Halloween Knight. Tori Phillips
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Mortimer cocked his head. “How now? I did not hear that.”
She sighed. “Methinks you should bathe more often, Mortimer, for your ears are full of wax. Go away! I am not in a writing mood today or tomorrow or ever.” She unleashed a torrent of her pent-up anger upon him. “I will not now, nor ever sign away Bodiam Castle to you. Come rack or ruin to us both. I will see you in hell first!”
Mortimer backed up. His hand shook as he made a sign against a witch’s evil eye. “Hold your tongue, woman! Think whose dreadful name you invoke. They say the devil has his eyes and ears everywhere.” He glanced over his shoulder at the black stairwell behind him as if he half-expected a satanic visitor to ascend the worn steps. “Spit on your palm and say a prayer lest you be damned.”
A small laugh crackled from Belle’s dry throat. “Look who calls the kettle black! Scuttle away to your beetle hole, Mortimer. Your presence offends my nostrils.”
The thin man drew himself up. “I have bathed today, mistress. You, alas, have not done so in a fortnight. Tis you, not I, who offends.”
Belle turned away from him. “Then begone and take your foul paper with you.”
“You are a fool,” he sneered. He turned on his heel and bent to pick up the trencher and candle. “God shield me!” he bleated.
Belle stared at him in the dim light and wondered if he had been bitten by a mouse. He touched the trencher with the toe of his suede slipper.
“What’s amiss?” she asked.
“Bewitched!” he gibbered. “The capon has disappeared!” He pointed at the empty place on the trencher.
Belle rejoiced inwardly. Oh, sweet, cunning Dexter! Aloud, she remarked. “Mayhap the rats bore it away for a feast. The Bodiam rodents grow quite large, you know. Or…” She allowed a small pause while Mortimer twitched like a fish on a hook. “Mayhap twas the ghost that haunts this tower.”
Mortimer turned as white as Belle’s fictional specter. “What spirit? Where?”
She savored her only effective weapon against her brother-in-law. Like her late husband, both Mortimer and his puling sister were deeply superstitious.
“They say tis the ghost of the ancient knight who built this castle on the blood of innocents. Now he walks its galleries as a penance for his sins.”
Mortimer shuddered.
Belle hid her smile of triumph. “And they say he guards the family who abides here in peace but woe to those strangers who break Bodiam’s good cheer.”
Mortimer snatched up the trencher and candle, then backed out of the chamber. “Tis you who have angered this unhappy spirit, not I!” He slammed the door behind him and rattled the key in the rusted lock. “Look to yourself, mistress!”
With another wail, he clattered down the stairs.
Belle sank to the floor. In the darkness, she listened intently for some tell-tale sound. “Dexter!” she whispered. “Dex-ter!”
A large round form filled the tiny window. Then it jumped and landed squarely on Belle’s lap. She stroked the creature’s sleek fur as it pawed and kneaded a bed to its liking among the folds of her bedraggled skirt.
“Have you something for me, you artful thief?” she asked, tickling its pointed ears.
In answer, Dexter dropped the capon in her open hand. He rubbed his cheek against her arm as she greedily devoured his sticky offering.
“Oh, you are a love!” she sighed afterward while Dexter industriously licked her fingers clean of the drippings. “How well you were named, for you are my only friend in this reeky place. You are truly my right-hand cat!”
Chapter Two
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