Tori Phillips - Halloween Knight

He remembered Bodiam well. Nestled in the middle of Sussex’s rich farming country, the castle’s honey-colored walls had mellowed since it was first built in the fourteenth century. The moated fortress had turned into a comfortable home under the loving care of Brandon’s wife, Lady Katherine. Now the estate reaped a huge annual profit from its diverse crops. A dart of jealousy skewered Mark.

As the fifth son of a middling nobleman, he had inherited nothing from his father except a good family name. Nor had Mark gained any land of his own in Ireland as he had expected, despite the blood, sweat and tears he had poured into that contentious sod. No wonder Cuthbert had been eager to marry Belle! Mark himself would have married a hag witch for such a prize as Bodiam.

Brandon frowned into his half-filled mug. “Cuthbert’s brother and sister were with Belle when her husband died. In July, she wrote that they were still at Bodiam to keep her company. Then…nothing. I sent her a letter in August but received no answer. Belle may have her faults, but she has always been an excellent correspondent.”

Mark raised an eyebrow at this revelation. That brat never sent me one word of contrition for nearly destroying my sword arm. Not one jot or tittle of remorse!

Brandon continued, “Kat and I worried about her unusual silence, but we thought she was busy with the onerous tasks of managing the estate. Or that she was still overwhelmed by her grief.”

Mark drained his cider. Belle—someone’s wife! He vividly remembered her on the cusp of womanhood when she was thirteen. The thought of her lying…in bed…her long blond hair streaming on a burgundy coverlet…beckoning…naked…

“More?” Brandon shattered Mark’s increasingly lusty daydream.

“What?”

“More cider?” Brandon waggled the pitcher.

Mark nodded and served both himself and his former master as he had so often done in days of yore.

Brandon furrowed his brow. “I intended to visit Belle as soon as the king’s Michaelmas tournament was concluded. I did not dare to miss that event. Great Harry has not been himself these days after the execution of his latest wife. Poor little Catherine Howard!” Brandon shook his head, then frowned. “Indeed, the king’s temper has grown as monstrous as his body.”

Mark gasped. “Soft, my lord. Your words hover close to treason. These walls could harbor unfriendly ears.”

The young knight had just come from Henry’s court where the nobility of England cowered in Westminster’s drafty galleries while they waited for the next horrific eruption from their erratic sovereign. Mark had been very thankful to receive Brandon’s urgent summons away from that royal hellhole.

Brandon waved aside any disloyalty. He glowered at his lower body that was trussed in splints and miles of tight bandages. “Then this devilish thing happened. A simple jousting practice with my brother in our own tiltyard! My new charger stumbled on a pass and fell—pinioned me under him. The horse is a beauty, but marvelously heavy.”

Mark eyed the bandaging and shuddered inwardly. “Your angel must have been riding on your shoulder. I’ve known men to die that way.”

Brandon chuckled wryly. “You sound like Kat.” His brief smile dissolved. “But to the point. I have lain here for nearly a month, bedridden worse than my aged father on his ‘creaking’ days. Then a fortnight ago, I received this.” He plucked a wrinkled paper from the side table and held it out to Mark. “Tis from Montjoy. Do you remember that old badger?”

Nodding, Mark took the letter. “He still lives?” he asked, picturing the ancient steward of Bodiam, now supposedly in quiet retirement. The man must be nearly a hundred years old. Mark scanned the short note. “He writes with a cleric’s hand. His letters are clear.”

“What do you make of his message?” Brandon growled.

“‘A black cloud has shrouded Bodiam Castle,”’ Mark read aloud. “‘All loyal retainers have been dismissed. Visitors are sent away. Last evening, a village lad spied Mistress Belle high in one of the towers. She begged him to send for her father. Then the boy was chased from the home park by several armed men. Come quickly, my Lord Cavendish. Methinks your daughter is in great peril. Montjoy.”’

“I am a man on the rack, Mark,” Brandon said hoarsely. “My Belle needs me and I cannot move from this dankish bed!” He slammed his fist into one of the bolsters. It exploded in a geyser of goose feathers. The two men stared at the fluttering down that filled the small bedchamber. “Kat will boil my brains for supper,” Brandon mumbled morosely. “Tis the fifth pillow I have destroyed since Montjoy’s letter arrived.”

Mark’s mouth went dry. To the best of his knowledge, Belle had never begged for anything in her life. Bargained, demanded, schemed and coerced—but never begged.

“Mayhap Montjoy exaggerates. Twas always his fashion to look on the dark side of life,” Mark suggested, though a certain unease seeped through him.

Brandon curled his lip. “Aye, I know well his melancholy humors, yet this letter smacks of plain truth. The old man would not have sent it over three hundred miles simply to amuse himself. There is only one remedy for it. You must go to Bodiam in my stead.”

Even though he was prepared for this request, Mark shrank from it. The old break in his arm actually ached at the thought of meeting Belle again, no matter how dire her current predicament might be.

“Surely Sir Guy would be a better choice,” Mark hedged. “As your brother and a man of mature years and wisdom, he would—”

“Crows and daws, boy!” Brandon snapped, reverting to the master Mark had served for nearly fourteen years. “Did you ride your horse blindfolded as you approached Wolf Hall? The harvest is in full swing. Guy must be here, there and everywhere at once to oversee our lands as well as his own since I am bound to this bed like a trussed hen.”

Pausing, he gulped down his cider. “Nor does my good sire know a breath of this tale and twill be your hide on my wall if he does. My father still thinks of himself as a young man of four-and-twenty years when the truth of the matter is that he is nearly seventy. Daily he wages a losing battle with stiff joints and failing eyesight. Still, these infirmities would not stop him from riding south to Bodiam if he thought his beloved granddaughter was in danger.” Brandon shook his head. “My lady mother would never forgive me if Papa went on that fool’s errand.”

Mark gave him a wry grin. “But I am just the fool you can send?”

His mentor’s gaze bore into him. “Aye, there is no one else. Francis is in Paris, studying law and philosophy at the University. It appears he is more skilled with books and quill pens than with a sword and buckler.”

Remembering the serious young man who was Brandon’s other youthful byblow, Mark nodded. He rubbed his forearm again.

Brandon narrowed his eyes. “I know you and Belle have had your disagreements in the past,” he began.

“Ha!” Mark gave him a rueful grin. “From the time she could wield a stick or fire an insult, she has used me as her personal quintain. I would much rather train wild cats to dance a galliard on their hind legs.”

Brandon flexed his fingers. “She has grown into a winsome young lady since you left to fight the Irish.”

Mark snorted. “And pigs fly on golden wings round yon battlement, my lord.”

Brandon gave him a wintry smile. “How did you fare in Ireland? Did you make your fortune as you swore you would? After seven years, are you now the lord of a vast Irish estate?”

Avoiding Brandon’s gaze, Mark stared out the narrow lancet window into the setting sun. “You know full well I am not, my lord. I was fortunate to escape the isle with a few items of clothing and my horse,” he replied in a barely audible voice. “My only wealth is a peck of experience.”