She watched the man and boy disappear into the depths of Bodiam’s forest. In her mind’s eye she followed their progress down the familiar track toward the town of Hawkhurst.
The key rattled in the rusty lock. Belle hastened to her usual place at the far end of the small chamber before Mortimer opened the heavy door. Once again he bore a covered trencher. His smile looked particularly reptilian.
Belle pulled the cat into her lap. “Behold who comes to visit us, Dexter,” she remarked. “A double-tongued snake!”
Mortimer arched his brow. “At one time I had hoped that we two could become the best of friends, LaBelle,” he replied. His eyes glared coldly at her. “I could have made you a fine husband.”
Belle snorted. “The very idea makes me shudder, Mortimer. In faith, I do earnestly desire that we become better strangers.” Now to drop the first pebble into his pool of superstition. “In fact, I advise you to leave me alone before you anger the protective spirit within these walls with your perfidious speech.”
Mortimer’s hand shook a little. “What spirit is this, wench?”
Belle hid her elation behind a mask of indifference. “Why, the Black Knight of Bodiam, of course. I am sure that I have told you of him. Methinks you should choose your words to me with more care, Mortimer. All Hallows Eve draws apace, you know.”
He turned slightly paler. “What has that to do with me?”
Belle stroked Dexter’s long body. “Folks hereabouts do say that the Knight awakes from his yearly slumber and rides through the castle walls. They say he visits each nook and cranny of Bodiam on that night and showers his blessings upon all his family who sleep within his protection.” Lowering her voice, she continued, “But woe to any person who wishes evil on his descendants for death comes swiftly.”
Mortimer gulped. “Tis but an old wives’ tale.”
Belle shrugged. “Perchance, but if I were you, I would be on my guard just the same. You will know if he is coming by the signs.”
The poltroon wet his thin lips. “What sort of signs?”
Belle pretended to think. “The usual things, I suppose—candles blowing out on themselves, curtains fluttering, strange sounds and lights in the night….”
Mortimer made a strangled noise in his throat. “My men swore they saw a light coming from your window last night,” he whispered.
Hogspit! I didn’t think they could see Mark’s lantern! And yet, this mistake may turn in our favor. Widening her eyes, she pretended to look startled. “Last night you say? But I slept heavily all through the dark hours. I saw no light. And I have no candle to cheer me, thanks to your tender mercies. Methinks your minions were woolgathering.”
Mortimer shook his head. “They swore they saw a golden light gleam from your window for several hours.”
Belle feigned shock. “Tis true? Then perchance the Knight is already awake and roams his old home. Of course he would visit me, Mortimer. After all, I am the only family member in residence.”
Mortimer frowned. “Griselda and I are your family as well,” he said.
Tis working! Belle shot him a sneer. “By marriage only, not at all by the bonds of blood or love. If you have a guilty heart, Mortimer, then mend your ways at once or you will suffer for it.”
His face hardened. Belle realized that she had overplayed her hand.
“Dissembling harlot! You are false in all you say!” he snapped. He turned on his heel to go, but stopped before he reached the door.
“Your prattling nearly caused me to forget. Here.” He placed the trencher on the floor and inched it toward her with the toe of his boot.
Belle could not mask her surprise at his sudden generosity. “How now, brother-in-law? What jest is this?”
“Your dinner, my dear,” he replied in a cool voice.
Despite its enticing aromas, Belle turned away from the tempting dish. “Take it, Mortimer. I will not sign my home away for a mere mouthful of stew.”
He chuckled. It was not a cheerful sound. “Tis nothing of the sort. Consider this meal as a gift. I am feeling particularly bountiful today.”
Belle eyed him as she would a snake in the grass. “There must be a reason.”
“Indeed.” He rubbed his hands together. “Good fortune has sent Griselda a rich young lord to woo her.”
Ha! Mark is rich in pretty words and false promises but not in gold or lands. Aloud, Belle replied, “Give Griselda my heartiest congratulations.”
Mortimer strode out onto the landing. “Mayhap I will if I can recall your words.” He closed the door slowly. “Enjoy your dinner,” he added before he slammed it shut. He laughed as he turned the key.
Belle dismissed the churl from her mind. She lifted the cloth. The tender breast of a succulent duckling swam in a honey-glazed orange sauce. A fresh loaf of bread, still warm from the oven, lay next to it, ready to sop up the delicious drippings. Belle’s mouth watered. Before she could reach for the bird, Dexter pounced upon it.
“Away, you beast!” she screamed at the cat.
As quickly as he had leapt onto the dish, he backed away, spitting and shaking his head. Puzzled by Dexter’s unusual behavior, Belle watched him as he once again approached the food. He tried to bat the napkin over the dish in an effort to hide it from sight. Then he shot Belle a look of pure disgust.
She wrinkled her nose. “Do not glare at me, Dexter. I did not cook it.” She regarded the trencher. The glistening duck peeked from under the corner of the cloth and beckoned her ravenous hunger. Yet a bell of caution chimed in her head. Dexter was not the only one who acted in a strange manner. Mortimer’s behavior had also gone against the grain. She pulled off a small piece of the well-cooked flesh and held it out to the cat.
“Is it not to your liking, my friend?” she asked.
Dexter approached the morsel cautiously, sniffed it then batted it out of her fingers. He shook his head several times. His long white whiskers bristled. Once again he stared at her with his large golden eyes.
“Is there something rotten in this fair offering, I wonder?” she mused. She sniffed at the sauce. Though the orange and honey smelled sweet, she noticed a less pleasing odor as well.
Summoning up her courage, Belle dipped her finger into the sauce then gingerly tasted it with the tip of her tongue. Mewing, Dexter paced back and forth.
Belle detected a bitter undertaste. She spat out the droplet then rinsed her mouth several times with clean water from her bucket.
“God shield us, Dexter! Tis some vile trick of Mortimer’s to sicken me with his rotten fowl.” Belle covered her hand with the napkin then carried the foul trencher to the window. She tossed the entire thing down into the moat. “Heaven help the fish,” she murmured as she watched the tainted food disappear below the surface of the leaf-green water.
The shock of her brush with treachery left her feeling weak. Trembling all over, Belle sank to her pallet and wrapped herself in her blankets. Dexter snuggled next to her. His rough tongue rasped against the cold skin of her hand. She gathered him into her arms and buried her face in his thick coat of black-and-white fur.
“You are the very best of all friends.” She shivered again. “If I am ever freed from this doleful place, I promise you the largest platter of the most succulent herring.”
Dexter purred in reply.
Mark and Kitt collected Jobe from the exile of his little hut. Together the three rode into Hawkhurst and proceeded by a roundabout route to Montjoy’s cottage. The old man opened the door before Mark could knock.
“Tis high time you’ve returned, my Lord Hayward!” Montjoy croaked, ushering them into his home. “Greetings, son of Satan,” he added to Jobe.
The African merely laughed. “And good health to you, Father Fox,” he replied.
Montjoy looked faintly surprised by the salutation. Then he permitted a tiny smile to cross his face. When he turned to Kitt, he lifted one white brow. “And methinks I have the honor to address young Master Christopher Cavendish, do I not?”
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Kitt shot a quick glance at Mark, who rolled his eyes. The old man’s memory was more keen than Mark had expected. It had been five years or more since Brandon and Kat had moved their family north to Wolf Hall.
He sighed. “Aye, Montjoy, you are correct, but I pray you, do not bandy the news about the town. Kitt is with me…under sufferance.”
Montjoy hooded his eyes like an elderly owl in midday. “As I suspected.” He settled himself in his accustomed seat by the fire. “As soon as I remembered who this sprig was, I wrote straightway to his parents.”
With a groan, Kitt sank down on the hearthstones. “I will be in serious trouble when my lady mother next lays an eye upon me.”
“Nay, lad,” Mark muttered. “She will spare you and kill me instead—by inches.” So much for his hopes of a prize piece of the Cavendish land. “When did you send this dire message to Wolf Hall, Montjoy?”
He folded his bony hands over his spare stomach. “The day before yesterday. Twill take Lady Kat at least two weeks before she arrives, methinks. Plenty of time to complete your task. By the way, where is Mistress Belle?”
Mark eased himself on the stool across from his host. “Still in her prison. There have been…complications.”
Without looking the least surprised, Montjoy nodded. “There are often complications with the Cavendish family. Headstrong, the lot of them.” He stared at Kitt who wriggled under his piercing scrutiny.
Mark growled his agreement. “Belle refuses to leave. Says she won’t abandon her home. Says she’d die first.” He gave Montjoy a steady look. “By my troth, methinks she means it.”
The old man released a sigh that came from deep inside him. “I was afraid twould be the case. Mistress LaBelle took Bodiam into her heart from the first day she crossed over the drawbridge.” A whisper of a smile flitted across his face. “She nearly fell into the moat trying to catch one of the swans.”
Kitt whistled through his teeth. “She had more courage than I. I have a hearty respect for those birds myself.”
Mark smiled at his squire’s candor. While still a toddler in leading strings Kitt had tried to ride one of the arrogant creatures and had been chased up the front stairs of the castle by the outraged bird.
Montjoy flickered an eyebrow. “I recall the incident, Master Christopher.”
Kitt turned red and stared into the fire. Sitting beside him, Jobe smiled but said nothing. Mark snapped himself back to the present. “Belle and I have hit upon a plan to force the Fletchers to leave her home—permanently.”
“Might I suggest the application of prodigious amounts of gunpowder under their beds?” Montjoy remarked.
Mark nodded. “You have come closer to the bull’s-eye than you suspect, Montjoy.” He whispered, “We intend a haunting.”
The former castle steward wet his lips. “I trust that Mistress Owens’s ghost stories figure in this plan?”
Before Mark could reply, Jobe burst into rich laughter. “See, Kitt? I told you that this grandfather was as crafty as a fox. Much wisdom lies within his head. Now you see why we honor our elders in my own land.”
Montjoy inclined his white head to the giant. “I am gratified to know that there is at least one intelligent man among this gathering. Prithee, Mark, explain to me this haunting.”
Mark rubbed his chin. “The exact details have not yet been worked out but you will soon hear tales of strange sounds and sights in the night upon the castle walls.”
“A good start,” Montjoy agreed. “And what is my part in this tomfoolery—for I suspect that is why you have favored me with your company here today?”
Mark nodded. “Indeed, Montjoy, but first I crave a piece of paper, pen and ink for I must send an urgent message to Sir Andrew Ford in Warwickshire.”
Kitt brightened. “Uncle Andrew? But methinks he is too old to come haring down here even to help Belle.”
Montjoy cleared his throat. “I am considerably older than my Lord Ford yet this mischievous jester intends to drag me into his piece of mummery.” He skewered Kitt with his sharp gaze. “Attend to this bit of philosophy, young Christopher. Age is merely a state of mind.”
Kitt opened his mouth, saw Mark shake his head and promptly withdrew his unvoiced objection.
Jobe grinned. “I like you more and more, good Father Fox.”
Montjoy pointed to the top drawer in his cupboard where Mark found the writing materials he required. He hurriedly penned a terse letter to the Cavendish family friend who had once been the old Earl’s squire. His companions kept their peace; only the scratching of the quill across the thick paper broke the silence in the small room. With a final flourish, Mark signed his name, then blew on the wet ink.
“There now, my friends. Let us hope that Sir Andrew will send all that I need by return messenger.”
Kitt’s blue eyes gleamed. “Fireworks!” he breathed. “My notable uncle is a master in the art of devising the most wondrous display of fireworks you ever saw,” he explained to Jobe. “Each year at Twelfth Night, Andrew amazes my family with his clever work. Truly, tis this side of magic.”
Jobe grinned with a great display of white teeth. “Most excellent! Tis a sight I would like to behold.”
Mark folded his letter and dropped a hot blob of red wax on the flap to seal it. “You will, my friend, if Sir Andrew Ford proves true.”
Mortimer enjoyed his midday dinner with particular relish, though Griselda hardly noticed his unusual appetite. She was utterly besotted with her admirer. Mortimer practically laughed aloud when Sir Mark’s inept squire served the roasted duckling that swam in its delicious honey and orange sauce. He licked the rich drippings from his fingers while he wondered how much of the meat his sister-in-law had managed to swallow before sleep overpowered her. An everlasting sleep—and the end to all his problems. Just as he had done with Cuthbert. What a pickle-brain fool he had been to have allowed Belle’s beauty beguile him into dreams of marriage! Ah well, better late than never.
Mortimer toasted himself with a second large goblet of unwatered wine. Griselda failed to remark on his good cheer. Mortimer usually watered his drinks liberally. Sir Mark noticed nothing at all save to praise Griselda’s green gown—a ghastly color on her; her slim waist—bone thin in truth; and her dainty fingers—that Mortimer knew squeezed her suitor’s knee under the table at every opportunity. Such drivel was enough to put a man off his dinner.
In the midafternoon, Mortimer resisted his desire to investigate Belle’s garret. Even the smitten Griselda might notice the change in his routine. And Sir Mark Hayward? A wild card in the pack to be sure. There was something about the nobleman that tickled his memory but he could not catch it. Mortimer shrugged away his doubts. Though he suspected that Sir Mark was as much a cad as himself, prudence must be the watchword. He must not offer too much food for thought to the lovesick lord.
When Mortimer spied Will on his way to Belle’s tower with her bread and the bucket of clean water, he stopped him. “Mistress Belle is sick and methinks the disease is contagious,” he told the gaping lackwit. “I will tend to her myself. Be off with you!”
Scratching his shaggy hair, Will ambled back to the kitchen. Mortimer relaxed. He did not want to run the risk that Belle still lived. He had no idea how long the poison would take to do its deadly work. Belle must be cold and rigid when she was discovered. Twenty-four hours should do the trick.
Mortimer rubbed his hands together. Bodiam was his now—every stone and lintel of the great rambling place. He stuffed his knuckles into his mouth to keep from shouting his glee to the cloudy heavens. Tomorrow, he would sorrowfully inform the pastor of Hawkhurst’s parish church that the beloved Belle Cavendish Fletcher had wasted away from her widow’s grief. She had joined her dear departed husband in paradise. There would be a funeral. Mortimer flinched at the thought of the expense, but good form must be followed to banish all doubts. Lord Hayward and that overwhelming Cavendish family must never suspect foul play—or was that fowl play? He chortled wh
en he thought of the deadly duck.
There would be much weeping and wailing during the next few weeks. Mortimer realized that he would have to display a proper respect for the sorrow of the Cavendishes though he heartily loathed Belle’s entire family. But once the last clod of earth filled her grave, the blessed law of England would hand to Belle’s surviving brother-in-law the keys to this castle—especially everything in it.
Including a large ruby brooch with its dangling pearl—that was the real prize of Bodiam. Though he had only seen the fabulous jewel on Cuthbert’s wedding day, Mortimer remembered it in every sparkling detail. Rubbing his hands together, he descended into the gloom of the cellars under the withdrawing chamber to inspect the slug-like progress of his treasure hunters. Once the castle was legally his, he would dispense with this slow stealth. He would raze Bodiam to the ground within a month.
Chapter Eight
When Mark learned of Mortimer’s grim trick, he sweep Belle into his arms and held her tightly against his pounding chest. But for the grace of God and the cleverness of the cat, he could have been clasping her lifeless body. Belle thought that Mortimer only meant to sicken her into signing the deed, but Mark suspected that murder was Fletcher’s true intention. That stark realization turned his initial white-hot anger into cold fury.
So that is why the blackguard was so cheerful at dinner! He thought she was dead!
Instead of protesting his embrace, Belle laid her head on his shoulder. In the silence of the friendly darkness, they clung to each other for a few breathless moments. Then Mark stepped back and cupped her face in his hands. How fragile she looked in the pale beams of the moon!
“Tis settled then,” he told her. “You will not stay here a moment longer.”
“But—” she began.
He laid a finger across her lips. “Listen to me for once, Belle. If you insist upon remaining in this garret you will have no second chance, I assure you. Methinks Mortimer would strangle you with his bare hands if necessary.”
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