Tori Phillips by Midsummer's Knight

would not succumb to an attack of the vapors. She would need all her strength once she had met Brandon’s little sprite. He shuddered at the thought. Perhaps it might be better to wait before revealing Francis’s true relationship. He hoped Katherine would not notice the resemblance—at least, not at first. One child at a time.
    Great Harry! You may be my king and liege lord, but, by Jove, ’tis well you are not within the reach of my fist this moment!
     
    “Wormsley! Where are you hiding that poxed carcass of yours?” Sir Fenton Scantling’s voice echoed throughout the servants’ hall in the cellars of Hampton Court Palace.
    Hastily wiping his mouth free of clinging drops of ale, Tod Wormsley detached himself from a cluster of his fellow servants and hurried toward his fuming master. He tried to ignore the giggling of the maids behind him. It was an embarrassment for a master to have to search out his man below stairs. A good servant should always be wherever his master expected him to be. Tod cursed the swaggering braggart under his breath, as he took the stairs two at a time. He prayed Sir Fenton wouldn’t box his ears in front of everyone.
    Tod’s hopes proved short-lived, as Scantling roundly dealt him a stinging blow.
    “Ass-head! I have been seeking you this past quarter hour!” Fenton kicked Tod out the door into the passageway.
    Tod stumbled but managed not to fall onto the dank paving stones. He bit back the stream of words that bubbled to his lips. Instead, he murmured, “Pray excuse me, my lord. Methought you had gone to London, and—”
    “Aye, and now I have returned again, as you can plainly see!” Sir Fenton shouted into Tod’s ear.
    By his high color and the smartness of his blows, Tod guessed that something had gone foully awry. “Pray you, sir, what’s amiss?” He jumped back to avoid another kick.
    “I have been ill-used by that whore!” Scantling screeched. Clasping Tod’s elbow in a painful grip, Sir Fenton pulled his manservant down the corridors to his small bedchamber.
    “Which whore is that, my lord?” Tod asked, between gasps of breath. Hang it all! Had his master contracted the pox from his latest jade?
    “The bitch that holds my purse strings!” Scantling rounded a corner sharply.
    Tod clipped his shoulder against a low stone corbel and sucked air through his teeth as much in surprise as in pain. “Do you speak of the Lady Katherine?”
    “Aye, that she-devil!” Flinging open his door, Sir Fenton pushed Tod inside. “Pack!”
    Tod massaged the pain in his arm and shoulder. “Where do we go? For how long, my lord?” He fought to keep the anger out of his voice. When Scantling got into one of his tearing rages, he became like a maddened dog, and equally dangerous.
    “Pack it all! Thanks to Aunt Kat’s pending nuptials, I am now the most sought-after man in London.” Scantling snatched up the ever-present jug of wine and poured himself a large cup.
    Scrambling under the bed, Tod tugged at the two large saddlebags stored behind the trundle. He cracked the back of his head on the bed board. Cursing the pain, he succeeded in hauling the thick leather packs out to the middle of the room. Scantling flopped onto the only chair and stared moodily out the window. Tod breathed a small prayer. Perhaps the violent fit had passed. Tod opened the chest and began stuffing his master’s linen into one of the large side pockets.
    Sir Fenton took a deep drink of his wine. “Hi-used, Worm, that’s what I am. Not more than ten minutes after I had left the barge at the foot of London Bridge I was accosted by tradesmen.”
    “Very distressing, I am sure,” Tod remarked. He folded Scantling’s gold satin doublet, before wedging it on top of the shirts. Casting an appraising look into the chest, the young servant calculated that he would need either a third saddlebag or a canvas roll to carry his master’s enlarged wardrobe in its entirety.
    Sir Fenton snorted. “Damnable