Halloween Knight

Mark stood to emphasize his tenuous authority over this half-grown lordling. “First, you will obey me and Jobe in all matters, even if you disagree with them.”

“But what if—?” Kitt began.

Mark held up his hand for silence. “Attend to me, Kitt. One day far in the future you will become the eleventh Earl of Thornbury and the lord protector of England’s border shire against the Scots. If you expect men to obey you then, you must learn the virtue of obedience now. Your noble father taught me that lesson when I was a good deal younger than you.”

Kitt considered the point, then nodded. “Aye, my lord, I will.”

“Second, until further notice, you will act as my squire. Has anyone instructed you in the duties of one?”

The boy made a face. “Aye, Lord Hayward. I am not a complete fool. I agree to this condition. And your third?”

Mark stared down at him and wondered if he himself had ever looked so young and vulnerable. “Third, since we are to live together in close harmony, please call me Mark. ‘Lord Hayward’ sounds strange in my ear when spoken by your mouth.”

Kitt grinned. “Aye, my lord…that is…Mark.”

Mark resigned himself to the sure knowledge that his days were numbered when next he saw Lady Katherine Cavendish—or maybe sooner, when he met Belle. “So, my friends, to sleep. We ride hard on the morrow. Squire Kitt, prepare our beds and bank the fire.”

The youngster practically fell over his feet in his haste to prove his worth.

Later, when the three lay close together under their blankets, Kitt whispered to Jobe, “Tell me about your lion.”

The African chuckled, “Twas a leopard and my tale will make your hair stand on end. Tis best saved for the daylight hours.”

“Oh!” Kitt burrowed deeper in his simple bedding.

Mark rolled onto his side and squeezed his eyes shut. I have a very ticklish feeling about this enterprise.

Griselda Fletcher plucked a raw pippin from the fruit bowl on the high table. She sliced and quartered it, then prized out the seeds from its core with the tip of her eating knife. She spread the pips on her empty trencher and began to count them.

“Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor—”

Mortimer regarded her with open disgust. His sister was such a sheep! “What are you doing, wench?”

Glancing up, she frowned at him. “Seeking my future husband since you have done nothing about finding one for me,” she whined.

Mortimer clenched his teeth as his sister’s high nasal voice grated on his nerves. “Hold your venom, chit,” he snapped. “I am attempting to procure you a dowry or had you forgotten that one minor point?”

Griselda pulled her plain features into a sour pout. “Methinks you would have attained Belle’s fortune long ago if you had just used a little more honey and less vinegar with her. Didn’t I tell you—?”

Mortimer slammed his fist on the heavy table. The apple seeds jumped at the impact. “Silence! Your song grows tedious and its tune abuses my ears.”

Griselda restored order among her fortune-telling pips. “Cuthbert said she was stubborn, remember? You should have let me—”

Mortimer abruptly stood. “I should have left you at home!”

The mewling woman continued, “Aye, where mayhap Father would have me wed by now. I am near six-and-twenty with no-o-o hus-husband!” She dissolved into gulping sobs.

Mortimer ignored her torrent of tears. “And you will never have a suitor if you insist upon weeping and wailing. A man does not find red eyes and a snotty nose the least bit attractive—and certainly not in his bed!”

“Oh!” Griselda shut her mouth.

Mortimer stalked over to the cheerful hearth and tossed another log on the fire. With a volley of crackles, red-orange sparks flew up the blackened chimney. He stared into the flames while he collected his thoughts. Fire had always soothed him, even from earliest childhood.

He held out his chilled fingers to the blaze. “Since the weather has turned colder, methinks Mistress Belle will soon become more…pliable.” He sniggered through his nose.

Griselda furrowed her thick brows. “But she is well enough, though sick in her mind, isn’t she?” she whimpered. “You promised she would get better soon. You said that—”

Mortimer turned on her. “I said that I would take the matter of Cuthbert’s inheritance in hand and there’s an end to it!”

His sister blew her nose in the tail of her dragging sleeve. “By my troth, I do not know why you bothered to bring me with you, I surely do not,” she moaned. “All you do is rail at me the whole livelong day as if it was my fault that you cannot find that chest of jewels. You act as if it was my fault that—”

Mortimer crossed the distance between them in two quick strides. Without a word of warning, he slapped her smartly across her whining mouth. The sharp crack of the blow echoed down the length of Bodiam’s empty hall.

“Take that for your faults that are beyond counting!” he snarled at her. “I rue the day I thought of you. Were it not for the tongue of scandal, I would have left you to snivel in your own chamber at home.”

“You s-said I was to b-be a g-good nurse for Cuthbert,” she sobbed in her sleeve.

“Ha! What a jest! He died. Perchance twas your fault.” He pushed his face closer to hers. “Now heed me well, Griselda. Whisper one more word about any casket of jewels and I will flay you alive—with my bare hands!”

A dart of cunning flashed into Griselda’s watery eyes. “Not found it yet then?” she murmured. “Methinks that Belle was more clever than you expected. Methinks—”

Mortimer grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her until her headdress slipped off her greasy brown hair. “Stop thinking at all!” he bellowed. “It addles your brain that, God knows, was never sound to begin with! Do nothing! Say nothing! And above all, think nothing! Now, go to your chamber and play with the rats. The sight of you makes my hand itch to strike you again!”

With a squeal of terror, Griselda scuttled toward the staircase. Mortimer swept the apple pips onto the floor and stalked out of the hall. He hated to admit that Griselda’s jibe about the hidden jewels had struck too close to home. His mouth watered to think of the large ruby brooch. It lurked within some hidden spot in Bodiam just waiting for him to find it.

He clattered down the damp stairs to the underground storeroom where two of his most trusted minions systematically toiled at digging up every paving stone in the floor. I will have my prize if I have to pull down every stone in this gorbellied castle to find it!

Chapter Three

Early in the evening a week after the mismatched threesome had left Wolf Hall, Mark knocked on the door of a small cottage just off the village green of Hawkhurst. After a long wait, the door cracked open and Montjoy peeped around the corner. Mark gave the old man a wide grin.

“Salutations, Montjoy! Remember me?” he asked, hoping that the ancient steward had not gone soft in his wits.

Montjoy opened the door a little wider and held his glowing lantern higher so that the golden light fell upon all three of his visitors. He sniffed deeply. After a hard week of travel, Mark knew that they reeked like pigs in a wallow. He flashed Montjoy another encouraging grin.

The old man nodded with resignation as if he greeted Death on his doorstep. “Aye, Master Mark, I recall your imp’s face though you have grown a bit since I last clapped an eye upon you. I presume that your beard now dents a razor on occasion?”

Mark rubbed the dark stubble on his jaw. “Aye, Montjoy. I fear I am not at my best appearance at the moment.”

Montjoy raised the lantern to the highest extent of his arm and stared at Jobe. The African stood behind the other two with his muscular arms crossed over his massive chest. His copper bracelets, silver knives and a single golden hoop earring reflected the candle’s light.

Before Mark could make the proper introductions, Montjoy sniffed again. “And I perceive that you now keep company with the devil. Tis no surprise. I predicted that you would dance down the road to perdition sooner or later. By the look of things, it appears to be sooner.”

Kitt smothered a giggle.

Mark rolled his eyes. “Peace, old man. While tis true that Jobe comes from a hot climate, twas Africa not hell that was his birthplace. Now I call him my best friend. This…” He laid a hand on Kitt’s shoulder, “…is my squire…ah…Bertrum.”

At the last split second, Mark decided not to reveal the boy’s true identity. Montjoy would surely fire a letter off to Wolf Hall within the hour if he realized that the precious Cavendish heir was embroiled in Belle’s latest difficulty.