Читать книгу Halloween Knight - Tori Phillips - Страница 13

Mark overslept the next morning and the rain-plagued day only went downhill from there. When Kitt appeared with his shaving water, it was merely tepid instead of steaming hot the way Mark liked it. He opened his mouth to chastise the boy but held his tongue when he saw a fresh bruise under his eye.

Mark touched the injury. “More of that beslubbering cook’s opinion?” he asked.

Kitt turned away. “I fell over my own feet,” he replied. “Indeed, I have been informed that they would make a fine pair of shovels,” he added in an undertone.

Mark stropped his razor while his anger grew warmer. “What pignut told you this witticism?”

Kitt shrugged his shoulder then turned his attention to his bedmaking. “Tis none of your concern, Mark. Jobe says that a man must fight his own battles.”

Mark considered this bit of wisdom as he lathered up his face with cold soapsuds. “You are still in the schoolroom, Kitt.” he remarked. While he shaved, he observed his apprentice squire in the looking glass.

Kitt tossed his head. “Not now. I am on the road to a new beginning, Jobe says.”

Methinks Jobe says far too much in this stripling’s innocent ear!

Kitt shook out Mark’s hose, then laid his other clean shirt across the lumpy bed covering. “How fares my sister?” he asked in an off-hand manner.

In the mirror, Mark saw that the boy cast him a penetrating look. “As well as can be expected,” he answered, rinsing his razor. “Belle was never fond of small dark places.” He chose not to reveal her true sad state to her brother. Being blessed with a strong dose of the Cavendish temperament, the lad would no doubt hurl himself headlong into some rash deed.

Kitt polished one of Mark’s boots with his sleeve. “Then why do we tarry in this fetid place? You told me that we would be in Hawkhurst by now. Let us grab Belle and be gone.”

Mark dried his face with a scrap of hucktoweling. Mortimer Fletcher was a parsimonious host. “There are complications. Your sister refuses to leave Bodiam and thereby hangs the tale.”

Kitt’s jaw dropped. “She’s addlepated!”

“Agreed,” Mark growled under his breath.

“I will shake some sense into her woolly head,” Kitt announced. “Lead me to her!”

“Nay.” Mark pulled his shirt over his head, then held out his arms to the boy. Kitt stared at them. Mark pointed to the bandstrings that hung down from each cuff. “A good squire ties up his master’s laces.”

With a snort, Kitt attended to his new task. “Belle is my sister,” he continued in a low tone. “As her brother, tis my sworn duty to—”

Mark grabbed a handful of Kitt’s collar and backed the boy against the wall. “Listen to me well, my little minnow. I am caught between two people who are hell-bent to destroy each other: your sister and Mortimer Fletcher. We must tread our way carefully between them if we expect to quit this place with the minimum of bloodshed. Tis no schoolboy game that we play here, but one in deadly earnest. You will do exactly as I say. For the time being, Belle is not to know you are at Bodiam. Have I made myself clear, pudding-head?”

“Marvelously much,” Kitt snarled. Then he nodded. “I will obey you—for now. But I like it not!” With that bit of defiance, he banged out of the chamber with the basin of soapy water.

Mark shook his head at his reflection. Why did God make the Cavendish family so stubborn?

Mark planned to snatch a quick breakfast, then ride into the forest where he would meet Jobe. Instead, Griselda pounced on him like a cat at a mouse hole.

“Good morrow, Sir Mark,” she squealed in that ear-piercing voice of hers. “You slept well?”

He fixed a painted smile on his lips. “All the night through, sweet dumpling.” He forced himself not to choke on his words. Of all the many maids he had wooed in the past thirteen years, Griselda was the most unappealing and perversely the one wench most anxious to invite him between her sheets.

“I would have warmed your dreams,” she simpered through her nose as she latched onto his arm like an apothecary’s leech.

“I fear I did not dream at all,” he murmured. His stomach gnawed for food.

Griselda caressed his cold fingers. “Then I shall make it my duty and my pleasure to give you sweet dreams every night, my dearest love.”

Twould be nightmares! Mark widened his smile. “I look forward to that happy time, my dainty duck.”

Griselda pulled him back from the stairway where he could smell the aroma of roasted meats and baked breads in the hall.

“Why wait?” she whined. “We have already agreed to the match. Tis nothing but a few words in front of the church door between us and our bliss.”

Mark dug his heels against the paving stones. “Nay, my sportful honeycomb! Twould be a most unseemly haste. I have not yet spoken with your brother, nor signed a betrothal agreement.” Nor given you a kiss to seal the bargain, he added to himself with a shudder. Nor will I ever! I would rather dance a galliard in hell first!

Griselda stuck out her thin lower lip in a ghastly pout. She reminded Mark of a well-dressed gargoyle. A man should not have to face such sights on an empty stomach.

“Then find Mortimer!” she shrieked as she practically threw him down the stairs. “For by my troth, sweet Mark, I shall not go cold to my bed again this night! Seek him in one of the storerooms for he spends much time down there in the dark.”

Like a mushroom or some other bit of fungus, Mark thought as he fled from the panting shrew. He paused at the laden sideboard in the hall to fortify himself for his interview with Fletcher. While washing down an onion and parsley omelet with some ale out of the pitcher, Mark was accosted by one of the potboys.

“Here now! Tis for dinner, that!” the dull-eyed oaf said, pointing to the ravaged dish. “And tis not dinnertime yet.”

Mark swallowed his food before speaking. “But I have not broken my fast until now.”

“Oh,” said the overgrown boy. He scratched his head. “But still, tis for dinner and cook will be full of wrath if he knows that ye have made a great hole in his omelet.”

Mark beckoned the servant to lean closer. He whispered in the boy’s ear, “Then we shall not tell him, shall we? Besides, tis a passing good bit of victual. Try some. I shall not betray you,” he added.

The lackwit grinned, looked over his shoulder, then scooped out a portion twice as large as Mark’s. He nodded at Mark while he ate.

Mark returned his smile. “A word to the wise, my friend. Wipe your mouth free from crumbs or else twill be you and not I that the cook will cudgel.” Then he left the lad to his fate.

Mark hoped to catch Mortimer unawares at his mysterious business in the depths of Bodiam’s large storerooms but the man met him on the stairs.

“How now, my lord? Methinks you have lost your way.” Mortimer blocked further progress with a dissembling smile on his face.

“Indeed so?” Mark replied, knowing exactly where he was within Bodiam’s walls. “I had thought these steps might lead to the flower garden that I spied from my casement.”

“A walk outside on such a foul day?” Mortimer ascended a step closer, forcing his guest to turn around and retrace his journey. Mortimer ushered him into his small office off the hall. He offered the nobleman the better of two straight-back wooden chairs that flanked a worn oaken table.

Once they were seated, Mortimer opened the conversation. “My sister is much taken by you, my lord.” He rubbed his hands together as if to warm them. “Methinks you will make her a fine husband.”

Mark swallowed a knot in his throat. He had never intended for his deceit to run this far, but thanks to Belle’s obstinacy, he now found himself in a most ticklish predicament. Bedding maids was one thing, but marrying one was quite another—and matrimony with the loathsome Griselda was past all imagination.

Mark leveled his gaze at Belle’s tormentor. “You are kind to say so, good sir,” he replied with a false smile. If he had to keep grinning like a painted poppet his face would soon crack in two.

Mortimer regarded him with the calculating eye of a merchant about to begin sharp negotiations for a sack of wool. If Mark did not play his part to perfection, he suspected that he would soon find himself on the far side of the moat—or worse, bobbing head down in its green waters.

Leaning forward, he put his elbows on the table. “You and I are men of the world, so let us not fritter away the forenoon with dull prattle. What dowry are you prepared to offer me to relieve you of the fair wench?”

Mortimer nodded with satisfaction. “You are a man after my own heart,” he replied.

You speak the exact truth in that, you puking moldwarp. Mark continued to smile. “You have a goodly castle here. Is the holding large?” he asked.

Fletcher inclined his head. “A middling sort. You know, a few farms, some grazing lands and a small wood for hunting.”

Jack-sauce! Bodiam is half of Sussex and worth a prince’s ransom! “Is the property entailed or claimed by creditors? I do not intend to incur any debts if I take your sister to wife.”

For the first time, Mortimer looked uncomfortable. He drummed the tabletop with his fingers as if he played an imaginary virginal. “No creditors have a claim to it, but…”

Mark lifted one brow. “The estate is not yours?”

The man turned a mottled reddish color. “I am the legal guardian of Bodiam and can assure you that what I offer will be yours free and clear.”

Now we arrive at the meat of this poxy feast. Mark skewered his host with a penetrating look. “Exactly who owns this fair castle?” he asked softly. Let us see how close he cuts to the bone of truth.

Mortimer released a deep mournful sigh. “Tis a sad tale, my lord.”

“Tell me,” Mark prodded. “I enjoy a story well-told.” How clever a liar are you?

Mortimer affected to look somber. “Griselda and I had a brother named Cuthbert. A sweet lad but often sickly. Two years ago, he married into the Cavendish family. Have you heard of them?”

Mark nodded. “Aye, they are a right noble clan from the north. Most fortunate for your brother.”

Mortimer curled his lip in a sneer. “Only half right. The chit in question is a Cavendish bastard. Twas she who was fortunate to find any decent husband at all.”

Mark clenched his fists under the cover of his sleeves. How dare this churl speak of Belle as if she were nothing but a tavern strumpet! He longed to leap over the table and throttle Mortimer. “And so?” he asked, keeping his voice steady.

Mortimer did not notice the fire in Mark’s eyes for he warmed to his sniveling tale. “My father warned Cuthbert that he would drag down the family’s good name with this union, but the boy was besotted with the wench and would not listen to common sense. They married. A year later…” Mortimer lowered his voice. “He fell ill of a strange fever. Griselda and I rushed to his side, but…he died.”

Mark fought the urge to make the sign of the cross that had formerly been a habit when one spoke of the dead. Ever since Great Harry had broken with the Church in Rome all such popish displays of piety were forbidden. Instead, he murmured, “God bless his soul.”

“Amen,” Mortimer answered, then hurried on. “Between you and I, methinks she killed my poor brother.”

Anger throbbed in Mark’s brain. You will surely sup in hell! “Tell me more,” he growled. Dig your grave a little deeper.

“Aye!” Looking satisfied, Mortimer sat back in his chair. “You would only have to see her to know how cruel and cunning she is.”

“Then show her to me,” whispered Mark. “I have never gazed upon a murderess before.”

Mortimer gulped then shook his head. “Alas, I cannot. Since her husband’s untimely death, she has been taken ill herself. No doubt her great sin weighs her down with righteous guilt. Trust me. I have her—and her estate—in my safekeeping.”

“How safe?” Mark snapped. Safekeeping indeed! The knave was more two-faced than Janus.

Mortimer surprised him by suddenly laughing. “Ah ha! I knew you to be a rogue the instant I clapped my eye on you!”

These words and Mortimer’s sudden levity made Mark uneasy. “Are you a conjurer who knows the secrets of men’s hearts?” he asked lightly.

“Nay, take no offense, friend. I am no wizard. We two are alike in our thoughts, and so I know yours as well as my own.”

Bile rose in Mark’s throat. Be thankful you do not read my mind this very instant. “And what thoughts of mine are the twins of yours?”

Leaning across the table, Mortimer whispered, “To see the Cavendish wench dead and these estates back in the hands of upright men such as ourselves.”

Mark’s breath caught in his throat. An icy chill ran down his spine. This devil couldn’t mean he would kill sweet Belle! “Is she near death?” he forced himself to ask.

Mortimer chuckled. The sound was far from mirthful. “Who knows?”

God shield us, Belle! I hope you have thought of a clever plan or else we’ll both be crow’s meat ere the week is out.

Mark fiddled through the onerous dinner with little appetite. On the other hand, Mortimer and his vile sister enjoyed the various courses with gluttonous delight. Griselda’s table manners alone were enough to turn Mark’s stomach, while thoughts of poor Belle starving in a cold garret tore his heart. Tonight he would bring her a real feast—and hopefully talk some sense into that pretty head of hers. As soon as the last of the stewed apples had been removed, Mark rose from his seat. Griselda clamped herself to his side.

“Would you care to hear me sing, my lord?” She giggled. “Or do you have other pleasures in mind to while away such a gloomy afternoon?”

She is bold as burnished brass and terrifying as a witch met at the crossroads. After years of pursuing the weaker sex, Mark discovered that he did not enjoy the role of the prey. Alas, turnabout is fair play. “I fear I am prone to headaches when confined indoors.”

Her claws reached for him. “Then I will soothe your brow.”

He ducked away from her. “Nay, saucy puddleduck. My thanks for your concern but a ride in the fresh air will clear my malady.”

Griselda glanced at the arched window that dominated the hall. Wind-driven rain lashed at the glass panes. “Tis near to drowning out there, my lord. You will catch your death in this weather.”

Tis far safer in the midst of the storm than inside this charnel house. He pried her hands from his arm. “Bertrum!” he shouted down the length of the hall. “Quit lollygagging! Saddle our horses at once!”

Kitt’s blue eyes widened. “Now, my lord?” he ventured.

Mark sidestepped another one of Griselda’s amorous attacks. “This instant or twill be your hide nailed to the door!”

Kitt muttered something under his breath as he scuttled down the wide stairway toward the courtyard. Mark all but ran after him.

Within the half-hour, the two were riding through the familiar woods that surrounded Bodiam Castle. Though the rain pelted his face and chilled him through his sodden cloak, Mark felt alive and free for the first time in twenty-four hours. If it was not for that hard-headed minx in the northwest tower, he would keep riding all the way to London.

Thinking of Belle curbed his enjoyment. She hated confinement. Mark recalled the time years ago when she had been locked in the buttery for some household transgression. She had screamed and kicked the stout door for several soul-wrenching hours. When Kat finally released her, she was horrified by the sight of Belle’s bleeding hands and feet, but the child had not shed one tear of pain or remorse. With her head held high, she limped up the stairway to her secret refuge in the dovecote. There she had stayed until long past nightfall. Afterward, no one ever mentioned the incident, nor had Belle ever again been confined against her will—until now. Like an exotic wild bird, she wasted away inside the cold damp walls of her cage, yet she refused the freedom he offered her.

Mark tightened his grip on the reins. While he had ridden south on Brandon’s errand the rich estate that Belle’s father had promised the land-poor nobleman had filled his mind. Now that he had seen Belle’s piteous condition and met her jailer, Mark’s thoughts turned to revenge. He longed to strike Mortimer dead and lay Bodiam and all its possessions once again at the feet of their rightful owner. Patience, he counseled himself as he ducked under a dripping bough. We are too few for a frontal attack but there are alternatives to a fight. We must use all our cunning—and soon before Mortimer plays his end game.

Mark expected to find Jobe cold, wet and in a foul mood in his hideaway. Instead, the delicious aroma of roasting meat greeted Mark and Kitt when they dismounted in front of the old woodcutter’s croft. Inside, Jobe had a small but cheerful fire crackling in the cobblestone hearth. Several fat rabbits, skinned and skewered, cooked over the flames. Jobe’s immense presence filled the small room.

“Welcome, meus amigos!” he roared when Mark pushed open the rough-planked door. “Your dinner is ready.”

Kitt shook the raindrops from his cap. “How did you know we were coming?” he asked in surprise.

Jobe only chuckled, laid a finger against the side of his nose and winked in reply.

Mark unpinned his cloak. “Jobe has the gift of second sight, Kitt. I do not know how he does it; I only know that he can sense the future.”

“Aye,” the man agreed, “Just as I knew that the lady would not accompany you this day—though why she won’t, I do not know.”

Kitt regarded the African with increased respect. “Most marvelous wonderful! Can you teach me how to do that, Jobe?”

He chuckled again. “You must be born the seventh son of a sorcerer in the dark of the moon as I was.”

“Oh.” The boy sighed. “My father is only a knight.”

Mark warmed himself in front of the fire. “Tell me, wise friend, do you see a happy ending to this mad enterprise of ours?”

Jobe did not answer at once. He removed the rabbits from the fire and deftly jointed them on a large wooden board. He passed the succulent portions first to Mark then to Kitt before he replied. “I see devil darkness and brilliant stars falling from the skies,” he intoned in a deep-timbered voice. “I see misery, greed, yet laughter and…” Pausing, he stared at Mark.

The hairs on the back of Mark’s neck quivered a warning. “What?” He said a quick prayer that Jobe had not foreseen his death.

The African’s smile split his broad face. “Amor, meu amigo!” His laughter rolled up from deep within his chest. “The goddess of love will enfold you in her silver snares!”

Mark shook his head firmly. “Nay, your prophecy has gone awry this time. I am not the marrying kind. There are still too many flowers in the garden for me to savor.”

Jobe only laughed again, then addressed Kitt. “You will see anon, little one. Mark my words.”

Kitt looked from one man to the other then swallowed. “Can you…? I mean, do you see into my future, Jobe?”

The giant placed a large hand on Kitt’s golden head and looked deeply into the boy’s bright eyes. At length he nodded. “I see a strong heart and many adventures. You will drink life to the dregs.”

Kitt blinked with confusion but dared not question Jobe any further. With a grin, Mark passed his wineskin to the boy. “Do not pretend to understand what Jobe says. I never do, yet somehow things seem to happen as he says.” He narrowed his eyes. “But not falling in love, Jobe. I flatly refuse to do that.”

The African only shook his head. “Tis too late, meu amigo. You have already done so.”