Halloween Knight

by Tori Phillips

  Kitt leapt into action. Under the cover of the chaos, he extinguished the candelabra on his side of the table. Ivy did the same at the other end. One of Montjoy’s henchman, forewarned what to expect, doused the hearth fire with a full bucket of water. Only then did people notice the hoard of devilish jack-o’-lanterns that surrounded the company on all sides.

  Griselda’s distinctive voice rose above the din. “Mark! Mark! Where are you? I shall swoon.”

  But not before I am there to catch you, I’ll warrant. Mark pushed his way through the crowd until he drew to her side. Griselda all but jumped into his arms. Her icy fingers clawed at his neck.

  Before he could say something to quiet her gibbering, the minstrels in their eyrie above the hall unleashed the flocks of panicked bats. Trilling their high-pitched cries, the disoriented creatures crisscrossed above the heads of the crowd. Griselda shrieked all the louder and ducked this way and that. Mark hoped she would faint soon and be done with it.

  A lighted torch suddenly appeared in front of the hall’s great window. “Look there!” shouted someone in the darkness.

  Jobe! Mark pressed forward to see what wonder his friend had promised. Though Jobe had hinted he would perform something impressive, Mark whistled under his breath when he beheld the giant African.

  Standing astride the stone windowseat, Jobe held out the torch in front of him so that his captive audience could see him in all his splendor. With his free hand, he tossed back his long cape over his shoulders. Instead of shrieking, the guests sucked in their collective breaths. Except for a leather codpiece strapped around his waist to cover his private parts, Jobe stood completely naked before the shocked throng. His bandoliers of daggers, his bracelets and his earring gleamed against his ebony skin. Most terrifying of all, white lines covered his entire body so that he looked like a great skeleton come to life.

  Flashing a white-toothed grin, Jobe threw back his head and uttered his monkey love call. The eerie sound bounced off the walls. Then he broke into a sort of hopping, knees-up dance the likes of which Mark had never seen before. One of the minstrels had kept his wits about him for he took up an accompaniment on the kettledrum. Mark watched his friend’s danse macabre with awestruck fascination. Though Jobe often spoke of his southern homeland, Mark had forgotten that in the Congo of Africa men spoke an unknown language, observed barbaric customs and practiced an entirely different religion. Now in the heart of England, Jobe gloried in his own culture.

  “Tis the devil himself!”

  Many people, especially the innocent citizens of Hawkhurst, fell to their knees and hid their faces from the sight. Others made signs against the evil eye. Without uttering a sound, Griselda collapsed in a heap of garish satin skirts before Mark realized that she had truly fainted. With a final whoop, Jobe tossed the torch into the moat. He wrapped his cape around his body and appeared to vanish, though Mark knew he had slipped out the window, down the rope and into the waiting rowboat.

  Mark hefted Griselda in his arms and looked for one of Montjoy’s men to carry the woman out of the hall. Though he had no love for the shrew, he did not want her to be trampled when Ivy and the other chamber maids of Bodiam started their prearranged stampede toward the courtyard. Spying one of the grooms standing next to Montjoy, Mark handed over Griselda’s limp form to his less-thantender mercies.

  “Don’t drop her in the moat,” he cautioned the grinning man. “Just make sure she gets safely on the far side on the drawbridge.”

  “Aye, my lord,” replied the groom. He slung the unconscious woman over his wide shoulder as if she were a sack of flour, but he did not move lest he miss the rest of the spectacle.

  Mark looked for Mortimer and found the man still standing in the same spot as before. Illuminated by the dim light of the jack-o’-lanterns, the once-preening lord of the manor moved his lips with either prayers or curses.

  Now for the final act of our play. Mark searched the deep shadows at the far end of the hall where he expected Belle to make her ghostly appearance. Instead, a horse’s hoofbeats pounded in the courtyard.

  Moving as one, the company turned toward the lighted entrance of the hall where torches still burned on the landing. Iron horseshoes clattered against the cobblestones at the base of the low wide stairs. Then a dark horse and rider stood silhouetted in the arched doorway.

  Mark blinked. What new piece of trickery was this? He glanced around the hall for Montjoy but could not locate the old gentleman. The rider spurred his great steed into the hall. People scattered to the left and right as the black horse pranced with arched neck down the length of the chamber. The rider was clad entirely in an old-fashioned suit of black chain mail. Over this he wore a sable surcoat that bore an unusual coat of arms: a golden roundel pierced by three black triangles and a dancette line that zigzagged across the bottom. A festoon of green leaves nestled around the roundel’s base.

  The knight’s fourteenth-century closed helm hid his face. Gold and black silken streamers fluttered from the wreath that encircled the steel brow. A heavy two-handed broadsword hung from the man’s belt. His left arm supported a black shield decorated with his heraldic device while he held a sharpened lance in his right hand. A black and gold mantle covered the war-horse’s flanks and red-orange sparks flew when his hooves scraped the hall’s paving stones.

  That can’t possibly be Montjoy!

  Kitt appeared at Mark’s side with a broad grin on his face. “He makes a grand sight, doesn’t he?” he breathed.

  Mark cast a sidelong glance at his squire. “You know him?”

  The boy nodded, though he did not take his eyes off the mysterious knight. “I cannot recall his name. Indeed, I had forgotten all about him until this minute. He used to play with me here when I was quite young. I haven’t seen him since we moved to Wolf Hall to take care of Grandpappa.” He cocked his head, as the rider halted at the far end of the hall. “I don’t remember him looking so fierce. He has a kind face with white hair and a mustache.”

  An elderly family retainer put out to pasture? Mark wondered. Montjoy must have contacted the old boy to join in the frolic. Mark applauded the man’s strength. The huge stallion looked ready to bolt.

  As if the knight read Mark’s thoughts, he spurred his steed. The horse rose on its hind legs with sparks flying from its hooves. Then he plunged at full tilt back down the hall toward the assembly. Everyone pressed themselves against the walls. The knight saluted Mark as he swept past him. A moment later he shot through the doorway. The hoofbeats quickly receded into the night.

  Everyone broke into more nervous laughter as they compared the marvels they had witnessed. Many called for torches. Women begged to be taken home. People bumped into each other as they stumbled about in the darkness. No one could locate a tinderbox or a hot coal.

  The beam from a single candle blazed at the far end of the hall. A large black cat, swelled to twice its size with anger at his sooty indignity, stalked across the floor and dashed out of sight. Growing quiet again, the guests eagerly waited to behold the next wonder.

  Mark heaved a sigh of relief. Tis Belle—finally.

  A pale wraith walked down the center of the floor, leaving a trail of white dust behind her. Belle had sprinkled herself with too much flour, Mark judged. As she drew nearer, she removed her cowl and held the candle closer to her face. A blood-red ruby flashed on the base of her neck.

  The Cavendish jewel! Nice touch!

  “Tis Mistress Belle!” cried Will, staring at her with a mixture of joy and awe on his face. “Methought ye were dead.”

  “Tis her spirit come back to torment us,” wailed Ivy, sounding truly alarmed for the first time. “Mother of God, protect us!” Without waiting for the signal, the girl dashed toward the archway.

  Her cry galvanized everyone else. As Montjoy had predicted, the sight of the deceased mistress of Bodiam was enough to turn the strongest man’s blood to ice. The company fled the hall like wolf-hounded sheep. Their shrieks and screams echoed around
the courtyard as the crowd thundered through the gates and across the drawbridge. Within a few minutes, not a soul remained in the great chamber except Belle, Mark, Kitt—and Mortimer.

  At last shaken from his glazed stupor, the pale host of the ill-fated feast clutched his throat and croaked, “Begone, spirit of hell!”

  Belle pointed her finger dramatically at him. “I will take you there with me.”

  Mark clenched his fists. Run, you whoreson villain! Instead, Mortimer’s face assumed an alarming expression that hinted at obsessive madness. “My brooch!” His eyes burned. He clawed the air in front of him. “Give it to me!” He hopped up and down. “Tis mine! I’ve earned it! Give it to me!”

  Though taken aback by his behavior, Belle stood her ground. “Repent your wickedness, Mortimer,” she continued her rehearsed speech. “Confess the wrongs you have done to me.”

  Instead of turning tail as expected, Mortimer lunged and grabbed her arm.

  She’s overstepped her part! Mark drew his dagger from his boot.

  When he realized that he held a living woman and not a vengeful ghost Mortimer’s expression changed. “Slut!” He shook her. Flour dust filled the air. “You still live, but not for long!” He reached to snatch the brooch from Belle’s gown.

  “The jig is up!” Mark shouted to Kitt as he ran toward Belle.

  She shoved her candle against Mortimer’s cheek. The flame licked his skin and then went out. Howling with pain, Mortimer dropped her arm and clutched his face. Mark caught Belle’s hand.

  “Our revels are ended,” he shouted to her. “Kitt, let’s away! Sorry about the mess,” he added to Mortimer over his shoulder.

  Belle bunched her frayed costume in her free hand and gripped Mark tighter. The three of them dashed for the archway.

  Behind them, Mortimer shouted, “Guards! You dogs! After them!”

  Mark had no time to wonder if any of Mortimer’s men still remained inside the castle. He pulled Belle down the steps into the courtyard. Kitt, his long legs pumping hard, raced beside them. The gateway yawned open on the far side of the deserted quadrangle. Mark looked over his shoulder and his heart skipped a beat.

  “Hell’s bells!” he muttered when several men-at arms clattered down the mid-tower stairs and took up the pursuit.

  “Thieves!” Mortimer shouted. “Shoot them! Kill them!”

  An arrow sang over their heads.

  “God’s mercy!” shouted Belle, glancing behind her.

  More arrows rained down from the east wing battlements where two lone guards raised their bows. The portcullis over the gateway shuddered, groaned and squealed, then fell with a massive crash, barring their escape. Mark ducked as an arrow missed his shoulder by inches.

  “God’s teeth!” Kitt moaned. “We’re doomed!”

  Belle pulled Mark toward the left side of the yard. “This way!”

  She raced for the west mid-tower. Mark didn’t bother to ask what she was doing. If anyone knew how to smuggle them out of Bodiam, it was Belle. Kitt swore under his breath but followed blindly after them.

  Once inside the tower, Mark bolted the door. “Where to now?”

  Belle pointed at the spiral stairs. “Up!”

  “Are you—?” Mark began but Belle raced ahead of him. Kitt scampered behind her. Shaking his head, Mark followed.

  Belle paused only long enough to bolt the gallery doors on the second floor landing before continuing her ascent. Following the two Cavendishes, Mark tried to formulate a reasonable plan of defense. Sooner or later, they were going to run out of stairs.

  By the time Mark reached the garret on the third floor, Belle and Kitt were already inside the bare room. Two stories below, the outer door splintered under Mortimer’s assault.

  “Lock the door,” she panted.

  After sliding home the bolt, Mark turned to her. Never had Belle looked so beautiful as she did at this moment. Cheeks pink with excitement, her breasts heaved against the thin fabric of her costume and her eyes glowed with cobalt fire.

  Mark motioned the brother and sister to the far wall. “Stay back. I’ll cut them down as they enter. There can’t be too many of those puling minions left.” He prayed that there weren’t. He couldn’t let the Cavendishes know how truly terrified he was—not for himself, but for their sakes as well as for their parents.

  Belle glared at him. “This way, you jolthead! I do not intend to wait here for Mortimer!” She led them into the privy alcove and lifted the cracked wooden seat.

  “In there!” she pointed at the black hole. “Quick!”

  Mark gaped at the privy shaft and then at her. “You’re moonstruck!”

  Belle ripped away the trailing material of her costume. “It hasn’t been used in ages,” she replied, kicking off her shoes. “I used to do this all the time. How do you think I got outside after dark?”

  Kitt puckered his lips. “Where does it go?”

  “Into the moat,” she replied. “Tis the only shaft that ends at the waterline instead of below it. Well, don’t just stand there, you flea-brains! Jump in! Hurry,” she added. The guards’ voices echoed in the stairwell.

  Mark shuddered. “Tis a sixty foot drop.”

  “More or less,” Belle agreed. She grabbed him by his shoulders. “Trust me, Mark. I know what I’m doing. This chute was built as an escape route hundreds of years ago. Tis wider than the others.”

  Gauging the diameter of the hole, Mark knew his shoulders were too broad. But Belle and Kitt were as slim as the wily fourteenth century fox who had constructed such an unusual exit. It might work—it had to. “Kitt, do it! That is my express command, squire,” he ordered when the boy looked ready to balk.

  With a grimace, Kitt gingerly lowered himself down the shaft. “Sdeath, Belle! What a foul odor!” He lifted his arms over his head and literally disappeared from view.

  Mark held his breath for what seemed like eternity. Then he heard a faint splash.

  Belle grinned at him. “See? Tis child’s play. Come on!”

  Mark pulled her to his chest in a fierce embrace. “You go, I’ll follow after.” He sugared his lie with a smile.

  She cocked her eyebrow. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

  Mark gave her a lopsided grin. She had the heart of a lion. “Both,” he replied. “Kiss me—for luck.”

  “For luck,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around his neck.

  The kiss was not long enough for Mark to show her how much she meant to him. He needed a lifetime to do that. He had less than a minute.

  Someone pounded on the chamber door.

  He broke away from her. “Quickly!” he urged. “And give my regards to your parents,” he added as he helped her into the filthy hole.

  She looked up at him. “You’re not coming, are you?”

  The outer door shuddered under heavy blows.

  He held her by the wrists. “Later, chou-chou, I have some business here to finish.” He lowered her down. “I love you,” he added at the last moment. He might not get another chance to tell her.

  “I know.” She smiled at him, tossed him a kiss, and dropped out of sight.

  Mark listened for the splash. When he heard it, he relaxed. Let Mortimer do his damnedest now; Belle was safely away from his clutches. He strolled into the chamber and leaned against the wall with one leg crossed over the other in a nonchalant pose. He used his dagger to clean his nails while he watched the thick door buckle and splinter asunder.

  Four guards fell inside, with Mortimer frothing at the mouth behind them.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” Mark greeted them with a cocky grin. “Is anything amiss?”

  “Seize him!” Mortimer screamed. “And do not be gentle.”

  Gripping handfuls of grass, Belle pulled herself up the moat’s slippery bank. By the faint moonlight, she saw her brother lying on his back panting like a landed trout. The chill air raised goosebumps on her skin.

  “Kitt?” she whispered, “we must get to Montjoy quickly.”
r />   He rolled over and pulled himself to his knees. “Wait for Mark,” he gasped.

  Belle swallowed back a sob that rose in her throat. “He’s not coming.”

  “God’s nightshirt!” Kitt sputtered, staggering to his feet. “We’ve got to go back and save him.”

  Belle pulled him down into the tall weeds. “Not now, and keep your voice down. Mortimer may have his men on the west wall by now.” She clenched her teeth to curb her chattering from the cold. “We will free Mark, do not fear for that, little brother. Let’s find some warmth. We will be no good to him if we freeze to death now.”

  The boy nodded. Keeping low to the ground, the two raced for the trees that marked the boundary of the home park. Once within the safety of the wood, they straightened up and circled around to the front of the castle.

  It was over six weeks since Belle had last been outside the walls of her beloved home. How cold and deserted Bodiam looked now—as if its very heart had stopped beating. Stay alive, sweet Marcus! I’ll come for you, I swear.

  Nearby, a bird whistled in the dark. Kitt’s head snapped up, then he answered with a similar call. “Tis Jobe,” he told his sister. “He taught me how to sound like one of the birds from his homeland.”

  “G-good,” she shivered.

  The African stepped from behind a tree. “Did you fly from the walls?” he asked. “Diabo! You are wet.” He whipped off his enormous cape and wrapped it around both of them. In the time since he had vanished from the great hall, he had washed off his paint and was now dressed in a civilized fashion.

  “Where is Mark?” he asked, as they skirted along the forest’s edge.

  Belle nodded toward the dark castle. “Still in there,” she said with a catch in her voice. “He was too big to fit through my escape hole.” She grasped Jobe’s hand. “Our plans went all awry, didn’t they?”

  He put his arm around her. “Not so, little mistress. No one who was in the great chamber will ever forget this night. As I lay in the dark, I heard them shout to one another as they hurried down the road. You have created a legend that will live for many years to come.”