Tori Phillips - Halloween Knight

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.”

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