Halloween Knight

by Tori Phillips

  Through the combined efforts of Kitt, Jobe and now Belle, Bodiam’s restless “ghost” haunted the daytime as well as the night hours. During the past week, many of the castle’s staff had left Mortimer’s employment despite the raise in wages that the desperate man offered. The phantom hoofbeats, the midnight drumming, the mysterious beestings, the snuffed candles, the rearrangement of furnishings, the missing tools and the eerie howling all combined to send the bravest running for the gate.

  In between teaching the galliard to the clod-footed Griselda and avoiding Mortimer’s prying questions, Mark spent part of each day riding to and from Montjoy’s cottage. In spite of his grumbling and dire warnings, the ancient steward had risen to the occasion in admirable fashion. Montjoy had gathered a number of Belle’s former servants into Mark’s scheme, and the loyal retainers were more than willing to do whatever was necessary to rid Bodiam of its present occupants.

  The long-awaited package from Sir Andrew Ford finally arrived several days before the feast. Mark whistled when he unwrapped the oilskin coverings.

  “Hoy day, my friends,” he addressed Jobe, Kitt, Montjoy and the curious Ivy, “Andrew has outdone himself this time.” A thick packet of instructions explaining the properties of each mysterious cylinder accompanied the trove of fireworks.

  Kitt’s eyes glowed as he read aloud over Mark’s shoulder. “Six White Waterfalls, seven Whistling Rockets, six Catherine Wheels…wonders indeed! Twill be grander than any Twelfth Night in my memory.”

  “And in mine,” concurred Mark. He squinted at the handwriting on the largest creation of the lot. “It merely says une grand finale and I am instructed to light it at the very end.”

  Kitt shivered with excitement. “I cannot wait.”

  Mark cast him a sidelong glance and made a mental note to hide the fireworks from the boy until All Hallows Eve. The temptation to test one would be too great for Kitt—as Mark knew from his own experience.

  Twenty-two years earlier, he had “tested” one of the pyrotechnics reserved for the final day’s events at the Field of Cloth of Gold. As a result, a large green dragon had exploded in the sky during the most solemn moment of an outdoor mass celebrated by the legendary Cardinal Wolsey in the presence of the Kings of France and England. Five thousand noblemen and their ladies screamed in two languages. Brandon later said it had been the most entertaining moment of the entire fortnight.

  “Let us light a small one now,” Kitt pleaded. “To see if it works.”

  Mark frowned at him. “In due time, squire, and until then, you are bound by your oath to me not to touch them.”

  Kitt snorted his disappointment. “Aye, I will do as you say, but tis a hard thing you ask.”

  Jobe’s dark eyes took on a faraway look that Mark associated with the man’s abilities to predict the future. “Tis but the first of many hard things you will be asked to perform, young Kitt.” he intoned. “Do not fail this test of your manhood.”

  The lad’s eyes grew rounder. He sat up straighter. “I will not fail,” he promised in a serious tone.

  Mortimer rubbed his bloodshot eyes, then laid his head down amidst the papers and ledgers on his desk. God’s teeth, he needed sleep. Even better, he needed to leave Bodiam as soon as possible. Each day this past week had been worse than the one preceding it.

  Already his steward and many of the household servants had abandoned him. Only two grooms remained in the stables to care for the horses. Today the cook had come whining to Mortimer that he could not possibly prepare all the food that Mistress Griselda required for her feast with only himself, two scullions and the lackwit potboy. Furthermore, did Master Mortimer know that the kitchen floor had been covered with a coating of flour this morning and that the prints of a large horse had been tracked through the mess?

  A chill went down Mortimer’s spine at this news. Under his desktop, he crossed his fingers and whispered an old incantation against witchcraft. He too had been visited by the vengeful ghost. Large blots of ink covered the pages of his domestic accounts and the name Belle was scrawled in charcoal on his hearthstone. Last night, when he had sought the sanctuary of his bed, he discovered that a half-dozen muddy toads also shared his sheets. And every midnight brought more of that infernal drumming. The men-at-arms flatly refused to stand watch on the walls after dark. Instead, they huddled like frightened sheep in the guardroom.

  A tiny voice of reason nagged at him to abandon the wretched place. Bodiam’s ghosties grew bolder. Let Lord Hayward cope with the twin problems of the castle and Griselda. The rogue appeared to be unaffected by the supernatural manifestations. Mortimer already had a fortune to cheer him. The rents from the estate land brought in a tidy sum that would keep him in claret and mistresses for the rest of his life. But the vision of the fabulous brooch bewitched his reason.

  He practically drooled just thinking of that stupefying ruby with its lustrous pearl companion. His fingers itched to caress the jewels as other men itched to fondle a beautiful woman. Why settle for a mere cheese-and-bread existence when roast ox beckoned? With that treasure in his possession, Mortimer could move up in the world—become a gentleman with a riverside manor house full of large glass windows. Chests filled with clothes made of rich materials, twelve courses of delicious food every day at dinner and all the willing women a man could enjoy would be his for the asking. With a jewel like that brooch, he could buy himself a title and a place at court. Such ambitions were possible ever since old King Henry had grown short of cash.

  Mortimer rubbed his eyes again, then sat back in his chair. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop, keeping time with the rain that spattered in the courtyard outside his window. Where in the devil’s name was that brooch?

  The Cavendish family must have been moonstruck to have ever given such a prize to their common-bred by-blow. The chit had no idea of the worth of the bauble she had worn so proudly on her wedding day. Mortimer’s heart had skipped a beat the first time he saw the ruby flash its crimson fire in the sun as the bride walked across the courtyard to join Cuthbert before the chapel door. All through the wedding feast, Mortimer could not tear his gaze from the gems.

  Neither could Cuthbert. It was then that Mortimer first realized how inconvenient his woolly-headed brother was. Thanks to Cuthbert’s stupid whining over the jewel, Belle had hidden it away to spite him. When Mortimer had arrived at Bodiam to help Cuthbert out of this world, the deuced brooch was still hidden.

  Mortimer pushed himself away from his desk and wandered out into the hall where Griselda and Mark directed two of the remaining lackeys where to hang the plaited corn dollies that would decorate the long chamber for the feast. Wrinkling his nose with distaste, Mortimer stalked past the couple with only a curt nod by way of greeting.

  This folly had already cost him a half-year’s earnings and Griselda seemed to think there was no bottom to his coffers. Those feathered monstrosities that had arrived yesterday from a Venetian mask-maker in London had drained his pockets of ready cash. Hideous fripperies! Mortimer vowed that he would not wear one on All Hallows Eve no matter how much Griselda whined. God’s nightshirt! He would be glad to see the back of her.

  Mortimer stamped down the three steps that led toward the east wing. He paused on the landing and studied the two doors that stood at right angles in front of him. The door to the left led to the withdrawing room and the stairs to the master bedroom above it. The door to the right entered the southeast drum tower where more family bedchambers were located.

  Absently rubbing his hands together, Mortimer thought back to Cuthbert’s wedding night nearly two years ago. As custom dictated, Belle had slipped away to prepare for the ceremonial bedding in the master bedroom. When she had quit the hall, she still wore the brooch, but by the time the wedding guests had brought Cuthbert up to join her, the wench was waiting in her shift in the huge canopied bed—and the jewel had completely disappeared from view. In full hearing of the assembly, Cuthbert had asked her what she had done with it, but Belle ha
d only laughed at him. What an idiot that boy had been! At that point, the guests had left the chamber, and no one, not even Belle’s silly maid, Ivy, had seen the jewel since.

  So what had she done with it in the twenty minutes she was out of Mortimer’s sight?

  His two workmen claimed that they had torn up every paving stone in the cellar under the withdrawing chamber. In any event, the ghost had terrified them from further digging, no matter how much Mortimer bribed them. He pushed open the door to the withdrawing chamber—and uttered a curse.

  The long table that weighed over a hundred pounds lay upside down. Only someone of exceptional strength could have done that—or the ghost. Icy fear twisted his innards. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Mortimer cast a quick glance around the ornate oak-paneled room. He stroked his bristled chin. Perchance there was a hidden cache behind one of the carvings on the wall.

  Looking over his shoulder again and muttering a prayer for protection from the evil eye, Mortimer crossed to the nearest panel and ran his fingers slowly along the wood. A splinter wedged itself under his fingernail. The sudden pain brought tears to his eyes and a vile oath to his lips. Before he could move to the next part of the wall, something brushed against the back of his legs.

  Mortimer froze on the spot. He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed aloud, stumbling over the words in his haste to get them all out in time. Something stroked his knees. Opening one eye a crack, he looked down.

  Belle’s obnoxious cat watched him with an unnerving stare. Mortimer raised his foot to give it a kick. The cat immediately swelled itself up to twice its already large size. It flattened its ears, spat and humped its back, bristling its tail like a brush. With a hideous yowl, the beast sprang at Mortimer’s leg and sank all its claws and teeth into his calf.

  Alternately howling and cursing, Mortimer danced around the room trying to shake off his snarling attacker. At last, the creature let go and leapt out the window that opened into the courtyard. Blood from a dozen punctures trickled down Mortimer’s new Italian hose. Sucking his injured finger and limping back to his bedchamber, he abandoned his search for the time being. Once Griselda’s fiasco was over and their guests safely in their own homes, he vowed he would strip off every piece of wood from the withdrawing chamber’s stone walls. The Cavendish jewel would be his!

  Kitt looked up from polishing Mark’s boots. His master quietly latched the door behind him, then dropped a heavy, bulging sack at Kitt’s feet.

  “What’s that?” the boy asked with a wary look at Mark’s twinkling eyes.

  “Turnips—compliments of Montjoy,” Mark replied.

  Kitt prodded the sack with his toe. “Whyfor?”

  In answer, Mark hunkered down, untied the strings at its neck and pulled out one of the bulbous purple-andwhite vegetables. “For you!”

  Obviously lack of sleep had finally snapped Mark’s wits. “I had rather be bowled to death by turnips than eat one,” Kitt announced. “In short, I loathe them.”

  Mark paid no attention to his squire. Instead, he pulled out his eating knife and sliced off the top of the specimen he held.

  “I especially loathe them raw,” the boy added with a sinking heart.

  Mark said nothing but hollowed out the insides.

  “Are you well, my lord?” Kitt asked anxiously. Sweet Saint Anne! How could he possibly manage the All Hallows Eve haunting on his own if Mark fell ill at this stage of the game? “Shall I fetch you a cup of wine?”

  Mark grinned as he knocked bits of the vegetable onto the floor. “Wine will be most gratefully consumed in a moment, my boy, but first attend to this lesson. Observe how I have prepared this delightful root.”

  Kitt decided not to agitate Mark’s sudden madness any more than necessary. At the earliest possible moment, he would seek out Jobe for advice. In the meantime, he nodded and watched what would happened next.

  Mark made an incision through the outside skin of the turnip. “The first time I saw this in Ireland it made my hair stand on end. Twill be most effective at our feast.” He cut out two triangles and a jagged, sawtoothed curve under them. “What do you think?” He balanced his creation on the tips of his fingers.

  Kitt pulled on his earlobe. “It does not look very frightening to me, Mark. Would you like your wine now?”

  Mark held up one finger. “Hold, Kitt, and observe.”

  He handed the turnip to the boy, then fetched his bedside candle. With a quick stroke of his knife, he lopped an inch off the bottom. Then he chiseled around the wick until he freed enough of it from the wax to light it. Mark reclaimed the turnip and dropped the candle end neatly into its hollow center. Then he lit it with an ember from the hearth’s fire.

  Yelping, the boy nearly fell off his stool. In the flash of an instant, it appeared that Mark held a shrunken glowing head in his hand.

  Mark chuckled. “A pretty piece of trickery, isn’t it?”

  Kitt gulped. “Aye, tis that indeed.” Once his first shock of surprise receded, he saw the immediate possibilities. “I cannot wait to frighten my cousins with one of those.” He eyed the bag at his feet. “How many turnips did you say you have here?”

  Mark blew out the candle and shrugged. “Fifty pounds or so. Montjoy was not specific. Very well, Kitt, go to.” He pointed to the sack. “You have much to accomplish betwixt now and All Hallows Eve.”

  Kitt pursed his lips. “Me? I am to carve these…whatevers?”

  Mark chuckled. “A useful skill to add to your growing heap of knowledge. And the Irish children call them jack-o’-lanterns.”

  Grumbling to himself, Kitt pulled a turnip from the sack. “Methinks my lady mother would not approve of this.”

  Mark merely waved at him as he went out the door. Then he stuck his head back inside. “And hide them in the privy alcove when you are finished. By the way, save the innards for Jobe. He is very fond of roasted turnips mashed with butter.”

  Kitt said nothing but sliced off the top of the vegetable with a vicious whack.

  Belle hated to admit it, but she sorely missed Mark’s company at night, though she understood why he kept his distance. He was perfectly polite with her when in the company of Kitt and Jobe, but he always left her little snuggery before the others did. No more slow kisses—not even a peck on the cheek—to cheer her into slumber. Stewed in my own juices.

  Instead of brooding over Mark’s noticeable withdrawal, Belle threw her considerable energies into turning Mortimer’s life upside down. As the days went by, she scrawled her name in every conceivable spot he would see. Mortimer found the word Belle on a piece of paper inserted among his account ledgers, across his pillow in mud, on his looking glass in wax, and most disturbing of all, on his trencher in the blood of a chicken. This last incident sent him flying from the hall to the nearest privy where he disgorged his dinner.

  Belle wasted no pity on her brother-in-law. Instead she took a grim satisfaction in observing the slow disintegration of his health. Turnabout was fair play. Black circles ringed his eyes and his protracted lack of sleep ate into the sharpness of his mind. As he stumbled around the castle’s galleries and chambers, he constantly glanced over his shoulder. Oftentimes he mumbled under his breath and increasingly crossed himself. His complexion turned a pasty white and his already spare frame grew sparer. Yet, for all his suffering, Mortimer refused to leave Bodiam as so many of his minions had already done. His monumental greed for Belle’s brooch outweighed his gnawing fears.

  The only thing that kept Griselda from collapsing into a permanent state of hysterics was her infatuation with Mark and the hope that her All Hallows Eve revels would dispel the evil spirits that haunted the ancient stone building. Like her unseen sister-in-law, Griselda threw herself into her preparations for the feast. Poor Mark literally danced to her tune.

  On the day before the festivities, Belle and her constant shadow, Jobe, watched the final galliard lesson from behind one of the withdrawing room’s panels. When she couldn’t stand the sight of Gris
elda’s fawning over Mark any longer, Belle slipped away, followed by the giant African. They didn’t speak until they were once again in her room.

  “Mark is such a churlish dissembler!” she railed at Jobe, pacing back and forth. “Did you see how he smiled at Griselda when she trod on his foot for the third time? And all those compliments he paid to her? Tis a wonder his tongue doesn’t cleave to the roof of his mouth with all that sickening treacle.”

  Jobe chuckled. “He does it for you, little mistress,” he remarked.

  Belle dismissed that ridiculous idea. “He does it for the reward my father offered.” She curled her lip. “Did you notice Griselda when she came down to dinner today? She looked like a painted maypole. And Mark? That knavish lout told her that she was as beautiful as a rose. He dines and sups on deceit.”

  Jobe only smiled. “For you, bella cara.”

  Belle leveled her gaze at him. “Why are you so loyal to that rogue? Are you his slave?”

  Drawing his dark brows together in an affronted frown, he struck his massive chest with his fist. “Jobe is his own man!”

  Taken aback by his sudden vehemence, Belle said, “I pray your forgiveness, good Jobe. I meant no offense.”

  He nodded. “None taken, little mistress.” He gazed out the narrow window at the muddy river that wound through the rain-soaked fields.

  “When I was fourteen summers, I was captured by warriors from a rival tribe and sold to the Portuguese whose slave ships lurked along Africa’s coasts like hungry jackals. In turn, they sold me to an Irish chieftain who used my skills as a fighter against his enemies.” Jobe paused and grinned. “Iain O’Rourke had many enemies among his own countrymen as well as the English. The sport was very good.”

  Glancing at the double bandolier of daggers that Jobe always wore, Belle shuddered. She preferred not to ponder the nature of Jobe’s sport among the brawling Irish. “Since Mark is English, was he your enemy?”