Chapter Three

      Early in the evening a week after the mismatched threesome had left Wolf Hall, Mark knocked on the door of a small cottage just off the village green of Hawkhurst. After a long wait, the door cracked open and Montjoy peeped around the corner. Mark gave the old man a wide grin.

      “Salutations, Montjoy! Remember me?” he asked, hoping that the ancient steward had not gone soft in his wits.

      Montjoy opened the door a little wider and held his glowing lantern higher so that the golden light fell upon all three of his visitors. He sniffed deeply. After a hard week of travel, Mark knew that they reeked like pigs in a wallow. He flashed Montjoy another encouraging grin.

      The old man nodded with resignation as if he greeted Death on his doorstep. “Aye, Master Mark, I recall your imp’s face though you have grown a bit since I last clapped an eye upon you. I presume that your beard now dents a razor on occasion?”

      Mark rubbed the dark stubble on his jaw. “Aye, Montjoy. I fear I am not at my best appearance at the moment.”

      Montjoy raised the lantern to the highest extent of his arm and stared at Jobe. The African stood behind the other two with his muscular arms crossed over his massive chest. His copper bracelets, silver knives and a single golden hoop earring reflected the candle’s light.

      Before Mark could make the proper introductions, Montjoy sniffed again. “And I perceive that you now keep company with the devil. Tis no surprise. I predicted that you would dance down the road to perdition sooner or later. By the look of things, it appears to be sooner.”

      Kitt smothered a giggle.

      Mark rolled his eyes. “Peace, old man. While tis true that Jobe comes from a hot climate, twas Africa not hell that was his birthplace. Now I call him my best friend. This…” He laid a hand on Kitt’s shoulder, “…is my squire…ah…Bertrum.”

      At the last split second, Mark decided not to reveal the boy’s true identity. Montjoy would surely fire a letter off to Wolf Hall within the hour if he realized that the precious Cavendish heir was embroiled in Belle’s latest difficulty.

      Kitt started to speak, but Mark squeezed the boy’s shoulder to silence him. Casting him a sidelong glance, Kitt shut his mouth.

      Mark cleared his throat. “We have been on horseback since dawn, Montjoy, and are weary beyond reckoning. Is Belle still in trouble or is that yesterday’s news by now?”

      At the mention of her name, Montjoy’s expression grew even more mournful. “Tis serious business,” he intoned, shaking his head. “Come in and I will impart all.” He opened wide the door and ushered the three inside. He pressed himself against the wall as Jobe passed him.

      Mark grinned when he saw a hot fire blazing in the hearth. The rising wind blew out of the north, bringing the sure promise of rain before midnight. “K…Bertrum, feed and water the horses. The stable is in the mews behind the house, as I recall. Then you may help with the supper preparations.”

      Kitt blinked. Mark smiled inwardly. This was probably the first time the lad had ever been ordered to do a menial task for someone other than his family. High time, he thought. Kitt shot a longing glance at the fire before he ducked outside into the cold again.

      Montjoy tapped the side of his nose. “That one reminds me of someone though I cannot put my finger on it.” Shaking his head, he shuffled to the draught chair close by the fireplace. There he eased his old body into his cushioned nest and wrapped a knitted lap rug around his spindle shanks.

      “Ivy!” he called, his voice surprisingly strong for one so frail-looking. “A strop of ale for our guests!”

      Mark unpinned his cloak and laid it over the bench by the door. Jobe followed his lead. Then the dark giant hunkered down in front of the fire’s welcome warmth. A young maid, dimpling with the freshness of her youth, came into the front room carrying a platter with a jug and several mugs. Spying Jobe on the hearth, she screamed and nearly dropped the lot. Mark rescued the ale and attempted to soothe the trembling girl.

      “Soft, pretty lass. Take no amiss. Jobe is as gentle as a kitten in a basket, especially to such a winsome creature as yourself.”

      Ivy uttered no coherent words but merely gaped at the African. He returned her stare with a tooth-flashing smile. Burying her face in her hands, she fled into the back room.

      “Hist!” Montjoy threw Mark a look of stern disapproval. “Ivy is a good girl and I’ll not have you meddling with her virtue as you are wont to do with impressionable young things.”

      Mark returned an innocent expression to the old man. “Ah, Montjoy, you are wicked to recall my misspent youth!”

      “Humph!” Montjoy poured himself a mug of ale and motioned to Jobe to help himself. “Let us attend to the business at hand. When will Sir Brandon arrive with his escort?”

      In the act of swallowing the sweet Sussex brew, Mark choked at the question. He wiped the foam out of his eyes, caught his breath and replied, “My lord is not coming.”

      Montjoy sat up straighter. His old eyes glowed. “How now? Has Sir Brandon lost his sound wits? His own daughter is in the gravest of danger.”

      Sighing inwardly, Mark wondered again just how serious the matter was. Belle always had the habit of exaggerating her difficulties when things didn’t proceed to her liking. “My lord is a-bed with a broken hip and every man at Wolf Hall is needed to bring in the harvest. Sir Brandon sent me in his stead.”

      Montjoy mumbled under his breath then asked, “How many accompanied you?”

      Mark replied, “Myself, Jobe and my squire are at your service.”

      The steward’s eyes bulged from his wrinkled face. “That is all? May the angels in heaven preserve Mistress Belle!”

      “Jobe is worth ten men in any fight,” Mark hastened to explain. He prayed that the old man would not suffer a seizure. “Trust me, I have seen him in the midst of a fray.”

      Montjoy passed a hand across his forehead as if he sought to wipe away a headache. “Fools, the lot of you! Aye, and your lord and master too.”

      “I am my own master now,” Mark murmured into his mug. In a louder tone he asked, “Your message was most murky and full of your usual dire humor, Montjoy. Pray tell, what exactly has Belle done now?”

      The ancient steward of Bodiam glared at him. “She has done nothing. Methinks the poor lass is being held prisoner against her will by that pustulous slug of a brother-in-law, Mortimer Fletcher.”

      Mark lowered himself onto a three-legged stool that faced the steward’s chair. The hairs on the back of his neck quivered at the sharp vehemence of Montjoy’s words. “How now? Explain your tale and leave nothing out.”

      Cradling his mug between