Tori Phillips Page 20

  “Brandon told you that Francis is his son, but that is not quite the case,” his mother began in her quiet voice.

  Kat experienced a mix of confusing emotions. “Then whose is he?”

  “Ah! That is a question Solomon might have been able to answer, but not us lesser mortals. I shall make the best of the tale for you. Have you ever heard of Lady Olivia Bardolph?”

  Kat recalled the name from some of Fitzhugh’s ramblings about court life, but she had forgotten what he had said about her. “She is a lady of the court?”

  Lady Alicia quirked her brow. “A lady? Aye, she calls herself that. Others do not. But certainly she inhabits the court. She is the wife of the long-suffering Sir Richard Bardolph. Oh, I have often felt such pity for that poor man!” Lady Alicia shook her head. “To speak plainly—Lady Olivia collects men as you or I might gather flowers on a summer’s day.”

  “Sweet angels!” Kat gasped. Idly she wondered if Fitzhugh had been part of the woman’s bouquet. Probably.

  “Just so,” Lady Alicia continued. “After producing three healthy sons for her husband, Olivia grew bored with country life and begged Sir Richard to take her to court. Simple man,” she said, and sighed. “He did Our good Queen Catherine was pregnant yet again—poor woman. My heart grieves for her so. The king, who never did have an ounce of patience, cast his eye among the ladies for some diversion.”

  “And he picked Lady Olivia,” Kat supplied. The wine began to loosen the knotted muscles in the back of her neck.

  Lady Alicia nodded. “Aye. ’Twas a brief fling, with no child as a remembrance. But after that, the lady’s charms became very popular with the gentlemen of the court. Poor Sir Richard could do nothing, but smile and smile.”

  “He should have sent her back home to the country.”

  “Aye,” Lady Alicia agreed. “I don’t know why he didn’t. The fact of the matter is that Lady Bardolph continued to present her cuckold husband with a child a year—all by different fathers. Not even the lady claimed to know which child was whose.”

  “Good heavens!” Kat whispered.

  “Then came the visit to France in the summer of 1520,” Brandon’s mother continued, warming to her tale. “You must have heard of the Field of Cloth of Gold?”

  Kat bit the inside of her lip. She had wanted desperately to attend. The king had even sent a letter inviting her along with Edward. But Fitzhugh had forbidden her to go, though he went himself and had talked of nothing else for six months afterward. He had known how much she had longed to enjoy the sights and pleasures that he did. He took a cruel delight in describing the music, the food, the jousts and the dancing to spite her. After a while, Kat had shut her ears to his tales. It didn’t hurt as much that way.

  “Aye,” she replied shortly. “I did hear some talk of it.”

  Lady Alicia cast her a shrewd look, then continued. “I attended, together with my husband and both sons.” Her eyes took on a soft sheen. “The boys were in their first flush of manhood then, and as handsome as any mother could wish. Brandon was twenty-one, and Guy was twenty. And they were as prideful as an entire flock of peacocks. Aye, all the ladies of the court made a great fuss over my sons.”

  Though she had yet to meet Guy, whom Brandon had told her had the face of an angel in a church window, Kat could well imagine just how handsome the Cavendish brothers must have looked. Brandon at thirty-one was very attractive. Ten years earlier, he must have been—

  “Cocky as roosters,” Lady Alicia chortled. “And not a grain of wit between them. Lady Olivia couldn’t keep her hands off either one of them—and in full view of their mother, no less!”

  “Shameless!” Kat murmured, wondering what magic Lady Olivia used to charm so many men.

  Lady Alicia tossed her head. “I told her that once, but she only laughed and reminded me that Brandon and Guy were of age, as indeed they were.”

  “And so she conceived Francis then in France?” Kat asked, doing some quick arithmetic in her head.

  “Just so, but the lady had also lain with King Francis of France on at least one occasion, or so she claimed. When she began to show her belly at the Christmas festivities that year, she announced that she carried a French royal bastard. When a boy was born the next spring, she named him for the king of France. However, as Francis grew older, it became obvious—even to Olivia—that the child had not inherited the French king’s swarthy looks, but rather, he resembled a Cavendish. Our family has a remarkable ability to reproduce exactly alike, except for darling Celeste. Her daughter, Tonia, is dark haired like her mother. But the child does have the Cavendish nose and mouth.”

  Kat mulled over this information for a moment, and found that she was still confused. “So one of your sons fathered Francis, but how do you know ’twas Brandon?”

  “We don’t.” Lady Alicia shrugged. “No one does, least of all Lady Olivia Bardolph. We had no idea the child existed until about eighteen months ago, when Sir Richard wrote my husband asking if we would foster one of his cuckoos—not that Sir Richard ever referred to his wife’s offspring as cuckoos, but you see my point.”

  “Aye,” replied Kat, recalling how the cuckoo bird laid its eggs in other bird’s nests, thereby avoiding the tedium of hatching and feeding its own offspring.

  “When Francis arrived—like a waif in a storm, he was, my dear—we could see immediately that he was one of ours. Guy had just entered the Franciscan order—”

  Kat choked on her wine. “Your pardon, my lady,” she said when she could speak again. “I did not know Sir Guy was a priest.” And what is he doing married and a father now?

  Lady Alicia laughed. “Didn’t Brandon tell you that story?”

  Kat hid her own smile behind the goblet. “We have been at sixes and sevens here of late, my lady. Ours is another goodly tale to tell by a fireside. But, nay, we have not had much time to learn about each other. You have spotted that truth already.”

  Lady Alicia swirled her wine in the cup. “Guy was not really cut out for the life of a monk, though he insisted upon it at the time. I thank the good Lord daily that Celeste came along before he had taken his final vows. But to continue my story. Guy was gone, and as far as we knew, ’twould be forever. Brandon claimed the boy as his and took him as his page. The lad adores Brandon.”

  Kat shifted the pieces of the tale around in her head. “But the child—he doesn’t suspect that he is a Cavendish, does he?”

  “Ah! You have hit the nut and core of it!” Lady Alicia smiled. “I am glad to see that Brandon is marrying an intelligent woman. Good for King Henry! But to answer your question. Nay, he does not. Sir Richard Bardolph may be a fool, but he is an honorable one. He has given his name to all of Olivia’s children, and so Francis thinks he is a Bardolph.”

  “Will Brandon ever tell him the truth?”

  Lady Alicia tilted her head. “Francis is uncommonly wise for one so young—and in spite of such a disordered upbringing. Methinks he will suspect his parentage by the time he begins to shave, when he looks into the mirror at his face. I know that Brandon itches to claim him. Time will tell.”

  Kat finished her wine in thoughtful silence. Lady Alicia’s story settled one set of fears but raised another anxiety. “The little girl—is she Francis’s sister?”

  Lady Alicia regarded her future daughter-in-law with lively blue eyes full of unquenchable warmth. “Nay, she’s his half sister, at most, cousin, at the very least. However, LaBelle is Brandon’s child for certain.”

  A small dart of jealousy pricked Kat. She tried to shake it off. Of course, Brandon must have had ladyloves in his past life. Fenton’s poisonous words came back to her. “He beds anything in a skirt between the ages of seven and seventy. Half the men at court are made cuckolds by him.” Kat’s cheeks grew hot with the image of Brandon in bed with other women.

  “LaBelle is a pretty name,” Kat observed, fighting to keep her voice steady.

  “Her mother was French.” Lady Alicia reached out and took Kat’s ic
y hand in hers. “Both children were conceived during the fortnight of King Henry’s visit with the French king. Indeed, methinks there is an entire generation of nine-year-olds who can claim that place of origin as theirs. My sons were lusty young men, and new to the temptations of court. But that was ten years ago, and Brandon has matured. He is a most loving father.”

  Kat blinked back a tear that threatened to fall. Why should she be distraught? Fitzhugh had been unfaithful to her, even under his own roof. ’Twas well-known that men had certain appetites. What difference could Brandon’s past life make to Kat now? I love him. But what am I to him? One more woman to bed?

  “Tell me about LaBelle’s mother, Lady Alicia.”

  The older woman smiled, then shook her head. “As Belle is Brandon’s, I leave it to Brandon to tell you. But put your heart at ease. He has never seen the mother since.”

  Since when? Kat wondered. Silly goose! Take what you have, and look for nothing more. Brandon will be yours on Midsummer’s Day. That should be enough. But the prickling sensation would not go away.

  Kat rose. “I must see to Francis. We serve dinner near the noon hour. I will look for you then. And, Lady Alicia, my thanks for your good words.”

  Brandon’s mother searched Kat’s face with an astute look. She seemed to plumb Kat’s very thoughts. “I can see that you love my son. I am glad. Follow your heart, and let the rest go. All will be well anon.”

  “I pray that is true,” Kat whispered as she took her leave.

  Kat encountered Sondra in the passageway. The housekeeper held a covered cup in her hand. “The lad rests easy, Lady Kat. The bleeding has stopped, and he bore my stitches very bravely. I gave him a cordial of poppy juice to help him sleep. Sir Brandon is with him now.”

  Kat eyed the cup. “Who is that for?”

  Sondra gave her a knowing wink. “’Tis a soothing cup of spiced wine and milk for Sir Brandon. He would not say so, but I could see he is still much shaken by the injury to his page.” Sondra thrust the warm cup into Kat’s hands. “He will drink it down, if you give it to him, my lady.”

  “Aye, if he takes anything from me,” she murmured. “My thanks, Sondra”

  Clutching the posset, Kat walked slowly toward the sickroom. What should she say to Brandon? What would he say to her? Could she bear his stammered excuses?

  Putting her hand to the latch, she paused as she heard voices inside, speaking in low tones. Francis’s childish treble, not yet begun to turn, murmured in counterpoint to Brandon’s mellow baritone. Unashamedly Kat eavesdropped.

  “Mistress Owens says that I will have a scar,” Francis told his father.

  “Aye, my boy. Take pride in it. ’Tis an honorable wound. When you are older, you will learn that ladies consider such scars most intriguing.”

  Kat gripped the cup harder. Did Brandon speak from personal experience?

  “Does Lady Katherine find your scars intriguing?” the boy asked.

  Brandon chuckled softly. “I do not believe she has noticed them as yet.”

  What scars? Where? Kat resolved to investigate him closely the next time, if there was to be a next time.

  “What is Lady Katherine like, my lord?” Francis yawned.

  “She is kindness and goodness itself. She has a pretty face, and the greenest eyes you can imagine.” Brandon’s voice grew softer.

  Kat leaned closer to catch his next words.

  “And she has a heart that warms the world.”

  “Do you think she will like me?” Francis’s voice quivered.

  Lifting the latch, Kat entered the room. Father and son turned to look at her with eyes of equal hue and expressions that mirrored each other. By the rood! I am glad that Lady Alicia told me the boy’s story, or I might have swooned at this sight. Brandon held her in his gaze. The glow of his welcoming smile warmed her across the room.

  “Kat, this is Francis Bardolph, my page.” His simple words held a wealth of feeling in them. “Francis, I have the honor to present to you Lady Katherine—my wife.” A look of pleading entered into his expression.

  Her slow, secret smile told him that she understood.

  Francis struggled to sit up. “My...my lady, I am your obedient servant,” he gasped with effort.

  Kat knelt at his bedside. “I am delighted to meet you, Francis,” she said, smoothing his blond hair across his forehead. How like Brandon’s! “Tis an honor to have a hero at Bodiam Castle.”

  Francis blinked, then glanced up at Brandon.

  “I believe the lady means you, Francis, for you did indeed save my life.” Brandon coughed to clear the huskiness from his voice. “I am in your eternal debt.”

  Kat kissed Francis on his pale cheek. “And I already like you very much, Francis. You must promise me that you will get well quickly. I would deem it an honor for you to escort me to my wedding to your...your lord.” Kat glanced up at Brandon. His eyes glistened.

  “’Tis my honor, Lady Katherine,” the boy murmured. His eyelids fluttered. The next moment he lapsed into a healing sleep.

  Brandon helped Kat to her feet. “I fear you came too late for Francis to drink that,” he remarked, indicating the cup still in her hand.

  With a sly smile, Kat shook her head. “Sondra made this for you, and she made me promise to see that you drink every drop.”

  Lifting the cover, Brandon sniffed its spicy scent “Will this potion induce forgetfulness, Kat? I wish I could blot out what happened this morning.” He looked down at the sleeping boy. “When I saw him lying on the ground, with that arrow sticking out of him, the arrow meant for me...”

  Lacing her fingers within his, she offered him the cup. “Drink, my love. ’Twill ease your soul for a time.”

  Closing his eyes, he quaffed the posset in one long swallow. His tongue sought out a stray drop on his lip. When he looked at her again, a timorous smile ruffled the lines of his mouth. “They say that confession is good for the soul, and will ease it better than any drink.” Putting the cup down on the side table, he offered her his arm. “Will you walk with me, sweet Katherine?”

  She threaded her arm through his. “Aye.”

  Brandon and Kat made their way through the corridors and past the hall, where milling servants wrestled with a great many chests, bags, boxes and baskets. Kat wondered how long the Cavendish clan planned to stay. From the look of it, Lady Celeste would be giving birth to her babe at Bodiam five months hence.

  Leading Kat out of the bustling castle, Brandon found a private spot in the rose garden. On the archery range on the far side of the hedge, they heard a child laughing. Kat drank in the unusual sound. How odd! In all her years there, first as Lewknor’s wife, then Fitzhugh’s, she could never remember hearing a child’s laughter echo on the walls of Bodiam Castle! Fenton had never laughed.

  “’Tis my daughter, Belle,” Brandon’s voice broke into Kat’s thoughts. “I know I owe you an explanation.” He seated her on the stone bench.

  Kat folded her hands to keep them from shaking. She forced her lips to part in a small stiff smile. “Were you planning to tell me about your children before or after the honeymoon?”

  Brandon studied her face with an enigmatic gaze for a moment before answering. “I hadn’t decided when to tell you about Belle and Francis. At first, when I pretended to be Stafford, just remembering who I was supposed to be took all my thought. Then, when we discovered each other, I fear I turned coward. I didn’t want to spoil our time together by telling you about my children. I was afraid that you would not take the news kindly. I still have that fear.”

  Kat clenched her hands tightly within the folds of her skirt. “Because that would bring your other...women into our life?”

  Brandon’s gaze never left her face. “Aye. I make no apologies, except to say that I was young. Flattery turned my head, and shut out my better sense.”

  “Your mother told me about Francis.” As Brandon sat down next to her, Kat heard him release his breath. She continued, “He is charming, like his fath
er—either of them. I am glad to welcome the boy into my house.”

  Lifting her hand, Brandon pressed it to his lips.

  Kat continued. “Your mother also said that you must tell me about Belle.” She regarded him with a speculative look.

  He sighed. “Belle’s mother was a girl from Calais. Her father provided wine to the tent village where our Henry and King Francis strove to outglitter each other. Yvette accompanied her father on his daily rounds. Within days, she became a common gamester to the whole camp.” Brandon arched one brow. “Do you understand?”

  An unwelcome blush crept into Kat’s cheeks. “Aye, she was a whore,” she said quietly.

  “Not exactly.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Yvette did not charge for her favors. She gave them away. And I took them often. I think back on it now, and wonder how I could have been so foolish.”

  “Oh?” It cheered Kat to think he felt contrition.

  “I could have caught the pox,” he responded.

  “Oh.” She sighed.

  Catching her chin between his thumb and forefinger, he turned her face to look at him. “I loved Yvette with my body, but not with my heart. Do you believe me?”

  His blue gaze clung to her, watching for her reaction. Kat’s lower lip quivered. She wanted to trust him. “How did you find out about Belle?” she asked.

  He stroked her lip with his thumb, sending little flames licking through her. “At the end of two weeks of revelry, we returned to England, and I promptly forgot all about Yvette. You see, there was Lady Olivia Bardolph—my mother told you about her?”

  “Aye.” So there was more to that story. Kat’s heart grew heavy.

  “She made fools out of Guy and me—aye, and Jack Stafford, too. If you will forgive me for saying so, that woman was an easy glove, and she didn’t care who tried her on, so long as he was young, handsome and amusing.”

  The blood began to pound in Kat’s temples, but she refused to acknowledge how much Brandon’s words had shocked her.