Halloween Knight

by Tori Phillips

  He set the candle on the floor, then lifted the cloth. Belle saw not only half a juicy capon glistening in a red-currant sauce, but a small loaf of fine-milled white bread and a dish of apples stewed in precious cinnamon—cinnamon from her spice chest no doubt! The sight of the tempting supper made her feel fainter. Biting her lower lip, she turned away.

  Mortimer drew a little closer to her, but she noticed that he did not make the mistake of swaggering within the range of her fingernails as he had done on the first day he had locked her in this windy eyrie. As if she still had the strength to scratch out his eyes! He must not realize how weak I am.

  “Come, sister, let us be friends again,” he coaxed in a syrupy voice that sickened her soul.

  “I am not your sister, thank the good Lord!” she retorted as she backed away from him. The moldy straw of her bedding rustled underfoot.

  Mortimer clicked his tongue against his teeth. “This conceit of yours does you no good, Belle. Indeed, you are pale and wan.” He snickered at his own little jest. “You know Cuthbert was the dearest brother to me.”

  Belle knotted her fist tighter to keep from screaming. “Is that why you danced so high upon his fresh-turned grave! Ha! He often told me how his siblings plagued him during his childhood—you especially.”

  “Twas all in good sport, I assure you,” Mortimer replied in an oily manner. “But soft, your food grows cold.”

  She glared at him in the gathering twilight. “My heart grows even colder at the sight of you—and your food. I know how you expect me to pay for my supper.”

  His black brows drew together in an angry knot. He set down the trencher near the open door and lifted a pot of ink from behind the bread. He pulled a folded paper from his doublet. “A mere dip of the pen. A few lines to scribble and all shall be joy between us as before,” he said in a sing-song voice. He ventured to take a step closer to her.

  Belle leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes. “You don’t even know the meaning of those words, dull worm,” she whispered under her breath. “You were born on a dunghill.”

  Mortimer cocked his head. “How now? I did not hear that.”

  She sighed. “Methinks you should bathe more often, Mortimer, for your ears are full of wax. Go away! I am not in a writing mood today or tomorrow or ever.” She unleashed a torrent of her pent-up anger upon him. “I will not now, nor ever sign away Bodiam Castle to you. Come rack or ruin to us both. I will see you in hell first!”

  Mortimer backed up. His hand shook as he made a sign against a witch’s evil eye. “Hold your tongue, woman! Think whose dreadful name you invoke. They say the devil has his eyes and ears everywhere.” He glanced over his shoulder at the black stairwell behind him as if he half-expected a satanic visitor to ascend the worn steps. “Spit on your palm and say a prayer lest you be damned.”

  A small laugh crackled from Belle’s dry throat. “Look who calls the kettle black! Scuttle away to your beetle hole, Mortimer. Your presence offends my nostrils.”

  The thin man drew himself up. “I have bathed today, mistress. You, alas, have not done so in a fortnight. Tis you, not I, who offends.”

  Belle turned away from him. “Then begone and take your foul paper with you.”

  “You are a fool,” he sneered. He turned on his heel and bent to pick up the trencher and candle. “God shield me!” he bleated.

  Belle stared at him in the dim light and wondered if he had been bitten by a mouse. He touched the trencher with the toe of his suede slipper.

  “What’s amiss?” she asked.

  “Bewitched!” he gibbered. “The capon has disappeared!” He pointed at the empty place on the trencher.

  Belle rejoiced inwardly. Oh, sweet, cunning Dexter! Aloud, she remarked. “Mayhap the rats bore it away for a feast. The Bodiam rodents grow quite large, you know. Or…” She allowed a small pause while Mortimer twitched like a fish on a hook. “Mayhap twas the ghost that haunts this tower.”

  Mortimer turned as white as Belle’s fictional specter. “What spirit? Where?”

  She savored her only effective weapon against her brother-in-law. Like her late husband, both Mortimer and his puling sister were deeply superstitious.

  “They say tis the ghost of the ancient knight who built this castle on the blood of innocents. Now he walks its galleries as a penance for his sins.”

  Mortimer shuddered.

  Belle hid her smile of triumph. “And they say he guards the family who abides here in peace but woe to those strangers who break Bodiam’s good cheer.”

  Mortimer snatched up the trencher and candle, then backed out of the chamber. “Tis you who have angered this unhappy spirit, not I!” He slammed the door behind him and rattled the key in the rusted lock. “Look to yourself, mistress!”

  With another wail, he clattered down the stairs.

  Belle sank to the floor. In the darkness, she listened intently for some tell-tale sound. “Dexter!” she whispered. “Dex-ter!”

  A large round form filled the tiny window. Then it jumped and landed squarely on Belle’s lap. She stroked the creature’s sleek fur as it pawed and kneaded a bed to its liking among the folds of her bedraggled skirt.

  “Have you something for me, you artful thief?” she asked, tickling its pointed ears.

  In answer, Dexter dropped the capon in her open hand. He rubbed his cheek against her arm as she greedily devoured his sticky offering.

  “Oh, you are a love!” she sighed afterward while Dexter industriously licked her fingers clean of the drippings. “How well you were named, for you are my only friend in this reeky place. You are truly my right-hand cat!”

  Chapter Two

  Jobe slowed his horse to a walk. Puzzled, Mark reined in beside the huge African. “How now, friend? We will burn precious daylight if we tarry. The road is still dry. We can make another five miles if we press on.”

  Jobe stared straight ahead. “We are followed, meu amigo.”

  Mark did not glance over his shoulder but the hairs on the back of his neck stiffened. Ruffians made travel more dangerous these days, ever since King Henry had closed the monasteries and returned the beggars to England’s highways. He fingered his dagger in its sheath. “Where away?” he asked under his breath.

  Jobe unbuttoned his brown leather jerkin so that he could easily reach his wicked arsenal of small throwing knives. “He rides to our left but stays well back. He has been with us since midday.”

  Mark wet his lips. When he had sailed away from Ireland’s rocky shore, he thought he had left behind such brigands as this. “Mayhap tis a traveler on a similar route. The London post road is well-used.”

  Jobe rumbled his disagreement in the back of his throat. “Stop your horse and pretend to check his hoof for a stone. I wager that our shadow will halt as well.”

  “Done,” Mark murmured, then he spoke in a louder tone. “Ho! Methinks my horse has caught a pebble!” He alighted smoothly, looking behind him as he did so. He saw someone turn off the track and disappear into a small copse of trees. He patted Artemis’s neck before he remounted.

  Jobe cast him a half-smile. “And so?”

  Mark gathered his reins in his hand and kneed his horse into a trot. “Aye, but the knave ducked for cover before I could spy his face.”

  Jobe smiled, displaying startlingly white teeth against his ebony skin. “Bem! Tis good! I long for some good sport.”

  Mark frowned at his companion’s enthusiasm. “Let us not act in haste, Jobe. He may have henchmen.”

  “More better!” the giant answered with relish.

  Mark pulled his bonnet lower over his forehead. “The road turns to the left below that rise. Let us continue at our present pace. At the bend we will fly like the wind.”

  “And not fight?” Jobe snorted his disappointment.

  Narrowing his eyes, Mark squinted at the late afternoon sun. “If our tail is still with us by nightfall, we will…persuade him to sup with us.”

  Jobe beamed. “
More better!”

  Three hours later, Mark and Jobe sought their night’s shelter under the spreading boughs of an oak, its leaves decked in autumn’s red and gold. Mark hoped the mysterious rider had left them.

  Jobe chuckled. “He is a sly one,” he said as he unsaddled his large bay.

  Mark wondered why a lone robber would bother to pace them all day. Jobe and he traveled lightly and in plain attire. The most costly things that the men owned were their weapons.

  “Build up a large fire to draw his attention,” he told his friend. “Meanwhile I will circle around and catch him from behind.”

  Jobe shook his head. “Most unwise, meu amigo.”

  Mark frowned at him. “How so?”

  The African lightly cuffed Mark’s chin. “That white face of yours will shine out in the night like a second moon. Our shadow would have to be blind not to see you coming. On the other hand, I become one with the night. Besides, your life is my concern.”

  Mark swore under his breath. “I can fend for myself.”

  Jobe chuckled. “Aye, with me at your right hand.” He threw off the long cape he wore. His bandoliers of knives and his copper bracelets shimmered in the faint starlight. “Build up the fire and prepare for a roast.”

  Mark grabbed his friend by the arm before the giant could melt into the darkness. “Do not kill the knave. England is a civilized country and twill annoy the Sheriff of Yorkshire if we leave a dead body on his highway. Bring back our guest while he still breathes.”

  Jobe thumped him on the shoulder. “As you say,” he whispered. “Though killing is easier,” he added before he disappeared.

  Mark stared into the darkness and tried to follow Jobe’s route, but he gave up. It seemed that the huge man had disappeared into thin air. After gathering a large armful of windfall kindling, Mark soon had a fire roaring. He unsheathed his dagger and sword, laying them close at hand while he tended the blaze.

  The minutes crept by with no sound down the road. Mark stepped out of the circle of firelight, and backed up against the broad trunk of the tree. He held his sword lightly in his hand. His left forearm always ached in tense moments like this. It reminded him of Belle and the reason why he was skulking around a dark countryside instead of warming his bottom by a hearth in Wolf Hall. Gritting his teeth, he made himself think of the green pastures Brandon had promised him.

  Suddenly, a yelp ripped the cool night. Mark tightened his grip on his sword and snatched up his dagger in his right hand. More yowls and snarls signaled Jobe’s success. In the light of the half moon, Mark saw his friend heft a flailing body over one of his massive shoulders. The African laughed with genuine pleasure that drowned out the fearsome oaths his slim prisoner screamed in his ear.

  Mark relaxed his stance. “What have you caught for supper, Jobe?” he asked in a bantering tone.

  The giant dropped his burden on the ground, then held him down with a well-placed foot on his chest. “Tis nothing but a man-child, meu amigo, though he swears with a fearsome tongue.”

  The boy beat on Jobe’s boot. “Let me go, you lob of the devil!”

  Mark took a closer look at their prisoner, then burst out laughing. “Hoy day, Jobe! You have done well! Tis a worthy prize indeed!”

  Jobe lifted one corner of his lip. “This little mouse? This flea?”

  His taunt only incited the boy to greater oaths. “Let me up! I will show you what is a flea and what is not, you flap-eared varlet!”

  Mark hunkered down beside the snarling captive. “Methinks you are a Cavendish by the look of you.”

  The boy went very still and turned a pair of bright blue eyes on Mark, who continued, “Indeed, Jobe, I am sure tis a member of that noble family—though he was absent from the supper table last evening. Perchance he was preparing his horse for today’s outing.”

  The boy said nothing but had the courage to return Mark’s stare. Mark observed the boy’s rapid pulse throb in his neck.

  Standing, he sheathed his sword. “Let him up, Jobe, but gently. Tis not seemly that the future Earl of Thornbury should grovel in the dust to the likes of us.”

  With a rumbling chuckle, Jobe pulled the boy to his feet by the scruff of his jerkin. Then he stood behind his captive like some great bogle from a child’s nightmare. He held the boy in place with a large hand on each shoulder.

  Mark grinned. “By the height that he inherits from his father and grandsire, and by the fire in his golden hair that bespeaks of his good mother, I say tis young Christopher Cavendish. By my troth, Jobe, I have not laid eyes on Lady Kat’s Kitten since he was chewing on his teething coral.”

  Christopher lifted his chin and shot Mark a look of disdain. “I have not been called that puling name since I could walk. To my friends I am Kitt.”

  The boy’s inference was not lost on either of his captors. Mark gave him a warm smile. “Then count us among your closest associates, good Kitt, for I have known your good family most of my lifetime, and Jobe is my boon companion.”

  Kitt glanced up at the African. Then he ventured to touch the dark skin on the back of the man’s hand. “You are not painted?” he asked in awe.

  Laughing, Jobe shook his head. “Only by the Lord God Almighty.”

  “Tis a wonderment indeed,” Kitt observed.

  Mark crossed his arms over his chest. “Tis even more of a wonderment that you ride alone on the highway so far from home.”

  Before Kitt could answer, Jobe dropped to one knee and reached for one of their saddlebags. “Hold, meu amigo. In my land, a good tale should always be accompanied by food. Are you hungry, little warrior?”

  Kitt shuffled his feet. “I could partake of a bite or two,” he replied with dignity.

  Jobe grinned at Mark. “Boys are the same in every land,” he observed.

  Within the hour Kitt had consumed most of the provender that Lady Kat had packed for Mark and his companion. Relaxed by the food, some wine and the comforting warmth of the fire, the boy told a detailed story of his preparations and escape from Wolf Hall—and his parents.

  “I have come to help you save Belle,” he concluded.

  Mark searched the starry heavens for angelic guidance. “This journey is not a social visit, Kitt. Your father thinks there may be some danger.”

  Kitt’s eyes sparkled in the firelight though he managed to maintain a serious expression. “Good! I am prepared.”

  I will throttle him! Aloud, Mark asked, “How? You are barely tall enough to swing a sword. Nay, tis impossible.”

  Kitt swelled up like a young fighting cock. “I can shoot the eye out of a crow at a hundred paces with an arrow. And I am a most marvelous horseman.”

  Jobe nodded. “In this he speaks the truth, meu amigo. The boy has followed us in a most cunning manner all day. Methinks you would not have noticed him until now.”

  Mark’s vanity bristled at his friend’s words. “Why now?” he snapped.

  The African’s smile flashed in the firelight. “Because the young master would have told you he was hungry.”

  Kitt gaped at him. “My plan to the very letter, but how did you guess?”

  Jobe leaned closer and whispered, “Because I am a powerful jinn.” He chuckled.

  Kitt gulped and traced a hasty sign of the cross.

  Mark glared at both of them. “Jobe is uncommonly wise, Kitt, but he is made of flesh and blood as we are. Now, my friend, I have need of your wise council. What are we going to do with the boy?”

  Kitt gave Mark a steady look. “I am going with you to Bodiam, will you or nil you. Tis my duty as Belle’s most able-bodied male relative—at the moment.”

  Stubborn like his father! Mark shook his head. “I applaud your courage, Kitt, but I cannot permit the deed. Your parents would hang me at the crossroads if any injury befell you.” He sighed. “Blast you, boy! We shall lose three precious days to take you home and return again. Those three days might cost Belle a month of sorrow. Did you think of that?”

  Kitt did not flinch as
Mark had hoped he would. Instead the boy replied, “You would waste your time, my Lord Hayward. Unless Papa chains me to my cot, I will still follow after you.” His expression softened. “Please, sir. Take me with you for I grow stale at Wolf Hall and I long to prove myself. My lady mother is…er…In truth, she would keep me wrapped in lambswool and placed in a strongbox if she could.”

  Mark tipped his wineskin to his mouth, took a long drink then asked. “How old are you now?”

  “Eleven years since last March.”

  Mark pondered the boy’s answer. He himself had been fostered to Kitt’s grandfather and made Sir Brandon’s page before he had turned eight. By the time Mark was Kitt’s age, he had traveled to France, had lived at King Henry’s court for several seasons, knew how to gamble at cards and had gotten drunk at least once. Considering Lady Kat’s protective instincts toward her only chick, Mark strongly doubted that Kitt had experienced any of these adventures despite being the beloved son of such a champion as Sir Brandon Cavendish.

  Jobe broke the silence. “In my land, you would have begun the rites of manhood by now, young master.”

  Kitt blinked. “What might those be?”

  Jobe fingered one of the many knives that hung from his shoulder strap. “Once a boy has learned how to use his spear as well as his bow and arrows, and once he has learned to track game over many miles, tis time for his final test.”

  Kitt licked his lips like a puppy anticipating its supper. “What is this test?”

  Jobe leaned closer. “His eyes are covered so that he will not know where he is taken. Then the senior warriors march him a day and a night into the wilderness.”

  Mark shuddered at the idea, but Kitt glowed with excitement.

  Jobe continued, “Then they leave him alone with only his spear and his shield. The boy must track and kill a lion. He must skin it and drink its blood for its courage. Afterward, he must find his way back to his village with his prize. Then he is declared a man. He will keep the lion’s pelt all the days of his life.”

  Swallowing, Mark decided that his long apprenticeship under Brandon’s tutelage had not been so difficult after all.