still, Francis,” Brandon murmured. “Are you in much pain?”

The lad licked his lips. “Aye, but I can bear it, sir.”

“I am going to break the shaft, then draw it out” Brandon pulled off his leather gloves. He put the fingers of one between Francis’s teeth. “Bite down on this. ‘Twill help you stand the pain. Belle, close your eyes. ’Tis a bloody business.”

“Nay, Papa.” Belle took Francis’s good hand in hers. “If he can bear it in his arm, I can bear watching it. Hold my hand, Francis, and squeeze,” she told him. “I don’t mind if you squeeze hard.”

Brandon took a firm grip on the arrow. “Ready?” he asked his children.

“Aye,” Belle answered for both of them.

Gritting his teeth, Brandon broke the shaft, then pulled out the arrow. Without prompting from her father, Belle covered the bleeding wound with a handful of her dress.

“Cut up my petticoat, Papa! Quick!” she commanded. “The blood is soaking my fingers. Francis, don’t you dare die! You still owe me a sixpence, and I mean to collect it—later, that is.”

The sun glinted off Brandon’s dagger as he ripped several large patches out of her underskirts. His hands shook as he tied the cloth around his son’s arm, then fashioned a sling. Mark rode up with Windchaser in tow. The youth dismounted while his horse was still in motion.

“Jesu! Is he badly hurt?” Mark asked, kneeling beside Francis. He brushed his hand across the boy’s forehead.

Opening his eyes, Francis gave his older friend a weak smile. “’Tis but a scratch, Mark,” he said weakly. Then he fainted.

Belle’s lower lip trembled. “Is he...?” She looked up at her father.

Brandon expelled a long sigh. “Nay, Belle. He has lost a lot of blood, and has swooned.” Gently he gathered up his son in his arms. “Let us get him into the wagon with your grandmother. Mark, put Belle on Windchaser, and lead them down the hill. She’s been a very brave girl this day.”

Belle flashed him a quick smile as Mark lifted her into the huge saddle. Cradling Francis, Brandon strode back to the waiting wagons.
’Tis my fault. Forgive me, my son. That arrow was meant for me
. Brandon’s legs trembled at the thought of how close he had come to losing his children.

“What happened?” Lady Alicia asked, as Brandon laid Francis on the floor mattress stuffed with straw and wadding. Celeste tucked a woolen blanket around the boy, whispering French endearments in his ear. Mark lifted Belle from Windchaser’s saddle, then handed her over to her aunt.

“Who has done this terrible thing?” Brandon’s mother continued.

“A man who has sworn my death, Mother,” Brandon replied, his throat dry and raw. “And now, I have vowed his!” He reached for Windchaser’s reins.

Lady Alicia laid her hand on Brandon’s arm. “The woods are full of our men. You will be needed when we get Francis to Bodiam. Is it far?”

Brandon shook his head. “Nay. Around the side of the hill and into the valley. Less than half a mile.”

Lady Alicia gave him a firm squeeze. “Climb into the wagon, Brandon, and hold your daughter. By my troth, both of you are as pale as sheets.”

Brandon tried to pull away. “Mother, I must go—”

She shook him. “So that the villain can shoot at you again? Nay, once a day is enough. Get into the wagon, and let us be off. Do not act the hardheaded pig just now, Brandon!”

Brandon started to protest, but the glare in his mother’s eye stopped his words. Glancing over to Belle, he saw that the little girl was indeed very pale and shaken, though she sat up straight beside Francis. With a heartfelt sigh, Brandon climbed into the wagon next to Celeste, then held out his arms to Belle.

“Come to your papa, sweetling. You must help us take Francis to safety.” Brandon settled the child against his chest, then spoke to his squire. “Ride like the devil to Lady Katherine—you know which lady I mean?”

Mark nodded, then hurled himself onto his horse without the help of his stirrups.

“Tell the lady exactly what has happened. We shall follow presently.”

Mark spurred his horse. “Aye, my lord!” he shouted as he dashed up the hill. The horse’s hooves kicked up clods of turf in his wake.

Leaning back against the side of the wagon, Brandon gave his mother a weak smile. “You should be proud of the children, Mother,” he said softly as he stroked Belle’s sleek blond hair. “I have never seen braver ones in my life.”

Lady Alicia patted her son’s hand. “I have always been proud of
all
my children,” she replied.

The morning had started out pleasantly enough: making potpourri to scent the castle chambers for the king’s visit, conferring with Philippe over the wedding feast, then the wedding gown fittings for Miranda and herself. The lazy peace was shattered when Mark practically rode his gelding into the hall, and panted out the terrifying news that Brandon had been attacked by some stranger in the home park. Then the squire announced that Brandon’s entire family had come for the wedding, and was en route with an injured member of the party.

“Who?” Kat clutched the golden rose on her bodice. “Pray not Brandon?”

Mark shook his head. “Nay, my lady. ’Tis his page, Francis Bardolph, who was traveling with the earl and countess.”

Sondra put down her needle. “How badly is the boy hurt?”

“’Tis an arrow through his arm.” Mark swept back a hank of brown hair that had fallen into his eyes. “My lord removed it, but there was a great deal of bleeding. Francis is only nine, Mistress Sondra,” the squire added.

“Oh, the poor poppet!” Miranda clasped her hands at the tale.

Kat’s mind whirled like a waterwheel in a flood. “Sondra, mix the child a poultice to draw the vile humors from the wound. We’ll put him in the chamber next to mine.”

Sondra closed her sewing basket. “Aye, I will have all ready in a tick of the clock.” She hurried out of the hall.

Kat tried to think of sleeping arrangements for her unexpected visitors. “Miranda, tell Montjoy as gently as possible that we have more guests. I don’t want him to have a sudden attack of the miseries just now.”

Nodding, her cousin lifted her skirts and dashed into the corridor, calling for the steward and the maids.

Kat wrung her hands. “How long do you think ’twill take them to come? Oh, Mark, you spoke the truth? My lord is safe, isn’t he?”

Mark again ran his hand through his long locks. “They will be here directly, my lady. They come by the road, while I went over the hill and across the meadow. And my master is sound of limb, though he is angered by the injury done to Francis. He swears vengeance, my lady. I have never seen him look so black.”

Kat clasped her hands tighter. “Oh, poor Brandon!”

Mark shuffled his feet. “My lady, there is something else you should know, but I don’t know how to tell you.”

The evasive tone in the squire’s voice set off a warning bell inside Kat’s head. From the look on his face, she guessed the news would be distressing.

She placed her hand on his shoulder. “Come, Mark, what is it?”

He chewed his lower lip before speaking. “I know my lord intended to tell you himself, but the time passed so quickly since we came and—”

Kat thought she would jump out of her skin if he kept up his preamble much longer. “By the book, Mark! For the sake of my nerves, tell me!”

The squire took a deep breath. “There is a little girl among the party. Her name is LaBelle Cavendish, my lady. She is also nine years old, and...and she is Sir Brandon’s natural daughter.”

“Oh!” Kat sat down on the window seat with a thump. Brandon had a child!

Mark knelt on the floor beside her. “My lady?”

Kat gave herself a shake, then swallowed. “I am glad you told me of this, Mark.”

He searched her face. “Truly, my lady? I know ’tis not my place, but when you meet her, you will see the resemblance immediately. I thought to give you fair warning.”

Kat willed her heart to beat slower. “You did well, Mark. I am grateful.”

“Sir Brandon had both children on his horse with him, when he was attacked. Francis took the arrow meant for him.”

Oh, Brandon!
“Thank you for telling me, Mark. ’Twill help me understand...later. Methinks—”

A shout from the courtyard interrupted her. Looking out the window, she saw two wagons roll over the causeway and through the gate.

Picking up her skirts, Kat ran out of the hall and down the entry staircase. Mark followed close at her heels. No doubt Brandon had his reasons for not telling her about his child, but that could wait. The most important thing was to tend to the young page and to try to ease some of the anguish that she knew must be eating away in the innermost part of Brandon’s soul. Kat would sort out her own gnawing feelings in due time. Then the reckoning would be demanded and paid.

By the time Kat arrived in the courtyard, Brandon had lifted Francis out of the wagon. The child lay still as death in his arms as Brandon carried him toward the stairs. His bleak expression frightened Kat. It reminded her of a chalky mask.

“Mark told you?” he asked hoarsely.

Kat touched his sleeve. “Aye, he told me much. Take the boy upstairs to the chamber next to mine. Sondra has everything prepared. I will be with you as soon as I have greeted your lady mother.”