“What is it?” she asked lifting the top. She recognized the sweet aroma. “Warm milk? I am well past my infancy, Mark.”
He shook his head. “Nay, tis a posset with sackwine, egg yolks and spices, prepared by my very own hands. Burned my thumb in the bargain. Drink it up, chou-chou. Tis good for you.”
He watched her like a hovering nurse while she drained the cup. Though she relished every drop of his delicious surprise, she refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much she enjoyed this unexpected treat. If she let her guard down just once he would never let her forget it.
He crossed his ankles. “Now that you have finished your snack, pray tell me the details of your plotting. I am sure twill be vastly entertaining.”
Ignoring Dexter’s soft mews of protest, she licked her fingers clean of the chicken sauce and pastry flakes. “Tis more entertaining than Griselda singing love songs to you, I’ll warrant,” Belle remarked in a snide tone. She wondered why she took exception to Mark’s counterfeit courtship of her sister-in-law.
He grimaced at Griselda’s name. “God mend her voice—and soon, I pray. She murders both the melody and the rhyme. Speak to me of happier thoughts—like leaving this godforsaken place.”
Rubbing the side of her nose, Belle ignored Mark’s broad hint. “Have you noticed how superstitious the Fletchers are?” she asked.
He nodded. “At dinner, when Griselda knocked over the salt, I thought both brother and sister would jump out of their skins. They tossed some over their left shoulders and enjoined me to follow suit. I felt like twice a fool.”
Belle allowed a small smile. “Just so. Tell me, do you know today’s date? I have lost all track of time since Mortimer locked me in here.”
A dark shadow fluttered across Mark’s face before he erased it with a shrug. “I did not think I needed to travel with an almanac but tis a Thursday and Mortimer mentioned something about the approach of All Hallows Eve within the fortnight.”
“Excellent!” Despite her pleasure at this news, she shivered as a brisk wind blew through the open window.
Mark unfolded his arms and shook out the folds of his thick cloak. “Come sit beside me, Belle. I will keep you warm.”
The seductive tone of his voice and the glint in his merry eyes whispered a wealth of meanings with his invitation—all of them dangerous. Her heart skittered inside her breast. She pursed her lips. “A pretty speech, indeed, Master Cupid. I am sure you have had hundreds of wenches tumbling to that lewd offer.”
Mark snorted with exasperation though he still held out his cloak. “Cease your chiding, Belle. Your hallowed virtue is safe with me. I offer only the warmth of my cape for I see that my blankets cannot keep out all the chill of this cell.”
His blankets! Though Belle had suspected that her morning’s bounty had been his, she loathed the very idea. Mark had rarely done a kind thing for her in his life—and then only when her father was watching. His gift of the rose made her especially uneasy. He’s up to something.
Aloud, she replied. “My thanks for the blankets and the food. Methought Will had brought them. The potboy’s kindness has kept me alive these past few weeks.”
Mark nodded again. “Then I shall be kind to Will, even though he is a great stumbling clod. Now, be not so stubborn, Belle. Come sit close to me and tell me what madcap scheme dances in your head.”
Belle shivered again, partially with cold and partially from some emotion she did not care to investigate. Ruing her unkempt appearance, she settled herself within the hollow he had created for her. Mark draped his cloak around her and tucked its ends securely under her feet. Then he slipped his arm about her shoulders and pulled her closer against him.
“Zounds, chou-chou,” he said in an odd, hoarse voice. “You are as skinny as a bird in midwinter.”
“I see you save all your sugared words for Griselda,” Belle snapped.
Mark’s heat seeped through her like a blacksmith’s furnace, leaving her light-headed with the unexpected sensation of protection. She drank in the comfort of his nearness. Instinctively she rested her head on his broad shoulder and allowed herself to relax.
He tapped her nose. “So, chou-chou, what masterpiece of mischief have you concocted?”
Belle willed herself not to sink into the delicious sleep that beckoned to her. “Tis simple, Marcus. We frighten the Fletchers out of their wits so that they will flee from Bodiam as from the plague. Then all will be well again.”
“Hmm,” he rumbled. “Tis a gladsome thought, but how? Why would they leave so cozy a nest?”
Belle suppressed a desire to yawn. “Do you remember those tales of the Black Knight of Bodiam?”
He chuckled. “Aye, Mistress Sondra had a deft way with her words. She even made the hairs on the back of my neck quiver. She sent many of Lady Kat’s little maids into hysterics.” He laughed again.
Belle jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow, putting a stop to his lecherous memories. “Aye, you rogue, and I saw how you spent many an hour in the hayloft calming their fears.” She furrowed her brow as she remembered spying on Mark and his conquests. How those silly chits had giggled under his caresses. Belle had hated Mark yet yearned for his gentle touch.
“You should have been minding your own business, Belle,” he replied in a slightly hurt tone. “Besides, I was not a slobbering debaucher as you like to think. The girls were virgins—for the most part. A little kissing and a few cuddles were all that we did. No harm in that.”
Belle ignored his defense. The churl would say anything if it had an advantage to him. She jabbed him again. “Pay attention, ratsbane! The hour runs apace. When Mortimer next comes to visit me, I will plant the story of the ghostly knight in his fallow brain. I will say that the knight will ride forth on All Hallows Eve and that death will stalk anyone who angers him.”
Mark nodded. “Good so far. I will play upon Griselda’s fears with stories of this knight so that her teeth will rattle. But then what?”
She cast him a mischievous grin. “You must effect a haunting. You were always good at mummery and sly tricks, Marcus. I trust you have not lost that talent with old age.”
He squeezed her gently. “A few ideas come to mind,” he murmured in a far too seductive tone.
No wonder weak-kneed maids fell into his arms at first sight! Belle felt herself falling under his spell. An unexpected excitement surged through her. She kicked him. “Exactly what sort of ideas, Mark?”
Swearing softly under his breath, he rubbed his ankle. “You are a thankless vixen, Belle. I offer only to rescue you and you act as if I were leading you down the primrose path to perdition.”
She made a face. “Tis all one to me,” she retorted, though she lied through her teeth.
Griselda pulled her dressing gown closer around her and listened to the wind howl through the courtyard—or was that the moaning of tortured souls that cried out in the midwatch of the night? Lifting her candle a little higher, she whispered a quick prayer to her guardian angel and hoped he was paying attention. She glanced over her shoulder, but the corridor was silent. Mortimer’s chamber door was shut fast. No light gleamed from within. Griselda tiptoed past it.
Her brother would beat her black and blue if he knew what she had in mind. The Fletchers might not be a noble family, but their father had instilled in his children a burning pride in their reputation. None had learned that lesson better than Mortimer. Griselda was a shameless harlot to even consider stealing into a man’s bed and seducing him.
Nevertheless, she scurried on.
Sir Mark was not just any man, she reasoned as she negotiated the narrow stairs up to the second floor of the postern tower. He was handsome far beyond all of her wildest dreams. He dressed with a subtle flair that accentuated his manly parts and when he spoke, pure poetry poured from his lips. Such kissable lips! Griselda got goosebumps at the mere thought of them caressing her hand. Best of all, he was hers—almost.
Fate that had been so unkind to her in th
e past had finally smiled upon Griselda when she least expected it. Out of the blue, her dream suitor had come riding across Bodiam’s drawbridge and straightway into her heart. Mortimer might grumble and play the suspicious protector, but she knew her brother realized what a lucky catch Sir Mark Hayward was. His very demeanor, his fine clothes, his well-groomed horse all spoke of a wealthy man—and a noble one as well!
She stopped before Sir Mark’s door. Her heart beat in her throat and waves of giddiness threatened to overwhelm her. Her hand trembled when it touched the latch. He’ll be asleep and won’t know what has happened until I am lying naked beside him—then his raging male lusts will drown out any qualms. She swallowed a hard knot in her throat.
Naked—in his bed! Griselda had never done such a daring, wanton act in her life. The prospect excited her past all common sense. She turned the handle slowly and slipped into his chamber. The large poster bed was shrouded in its heavy velvet curtains to keep out the night drafts. Lifting the hem of her gown, she advanced slowly lest she trip over a discarded boot or wayward stocking. Holding her breath, she drew back one of the drapes.
His bed yawned empty. Not even the imprint of his head marred the plumped pillow.
Griselda frowned. Surely she had come to the right room. Indeed, the bed had fresh sheets and was turned back, waiting for its absent occupant. Then she remembered that Sir Mark had said something about being wakeful at odd times of the night.
He has gone for a stroll to clear the fumes of the wine. When he returns, I’ll be waiting for him. What a surprise! Griselda blew out her candle, shed her clothing and slithered in between the bedcovers.
The wind outside the diamond-paned glass window increased its howl. Then she heard a noise like a mouse skittering across the floor—or mayhap twas Sir Mark returning from his nocturnal ramble. Unable to lie still and wait, Griselda parted the curtain to take a reassuring peek.
Instead of the tall form of her heart’s desire, she saw a slim, pale wraith with silvered hair. It stood in the middle of the room and stared at her. With a squeal of terror, Griselda dove deep under the goose-down quilt. A roaring sound filled her ears. Her heart beat faster. Her hands grew ice cold. The bed seemed to spin on an invisible axis.
With a low moan, Griselda fainted dead away.
Mark laid Belle’s sleeping form back on her poor straw pallet. He tucked the blankets snug around her. Dawn’s pale light already painted the sky outside her narrow window. Mark stroked her wan cheek. In sleep, she looked so young and vulnerable. If he possessed two ounces of common sense, he would carry her out of here right now and run to Jobe. By mid-morning, they all could be safe inside Montjoy’s cottage. By this time next week, Belle would be back at Wolf Hall and Mark would be the master of his own estate.
Yet he knew she would waken before he could get her out the door and would scream the very stones down on his head. Stubborn chit! He leaned over and brushed his lips across her forehead. She sighed in her sleep.
Surprised at the tenderness she had evoked within him, Mark drew back. Then he pulled another napkin-wrapped packet from his sack and placed it under her hand. Dexter watched every move with unblinking golden eyes.
Mark gave the cat a hard look. “Tis a morsel for your mistress and not for your belly, you glutton. Touch it and I’ll turn you into a muff.”
Dexter continued to stare at him. Mark adjusted his cloak, gathered up the cup and napkin, then dropped another kiss on the top of Belle’s head. He rose and strode toward the door. He took one last look before departing. How tiny she looked! How helpless he felt!
“Guard her well, cat!” Then he swirled out the door and locked it behind him. He muffled a sneeze in the folds of his cape before he descended the spiral steps like the ghost he planned to portray. While he had cradled Belle throughout the cold night, he had formed several ideas for the haunting of Bodiam. He smiled to himself as he slunk through the shadowed courtyard. Mistress Sondra Owens’s Black Knight would soon ride again.
Mark returned to his room without any of Mortimer’s inattentive guards noticing him. Just as he started to open his door, someone hissed behind him. Pulling his dagger from its sheath, he whirled around to face a tousled and shivering Kitt.
“How now, boy!” he muttered. “Tis too early for tricks.”
Kitt put his finger to his lips, nodded toward the door then motioned down the stairway. Puzzled, Mark descended after his fledgling squire. They slipped into the small alcove outside the postern gateway. Clad only in his nightshirt, Kitt shivered in the cold. Mark draped his cloak over the boy’s shoulders before asking him, “What is it? Why are you not asleep?”
Kitt tossed a hank of hair out of his eyes. “Mistress Griselda is in your bed and as naked as the day she was born—or so it looked to me, though by my troth, I did not linger to examine her closely.”
Mark grinned. “So that is the way the world turns, is it?”
Kitt blinked. “I do not understand.”
Mark ruffled the boy’s hair. “Mistress Griselda seeks to entrap me into a hasty marriage in case I might have second thoughts.”
“But you do not intend to marry that harpy, do you?” Kitt asked.
Mark shook his head. “Twould be a fate worse than death. The question is what am I to do now? If I try to carry her back to her room, she will surely waken and scream for all the household to witness how I have debauched her.”
Kitt grimaced. “But you have not touched her!”
Mark clapped him on the shoulder. “Lesson number one, Kitt. Women have wily minds that often work at cross-purpose with men’s superior wit. Your bloody-minded sister is a good example.”
“Tis not fair, Mark,” he protested.
Mark smiled, wondering if he himself had ever been that innocent. “Aye, that is God’s own truth, but we poor males are often the worse for it.”
“And Mistress Griselda?”
Mark leaned back against the rough wall and considered his narrow options. “We will go immediately to the stables where we will bed down near our horses. Lord knows we both could use a bit more sleep. When the grooms find us, we will say that we have spent the whole night there because…because the wind made our good mounts restless. After that, we will make a great show of washing at the trough, chatting with the potboys and in general letting all and sundry know that we were nowhere near my chamber last night. Mistress Griselda will slink back to her own room with nary a word against me.”
He chuckled. “Methinks this is the first time I have ever run from a naked lady in my bed.” Then he glanced down at Kitt. “Where are your nether clothes?”
The boy gave him a wry look. “In the room with Mistress Griselda. I was in the privy attending to personal business when she came in. Upon seeing her, I ran without thinking.”
Mark swore under his breath. “We’ll have to borrow something from one of the stable lads. You cannot go riding bare-bottomed over hill and dale.”
Kitt brightened. “We go home today? Have you convinced Belle to leave?”
Mark frowned. “Nay, your sister is as wooden-headed as before. But we have thought of a plan whereby Mortimer Fletcher and his ill-favored sister will wish they had never set foot in Bodiam.”
Kitt quivered with excitement. “Good! Let us start now!”
Mark pinned the cloak under Kitt’s chin. “Let us find you a pair of breeches first.”
Chapter Seven
For the first time since her imprisonment, Belle looked forward to Mortimer’s daily visit. She and Mark had no time to lose if they were to ply the Fletcher siblings’s superstitious fears by All Hallows Eve, when the spirits of the dead were reputed to stalk the land. If anything could frighten Mortimer enough to abandon Bodiam it would have to coincide with the ancient festival of the dead. Leaning against the wall by her window, Belle drew in deep breaths of the morning’s brisk air while she pondered her plan of attack.
She hated to admit, even to herself, that she was growing weaker despite Mark
’s fortifying meals and warm attention. The deprivations of the past month could hardly be erased by a few mouthfuls of meat and an extra blanket or two. Perhaps she should bow to Mark’s wish. They could steal away tonight. Thoughts of Wolf Hall filled with warmth, food and her loving family brought tears to her eyes. She dashed them away.
Bodiam was hers. She had meant it when she had told Mark that she would die for it. Its honey-colored stones and graceful arched windows claimed her heart and soul. “Oh, Papa,” she whispered to the wind, “I wish you were here!” She knew that Brandon would understand.
The sound of hoofbeats on the wooden drawbridge broke her melancholy mood. Pressing herself against the wall, she craned her neck to see who was leaving Mortimer’s lair.
“That knavish pignut!” she uttered aloud when she recognized the larger of the two riders. “Griselda’s charms must have been too much for him to bear! That pigeon-livered maltworm is abandoning me, Dexter.” I should not have acted so haughty nor treated him so unkindly.
She chewed her lower lip. “Look you, Dexter! See how he flees! Mark was always a coward. He broke promises at the turn of every hour. Oh! There is not one good quality that he can claim. I should never have put my trust in that pernicious snipe!”
Just before the pair reached the edge of the surrounding forest, Mark reined in his horse and looked toward her tower. Belle stepped in front of her window to show him that she witnessed his cowardly retreat. Mark kneed his silver-gray mount and the horse responded by rearing on its hind legs. Horse and rider danced in place for a few seconds.
Show-off! You will never grow up, Marcus.
Then he put his fingers to his lips and gave the piercing whistle that Belle recognized as her grandfather’s call to summon his beloved dogs home for the day. Home! Her heart lightened.
Belle grinned at her cat. “Mark has finally come to his senses, Dexter. Methinks he is going for more help.” Knowing that the guards on the battlements could not see her, Belle waved her hand out the window. Mark doffed his burgundy cap in return and his young squire blew her a kiss. Cheeky lad! She chuckled in spite of herself. Little Bertrum will learn all of Mark’s bad habits inside of a year.
Halloween Knight Page 7
