Читать книгу Halloween Knight - Tori Phillips - Страница 11

Jobe slowed his horse to a walk. Puzzled, Mark reined in beside the huge African. “How now, friend? We will burn precious daylight if we tarry. The road is still dry. We can make another five miles if we press on.”

Jobe stared straight ahead. “We are followed, meu amigo.”

Mark did not glance over his shoulder but the hairs on the back of his neck stiffened. Ruffians made travel more dangerous these days, ever since King Henry had closed the monasteries and returned the beggars to England’s highways. He fingered his dagger in its sheath. “Where away?” he asked under his breath.

Jobe unbuttoned his brown leather jerkin so that he could easily reach his wicked arsenal of small throwing knives. “He rides to our left but stays well back. He has been with us since midday.”

Mark wet his lips. When he had sailed away from Ireland’s rocky shore, he thought he had left behind such brigands as this. “Mayhap tis a traveler on a similar route. The London post road is well-used.”

Jobe rumbled his disagreement in the back of his throat. “Stop your horse and pretend to check his hoof for a stone. I wager that our shadow will halt as well.”

“Done,” Mark murmured, then he spoke in a louder tone. “Ho! Methinks my horse has caught a pebble!” He alighted smoothly, looking behind him as he did so. He saw someone turn off the track and disappear into a small copse of trees. He patted Artemis’s neck before he remounted.

Jobe cast him a half-smile. “And so?”

Mark gathered his reins in his hand and kneed his horse into a trot. “Aye, but the knave ducked for cover before I could spy his face.”

Jobe smiled, displaying startlingly white teeth against his ebony skin. “Bem! Tis good! I long for some good sport.”

Mark frowned at his companion’s enthusiasm. “Let us not act in haste, Jobe. He may have henchmen.”

“More better!” the giant answered with relish.

Mark pulled his bonnet lower over his forehead. “The road turns to the left below that rise. Let us continue at our present pace. At the bend we will fly like the wind.”

“And not fight?” Jobe snorted his disappointment.

Narrowing his eyes, Mark squinted at the late afternoon sun. “If our tail is still with us by nightfall, we will…persuade him to sup with us.”

Jobe beamed. “More better!”

Three hours later, Mark and Jobe sought their night’s shelter under the spreading boughs of an oak, its leaves decked in autumn’s red and gold. Mark hoped the mysterious rider had left them.

Jobe chuckled. “He is a sly one,” he said as he unsaddled his large bay.

Mark wondered why a lone robber would bother to pace them all day. Jobe and he traveled lightly and in plain attire. The most costly things that the men owned were their weapons.

“Build up a large fire to draw his attention,” he told his friend. “Meanwhile I will circle around and catch him from behind.”

Jobe shook his head. “Most unwise, meu amigo.”

Mark frowned at him. “How so?”

The African lightly cuffed Mark’s chin. “That white face of yours will shine out in the night like a second moon. Our shadow would have to be blind not to see you coming. On the other hand, I become one with the night. Besides, your life is my concern.”

Mark swore under his breath. “I can fend for myself.”

Jobe chuckled. “Aye, with me at your right hand.” He threw off the long cape he wore. His bandoliers of knives and his copper bracelets shimmered in the faint starlight. “Build up the fire and prepare for a roast.”

Mark grabbed his friend by the arm before the giant could melt into the darkness. “Do not kill the knave. England is a civilized country and twill annoy the Sheriff of Yorkshire if we leave a dead body on his highway. Bring back our guest while he still breathes.”

Jobe thumped him on the shoulder. “As you say,” he whispered. “Though killing is easier,” he added before he disappeared.

Mark stared into the darkness and tried to follow Jobe’s route, but he gave up. It seemed that the huge man had disappeared into thin air. After gathering a large armful of windfall kindling, Mark soon had a fire roaring. He unsheathed his dagger and sword, laying them close at hand while he tended the blaze.

The minutes crept by with no sound down the road. Mark stepped out of the circle of firelight, and backed up against the broad trunk of the tree. He held his sword lightly in his hand. His left forearm always ached in tense moments like this. It reminded him of Belle and the reason why he was skulking around a dark countryside instead of warming his bottom by a hearth in Wolf Hall. Gritting his teeth, he made himself think of the green pastures Brandon had promised him.

Suddenly, a yelp ripped the cool night. Mark tightened his grip on his sword and snatched up his dagger in his right hand. More yowls and snarls signaled Jobe’s success. In the light of the half moon, Mark saw his friend heft a flailing body over one of his massive shoulders. The African laughed with genuine pleasure that drowned out the fearsome oaths his slim prisoner screamed in his ear.

Mark relaxed his stance. “What have you caught for supper, Jobe?” he asked in a bantering tone.

The giant dropped his burden on the ground, then held him down with a well-placed foot on his chest. “Tis nothing but a man-child, meu amigo, though he swears with a fearsome tongue.”

The boy beat on Jobe’s boot. “Let me go, you lob of the devil!”

Mark took a closer look at their prisoner, then burst out laughing. “Hoy day, Jobe! You have done well! Tis a worthy prize indeed!”

Jobe lifted one corner of his lip. “This little mouse? This flea?”

His taunt only incited the boy to greater oaths. “Let me up! I will show you what is a flea and what is not, you flap-eared varlet!”

Mark hunkered down beside the snarling captive. “Methinks you are a Cavendish by the look of you.”

The boy went very still and turned a pair of bright blue eyes on Mark, who continued, “Indeed, Jobe, I am sure tis a member of that noble family—though he was absent from the supper table last evening. Perchance he was preparing his horse for today’s outing.”

The boy said nothing but had the courage to return Mark’s stare. Mark observed the boy’s rapid pulse throb in his neck.

Standing, he sheathed his sword. “Let him up, Jobe, but gently. Tis not seemly that the future Earl of Thornbury should grovel in the dust to the likes of us.”

With a rumbling chuckle, Jobe pulled the boy to his feet by the scruff of his jerkin. Then he stood behind his captive like some great bogle from a child’s nightmare. He held the boy in place with a large hand on each shoulder.

Mark grinned. “By the height that he inherits from his father and grandsire, and by the fire in his golden hair that bespeaks of his good mother, I say tis young Christopher Cavendish. By my troth, Jobe, I have not laid eyes on Lady Kat’s Kitten since he was chewing on his teething coral.”

Christopher lifted his chin and shot Mark a look of disdain. “I have not been called that puling name since I could walk. To my friends I am Kitt.”

The boy’s inference was not lost on either of his captors. Mark gave him a warm smile. “Then count us among your closest associates, good Kitt, for I have known your good family most of my lifetime, and Jobe is my boon companion.”

Kitt glanced up at the African. Then he ventured to touch the dark skin on the back of the man’s hand. “You are not painted?” he asked in awe.

Laughing, Jobe shook his head. “Only by the Lord God Almighty.”

“Tis a wonderment indeed,” Kitt observed.

Mark crossed his arms over his chest. “Tis even more of a wonderment that you ride alone on the highway so far from home.”

Before Kitt could answer, Jobe dropped to one knee and reached for one of their saddlebags. “Hold, meu amigo. In my land, a good tale should always be accompanied by food. Are you hungry, little warrior?”

Kitt shuffled his feet. “I could partake of a bite or two,” he replied with dignity.

Jobe grinned at Mark. “Boys are the same in every land,” he observed.

Within the hour Kitt had consumed most of the provender that Lady Kat had packed for Mark and his companion. Relaxed by the food, some wine and the comforting warmth of the fire, the boy told a detailed story of his preparations and escape from Wolf Hall—and his parents.

“I have come to help you save Belle,” he concluded.

Mark searched the starry heavens for angelic guidance. “This journey is not a social visit, Kitt. Your father thinks there may be some danger.”

Kitt’s eyes sparkled in the firelight though he managed to maintain a serious expression. “Good! I am prepared.”

I will throttle him! Aloud, Mark asked, “How? You are barely tall enough to swing a sword. Nay, tis impossible.”

Kitt swelled up like a young fighting cock. “I can shoot the eye out of a crow at a hundred paces with an arrow. And I am a most marvelous horseman.”

Jobe nodded. “In this he speaks the truth, meu amigo. The boy has followed us in a most cunning manner all day. Methinks you would not have noticed him until now.”

Mark’s vanity bristled at his friend’s words. “Why now?” he snapped.

The African’s smile flashed in the firelight. “Because the young master would have told you he was hungry.”

Kitt gaped at him. “My plan to the very letter, but how did you guess?”

Jobe leaned closer and whispered, “Because I am a powerful jinn.” He chuckled.

Kitt gulped and traced a hasty sign of the cross.

Mark glared at both of them. “Jobe is uncommonly wise, Kitt, but he is made of flesh and blood as we are. Now, my friend, I have need of your wise council. What are we going to do with the boy?”

Kitt gave Mark a steady look. “I am going with you to Bodiam, will you or nil you. Tis my duty as Belle’s most able-bodied male relative—at the moment.”

Stubborn like his father! Mark shook his head. “I applaud your courage, Kitt, but I cannot permit the deed. Your parents would hang me at the crossroads if any injury befell you.” He sighed. “Blast you, boy! We shall lose three precious days to take you home and return again. Those three days might cost Belle a month of sorrow. Did you think of that?”

Kitt did not flinch as Mark had hoped he would. Instead the boy replied, “You would waste your time, my Lord Hayward. Unless Papa chains me to my cot, I will still follow after you.” His expression softened. “Please, sir. Take me with you for I grow stale at Wolf Hall and I long to prove myself. My lady mother is…er…In truth, she would keep me wrapped in lambswool and placed in a strongbox if she could.”

Mark tipped his wineskin to his mouth, took a long drink then asked. “How old are you now?”

“Eleven years since last March.”

Mark pondered the boy’s answer. He himself had been fostered to Kitt’s grandfather and made Sir Brandon’s page before he had turned eight. By the time Mark was Kitt’s age, he had traveled to France, had lived at King Henry’s court for several seasons, knew how to gamble at cards and had gotten drunk at least once. Considering Lady Kat’s protective instincts toward her only chick, Mark strongly doubted that Kitt had experienced any of these adventures despite being the beloved son of such a champion as Sir Brandon Cavendish.

Jobe broke the silence. “In my land, you would have begun the rites of manhood by now, young master.”

Kitt blinked. “What might those be?”

Jobe fingered one of the many knives that hung from his shoulder strap. “Once a boy has learned how to use his spear as well as his bow and arrows, and once he has learned to track game over many miles, tis time for his final test.”

Kitt licked his lips like a puppy anticipating its supper. “What is this test?”

Jobe leaned closer. “His eyes are covered so that he will not know where he is taken. Then the senior warriors march him a day and a night into the wilderness.”

Mark shuddered at the idea, but Kitt glowed with excitement.

Jobe continued, “Then they leave him alone with only his spear and his shield. The boy must track and kill a lion. He must skin it and drink its blood for its courage. Afterward, he must find his way back to his village with his prize. Then he is declared a man. He will keep the lion’s pelt all the days of his life.”

Swallowing, Mark decided that his long apprenticeship under Brandon’s tutelage had not been so difficult after all.

Kitt’s eyes grew larger. “And what if the lion wounds the boy or he gets lost while returning home?”

Jobe stared hard at him. “Then he dies.”

Kitt licked his lips. “What of his poor mother?”

The African shrugged. “She is only a weak woman. Women do nothing but weep or complain all the day long. You will soon learn that for yourself.”

Kitt tossed his long hair out of his eyes. “My lady mother was never weak.”

“Amen to that,” Mark murmured under his breath. I would rather face a lion any day than an angry Lady Kat.

Jobe nodded. “I see that, young master. You suckled courage from a strong mother.”

Kitt squared his shoulders. “Tis true. My family are the bravest in all England.” He turned again to Mark. “Do you hear that, Lord Hayward? Even your wise counselor says that I am ready to be a man. Let me go on this quest. Tis my right!” he added pounding his fist on his knee.

Mark studied the boy’s determined expression. Sighing, he tossed away his last shred of common sense. “If we are to ride together, I require three promises from you.”

Kitt could not contain the glee in his eyes nor in his voice. “Anything, my lord! I will not fail you!”

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!