The Dark Knight

Sandor would have liked that. Unlike the rest of his clan, he had always harbored a secret desire to read and write. And the beautiful gadji would have been a very pleasing teacher. Banish such foolish woolgathering, Sandor! Remember that she is a walking dead person.

He looked over her shoulders at the mountain peak on the far side of the valley. “I am Rom. We have no need for schooling since there is no holy book for us to read.”

Lady Gastonia stared up at him with surprise in her sapphire eyes. “You do not have the Bible?”

Her question amused him. “Our storytellers say that in the beginning the Lord God handed out His laws to all the peoples of the world. The Jews in the Holy Land wrote down the laws on stone tablets, then later in the scrolls of their Torah. The Christians wrote God’s words in their Bible. The Moors of the desert wrote their laws in the Koran, but the Rom?” He shrugged with a wry grin. “My people were, as always, very poor and they had no paper, so they wrote down God’s laws on cabbage leaves. Unfortunately, a hungry donkey came along and ate up the leaves. That is why we have no book to read.”

She regarded him for a long moment then said, “’Tis a tale for children. It cannot possibly be true.”

He brushed the tip of her nose with his forefinger. He couldn’t help himself. “Who knows? But ’tis a good story all the same.”

She moistened her lips with the tip of her delicate pink tongue. “I would love to hear more of your stories, monsieur. The day is still very young.”

He frowned. Why did she have to remind him of the time? He must be on his way to London before nightfall. His cousin’s stay in the Tower’s dank pit grew longer because of his procrastination. Sandor gritted his teeth.

He guided her toward the open archway that led back inside the fortress. “We burn daylight, my lady. Your company has made me forgetful of my duty.”

She gasped as he pushed her down the dark stairway. “You are going to…to do it now?”

He sighed heavily, his voice filled with anguish. “My will is not my own.”

Spinning around, she placed her hands against his chest. Her warmth seeped through his cold skin, straight to his heart. He stopped in his tracks.

“One thought more before you snuff out my life,” she said in a rush. “The day is cold, the ground probably frozen. No doubt ’twill take you several hours to dig a grave that is deep enough to hold me. If you allow me to sit by your side and keep you company, perchance your work will seem lighter and will take less time.”

“You want to watch while I dig your grave?”

Swallowing, she nodded slowly. “Would you rather have my stiffening corpse by your side? Cold, grim comfort indeed for such tedious work. Let me live a little longer and I could talk with you, mayhap even sing you a song or two, though I must confess I have the voice of a raven, not a lark.”

He rubbed the back of his neck while he pondered her latest request. How had things become so complicated? Yet, her argument had a point. Sandor most certainly preferred to keep her alive for as long as possible.

“By my troth, yours is a silver tongue, my lady. I feel sorry for your future husband—” He stopped when he realized that she would never have the chance to marry. “Forgive my foolish words. I must be light-headed from want of food.”

She gave him a sweet smile. “There is nothing to forgive. I forswore the joys of marriage when I dedicated myself to God. I always expected to die a virgin—just not quite so soon as now.” She stared down at her feet.

Appreciating the beauty of the woman before him, Sandor thought all chaste vows, no matter how religious, were a waste of the good God’s gifts. Since he could not think of anything to say in reply, he merely guided her back toward her cell. She stopped at the door.

“In good Saint Michael’s name, Master Headsman, tell me now what you intend to do with me so that I may prepare myself.” Her shoulders shook a little.

He blew out his cheeks. “Break my fast—and yours if you have an appetite for it,” he snapped more roughly than he had intended.

Gazing up at him, her eyes moist with a film of unshed tears, she said, “Aye, sir, I would be grateful to share another meal with you.”

Not trusting himself to say anything else, Sandor pointed to her stool. After she crossed the tiny room and took her seat, he strode quickly down to the guardroom at the end of the passageway, grabbed up his saddle bag and wineskin, and returned to the lady’s chamber before she had the sense to realize that he had left the door wide-open. Of course, there was no place she could go on foot unless she took it into her head to jump off the parapet, an idea that Sandor sincerely doubted. When he stepped though her doorway, he found her in silent prayer.

Respecting her private devotions, he busied himself with unwrapping the food he had bought at the village at the bottom of the mountain pass. Despite his attraction to this lady, his deep-seated prejudice toward all gadje caused him to separate her food from his. If she did not finish the wedge of cheese he cut for her or the chunk of the brown bread that he pulled from his loaf for her, he could never eat the leftovers himself. While he poured wine into her cup and watered it, he marveled at his peculiar situation—he could kill this gadji but not eat the food that she had touched lest she pollute him. When their simple breakfast was ready, he cleared his throat to attract her attention.

“Amen,” she said aloud, then made the sign of the cross—a popish ritual that even Sandor knew had been forbidden by the King’s religious laws. For this simple act, she had been condemned to death.

She smiled when she saw the food on the small table before her. “’Tis a feast,” she murmured before biting into the hard cheddar.

With approval in his heart, Sandor watched her enjoy their small meal. “My grandmother always said that a good woman was one who ate a poor dish and praised it for its richness.” Actually, old Towla Lalow had described this trait as belonging to a good wife, but Sandor saw no reason to mention that fact to his victim.

The lady laughed. “Methinks I would like your grandmother, for she sounds like a very wise woman.”

“She is,” he replied softly, remembering the puzzling fortune Towla had told him only a few days ago.

They ate the rest of their breakfast in a silence that was more companionable than strained. The lady’s quietude impressed Sandor, for he knew that his wife, who had died in childbirth two years ago, would have chattered nonstop like a witless jay if she had faced the same fate that this lady faced. Remembering his loss, he again blessed God for taking his wife with quick, painless hands. For her sake, he would do the same for Lady Gastonia when the time came. He was relieved to see that the gadji left no scraps or crumbs.

Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he rose and beckoned to her. “Come, my lady, if you wish to watch me…work.” He could not bring himself to name his macabre task.

With a heart-stopping smile she followed him out of her dark prison.

Fortified by the food and buoyed by her reprieve, Tonia almost skipped along the uneven paving stones as the executioner led her into the sunshine. Crossing the bare courtyard, she glanced back at the place wherein she had spent the past week. The dilapidation of the mountain fortress surprised her. The wing that housed her cell was the only section of Hawksnest that still had four standing walls. The second and third levels of the fortification had long since tumbled down the sides of the ravine. Until now, Tonia had thought she had been kept in a more substantial building. From its air of desolation, she guessed that Hawksnest had not been used for well over a hundred years, perhaps longer.

She nodded to herself. Considering the precise directions of her death warrant, the King and his overzealous minions intended that her execution would not only be done in secret, but that she would virtually disappear from the face of the earth—her resting place unknown, unmarked and unmourned. She knotted her brows together in a frown. ’Twas meant to be a cruel punishment for her family as well as for herself. How could men who professed to love God do something so pitiless as send her to eternity without the comfort of shriving her soul? Their perfidy was doubly damned for forcing her dear parents to grieve her unknown fate for the rest of their lives.

She cast a quick glance at the tall man who walked ahead of her. Perhaps he would send a message to her father. Then Tonia remembered that the headsman could not write. Perhaps he would allow her to send a last letter to her family, telling them where they could find her grave. She chewed on her lower lip. Since her too-intriguing executioner couldn’t read, he didn’t know that her grave was to be unmarked. She decided that she would not enlighten him; in fact, she would do exactly the opposite.

Just then, he veered to the left toward what remained of the stable block. He whistled and a soft whinny answered him. Glancing over his shoulder to Tonia, he smiled at her beneath the ominous black mask.

“’Tis Baxtalo, my horse,” he explained, his tone much more lighthearted. “He must be wondering what happened to me.”

Tonia stopped outside the stable while the man disappeared through the dark doorway. She heard him speak a strange language to his mount. Tonia gave a quick look around the now-empty courtyard. Ahead of her, she saw the yawning portal that led to the outside world—and freedom. Her instinct to run almost overwhelmed her until her common sense prevailed. If she bolted now, he could easily catch her, especially when she had no idea of the lay of the land beyond the fortress’s walls. The executioner might decide that she was too much trouble and kill her on the spot. Tonia’s best hope for her life was to stretch out the time as long as possible, as well as win her executioner’s trust and goodwill.

Hearing the horse’s hooves scrape against the stones, Tonia looked back toward the stable. Grinning with pleasure, the man led out a spirited gray stallion with charcoal mane and tail. At Snape Castle, Tonia had grown up riding the best horses that her father could buy, and she recognized a good animal when she saw one. In fact, the quality of the headsman’s mount surprised her. The execution business must pay exceedingly well, she thought. Then she remembered that the man had said that he was not an executioner.

He guided his horse toward Tonia. “Are you afraid of this one, my lady?” he asked in a solicitous tone.

Smiling, Tonia shook her head and approached the horse with her hand out, palm up. “Nay, monsieur. I love horses and yours is particularly fine.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “I wonder where you got him.” She recalled that Gypsies were reputed to be sly horse thieves.

He caressed the horse’s velvety nose and patted its neck with obvious pride of ownership. “I have raised him from birth. He was a gift to me from his dam. That is why I call him Baxtalo. It means ‘lucky’ in my language.”

The sleek animal sniffed Tonia, then allowed her to pet him. She admired his confirmation. He’s in excellent condition. I wonder if he would allow me to sit on his back after he’s gotten used to me. Baxtalo could be her savior.

While Tonia mused on the fresh possibilities that the horse offered, his owner returned to the stable. When he emerged, Tonia saw that he carried a short-handled shovel over one shoulder. The headman’s mouth had reverted to its usual serious expression.

When he drew near to her, his blue eyes hardened to ice behind the slits of his mask.

“Come, Lady Gastonia, show me where you would like your grave.”

Chapter Four

Though his brief words chilled her to the marrow, Tonia kept her smile fixed on her lips. “My family and friends call me Tonia.”

Amazement replaced the headsman’s grimmer look. A cynical grin curled his full lips. “You think I am a friend, my lady?” he asked in a gruff tone.

“They say that a gentle death is a good friend to be desired, and you have promised to be gentle.” Tonia prayed that he did not see how much she shook under her cape.