Halloween Knight

by Tori Phillips

  Kitt’s eyes grew larger. “And what if the lion wounds the boy or he gets lost while returning home?”

  Jobe stared hard at him. “Then he dies.”

  Kitt licked his lips. “What of his poor mother?”

  The African shrugged. “She is only a weak woman. Women do nothing but weep or complain all the day long. You will soon learn that for yourself.”

  Kitt tossed his long hair out of his eyes. “My lady mother was never weak.”

  “Amen to that,” Mark murmured under his breath. I would rather face a lion any day than an angry Lady Kat.

  Jobe nodded. “I see that, young master. You suckled courage from a strong mother.”

  Kitt squared his shoulders. “Tis true. My family are the bravest in all England.” He turned again to Mark. “Do you hear that, Lord Hayward? Even your wise counselor says that I am ready to be a man. Let me go on this quest. Tis my right!” he added pounding his fist on his knee.

  Mark studied the boy’s determined expression. Sighing, he tossed away his last shred of common sense. “If we are to ride together, I require three promises from you.”

  Kitt could not contain the glee in his eyes nor in his voice. “Anything, my lord! I will not fail you!”

  Mark stood to emphasize his tenuous authority over this half-grown lordling. “First, you will obey me and Jobe in all matters, even if you disagree with them.”

  “But what if—?” Kitt began.

  Mark held up his hand for silence. “Attend to me, Kitt. One day far in the future you will become the eleventh Earl of Thornbury and the lord protector of England’s border shire against the Scots. If you expect men to obey you then, you must learn the virtue of obedience now. Your noble father taught me that lesson when I was a good deal younger than you.”

  Kitt considered the point, then nodded. “Aye, my lord, I will.”

  “Second, until further notice, you will act as my squire. Has anyone instructed you in the duties of one?”

  The boy made a face. “Aye, Lord Hayward. I am not a complete fool. I agree to this condition. And your third?”

  Mark stared down at him and wondered if he himself had ever looked so young and vulnerable. “Third, since we are to live together in close harmony, please call me Mark. ‘Lord Hayward’ sounds strange in my ear when spoken by your mouth.”

  Kitt grinned. “Aye, my lord…that is…Mark.”

  Mark resigned himself to the sure knowledge that his days were numbered when next he saw Lady Katherine Cavendish—or maybe sooner, when he met Belle. “So, my friends, to sleep. We ride hard on the morrow. Squire Kitt, prepare our beds and bank the fire.”

  The youngster practically fell over his feet in his haste to prove his worth.

  Later, when the three lay close together under their blankets, Kitt whispered to Jobe, “Tell me about your lion.”

  The African chuckled, “Twas a leopard and my tale will make your hair stand on end. Tis best saved for the daylight hours.”

  “Oh!” Kitt burrowed deeper in his simple bedding.

  Mark rolled onto his side and squeezed his eyes shut. I have a very ticklish feeling about this enterprise.

  Griselda Fletcher plucked a raw pippin from the fruit bowl on the high table. She sliced and quartered it, then prized out the seeds from its core with the tip of her eating knife. She spread the pips on her empty trencher and began to count them.

  “Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor—”

  Mortimer regarded her with open disgust. His sister was such a sheep! “What are you doing, wench?”

  Glancing up, she frowned at him. “Seeking my future husband since you have done nothing about finding one for me,” she whined.

  Mortimer clenched his teeth as his sister’s high nasal voice grated on his nerves. “Hold your venom, chit,” he snapped. “I am attempting to procure you a dowry or had you forgotten that one minor point?”

  Griselda pulled her plain features into a sour pout. “Methinks you would have attained Belle’s fortune long ago if you had just used a little more honey and less vinegar with her. Didn’t I tell you—?”

  Mortimer slammed his fist on the heavy table. The apple seeds jumped at the impact. “Silence! Your song grows tedious and its tune abuses my ears.”

  Griselda restored order among her fortune-telling pips. “Cuthbert said she was stubborn, remember? You should have let me—”

  Mortimer abruptly stood. “I should have left you at home!”

  The mewling woman continued, “Aye, where mayhap Father would have me wed by now. I am near six-and-twenty with no-o-o hus-husband!” She dissolved into gulping sobs.

  Mortimer ignored her torrent of tears. “And you will never have a suitor if you insist upon weeping and wailing. A man does not find red eyes and a snotty nose the least bit attractive—and certainly not in his bed!”

  “Oh!” Griselda shut her mouth.

  Mortimer stalked over to the cheerful hearth and tossed another log on the fire. With a volley of crackles, red-orange sparks flew up the blackened chimney. He stared into the flames while he collected his thoughts. Fire had always soothed him, even from earliest childhood.

  He held out his chilled fingers to the blaze. “Since the weather has turned colder, methinks Mistress Belle will soon become more…pliable.” He sniggered through his nose.

  Griselda furrowed her thick brows. “But she is well enough, though sick in her mind, isn’t she?” she whimpered. “You promised she would get better soon. You said that—”

  Mortimer turned on her. “I said that I would take the matter of Cuthbert’s inheritance in hand and there’s an end to it!”

  His sister blew her nose in the tail of her dragging sleeve. “By my troth, I do not know why you bothered to bring me with you, I surely do not,” she moaned. “All you do is rail at me the whole livelong day as if it was my fault that you cannot find that chest of jewels. You act as if it was my fault that—”

  Mortimer crossed the distance between them in two quick strides. Without a word of warning, he slapped her smartly across her whining mouth. The sharp crack of the blow echoed down the length of Bodiam’s empty hall.

  “Take that for your faults that are beyond counting!” he snarled at her. “I rue the day I thought of you. Were it not for the tongue of scandal, I would have left you to snivel in your own chamber at home.”

  “You s-said I was to b-be a g-good nurse for Cuthbert,” she sobbed in her sleeve.

  “Ha! What a jest! He died. Perchance twas your fault.” He pushed his face closer to hers. “Now heed me well, Griselda. Whisper one more word about any casket of jewels and I will flay you alive—with my bare hands!”

  A dart of cunning flashed into Griselda’s watery eyes. “Not found it yet then?” she murmured. “Methinks that Belle was more clever than you expected. Methinks—”

  Mortimer grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her until her headdress slipped off her greasy brown hair. “Stop thinking at all!” he bellowed. “It addles your brain that, God knows, was never sound to begin with! Do nothing! Say nothing! And above all, think nothing! Now, go to your chamber and play with the rats. The sight of you makes my hand itch to strike you again!”

  With a squeal of terror, Griselda scuttled toward the staircase. Mortimer swept the apple pips onto the floor and stalked out of the hall. He hated to admit that Griselda’s jibe about the hidden jewels had struck too close to home. His mouth watered to think of the large ruby brooch. It lurked within some hidden spot in Bodiam just waiting for him to find it.

  He clattered down the damp stairs to the underground storeroom where two of his most trusted minions systematically toiled at digging up every paving stone in the floor. I will have my prize if I have to pull down every stone in this gorbellied castle to find it!

  Chapter Three

  Early in the evening a week after the mismatched threesome had left Wolf Hall, Mark knocked on the door of a small cottage just off the village green of Hawkhurst. After a long wait, the
door cracked open and Montjoy peeped around the corner. Mark gave the old man a wide grin.

  “Salutations, Montjoy! Remember me?” he asked, hoping that the ancient steward had not gone soft in his wits.

  Montjoy opened the door a little wider and held his glowing lantern higher so that the golden light fell upon all three of his visitors. He sniffed deeply. After a hard week of travel, Mark knew that they reeked like pigs in a wallow. He flashed Montjoy another encouraging grin.

  The old man nodded with resignation as if he greeted Death on his doorstep. “Aye, Master Mark, I recall your imp’s face though you have grown a bit since I last clapped an eye upon you. I presume that your beard now dents a razor on occasion?”

  Mark rubbed the dark stubble on his jaw. “Aye, Montjoy. I fear I am not at my best appearance at the moment.”

  Montjoy raised the lantern to the highest extent of his arm and stared at Jobe. The African stood behind the other two with his muscular arms crossed over his massive chest. His copper bracelets, silver knives and a single golden hoop earring reflected the candle’s light.

  Before Mark could make the proper introductions, Montjoy sniffed again. “And I perceive that you now keep company with the devil. Tis no surprise. I predicted that you would dance down the road to perdition sooner or later. By the look of things, it appears to be sooner.”

  Kitt smothered a giggle.

  Mark rolled his eyes. “Peace, old man. While tis true that Jobe comes from a hot climate, twas Africa not hell that was his birthplace. Now I call him my best friend. This…” He laid a hand on Kitt’s shoulder, “…is my squire…ah…Bertrum.”

  At the last split second, Mark decided not to reveal the boy’s true identity. Montjoy would surely fire a letter off to Wolf Hall within the hour if he realized that the precious Cavendish heir was embroiled in Belle’s latest difficulty.

  Kitt started to speak, but Mark squeezed the boy’s shoulder to silence him. Casting him a sidelong glance, Kitt shut his mouth.

  Mark cleared his throat. “We have been on horseback since dawn, Montjoy, and are weary beyond reckoning. Is Belle still in trouble or is that yesterday’s news by now?”

  At the mention of her name, Montjoy’s expression grew even more mournful. “Tis serious business,” he intoned, shaking his head. “Come in and I will impart all.” He opened wide the door and ushered the three inside. He pressed himself against the wall as Jobe passed him.

  Mark grinned when he saw a hot fire blazing in the hearth. The rising wind blew out of the north, bringing the sure promise of rain before midnight. “K…Bertrum, feed and water the horses. The stable is in the mews behind the house, as I recall. Then you may help with the supper preparations.”

  Kitt blinked. Mark smiled inwardly. This was probably the first time the lad had ever been ordered to do a menial task for someone other than his family. High time, he thought. Kitt shot a longing glance at the fire before he ducked outside into the cold again.

  Montjoy tapped the side of his nose. “That one reminds me of someone though I cannot put my finger on it.” Shaking his head, he shuffled to the draught chair close by the fireplace. There he eased his old body into his cushioned nest and wrapped a knitted lap rug around his spindle shanks.

  “Ivy!” he called, his voice surprisingly strong for one so frail-looking. “A strop of ale for our guests!”

  Mark unpinned his cloak and laid it over the bench by the door. Jobe followed his lead. Then the dark giant hunkered down in front of the fire’s welcome warmth. A young maid, dimpling with the freshness of her youth, came into the front room carrying a platter with a jug and several mugs. Spying Jobe on the hearth, she screamed and nearly dropped the lot. Mark rescued the ale and attempted to soothe the trembling girl.

  “Soft, pretty lass. Take no amiss. Jobe is as gentle as a kitten in a basket, especially to such a winsome creature as yourself.”

  Ivy uttered no coherent words but merely gaped at the African. He returned her stare with a tooth-flashing smile. Burying her face in her hands, she fled into the back room.

  “Hist!” Montjoy threw Mark a look of stern disapproval. “Ivy is a good girl and I’ll not have you meddling with her virtue as you are wont to do with impressionable young things.”

  Mark returned an innocent expression to the old man. “Ah, Montjoy, you are wicked to recall my misspent youth!”

  “Humph!” Montjoy poured himself a mug of ale and motioned to Jobe to help himself. “Let us attend to the business at hand. When will Sir Brandon arrive with his escort?”

  In the act of swallowing the sweet Sussex brew, Mark choked at the question. He wiped the foam out of his eyes, caught his breath and replied, “My lord is not coming.”

  Montjoy sat up straighter. His old eyes glowed. “How now? Has Sir Brandon lost his sound wits? His own daughter is in the gravest of danger.”

  Sighing inwardly, Mark wondered again just how serious the matter was. Belle always had the habit of exaggerating her difficulties when things didn’t proceed to her liking. “My lord is a-bed with a broken hip and every man at Wolf Hall is needed to bring in the harvest. Sir Brandon sent me in his stead.”

  Montjoy mumbled under his breath then asked, “How many accompanied you?”

  Mark replied, “Myself, Jobe and my squire are at your service.”

  The steward’s eyes bulged from his wrinkled face. “That is all? May the angels in heaven preserve Mistress Belle!”

  “Jobe is worth ten men in any fight,” Mark hastened to explain. He prayed that the old man would not suffer a seizure. “Trust me, I have seen him in the midst of a fray.”

  Montjoy passed a hand across his forehead as if he sought to wipe away a headache. “Fools, the lot of you! Aye, and your lord and master too.”

  “I am my own master now,” Mark murmured into his mug. In a louder tone he asked, “Your message was most murky and full of your usual dire humor, Montjoy. Pray tell, what exactly has Belle done now?”

  The ancient steward of Bodiam glared at him. “She has done nothing. Methinks the poor lass is being held prisoner against her will by that pustulous slug of a brother-in-law, Mortimer Fletcher.”

  Mark lowered himself onto a three-legged stool that faced the steward’s chair. The hairs on the back of his neck quivered at the sharp vehemence of Montjoy’s words. “How now? Explain your tale and leave nothing out.”

  Cradling his mug between his bony hands, Montjoy leaned forward. “For the first year of Mistress Belle’s marriage to young Cuthbert Fletcher, all was well at Bodiam. True, she soon led the boy around by his nose but he seemed to enjoy it. The winter was hard here. Cuthbert grew pale and stayed within doors, though I saw Mistress Belle weekly when she brought me a basket of delicacies from her kitchens. She was ever kind to me and always inquired after the state of my poor health.”

  Mark made a face. She never showed me so much as a groat’s worth of tender concern when I broke my arm on her account! “Then Cuthbert died,” he prodded.

  “Aye, in June when the strawberries were at their peak. Fever—here one day and in his grave the next. Poor little Belle was grief-stricken. She loved the boy for all her willful ways.”

  A twinge of jealousy wormed into Mark’s heart. What enticement did that puling milksop have to win Belle’s love? He cleared his throat. “And then? What of Mortimer?”

  Montjoy sniffed deep with disgust. “Like ravens gathering over carrion, Cuthbert’s brother and sister swooped down upon Bodiam a fortnight before the young husband’s death. They must have packed their trunks the minute they received the news of his illness.”

  Mark raised his brows. “They came with many trunks?”

  “A cartload of baggage!” Montjoy snapped. “Enough to last them a year and then some. Shortly after Cuthbert’s untimely death things began to change.” His voice assumed a hollow tone.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Mark noticed Kitt creep into the room from the back door and slip into a dark corner. The boy stood as motio
nless as an alert deer. His blue eyes sparked with an indigo fire.

  The old man took no notice of the squire. “Belle came less often to visit me and when she did, she seemed quiet and withdrawn.”

  Mark furrowed his brow. Belle had never been the least bit quiet except the one time she had been sick with some childish complaint. “Had she caught Cuthbert’s fever?”

  She’s dead! cried a banshee’s voice in his brain. He felt as if he had swallowed a cold stone that now pressed against his very soul. Please God, do not let it be that!

  “Is Belle sick?” Kitt echoed from his corner.

  Montjoy stared hard at the boy, then shook his head. “Nay, though she would not say what was the matter except that she prayed her in-laws would soon remove themselves from her home. Then…when the wheat was ready for harvest, she stopped visiting me altogether.” He sipped his ale then continued. “At the same time, all the servants were dismissed.” He snapped his fingers. “Like that! Paid their wages and sent packing. Of course many of them came straightway to me.”

  “And?” Mark asked, keeping a wary eye on Kitt.

  “They told a sorrowful tale of this Mortimer Fletcher. The man is the son of a London wool merchant! He knows nothing of administering such a large estate as Bodiam. The servants told me that he bullied Mistress Belle as well as his own sister.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” Mark countered. “Obedience was never one of Belle’s virtues.”

  Montjoy allowed himself a slight shrug. “I only report what I have heard. Once all the servants were gone, save for a lackwit potboy, Mortimer filled Bodiam with his own minions culled from the gutters and foul bogs, I warrant. Since mid-August, the castle has become a hive of scum and villains. No one goes there except to deliver supplies.”

  Chills danced down Mark’s spine. Belle’s plight was considerably worse than he had imagined.

  “And Belle?” breathed Kitt with a tremor in his voice.

  The old man cast him another appraising look before he answered. “As I wrote to Sir Brandon: she has been seen in one of the towers.”