Halloween Knight. Tori Phillips
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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