Halloween Knight

by Tori Phillips

  Jobe shook out the feather bed and his thick wool blanket. After enjoying a late-night snack purloined from the kitchen, he blew out the candle, then rolled himself up in his bedding. Before settling down to catch a few hours of sleep, Jobe sent a prayer of thanksgiving to his ancestors in the starry heavens above him.

  “Most excellent sport,” he whispered to the ancient ones. “There is very strong ju-ju here. I feel it all about me. But one thing I beg, O Fathers,” he added with a small frown. “Help me protect my good friend’s life and so satisfy my debt to him. Mark Hayward is too reckless by half.”

  Chapter Nine

  Belle groaned and batted at the hand that shook her shoulder. She half-opened her eyes. “Go away, Kitt! Tis too early to get up.”

  Her little brother chuckled. “Nay, Belle. Tis nearly noon.”

  His familiar voice jolted her. Kitt! Why wasn’t he at Wolf Hall studying his Latin verbs? Belle bolted upright on Montjoy’s sagging bed. “Sweet Saint Anne! What are you doing here? Oh, no! You’re Bertrum, Mark’s squire, aren’t you?”

  Kitt puffed out his chest. The boy had grown since she had last seen him. A wide smile so like Papa’s wreathed his face. “You have hit the target dead center. I have come to rescue you.” he announced proudly. He placed a small tray of food on her lap. “Zounds, you are as bony as a plucked chicken.”

  Despite her joy at seeing him, she bristled at his candor. “I perceive that you have learned how to flatter a girl, Kitten.”

  He squared his shoulders. “I am not a kitten any longer, Belle,” he told her with a surprising note of maturity in his treble voice. “Tis time I became a young lion, Jobe says.”

  Belle bit into the still-warm pigeon pie. “Very well,” she replied between mouthfuls. “But how did you convince Papa and Kat to send you on this misguided errand?” She swallowed and stared at her handsome brother. “My God, Kitt! You have no idea what a hornet’s nest you have blundered into.”

  He sat down on the bed beside her. “But I do, Belle.” His expression turned grim. “Mark told me what that pernicious base-born callet tried to do to you. By the rood, I swear I will avenge you.”

  Taken aback by mild-mannered Kitt’s expanded vocabulary, Belle gaped at him. “And just who has taught you such pretty speeches? Mark? I will claw out his tongue at the first opportunity. Did he urge you to this mad romp? You should be home where tis safe.”

  Kitt eyed her. “So should you, sister. Do not chide Mark. This adventure is my own doing and none of his. He was as unhappy as you when he learned that I had followed them.” He grinned at her. “Though they did not discover me for over a day,” he added with pride. “Jobe says that I would make an excellent tracker.”

  Belle sopped up the gravy with a hunk of bread. “And who, pray tell, is this Jobe that you admire so much?”

  Kitt chuckled. “He is like no one whom you have ever seen, I warrant. He is the greatest warrior in all of England—except for Papa and Uncle Guy, of course.”

  “He had better be,” Belle remarked more to herself than to her brother, “or I will flay him by inches for encouraging you in this mad enterprise.”

  Kitt had not only brought her breakfast but also firewood for her little hearth, fresh linens for her bed and warmed water for washing her face and hair. He had even remembered soap. “I…er…borrowed some from Mistress Griselda,” he explained, turning a little pink.

  “Oh?” asked Belle as she worked the thick lather through her oily locks. The sensation felt delicious! “Is stealing something else Mark has taught you?”

  “Nay,” he replied as he poured the rinse water over her head into a clay basin. “Jobe did. He says that I have a natural talent for slipping in and out of a woman’s bower.”

  “I cannot wait to meet this paragon of virtue,” she muttered, squeezing out the excess water from her hair.

  Despite her disapproval of Kitt’s latest skill, Belle gratefully donned the clean shift and a plain gown that her brother had liberated from Griselda’s wardrobe. The feel of fresh clothing on her body almost made her weep. She blinked away the moist drops from her eyelids before Kitt could spy them.

  In the meantime, her little brother bustled about the tiny chamber in a most business-like manner. After tightening the bedropes, he built her a fire in the small hearth and emptied the dirty water down the privy located in an alcove. Belle marveled at his efficiency. The Kitt she remembered had never done a single chore in his pampered life. Was Mark actually teaching the boy something useful?

  She cleared her throat. “So where is Mark this fine morning? Still asleep?”

  Kitt made a face. “He would pray for such a boon. Instead, at this very moment he woos Mistress Griselda in the garden.”

  Belle exchanged a grin with her brother. “Good! Twill serve to puncture his vanity a bit. I almost feel sorry for him.”

  Kitt arched an eyebrow exactly as their father often did. “You should, Belle. Griselda is bound and determined to seduce him lest he escape her bondage of matrimony. Why only the other night, she slipped into his bed.”

  A hot flush of jealousy washed over Belle. “And exactly what did Mark do?” she spat out the question.

  Kitt gave her a decidedly wicked grin. “I know not. He was with you at the time. Twas I that encountered the wanton hussy.”

  “What?”

  Kitt laughed at her shocked expression. “Aye, Belle. She was as naked as a jaybird, too. Not pretty like the serving girl at Montjoy’s—”

  Belle grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. “Stop right there, Kitt! I do not want to hear one more word about your…new-found interest in women. Tis unseemly. You’re still a baby.”

  He glowered at her. “Nay, sister! I am closer to my manhood than my cradle. Tis time that you, Mama and Papa realize that. With Francis in Paris and Papa strapped down in bed, tis only right that I came to your aid.”

  “And what of Mark? Methought he was supposed to be my savior,” she asked with a half-smile.

  Kitt tossed her a towel for her wet hair. “Jobe says tis blood that counts. I came for love of you. Papa is paying Mark a princely fee for your return.”

  Belle could hardly speak for the sudden fury that exploded inside her. What a perfidious rat! Just when she thought Mark had finally attained some good qualities, she discovered that he was still the same self-seeking rogue he had always been—only worse.

  This time, he had nearly stolen her heart.

  “Tis a wonder he has lived this long,” she murmured. When this nightmare was over and Bodiam was once again firmly in her hands, Belle vowed that Mark would rue the day he had accepted Papa’s offer. “He’ll soon find out that I am not a piece of chattel to be bought and paid for.”

  “Jobe says that women are always bought whether tis a dowry or—” Kitt had the prudence to shut his mouth when he spied the daggers in Belle’s eyes.

  “I do not give a squashed gooseberry what this buffoon Jobe says, Kitt. Just remember one thing—I will never become a man’s property—most especially not Mark Hayward’s!”

  Mortimer sat hunched over his writing desk in the small garderobe off his bedchamber. He had no appetite for dinner, nor had he touched the early morning breakfast that one of the lackeys had delivered to his door. He ran his shaking fingers through his tangled hair as he stared at the sheet of blank paper before him.

  What could he write to those infernal Cavendishes? How simple his plan had been twenty-four hours ago! Belle would be dead; her wasted body proof that she had died of grief for Cuthbert. A decent burial, condolences to her family, then the castle and its treasure for Mortimer. But now—?

  Recalling the pile of ashes and duckling bones amidst her clothing, he shuddered. One thing was certain, he would never enter that room again. In fact he would order it sealed up. He wiped his sweaty palms on his dressing gown. What was he going to tell the world about the ungodly events of last night? He rubbed his eyes that stung from lack of sleep.

  Belle
died of a fever? Nay, twould set the countryside ablaze with fears that the strange sweating sickness had reappeared. Mortimer could not risk any close inquiries by the local authorities. An accident? Though he had staffed Bodiam with hirelings, he did not trust them beyond the limits of his purse strings. Besides, they had witnessed ghostly sounds and lights. He shivered.

  A third alternative shot into his brain. Sitting back in his chair, Mortimer twirled his quill pen while he allowed his imagination to play out the full scenario. A sly grin fluttered on his lips.

  Suicide! The very notion caused good people’s blood to run cold. Even though King Henry had broken with the Pope, the condemnation of suicide was still universal. Anyone who took their own life flouted God’s precious gift and was immediately damned to the eternal fires of hell. Suicides were not to be mourned, not to be given a Christian burial and the deceased’s name was never to be spoken again. No corpse was needed, no burial—and no questions asked. Perfect!

  Mortimer dipped his pen into the ink bottle, then began to write a sorrowful message to Sir Brandon and Lady Cavendish. As good, God-fearing folk they would never come down to Sussex to give their final farewell to their bastard daughter. To them, Belle must cease to exist—and Mortimer, her devoted brother-in-law, could lawfully claim Bodiam as his own.

  I shall give my message a fortnight to reach Wolf Hall before I begin to tear this heap of stones apart. The brooch is mine at last!

  Mark sauntered down the west gallery. Slowing when he neared the concealing tapestry, he glanced over his shoulder. Not a soul in sight. He knew he ran the risk of detection by visiting Belle in broad daylight but Mortimer’s latest move made Mark’s decision imperative. He slipped behind the thick tapestry and rapped softly on the door.

  “Tis Mark,” he spoke through the keyhole. “Hurry!”

  The key turned in the lock. Not waiting for Belle to admit him, he ducked inside the door, bolting it behind him. Then he turned to her.

  “We have a problem,” he began, but the rest of his sentence lost its way. His breath literally stopped in his throat.

  Seated on the foot of her bed like a nymph from a Greek vase, Belle brushed her long hair in front of a cheerful fire. The afternoon’s sunlight turned her gleaming tresses into spun gold. After a good night’s sleep and dressed in a clean blue gown, she looked new-made—and highly desirable. The square neck of her bodice did little to conceal the outlines of her firm full breasts. Mark’s blood heated and his loins stirred at the sight. Great Jove! When had the chit turned into such a dazzler?

  On the other hand, the fire storm in her eyes was anything but welcoming. “Exactly how much is my father paying you, worm?”

  Mark whistled under his breath. How had she learned that piece of news? Kitt must have sneaked in to see her while Mark was in Griselda’s clutches. He swept her a bow. “My deepest gratitude for your kind welcome, chou-chou. Is this how you greet all of your knights-errant?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Answer my question, false cur! What riches did my father offer you to bring me home?”

  Mark swallowed. He had not planned to tell Belle about the business end of this adventure. He knew she would take it amiss, yet now that particular sticking point had unsheathed itself. He switched his tactics. Offense had always been the best defense against Belle’s tantrums.

  “Tis barely enough for the trouble, I assure you,” he replied with a twist of disdain.

  Belle narrowed her eyes into dangerous slits. “Be precise! I want to know exactly how much my life is worth to you.”

  Mark stepped closer, though he still kept out of the range of her claws. “Your father thinks the world of you, but I am content to have a mere thousand acres of his estate lands.”

  Rising, her body shook with her outrage. “A goodly price—for a girl, I warrant, especially considering that she is a bastard,” she snapped.

  Ah! There’s the core of her displeasure. Mark softened his expression. “You are well worth twice that amount, chou-chou.”

  Belle tossed her hair out of her face and lifted her chin. “And what do you aim to do with this great wealth—if you manage to acquire it?”

  Mark took another step closer. “Build myself a fine manor house, marry a rich heiress and produce a long line of little Haywards.”

  She arched one of her delicate brows. “Of course! I had forgotten. You are nobly born though your behavior often gives the lie to that fact. No matter. Like all the rest of the noble peacocks, you run true to type. I suppose that this heiress of yours could be ugly, crook-backed and a dribbling idiot yet you would still marry her if she were rich enough and had the proper breeding.”

  Mark’s defensive anger turned to compassion. Belle’s visit to King Henry’s court must not have been a happy one for her once the truth of her parentage had become fodder for common gossip. How many slings and arrows of petty insults had she endured from those pompous popinjays?

  Drawing closer still, he caught a faint scent of lavender in her hair. “Then you are misinformed. Though I am but an impoverished younger son, I do have some standards. I would marry a poor girl in only her shift if I loved her,” he replied as his gaze bore into her eyes. “Why did Cuthbert Fletcher marry you, chou-chou?”

  She looked away and rubbed the side of her nose, a sign that told Mark he had cut too near the bone. Before she had a chance to change the subject, he slipped his arm around her slim waist and drew her closer to him. “All those prattling fools at court must have had scales over their eyes not to see you for the rare prize that you are.”

  Stiffening in his embrace, Belle would not look at him. “Nay, they were all quite clear-sighted. They saw a commoner dressed up to ape a lady. Twas a very educational time at Greenwich Palace. I had no end of young gallants who wanted to show me exactly where my place in society was—on my back in their beds!” A crimson blush stained her cheeks.

  A hundred curses trembled on his lips, but Mark refused to unleash them. Had he been at court, he would have challenged every last dog of them. Belle might try the patience of a saint, but she was no lewd sinner.

  “All except Cuthbert?” he prodded.

  “Aye.” She relaxed against him, spent by the strength of her emotions. “He was kind, and did not care who my…my mother was.”

  “So you married him.” In gratitude, no doubt. Oh, poor sweet Belle! “Did you love him?”

  She spun out of his arms like a sudden whirlwind. “How dare you ask me such a personal question!”

  Mark’s mood lightened. She didn’t! He grinned at her. “You know me, Belle. I can dare a great many things if I put my mind to it. Tell me, did Cuthbert love you?”

  “Of course he did!” she snapped.

  Feeling more sure of himself, Mark again pulled her to his chest and wrapped his arms around her. His body throbbed at the stimulating contact. “And did he hold you in his arms like this?” He danced his fingers up her spine.

  She shivered under his touch. “Tis wrong to malign the dead,” she murmured.

  Mark swallowed a chuckle. He stroked Belle’s cheek and traced her firm little jawline with the pad of his thumb. “And did blessed Cuthbert touch you like this?”

  She gasped softly at his touch. “How can I recall anything when you distract me?”

  Cuthbert was an ass of the first magnitude. Good!

  Without pausing to give Belle any time to think, Mark lowered his mouth to hers. He brushed her lips with his as if he caressed a butterfly. She responded by rising on her toes to meet him. Encouraged, he traced the fullness of her lips with his tongue. Delicious and heady as new summer’s wine. Belle slid her arms around his neck. Covering her mouth, he deepened his kiss. She parted her lips for him. His tongue explored the recesses of her mouth; the same mouth that had so often heaped abuse upon him in the past. His revenge was sweet. Passion’s fire spread through Mark’s body. His manhood rose with expectation.

  The motley bed was too near and too tempting. Though he desired her wit
h every fiber of his being, he knew he could not take her. Regretting his chivalry, Mark gently withdrew, nibbling her earlobe in passing.

  “Did Cuthbert kiss you like that?” he whispered in a husky voice.

  Then he stepped away before she noticed his physical state of arousal.

  Belle opened her eyes, then moistened her kiss-swollen lips with her tongue. “Nay,” she breathed. “That is, I do not think so.” She snatched up her abandoned brush and began to pull it through her hair. “How could I possibly remember? Tis been a long time since anyone has kissed me.”

  The jealousy that Mark had experienced at the mention of Belle’s late husband now completely disappeared. He almost smiled but caught himself. Twas no time to gloat.

  “You said we have a problem?” Belle asked abruptly.

  Mark regretfully bade adieu to the last wisps of the pleasurable interlude. The mere thought of Mortimer’s weaselly face damped his ardor more effectively than a bucket of ice water. “Aye,” he replied. “Your knavish brother-in-law whispered to me that you killed yourself last evening.”

  Belle blanched. “Suicide? Sweet Saint Anne!” She sank onto the edge of the bed.

  Mark knelt beside her. “Aye. Tis a rumor that will run like wildfire through the shire in no time.” He turned her face toward him. “Montjoy will hear of it and if the news doesn’t kill that old man, he will write immediately to your parents.”