Tori Phillips (28 page)

“Your father told me how very brave you were this morning. Belle,” Kat told her in soft tones. “He is very proud of you.”

“We couldn’t let Francis die,” she answered, never taking her eyes off his face.

“You must love Francis very much,” Kat continued, watching for Belle’s reaction.

The child didn’t answer immediately, but instead dipped another cloth into the water, wrung it out and put it on Francis’s wrist. “My grandmama says it helps if you keep the pulse points cool.”

“Aye.” Kat wet a third cloth and applied it to Francis’s other wrist. “Are you and Francis close?” she asked again.

Belle shrugged one shoulder in a perfect imitation of her Aunt Celeste. “He helps to pass the time at Wolf Hall.” Her lower lip trembled. “He is awfully hot, isn’t he?”

Kat slipped her arm around Belle. She was gratified that the child did not pull away. “But he is very strong,” Kat soothed her. “Just like your father is strong.”

A lone tear rolled down Belle’s cheek. She dashed it away with the back of her hand. “If he dies, I—I...” She looked up at Kat for the first time. “I have been a torment to him in the past.”

Kat brushed a stray lock of hair off Belle’s forehead. “Are you sorry for that?”

Belle sniffed. “Aye. He is my best friend.” Her blue eyes narrowed. “But don’t you dare tell him I said so.”

Kat repressed a smile. “Cross my heart and hope to spit,” she intoned.

They sat for a while in silence. Belle climbed into Kat’s lap as the chill of the wooden floor seeped into her bare feet. Kat hoped this little chink in Belle’s defensive armor would widen enough to permit Kat an entry.

Just when Kat thought Belle had drifted to sleep, the child murmured, “My father loved my mother, you know.”

Kat’s heart turned over, though she managed to maintain an outward calm. “I’m sure he did,” she mumbled in reply.

“She died giving birth to me,” Belle continued. “Papa loved her so much that he’s never wanted to marry again.”

Till now.
Belle’s unspoken thought hung in the still air.

Kat cleared her voice. “Did your papa tell you about your mother?” she asked lightly.

“He cannot bear to speak of her, because he misses her so much. Grandmama told me so.”

“Ah, I understand.”
In more ways than one
. Of course, Belle would have asked about her mother at some point in her life. What else could a loving grandmother have told her? Yet that persistent little voice in Kat’s mind suggested that maybe Brandon had really loved Yvette, since he loved her daughter so very much. By the book! What difference could that make now? ’Twas ten years ago!

In the cold gray of dawn Brandon tiptoed into the sickroom to check on his son, before he rode out to seek Fenton Scantling. He raised his brows with surprise to find Kat with Belle cradled in her arms—and both fast asleep. Taking a blanket from the chest, he gently draped it over his two beloved girls. He wasn’t sure how Kat had wrought this miracle, but it cheered him. Touching Francis’s brow, he discovered the boy’s skin was cool, and he slept curled on his side, a position Brandon knew his son favored. Kissing all three, he left them in the care of the angels and saints.

Count this morning as your last, Scantling.

Chapter Nineteen

W
ormsley shivered as he dozed fitfully inside the hollow trunk of a great oak that had died long ago. The dank air reeked of decayed wood and the unwashed bodies of his master and himself. Curling into a tighter ball, Tod cursed his ambition for the thousandth time in the past two weeks, and wished he was back on his father’s pig farm. Even pigs had a cozier sty than this hole.

Giving up on sleep, Tod slowly opened his eyes. Through the leafy branches overhead, the sky turned pale in anticipation of the dawn. Another day to be hunted down like an animal.

Finding himself alone, Tod struggled into a standing position and stretched as much as the hollow diameter of the giant oak allowed. His stomach rumbled with hunger.

They had not eaten a real meal since yesterday morning in their tumbledown hut. Afterward, Sir Fenton had gone off with his crossbow. Tod had thought his master only meant to practice at targets. The servant had cleaned up their sparse dwelling, then hauled fresh water from the stream.

Suddenly Tod had heard a hunting horn on the far side of the forest. The sound of it had made his heart almost stop beating. Only two men in the neighborhood would be going a-hunting on this fair morning: Sir John or Sir Brandon. Shutting his eyes, Tod had sent a prayer winging to heaven that ’twas Sir John who chased the deer, and not his master’s sworn enemy, Sir Brandon. When the second horn had answered the first, Tod knew that his prayer had been for naught. His quandary lay in what he should do next.

Escape! Sir Fenton may owe him six pounds in back wages, but ’twas a trifle to being apprehended and hung as an accessory to murder. Pulling out his small canvas poke, Tod had stuffed it with his few belongings. He hesitated for a moment. Should he take one of Sir Fenton’s gold chains in lieu of payment? What if his master did no harm and returned to the hut to find his servant gone, along with his jewelry? Tod gulped. He knew Lord Scantling would waste no time issuing a hue and cry throughout the shire to catch a thief. Wormsley would be hung for thievery instead of murder. What difference did that make to the hangman’s rope? It stretched just as far.

While Tod was pondering these unpleasant alternatives, Fenton had bounded back to the hut.

Catching sight of his servant’s bulging pack, Scantling panted, “Good thinking, for once, you slug! Follow me, if you value your hide!”

With that, Fenton had snatched up the poke, then dashed out the door. Panicked, Tod had left a large loaf of day-old bread on the table and had followed his master into the woods again. In the distance, he heard the crashing of underbrush and the shouting of dozens of men.

God in heaven! He’s killed Sir Brandon! I am doomed!

With a growing despair in his heart. Tod had realized that his only slim hope of escaping with his life now lay within the twisted mind of his master. Without asking what had happened or where they were going, Tod had followed blindly after Fenton. Like a weasel, Scantling wove in and out through the tangles of the woodland floor. Thorns and sharp branches tore Tod’s clothing and gashed many scratches in his face and hands. On they plunged, until Fenton came to a huge grandfather oak. From the base to top, it rose well over a hundred feet, with a trunk between four and five feet wide. The oak had been a youngster when William the Conqueror came to claim England for his own.

“Up!” Scantling had barked.

Like one of the monkeys that entertained the king with their antics, Scantling had hoisted himself into a smaller tree that grew next to the venerable giant.

He has gone stark, staring mad! They will find us in no time, sitting in a tree like a pair of brainless squirrels.
Regretting the day he had ever taken employment with Sir Fenton Scantling, Tod hitched the pack more securely around his shoulder, then frantically climbed after his master.

When Scantling had reached a branch of the oak that was level with the smaller one he stood upon, he leaped to the larger tree. Turning, he signaled to Wormsley.
I hate heights!
Gritting his teeth, Tod crossed from one branch to the other. When he looked up, Scantling had completely vanished.

“My...my lord?” Tod called softly. The sounds of the hunting party had drawn closer.

“Down here, you worm!”

From the center crotch of the great tree, Tod saw Fenton wave his hand. Slipping over the branch to that point, Tod found himself staring down into a yawning cavity. The entire center of the oak was completely hollow.

“Get in, you dolt-head, or they will spy you and find me!” Grabbing Tod by the ankle, Scantling had pulled him down. The descent was both terrifying and painful.

A thick pile of dead leaves lined the bottom of the hole. Even though both men were spare in form, it was a tight squeeze. Neither could sit at the same time. Scantling had chuckled as Tod looked around their wooden prison.

“A clever badger hole, eh?” he whispered.

Tod pinched his nose to hold back the sneeze he felt building up from the dust that swirled around them. “How did you know of this place?” he asked.

Scantling chuckled again. “‘Tis been my secret hideyhole since I was a lad. My Uncle Edward liked to beat me for no reason at all. I would escape to the forest as often as I could.” Scantling stroked the walls of the hollow tree with tender pride. “’Twas once a bear’s nest, methinks. Over the years I improved upon its size and appointments.” He pointed to a small hole at eye level through which the dappled sun shone. “There’s a lookout on each side.” He yawned, then snapped his teeth like a cornered dog. “Now we wait.”

The wait had terrified Wormsley to near-hysteria. Outside, they had heard the men and horses pass by, then double back again. At one point, a shout almost directly outside nearly caused Tod to wet his hose. One of the men had found a strip of cloth snagged on a branch. A foot away from Tod’s face, Scantling had glowered at him, then pointed to a tear in Tod’s sleeve. Tod didn’t dare to mention the many rents and tears in Scantling’s own fine clothing.

All through the interminable afternoon and long evening twilight, Tod and his master waited inside the trunk of the tree, as the search party crashed hither and yon around them. Though numb with terror, Tod admired the tenacity of the hunters. At one point, Scantling had whispered, “I don’t see why they are making such a fuss. I missed Cavendish altogether and hit only a boy.”

Tod didn’t dare ask for clarification. His teeth chattered.

Blessed darkness finally descended. The horsemen rode away, and night sounds filled the forest. Finally Scantling had allowed them to climb out and relieve themselves. Tod could barely move his cramped limbs and had nearly fallen from the branches on the way to the ground.

The forest was pitch-dark. Putting his lips very close to Tod’s ear, Scantling had whispered, “Do not think of running away. The night creatures are about and would tear you to pieces in a minute.” At close quarters, Scantling’s grin had been feral. “And if Cavendish has posted a guard, you would swing from a rope before daybreak.” He gripped Tod by the collar. “You are as deep in blood as I. Do not forget it.”

Those had been the last words Scantling had spoken to Tod. After a short interval outside in the clean, cool air, his master had pushed him back up into the branches, then down into the hole. Now another morning had dawned, cold, gray and heavy with rain. Another morning in hell.

As Scantling had predicted, the men returned, this time with dogs. Every so often one of the beasts sniffed and whined around their tree. One even made water practically next to Tod’s ear. The strong scent of urine filled his nostrils.

“Scantling!” The forest echoed with Brandon Cavendish’s bellow. “I know you are still here. I will find you, pernicious bloodsucker of children! I swear it upon my sword. Say your paternosters now, for when I see you, ’twill be your last moment on this earth. Hear me, Scantling? Hell’s mouth gapes wide, waiting for me to cram you into its maw! A plague upon you!”

Tod shivered at the cold fury in Sir Brandon’s voice. Scantling only smiled, then made a rude gesture. They heard Cavendish’s great horse move farther away.

Later it began to rain. At first, ’twas only a pitter-patter through the thick leafy roof above them. Tod welcomed the wetness and held his mouth open to catch its soothing drops on his parched tongue. Then the rain increased, sending a steady torrent down into their miserable hole. Even then, over the wind in the branches and the lash of the raindrops, Tod still heard the men and dogs out hunting for them.
Go home, my lord, and warm yourself by your fire, and take comfort that we have none.

What manner of injury had his master done that kept Lord Cavendish out in this miserable weather? Tod dared not ask. The gleam in Scantling’s eyes had taken on a frenzied fire.

The gray of the afternoon changed into the gloom of the evening as the downpour continued. Wet, chilled to the bone, starving and utterly miserable, Tod decided that he would willingly cast himself upon Cavendish’s mercy if he were given half the chance.

“How...how long will we stay here, my lord?” he ventured to ask as the sky turned blacker. They were the first words he had spoken in hours.

“Until I say so.” Scantling’s answer slithered back.

Moistening his lips, Tod summoned up as much courage as he could. “They have gone for the night, my lord. We could leave now, and be well out of the shire by first light.”

“Nay!”

“But, my lord, we shall die in here anon.”

“You have that distinct possibility.” Scantling caressed his threat in a singsong tone. “But I will have what I came for. Come day after tomorrow, I will kill the bridegroom in his wedding clothes. And none will be the wiser.”

Icy fear gripped Tod. God’s teeth! He was caged with a madman—one who had already prophesied his death! Leaning his head against the rough wall of the tree, Tod tried to think. He recognized the first fingers of panic clawing at his soul. Gritting his teeth, he prayed as he had never done inside a church.

Something was amiss with Kat, Brandon surmised, but what it might be, only she and the good Lord knew. She had presided over the supper table in her usual charming way, but they had barely exchanged words, even though they had shared their cup and trencher. After the board had been cleared and the trestles put away, he planned to speak with her alone. Instead, his father demanded a private conference. Once they had withdrawn into the alcove, Sir Thomas lost no time saying what was on his mind.

“When the king comes day after tomorrow, I will ask him to dissolve your betrothal,” he announced.

Brandon’s stomach tightened as if a fist had been jabbed in his gut. “But why, Father? ’Twas
you
who desired me to marry, and now, so do I. Has the Lady Katherine shown you any discourtesies?”