Halloween Knight

Kitt blinked. Mark smiled inwardly. This was probably the first time the lad had ever been ordered to do a menial task for someone other than his family. High time, he thought. Kitt shot a longing glance at the fire before he ducked outside into the cold again.

Montjoy tapped the side of his nose. “That one reminds me of someone though I cannot put my finger on it.” Shaking his head, he shuffled to the draught chair close by the fireplace. There he eased his old body into his cushioned nest and wrapped a knitted lap rug around his spindle shanks.

“Ivy!” he called, his voice surprisingly strong for one so frail-looking. “A strop of ale for our guests!”

Mark unpinned his cloak and laid it over the bench by the door. Jobe followed his lead. Then the dark giant hunkered down in front of the fire’s welcome warmth. A young maid, dimpling with the freshness of her youth, came into the front room carrying a platter with a jug and several mugs. Spying Jobe on the hearth, she screamed and nearly dropped the lot. Mark rescued the ale and attempted to soothe the trembling girl.

“Soft, pretty lass. Take no amiss. Jobe is as gentle as a kitten in a basket, especially to such a winsome creature as yourself.”

Ivy uttered no coherent words but merely gaped at the African. He returned her stare with a tooth-flashing smile. Burying her face in her hands, she fled into the back room.

“Hist!” Montjoy threw Mark a look of stern disapproval. “Ivy is a good girl and I’ll not have you meddling with her virtue as you are wont to do with impressionable young things.”

Mark returned an innocent expression to the old man. “Ah, Montjoy, you are wicked to recall my misspent youth!”

“Humph!” Montjoy poured himself a mug of ale and motioned to Jobe to help himself. “Let us attend to the business at hand. When will Sir Brandon arrive with his escort?”

In the act of swallowing the sweet Sussex brew, Mark choked at the question. He wiped the foam out of his eyes, caught his breath and replied, “My lord is not coming.”

Montjoy sat up straighter. His old eyes glowed. “How now? Has Sir Brandon lost his sound wits? His own daughter is in the gravest of danger.”

Sighing inwardly, Mark wondered again just how serious the matter was. Belle always had the habit of exaggerating her difficulties when things didn’t proceed to her liking. “My lord is a-bed with a broken hip and every man at Wolf Hall is needed to bring in the harvest. Sir Brandon sent me in his stead.”

Montjoy mumbled under his breath then asked, “How many accompanied you?”

Mark replied, “Myself, Jobe and my squire are at your service.”

The steward’s eyes bulged from his wrinkled face. “That is all? May the angels in heaven preserve Mistress Belle!”

“Jobe is worth ten men in any fight,” Mark hastened to explain. He prayed that the old man would not suffer a seizure. “Trust me, I have seen him in the midst of a fray.”

Montjoy passed a hand across his forehead as if he sought to wipe away a headache. “Fools, the lot of you! Aye, and your lord and master too.”

“I am my own master now,” Mark murmured into his mug. In a louder tone he asked, “Your message was most murky and full of your usual dire humor, Montjoy. Pray tell, what exactly has Belle done now?”

The ancient steward of Bodiam glared at him. “She has done nothing. Methinks the poor lass is being held prisoner against her will by that pustulous slug of a brother-in-law, Mortimer Fletcher.”

Mark lowered himself onto a three-legged stool that faced the steward’s chair. The hairs on the back of his neck quivered at the sharp vehemence of Montjoy’s words. “How now? Explain your tale and leave nothing out.”

Cradling his mug between his bony hands, Montjoy leaned forward. “For the first year of Mistress Belle’s marriage to young Cuthbert Fletcher, all was well at Bodiam. True, she soon led the boy around by his nose but he seemed to enjoy it. The winter was hard here. Cuthbert grew pale and stayed within doors, though I saw Mistress Belle weekly when she brought me a basket of delicacies from her kitchens. She was ever kind to me and always inquired after the state of my poor health.”

Mark made a face. She never showed me so much as a groat’s worth of tender concern when I broke my arm on her account! “Then Cuthbert died,” he prodded.

“Aye, in June when the strawberries were at their peak. Fever—here one day and in his grave the next. Poor little Belle was grief-stricken. She loved the boy for all her willful ways.”

A twinge of jealousy wormed into Mark’s heart. What enticement did that puling milksop have to win Belle’s love? He cleared his throat. “And then? What of Mortimer?”

Montjoy sniffed deep with disgust. “Like ravens gathering over carrion, Cuthbert’s brother and sister swooped down upon Bodiam a fortnight before the young husband’s death. They must have packed their trunks the minute they received the news of his illness.”

Mark raised his brows. “They came with many trunks?”

“A cartload of baggage!” Montjoy snapped. “Enough to last them a year and then some. Shortly after Cuthbert’s untimely death things began to change.” His voice assumed a hollow tone.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mark noticed Kitt creep into the room from the back door and slip into a dark corner. The boy stood as motionless as an alert deer. His blue eyes sparked with an indigo fire.

The old man took no notice of the squire. “Belle came less often to visit me and when she did, she seemed quiet and withdrawn.”

Mark furrowed his brow. Belle had never been the least bit quiet except the one time she had been sick with some childish complaint. “Had she caught Cuthbert’s fever?”

She’s dead! cried a banshee’s voice in his brain. He felt as if he had swallowed a cold stone that now pressed against his very soul. Please God, do not let it be that!

“Is Belle sick?” Kitt echoed from his corner.

Montjoy stared hard at the boy, then shook his head. “Nay, though she would not say what was the matter except that she prayed her in-laws would soon remove themselves from her home. Then…when the wheat was ready for harvest, she stopped visiting me altogether.” He sipped his ale then continued. “At the same time, all the servants were dismissed.” He snapped his fingers. “Like that! Paid their wages and sent packing. Of course many of them came straightway to me.”

“And?” Mark asked, keeping a wary eye on Kitt.

“They told a sorrowful tale of this Mortimer Fletcher. The man is the son of a London wool merchant! He knows nothing of administering such a large estate as Bodiam. The servants told me that he bullied Mistress Belle as well as his own sister.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Mark countered. “Obedience was never one of Belle’s virtues.”

Montjoy allowed himself a slight shrug. “I only report what I have heard. Once all the servants were gone, save for a lackwit potboy, Mortimer filled Bodiam with his own minions culled from the gutters and foul bogs, I warrant. Since mid-August, the castle has become a hive of scum and villains. No one goes there except to deliver supplies.”

Chills danced down Mark’s spine. Belle’s plight was considerably worse than he had imagined.

“And Belle?” breathed Kitt with a tremor in his voice.

The old man cast him another appraising look before he answered. “As I wrote to Sir Brandon: she has been seen in one of the towers.”

“Which one?” Mark asked. Having lived at Bodiam for six years, he knew every nook and cranny in the castle.

“The northwest corner,” Montjoy replied. “One of the village boys spied her while he was fishing. She was in the garret chamber.”

Mark whistled. “He had good eyesight to recognize her through that narrow window.”

The old steward nodded. “She waved and called to him. He could only catch the words my father but twas enough, especially when Mortimer set a pack of varlets after the boy.”

Jobe suddenly came to life. “Methinks twill be most excellent sport.” He chuckled.

Montjoy gaped at him with open horror. “Tis no afternoon’s pleasure that I speak of but the life of a dear, sweet child. This Mortimer is sly and cunning.”

The African grunted. “More better!”

The old steward drew himself up. “Attend to me, son of Satan! The man is a very snake. I myself ventured to knock at the gates. I demanded to see Mistress Belle. Do you know that he laughed in my face and threatened to have his minions toss me into the moat? I feel infinitely sorry for his wretched sister.”

Mark cocked his head. Where there was a wench, there was a way. A plan began to form in his mind. “Tell me about Mistress Fletcher.”

“Ivy!” Montjoy called. The girl appeared at the doorway but refused to cross the threshold.

“Aye, sir?” she asked. She did not take her eyes off Jobe.

“Ivy was a chambermaid at Bodiam in happier times,” Montjoy explained to Mark. “Tell them about Griselda, child.”

Ivy made a face. “She is like a sour dishcloth. Limp and always complaining.”

Mark crossed to her side. Gently he put his arm around the maid and lifted her chin so that she was forced to look into his eyes. “Tell me, pretty Ivy,” he said in his most seductive tone. “Is Mistress Griselda comely?”

Ivy relaxed in his loose embrace and smiled at him. “I would not venture to say so, my lord,” she said with a giggle. “She is thin like an eel, has the voice of a jay and the face of a horse.”

Mark caressed Ivy’s little chin. “And is this paragon of beauty betrothed to some fortunate suitor?”

Ivy giggled again. “Her? Nay, my lord, and there is the nut and core of her unhappiness. She is desperate for a husband. At night, she shuts herself up in her chamber and whispers spells to conjure up one. Twas enough to give me the shakes.”

Mark drew the maid a little closer to him. “Fear not, sweet soul,” he murmured.

Montjoy rapped his knuckles on the arm of his chair. “Hear now, Mark! None of that! Release the child. She is not for your pleasure. Ivy! Fetch supper at once!”

With a chuckle, Mark stepped away from the smitten creature. His vanity enjoyed the momentary conquest. Though Ivy was far too young and innocent for his taste, she reminded his body that he had not been with a woman since he had left the king’s court. “Peace, Montjoy! Your girl is safe from me.”

The old man sniffed with disapproval. “I have never known any maid who was safe from your devilish charms.”

Except Belle. Mark rounded on Kitt who plainly was much taken with the winsome Ivy. “You! Squire! Do not stand there like a dead tree. Help serve our food for we are famished. And mind you—do not practice your lecherous wiles upon little Ivy.”

“But…but I never intended—” Kitt stammered.

Mark waved him out of the room. “Begone!” Then he smiled at Montjoy and Jobe. “I have thought of a most rare plan. LaBelle Cavendish will be free from her tower within the next twenty-four hours.”

And those thousand acres are practically mine.

The turning of the key in the rusty lock awoke Belle from her light sleep. She pulled herself upright and rubbed the last bit of drowsiness from her eyes. Since the day was overcast she could not tell the hour. A dull headache drummed against her temples.

The person on the far side of her prison door fumbled with the lock. Belle relaxed against the wall. “Tis only poor Will,” she told Dexter.

The black-and-white cat sat at her feet with his tail wrapped over his front paws. He stared at the door as if he expected a mouse to crawl under it. At long last, the bolt slid back and Will stepped inside. A gust of cold wind sailed through the lancet window, lifted some of Belle’s loose bedding straw in its path and carried them through the open portal. She shivered inside her filthy gown. The material was a light wool and it offered scant protection against the cold blasts from the north that whistled outside the walls. In the space of one short day, autumn had arrived in full force. Tonight would be bone-chilling.

“Goo’day, mistress,” said Will as he set down his full bucket with a hard thump. Clean water sloshed over the top and splashed Dexter. The cat jumped sideways then leapt to the comparative safety of the window’s narrow ledge.

Belle gave a wan smile at the bumbling young man. Will had been a potboy and turnspit at Bodiam ever since she had moved into the castle when her father had married her stepmother. Though Will had grown tall and brawny, his mind was still that of an amiable eight-year-old child. She was glad that Mortimer had not tossed him out with the rest of her loyal servants. Not that Mortimer had a compassionate bone in his body. It was merely a practical matter of finance. Will worked for nothing but food and a place to sleep. Since his wits were poor, the boy would give no trouble to the current despot who ruled Bodiam. Thank heavens for Will’s gentle soul and sweet nature! Belle suspected she would have died of starvation by now if it were not for his kindness and Dexter’s cunning skills.

“Good day, Will.” She flashed the boy as bright a smile as she could muster. “What’s the news today?”

Will squatted down beside her. “I wager you will never guess—not in a month o’ Sundays!” He giggled.

Though her stomach rumbled with hunger, Belle bided her time. Will would take deep offense if he thought she was just interested in the morsels of food he brought instead of his news. She knew no one ever spoke to him except to hurl curses. She took his large hand in hers.

“Let’s see. Did the cook fall into the soup, perchance?”

Giggling again, Will shook his head.

“What a pity!” Belle kept her tone light and teasing. “Hmm. Did Mortimer dig up something of interest in the storeroom?”

Will wrinkled his nose. “You are colder and colder. Come, guess again!” He wriggled all over with suppressed excitement.

Belle pretended to think. “Can you give me a hint? Just a wee one?”

Will’s grin broadened. “Tis something to do with Mistress Griselda.”

Belle furrowed her brow and pondered in earnest. Will loathed her sister-in-law. What could have sparked his interest in her? “Is she going back to her father’s home?” Belle asked, half afraid of the answer. If Griselda left Bodiam, there was no telling what evil Mortimer might do.

The potboy made a face. “Tis not that wondrous but the next best thing.”

Belle’s patience with Will’s game wore very thin. All she could think about was food. “I have made three guesses,” she pointed out.

Will gave her a very superior look. “And all of them were wrong.”

Belle squeezed his hand by way of encouragement. “Then you must make it all right, Will. Please tell me, what is your great news?”

The boy puffed out his broad chest. “Mistress Griselda has got herself a suitor.”

Ignoring the gnawing pain in her stomach, Belle gaped at him. “Surely you jest with me.”

He shook his head. A light brown curl fell into his eyes. “Not so, never! He came this morning on a great horse.”

She furrowed her brows. “How on earth did he gain admittance? Is he a friend of Mortimer’s?”

The lad made a face. “Nay, the master gives many sour looks at him but says nothing. One of the guards told me that this nobleman stood on the moat’s bank opposite Mistress Griselda’s chamber window and he sang to her—for near half an hour, they say. Then the mistress commanded that the gates be opened. Since then she has done nothing but smile and smile and smile.”

Belle sat up a little straighter. “Tell me, is this poor swain deaf, dumb and blind?”

Will considered the question carefully before he replied, “Methinks not. He looks fair in his parts, though I would not swear to it. After dinner he sang again to Mistress Griselda. I heard him myself. He has a pleasing voice. And she turned red like an apple when he kissed her hand. But his squire is a right lackwit,” he added with a note of satisfaction.

Belle perked up at this intelligence. She wondered if the new squire might possibly be malleable enough to help her escape. So far, Will had been singularly stubborn in that particular area. The poor boy had been thoroughly cowed by a vicious beating. Aloud, she asked in a casual manner, “How now? What does this squire do?”

Will rolled his eyes. “Tis what he doesn’t know how to do. A right stumblebum—even worse than me. He has already angered both the cook and the steward by his poor service at dinnertime. Cook boxed his ears. But the lad’s nice to me all the same. His name is Bertrum.”

“I shall remember him in my prayers,” murmured Belle. And in my thoughts. Mayhap this Bertrum will be the angel of my freedom.

Will rose, then picked up yesterday’s empty water bucket and prepared to leave. Belle uttered an anxious bleat.

“Oh, Will!” She reached out to him. “Haven’t you forgotten to give me something?” she asked, praying that Bertrum’s sudden arrival had not addled Will’s memory. She pointed to the basket still hooked over his arm.

Stopping short, he grinned sheepishly at her. “Aye, ye are right, Mistress Belle! My mind mistook—almost.”

He pulled out the usual stale bread, then added a generous wedge of cheese that he had stolen from the kitchen. He dropped his precious gifts into her lap. Dexter hopped down from his perch and trotted across the floor to investigate the source of the delicious aroma. Belle covered the food with the hem of her skirt, then blew Will her customary kiss.

“May all the angels protect you,” she whispered to him.

He touch his fingers to his forehead. “And with you, Mistress.” Then he slammed the heavy door behind him.

Belle bit into the cheese, savoring its sharp tang on her tongue. Dexter sat beside her and watched as she devoured her meal. His pink underlip quivered. After she swallowed the last morsel, she sighed then cocked an indulgent eye at her loyal companion.

“How now, Dexter! Do not reproach me with those great golden eyes of yours. You know you dine very well and at your leisure, while I must wait for the crumbs to fall my way.” She patted her lap. Dexter hopped onto the proffered spot, circled once to find a position to his liking, then lay down with his front paws tucked under his chest.

Belle stroked him as she thought aloud. “What do you think of Will’s news? A moonstruck suitor for Griselda, accompanied by a bumbling squire? Tis a rich jest indeed. It almost makes me want to laugh—if I could remember how to do it. Oh, Dexter, will I ever laugh again?”

But the faithful cat had gone to sleep.

Chapter Four

The midnight watch on Bodiam’s parapets had trod their appointed rounds for over an hour before Mark stole up the spiral stone staircase in the northwest tower. Although he carried a lantern, it was not yet lit for fear of attracting unwanted attention from a score of Mortimer Fletcher’s evil-looking minions. Mark needed no light to guide his way. In his green salad days, he had often roamed Bodiam’s galleries and stairways in the dark searching for one or another of Lady Cavendish’s adorable maidservants.

As he passed one of the arrow slits, he pulled his thick wool cloak tighter around his shoulders to ward off the keen draft that knifed through the opening. Pausing at the top of the steps, he pressed his ear against the stout door in front of him. He heard nothing but the whine of the wind. He backed against the far wall and stood stock still until the watch called out the next quarter hour.

Satisfied that he had not been observed, Mark knelt and lit the lantern candle with a spark from his tinderbox. In the flickering flame, his elongated shadow danced across the wall’s rough stones. Mark held the light close to the door then he whistled with surprise. A large iron key protruded from the lock. Mortimer was a fool to have complete confidence that no traitor lurked among his vile servants. After casting a final glance down the steep stairwell, Mark gently turned the key. The bolt protested with a teeth-gritting squeal. The noise was enough to wake the dead. The short hairs on the back of Mark’s neck stiffened.

He lifted the handle and gave a little push. The door creaked open like the lid of a coffin. All the old tales of goblins and ghosties that Mistress Sondra Owens used to spin around Bodiam’s kitchen hearth flooded back into Mark’s memory. Lady Kat’s wise woman often sent the young maids into flights of hysteria with her bloodcurdling stories. Mark had taken those opportunities to soothe the girls’ fears with many a stolen kiss and cuddle. He grinned at the memory. Like a shadow, he slipped through the narrow opening, then closed the door behind him.

A bundle of rags stirred in the corner of the privy alcove farthest from the open window. Mark gripped the lantern’s ring tighter. “Belle?” he whispered.

Two golden eyes pierced the darkness like no earthly creature. Mark loosened his dagger. “In the name of Saint Michael, I command you to be gone, hobgoblin!”

A wraith-like figure pulled herself into a sitting position on an untidy heap of foul straw. “How now, Mortimer?” she croaked in a mocking tone. “Methinks tis long past your bedtime. What churlish intent prompts this visit at such a late hour?”

Mark could barely believe his eyes or ears. Twas Belle’s voice, exactly the same as the one that often taunted his dreams, but the creature before him looked more like her spirit than the merry gremlin who had made his last year at Bodiam such a misery. “Belle?” he whispered again. Drawing nearer, he held up the lantern.

Her eyes blinked in the bright light. Beside her, a dark object disappeared under the straw. “Sweet Saint Anne!” she murmured, passing a hand across her forehead. “My hunger has conjured a nightmare.”

Mark’s apprehension changed to exasperation. “My gracious thanks for your sterling opinion of me, Belle Cavendish. Methinks after such a long time the very least you could say would be ‘How nice to see you again, Mark’ especially since I have traveled many miles to rescue you.”

Shielding her eyes from the lantern’s glare, she stared at him. “Mark Hayward?” she breathed at last.

He executed a curt bow. “In the flesh and at your service—at least for the present time.”

For one dazzling instant her face lit up with a radiant smile that banished every sensible thought in Mark’s head. The chill room grew perceptibly warmer. Then she shuttered her expression and replaced it with her more familiar one of amused contempt.

“Ah ha! I see that you still crawl between heaven and earth,” Belle remarked.

Her tart tongue made him itch to shake her but the sight of her wan face broke his heart instead. He knelt down beside her. “What has happened to you, chou-chou?” he asked, reverting to the pet name he had called her since she had been a toddler.

Belle’s eyes narrowed. “Surely tis obvious even to you, Marcus,” she replied, not looking at him. “I have been lying about on goose down quilts all the livelong day and pleasuring myself with sweetmeats while singing roundelays.” Her lower lip trembled before she bit it.

Mark stroked her sunken cheek. Her skin was dry and cold to his touch. “God’s teeth! I will kill Mortimer Fletcher by inches. Tis a good thing that your father cannot see you in this wretched state.”

At the mention of Brandon, she attempted to rise. “Papa? Oh, where is he?”

Mark caught her before she fell to the hard floor. Belle weighed nothing in his arms. With his free hand, he fumbled with the clasp that held his cloak around his neck. “Soft, Belle. Your father is still at Wolf Hall.”

A faint sheen of tears filled her eyes, but she dashed them away with the back of her hand. “He did not come for me?” she whispered.

Mark wrapped the cloak around her and held her close to his chest willing his warmth into her thin bones. “Tush, chou-chou. Do not think ill of him. He lies abed with a broken hip.”

She gasped.

“He will mend in time and with Lady Kat’s gentle care,” Mark soothed. “Tis fear for your safety that pains him more than his injury. He has sent me in his stead.”