Halloween Knight

by Tori Phillips

  Lord Hayward pushed himself away from the wall. “What is it, Fletcher? You look pale.”

  Mortimer mopped his brow with his sleeve. “Tis nothing, only some unfinished business I must attend to. Please return to your lady love, my lord. I desire to be alone.”

  “As you wish,” Sir Mark replied as he left.

  With shaking fingers, Mortimer struck a spark from his tinderbox and lit the lone candle on the desk. Then he fed the hell-sent note into its flames.

  How he wished this blasted day were yesterday’s ashes!

  Waiting was the hardest part for Belle. She had never been a patient person and today the hours barely inched toward the twilight hour, despite the comings and goings in her room. First, Kitt arrived bearing her dinner and the small sack of white flour that she needed to create her ghostly pallor. Before Belle could ask him what Mark was doing, the boy scampered out the door mumbling something about his mysterious “jack-o’-lanterns.”

  In the mid-afternoon Jobe came for the bundle of fireworks. “The rain has stopped,” he informed Belle with a broad smile. “The Creator of us all must wish to behold these wonders for himself.” He too left in a hurry.

  Belle gathered Dexter into her lap. “Everyone is doing something exciting except me,” she complained to the sleepy cat. She stroked his thick fur. “I suppose tis still too early to roll you in the fireplace soot. I know you will hate it, but you must be disguised as much as the rest of us. Poor baby.” Ignorant of his impending indignity, Dexter purred with his eyes shut.

  Belle tried on her robe of cheesecloth. Its train trailed perfectly behind her and the stringy material made her look as if she were dressed in a cobweb—or a decayed winding sheet. She inspected the effect in her small hand mirror. I shall wear my hair loose and in disarray. She adjusted the hood and consulted the mirror again.

  “It needs something more,” she told the cat who now slept on the bed. “Blood dripping from my hands? Nay, twould make the candlestick too slippery. I must not set fire to myself or I will become a true ghost indeed.”

  She played with the neckline, first pulling it high, then tugging it low enough to expose a scandalous expanse of her breasts. “That might interest Mark.” The memory of his tongue on them gave her delicious shivers.

  Belle stared into the mirror. What she needed was something colorful and dramatic. Something that would shine out in the darkness of the hall. Something unforgettable. She snapped her fingers as a brilliant idea leaped into her mind. “The very thing, Dexter! Every eye in the place will be riveted on me for sure.”

  Tingling with excitement, she quickly changed from her costume into a plain brown gown. Wrapping a black woolen shawl around her shoulders, she unlocked the door. “I shall return soon,” she told the cat as she slipped out. Pausing behind the tapestry, she listened for any sound that would warn her of another person in the gallery, but there was none. Grinning to herself, she stole down the mid-tower stairs to the courtyard. This would be tricky, but she had to cross the open space to the door of the castle’s chapel.

  The courtyard was alive with servants rushing to and from the front gate carrying covered baskets toward the kitchens and buttery. The busy scene reminded her of the happier days when Bodiam hummed with activity. Griselda must have ordered food and drink for hundreds of people. Belle chuckled to herself. Mortimer must be swearing rafter-shaking oaths by now. He hated to part with so much as a farthing.

  Belle drew her shawl over her head to hide both her face and her brilliant hair. She grabbed an empty bucket from the nearby trough. Taking a deep breath, she hunched her shoulders and made her way purposefully across the yard. No one gave her a second glance.

  Please let the door be unlocked. She pushed down on the latch that led unto the chapel’s crypt. It opened without a sound. Leaving the bucket by the door, Belle slipped inside. Though only a feeble light came from the solitary barred window on the far side, Belle knew every stone on the floor. She crept up the winding stairs to the chapel proper and paused in the shadow of its arched doorway.

  No one prayed on this hectic day. Ever since King Henry had broken with the pope, holy devotions had been sparsely attended. The door that led to the master bedchamber was shut fast. Belle stepped into the vaulted room. The waning afternoon’s light through the triple-arched stained-glass window cast pale squares of blue and green on the polished floor. She was halfway to the chancel when the bedroom door latch rattled. She skittered back to the shadowed landing just before Mortimer entered.

  The man looked like death itself. His expensive clothing sagged on his thin frame. His gaunt eyes burned with a haunted look. He staggered to the railing before the altar, then dropped heavily to his knees. Though he prayed in silence, Belle saw that his shoulders shook.

  Methinks you found my latest note, Mortimer. Your soul is skewered by your greed. If you only knew how close you are to your heart’s desire!

  Mortimer remained in his humble position for ten more minutes, shivering and shaking all the while. Once or twice he sobbed aloud. Though she was surprised by Mortimer’s religious fervor, his abject condition did not move Belle to pity. She was glad that his guilty conscience whipped him raw.

  I wonder what he would do if I suddenly jumped out at him?

  Though the idea was tempting, Belle resigned herself to wait until dark. Mortimer would need all the blessings of his prayers tonight. Finally, he rose and limped out the door by which he had come. He closed and locked it behind him. Belle waited a few more minutes in case Mortimer felt the need to return, but only silence filled the holy space.

  Once more she tiptoed across the floor to the same railing that Mortimer had just left. She swung her legs over the simple barrier between the clergy and laity. Boldly, she ascended the two low steps to the altar itself. She sank down before it.

  “Thank you for guarding my family’s treasure so well,” she whispered, “but methinks the time has come to wear it once again. Bless me, Lord,” she added.

  Belle lifted the white brocade skirt of the altar cloth. It hid a beautiful cross carved on the front panel. Belle rotated the medallion to the right, revealing a small cache behind it. What a sly fox the builder of Bodiam had been to have consigned his most precious possessions to the protection of holy sanctuary! Belle reached her hand into the opening and pulled out a small packet wrapped in one of her handkerchiefs—the one that she had hidden here on her wedding night.

  Resisting the urge to immediately look at the brooch, she replaced the cross and straightened the cloth over it. After whispering another prayer of thanksgiving, Belle retraced her route down the stairs to the crypt. Before she opened the outer door, she stuffed her precious burden deep inside her bodice. Then, pulling her shawl lower over her face, she stepped into the courtyard.

  It had grown dark while she had been inside the chapel and the activity in the courtyard had increased. Hunching over her bucket, Belle hobbled her way back to the west wing in the manner of an elderly woman. With her heart beating in the back of her throat, she practically flew up the mid-tower stairs to the second floor. She did not breathe easily until she was safely inside her own room once again. Her elation at her daring made her dizzy.

  Belle swooped down on the still-slumbering Dexter. “Look, you slugabed!” she said, shaking him awake. She unwrapped the packet. The blood-red ruby sparkled in her hand. The large pearl shimmered against her skin. “Behold the root of all my happiness and sorrow.”

  The words caught in her throat. It was exactly Jobe’s prediction. Was today the day he had foretold? Belle had awakened with great joy; would she sleep tonight with great sadness? A chill skittered down her spine. She squared her shoulders. Come what may, she would be ready for it.

  When Belle admitted Jobe a few hours later, they each stared at the other with wide-eyed amazement. The Cavendish brooch flashed on her bodice. After studying the magnificent jewel for a moment, Jobe nodded his approval.

  “Tis a good night to wear it,” he
remarked.

  For her part, Belle was speechless at the sight of him. A long black cape swathed the African from his neck to his ankles. His face drew her immediate fascination. Jobe had found or made a pure white paint and he had applied it lavishly in stripes across his forehead, around his eyes and down the bridge of his nose. Thin white lines snaked down the backs of his large hands and over the tops of his bare feet. Though the night had grown cold, Jobe gave no sign that he felt it. Instead, he positively glowed with excitement.

  With his golden earring and shining copper bracelets, Jobe looked like a pagan god come to life.

  He grinned at her awe. “Methinks twill be most excellent sport tonight.”

  Belle swallowed. “Twill be unforgettable.”

  The crescent moon rode the billows of scattered black clouds. Mark whistled a merry tune as Kitt helped him into his court dress. Tonight he had to look the part of a wealthy lord betrothed to the host’s sister. Gold lace edged his small neck ruff and the cuffs of his white lawn shirt. His ivory silk stockings fit snugly over his calves. He stepped into a pair of cinnamon-and-green paned breeches. Little golden bells decorated the points of his laces just above the knee. Kitt buttoned the doublet made of cinnamon-colored satin slashed with ivory silk. Over this, Mark slipped on a sleeveless overcoat of green velvet trimmed with gold. A jaunty flat bonnet also made of green velvet and decorated with a black ostrich feather completed his attire.

  Stepping to the center of his chamber, he posed and asked Kitt, “How do I look?”

  The boy cocked his head. “You make a fine show. Mistress Griselda will surely swoon.”

  “Not immediately, I hope,” Mark muttered.

  He took a small rolled tube of blue paper from his clothes chest and placed it carefully in his pouch. He did not relish carrying a handful of black powder so near to his private parts. He would be glad to get rid of the dangerous package. Then he slipped his long dagger down the inside of his black boot. Mark would have preferred to face this evening with his sword buckled to his side but such a precaution would have attracted unwelcome questions. He smoothed Kitt’s collar over the boy’s wine-red jerkin.

  “Do you carry a weapon?” he asked.

  Kitt wet his lips. “Do you think I might need one?”

  “I pray that you won’t, but a wise man never ventures into the unknown without some defense.”

  Though the squire grew a little paler, he straightened his shoulders and held his head higher. “My hunting knife?” he asked. “Tis all I have.”

  Mark sighed inwardly. “Twill do. Wear it belted behind your back where twill not draw attention. And the paper that I gave you this morning?”

  Kitt tapped his pouch. “Here, well-wrapped in wax.”

  Mark clapped him on the shoulder. “Are we ready, squire Bertrum?”

  The boy flashed him a grin. “Twill be excellent sport, methinks.”

  Mark cuffed him lightly on the ear. “Mind you watch for my signal instead of leering at Mistress Ivy’s bosom.”

  He nodded. “Count on me, Mark.”

  “I do,” Mark replied before he opened the door.

  Bodiam’s great hall abounded with merry guests, all of whom sported Griselda’s fanciful masks chosen from several trays that were stationed beside the double arch doorways on the entrance landing. A band of five minstrels, all former Bodiam servants, arrived, carrying not only their instruments wrapped in cloth sacking but also several large bags that Mark knew contained a multitude of dazed bats broom-swept from local barn lofts and church steeples. The young men grinned at each other as they hurried up the curved stairs to the minstrel’s gallery high over the hall.

  Mark smiled to himself. Montjoy has done his job very well. He looked around for the elderly steward and found him predictably by the fire that roared in the huge hearth. His visage was hidden behind an owlish creation. Ivy, decked with a cascade of ribbons and a silver mask representing the moon, stood by his side. Kitt gave her a little wave. He giggled when she returned it. After donning a purple, green and gold mask, Mark ambled over to Montjoy.

  “Well met, old friend,” he murmured. “I see you have packed the hall with cohorts. Do they know what to do?”

  Montjoy snorted through his brown feathered mask. “Of course! The lads and lasses are as anxious as I am for the Fletchers to be gone from Bodiam.”

  “Do they know that Belle lives?” Mark whispered.

  Montjoy shook his white head. “Nay. Methought twould be better if they reacted naturally when she makes her appearance. How does the sweet child fare?”

  Mark thought of last night’s pleasures and grinned behind his mask. “She is in most excellent spirits, if you will pardon my pun.”

  Spying Mark, Griselda squealed with delight and pushed her way through the throng. “Oh my lord! How wondrous pleasing you look tonight!” she shrieked.

  Mark swept her a bow. “As you yourself make the goddess Diana green with envy,” he replied, concealing a shudder. Griselda’s overblown gown reminded him of a gaudy tent at a fair. “By my larkin, your mask maker is a magician indeed. Your designs are—”

  “—simply unbelievable,” she supplied before he could finish his sentence. “Aye, everyone here has complimented me on them.” Leaning closer to Mark, she asked in a none-too-subtle voice, “Where did all these people come from? I had no idea we had so many neighbors.”

  Mark took her hand and escorted her away from the proximity of the crackling fire. The gunpowder in his pouch made him extremely nervous. “This countryside is blessed with many good folk whom I have come to know on my daily rides,” he bantered. “In truth, my gilded nymph, you should ride out in the fresh air more often.”

  Her pouting lips protruded from under her long-beaked stork’s face. “I hate horses,” she replied with a snap.

  Before Mark could think of a complimentary reply, the kettledrum rolled to announce the first dance of the evening. He bowed to Griselda again. “Shall we foot it and show these country folk a thing or two?”

  Griselda snorted with laughter as Mark led her to the far end of the hall where many couples took their places for the Grand Pavane. The musicians struck up their recorder, sackbutt, schwam, viol and drums, filling the hall with the sounds of music. As Mark guided his shambling partner through the stately figures of the dance, his gaze swept the large chamber for Mortimer. He finally spied his quarry making forced small talk with a rotund man who wore a golden grotesque face. Mortimer, dressed entirely in black, was the only person in the hall without a mask. He looked glum and ill at ease. Mark chuckled. Mortimer is probably counting up in his head every penny this merriment is costing him.

  The long table had been pulled to the exact center of the room. It groaned under the weight of several lighted candelabra and a cornucopia of food and drink. Large apple tarts sent their succulent steam curling toward the vaulted ceiling. Heaps of tempting soul cakes and moist dark gingerbread filled many platters, while large dishes of crowdie, an apple cream sweet, beckoned to the guests. Cabbage pudding and a whole suckling pig, roasted and sliced, made up the heartier fare. The serving boys, Kitt among them, kept the revelers’ cups and mugs filled with tart applejack and the more potent sackwine. The music changed to a rowdy galliard and the general din swelled.

  So far so good, Mark thought as he twirled Griselda through a lively bransle two hours later. He noticed that the loyal Bodiam retainers drank sparingly while Mortimer’s minions and the innocent townspeople whom Montjoy had invited imbibed with abandon. Mortimer’s face grew longer and longer as he surveyed his provender disappearing down the throats of a hundred citizens of Hawkhurst. Mark executed a series of quick steps in time with the lively music, then kept the pace while Griselda attempted to follow suit.

  Over the heads of the crowd, he saw Kitt and one of Montjoy’s lackeys light the little jack-o’-lanterns that sat in the lower scaffolding niches along the walls. Soon several dozen little faces gleamed their ghoulish grins. The guests, who clust
ered around the brightly lit table and the roaring hearth, took no notice. Mark danced by the great casement that overlooked the moat. Earlier in the day he had unlatched it. After darkness had fallen, he had tied a thick rope around the window’s stone center frame. He was relieved to see that his preparations remained undisturbed and the latch still hung free. By now Jobe should be in position at the other end of the rope. The witching hour was about to commence. Mark cast a quick glance at the far end of the hall, now in deep shadow.

  Belle, I hope you are in your place and ready.

  At the conclusion of the dance, Mark suggested to Griselda that they have something cool to drink. Griselda, her mask askew, nodded between gasps for breath. Mark guided her to the table and signaled Kitt to present her with a brimming cup of applejack.

  “Tis time,” he whispered in the boy’s ear.

  Though he pretended that he had not heard Mark, Kitt grinned. While he poured more of the hard cider into Griselda’s cup, he complimented her profusely on her dancing skill. That boy is already a silver-tongued devil!

  Mark sauntered over to the fireplace and nodded to Montjoy. The old fox and Ivy moved to the side for they knew what would happen next. Opening his pouch, Mark took out his handkerchief—and the tube of gunpowder.

  He took a final survey of the hall. Both Mortimer and Griselda were in perfect positions for the coming show. Mark’s heartbeat accelerated. He took a deep breath then tossed the gunpowder into the flames.

  All hell broke loose.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Fire accompanied by large clouds of gray smoke exploded from the huge fireplace. Hissing, popping and an enormous bang rocked the hall. Laughing nervously, a few of the guests assumed that the noise was the announcement of the evening’s entertainment. Most, however, screamed with fright.