Halloween Knight

Kitt started to speak, but Mark squeezed the boy’s shoulder to silence him. Casting him a sidelong glance, Kitt shut his mouth.

Mark cleared his throat. “We have been on horseback since dawn, Montjoy, and are weary beyond reckoning. Is Belle still in trouble or is that yesterday’s news by now?”

At the mention of her name, Montjoy’s expression grew even more mournful. “Tis serious business,” he intoned, shaking his head. “Come in and I will impart all.” He opened wide the door and ushered the three inside. He pressed himself against the wall as Jobe passed him.

Mark grinned when he saw a hot fire blazing in the hearth. The rising wind blew out of the north, bringing the sure promise of rain before midnight. “K…Bertrum, feed and water the horses. The stable is in the mews behind the house, as I recall. Then you may help with the supper preparations.”

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.”