The Dark Knight

You cannot guess how close to the mark you have hit. How could he tell this beautiful, pure, holy lady that his family would consider her worse than the dung in the streets? That her mere touch, her nearby presence defiled him? Yet Sandor craved her smiles, the brush of her fingertips—and more. ’Tis nothing but wanton lust that tortures my loins. Yet he had known lust with others—even gadji. With Tonia his feelings were much different, even different from those he had experienced with his dead wife. Nothing in his twenty-five years of living helped him to understand why the power of Tonia’s attraction shook him to his core.

Sandor shifted the weight of his armload of wood. “’Tis for protection that the Rom do not mix with the gadje except to do business. Did you know that in England there is a harsh law against the Gypsies? In truth, I am a felon.”

Tonia’s eyes widened, though she did not draw away from him. “What is this law?”

“Twenty years ago, when the English saw so many Rom come into their land, they grew sore afraid. We were called lewd people and outlanders. King Henry VIII decreed that we were to be banished forever from his kingdom. Just three years ago, King Edward signed a law that said any Rom found in England would be branded and made a slave for two years.”

Halting, Tonia stared at him. “Are you so marked?”

Should he show her his livid scar or should he lie? Why did her opinion matter to him anyway? She was to die by his hand in the very near future. Sandor put down his load of sticks, untied his jerkin’s laces, then the laces of his shirt. He pulled back the cloth so that she could see the wine-colored “V” seared on his chest.

Her body stiffened; she could not smother her gasp of shock at the sight. “’Tis a cruel mark,” she whispered, her eyes wide. “It must have hurt you beyond imagining.”

“Aye,” he replied, closing up his shirt and retying his jerkin. “Fortunately I fainted afore they were done.”

“What does the ‘V’ mean?”

Sandor curled his lips with disgust. “Vagrants. Yet we have always worked for our bread.”

Worked to dupe the dull-witted gadje, but Sandor decided against revealing the details of his clan’s many shady professions. He, at least, had always been fair in his horse trading with the English, even though Uncle Gheorghe had often called him prosto, a fool, for doing so.

“Why did you stay in England after…that?”

Sandor picked up the firewood. “One trip across the Channel was enough for me. Life is good in England. The weather is kinder than in Flanders or the German kingdoms. The land is fat, full of fruit that falls from the trees and chickens that wander far from home.” He gave her a sidelong grin.

Tonia pursed her lips. “You mean you steal chickens from honest farmers.”

Sandor shrugged. “’Tis not so bad. A Gypsy may convey a hen or two to feed his family, but we would never steal the whole henhouse. That would deprive the farmer of his livelihood.”

“But ’tis wrong to steal. ’Tis a sin.”

He shook his head at her innocence. “Methinks that God looks at your sins and mine with a different eye, Tonia. The Lord Jesus knew hunger when he was a man upon the earth. Tell me, noble lady, have you ever been hungry?”

“Not until I came to this place,” she answered with distaste.

Sandor decided to change the subject. This talk of laws and sins with such a holy woman as Tonia made him very uncomfortable. “Well, I am hungry now. What say you to a fine dinner of fresh fish?”

She quirked a half smile. “I would say you were a wonder-worker. Can you truly conjure up a fish?”

He laughed, pleased by her amazement. “Not conjure them, but entice them, if luck is with me and yon stream is well supplied. Come.”

Together they went back to the place where the bridge crossed the clear running water. Sandor set down his bundle of sticks, then searched along the bank for a spot in deep shade so that the wily fish could not see his shadow. Finding a place that satisfied him, he hunkered down beside the water. Gathering her cape under her, Tonia seated herself beside him.

Sandor put his finger to his lips signaling her to remain still. She nodded. Whispering a charm for luck, his slipped his hand into the icy water and rested it on the shallow bottom. Within a few minutes the cold had numbed his fingers, but Sandor did not move. He had promised Tonia a fish; his pride demanded that he procure one. After a long while, a large, fat trout swam upstream with lazy undulations. Sandor waved his fingers in the stream’s current as if they were an underwater plant. He wet his lips with anticipation but otherwise did not move. The trout edged nearer, as if drawn by the swaying fingers. Tonia craned her neck to see better.

The trout swam closer until it hovered over Sandor’s fingers. When the trout nosed him, looking for something to eat, Sandor gently brushed against the fish’s silvery flank. It shivered but did not dart away. Sandor smiled to himself. This fat one liked to be tickled. He brushed it again. The fish sank a little lower, closer to Sandor’s open palm. He touched its other flank. He could almost imagine the fish sighing with pleasure. After another drawn-out minute of tickling his quarry, Sandor’s hand closed around it. Before the lulled trout could react, it was flopping on the bank, practically in Tonia’s lap.

Sandor sat back on his heels and grinned at her. Giving up its useless struggle, the trout lay on the brown grass, gasping for breath. Sandor rubbed some warmth back into his hand and flexed his stiff fingers.

“’Tis a goodly fish but methinks two would be better. I pray your patience a little longer, Tonia. In the meantime do not let this fine fellow slither back into the water or he will swim away and warn his friends.”

Her gaze fixed on the fish, Tonia bobbed her head. With another charm on his tongue, Sandor again put his hand in the water. The wait seemed longer, only because his fingers were so cold. Soon enough a second trout, not as large as the first but rounder in the middle, swam up the stream. Sandor’s fingers waved in the current. Unlike the first fish, this one was more cautious, touching several of Sandor’s fingers with its mouth as if trying to taste him. His shoulders ached from holding his uncomfortable posture, but he could not pull back now—not with Tonia watching him so intently. He willed the fish to swim over his hand just as the first one had.

Instead, the perverse creature swam upstream. Sandor didn’t move. Years of tickling fish had taught him the necessary patience required. Sure enough, the trout’s curiosity overcame its prudence. It turned round and drifted back toward Sandor’s hand. This time it swam closer to his fingers. Sandor lightly brushed it. The fish wiggled away. Sandor didn’t flinch but continued to wave his fingers. Once again the fish edged closer and brushed itself against him. Sandor almost chuckled aloud. The trout drifted over his palm, He touched its underside with his thumb. The fish rubbed against his other fingers. Sandor decided to seize his chance now before his skittish quarry grew tired of the game. He flipped his quivering prey out of the water and tossed it on the ground on the far side of the first catch.

Tonia clapped her approval. “Well done! ’Tis the most wondrous sight that I have ever seen. My cousin Kitt would be very envious of your skill, Master Fisherman.”

Sandor dried his hand on his thigh while he basked in her praise. His heart swelled as she continued to smile at him and compliment his prowess. He much preferred that Tonia call him a fisherman rather than an executioner. He hooked his fingers through the gills of his two prizes, then helped her rise with his free hand.

“We will cross the bridge,” he told her as he scooped up most of their gathered sticks. “Then we will eat. Do you know how to clean a fish?” he asked, suspecting that such a fine lady would not.

She stared at the trout, bit her lip and then shook her head. “I must plead ignorance. My lady mother taught me how to distill medicines from plants and how to make wine and beer, but not how to cook.”

Sandor shook his head with a rueful smile. “Among my people, even little girls know how to bake bread.”

She gave him an injured look, though her eyes sparkled with a glint of mischief. “I suppose they also know how to roast stolen chickens.”

Sandor chuckled. “Wandering hens are the most toothsome.”

They picked their way over the bridge’s treacherous planking and walked up the hillside to the spot Tonia had chosen for her gravesite. The sun now stood at its zenith in the azure sky. Sandor dropped the firewood onto the bare earth of the grave. Building a fire here would warm the dirt, making it easier to dig, though his heart grew heavy at the thought. Delighting in the pleasure of their stroll, he had almost forgotten his primary duty. Cousin Demeo had already been in the Tower for nearly a week. Sandor must complete his grim task by this evening so that he could leave by the morrow’s first light. He glanced at Tonia. She had seemed so happy while they were in the woods, but the sight of her grave had banished her laughter. When she caught him looking at her, she gave him a little smile then pointed to the bundle of windfall sticks.

“Methinks you will never get a fire started with that lot. The wood is damp,” she remarked. “There are dry logs inside the fortress at the guards’ hearth. We should go there to cook our dinner.” She averted her eyes from the scored earth.

Sandor didn’t blame her, but he needed to make quick work of the digging. Assuming a levity that he did not feel, he replied, “A true Gypsy can start a fire in a rainstorm.”

He busied himself with breaking up the sticks and arranging them in an orderly pile in the middle of the turned earth. Then he drew out his tinderbox from the ditty bag that hung on his belt. The spark from his flint ignited the kindling. He blew on it to encourage the fire’s life. As he predicted to Tonia, the flames responded. Soon a cheerful fire crackled in the depression, chasing the remnants of the morning’s chill.

While the wood burned down to hot coals, Sandor gutted and cleaned the fish on one of the nearby stones. Tonia watched him with a studied interest.

“Your hands are quick and sure with your knife,” she remarked with a light bitterness. “I am relieved that the warrant forbids you to shed my blood.”

Sandor didn’t look at her. He could never reveal the macabre duty he was instructed to perform after she was dead. He skewered the larger fish on a green wood twig and set it over the bed of coals. May the dogs eat the heart of the gadjo who had desired such a final indignity against so beautiful and gentle a woman.

One day, I vow I will avenge your death, sweet Tonia.

Chapter Five

The afternoon passed pleasantly enough for Tonia, as long as she didn’t think too much about the hole that her companion was digging. In the warmth generated by the sun and the man’s exertions, he had shed his jerkin and forearm dagger, and rolled his long, loose sleeves to his elbow. Sitting on her rock, Tonia couldn’t help but admire the play of his muscles that strained the unbleached muslin of his shirt and bulged against the leather breeches that molded around his legs like a second skin.

When he paused in his work, which was often, he sent her smiles that made her heart beat faster. What a difference between this man and the lordlings that had come a-wooing her—and her father’s fortune—at Snape Castle! Not one of her suitors had exuded half as much virility as this intriguing Gypsy—a man sent to kill her in the name of the King. Tonia had to keep reminding herself of that sobering fact, lest she fall completely under his spell.

Standing up, she shook out her skirts. It was a little late in the game for her to admire the comeliness of any man when she was within hours of meeting her Maker. Her thoughts should be centered on the promised delights of heaven, not the pleasures of the flesh on earth. Years ago, Tonia had forsworn men and marriage in search of the greater good—and because she had never found anyone in Northumberland with whom she could imagine making love. Her cheeks warmed at that candid admission. She shot a quick glance at the Gypsy, but he was bent over, prying yet another rock out of the hole. His position only served to emphasize the force of his thighs and the slimness of his hips. Her flush deepened and she quickly turned away lest he notice her change in color.

Tonia prayed that he would uncover a boulder too large to dislodge. Then he would have to start on another hole—and buy her more time.

A scant twenty yards away, his beautiful silver-gray horse nosed among the brown grasses, searching for a tender shoot or two. Tonia forced her mind from its wanton musings as she sauntered over to the magnificent animal, so like his owner. Baxtalo lifted his head as she drew closer. His nostrils widened as he inhaled her scent.

“You are a pretty one,” Tonia crooned, keeping eye contact with the horse as she moved toward him. “So fine with such a broad chest and strong legs.” So like his owner.