Tori Phillips - Halloween Knight

Chills danced down Mark’s spine. Belle’s plight was considerably worse than he had imagined.

“And Belle?” breathed Kitt with a tremor in his voice.

The old man cast him another appraising look before he answered. “As I wrote to Sir Brandon: she has been seen in one of the towers.”

“Which one?” Mark asked. Having lived at Bodiam for six years, he knew every nook and cranny in the castle.

“The northwest corner,” Montjoy replied. “One of the village boys spied her while he was fishing. She was in the garret chamber.”

Mark whistled. “He had good eyesight to recognize her through that narrow window.”

The old steward nodded. “She waved and called to him. He could only catch the words my father but twas enough, especially when Mortimer set a pack of varlets after the boy.”

Jobe suddenly came to life. “Methinks twill be most excellent sport.” He chuckled.

Montjoy gaped at him with open horror. “Tis no afternoon’s pleasure that I speak of but the life of a dear, sweet child. This Mortimer is sly and cunning.”

The African grunted. “More better!”

The old steward drew himself up. “Attend to me, son of Satan! The man is a very snake. I myself ventured to knock at the gates. I demanded to see Mistress Belle. Do you know that he laughed in my face and threatened to have his minions toss me into the moat? I feel infinitely sorry for his wretched sister.”

Mark cocked his head. Where there was a wench, there was a way. A plan began to form in his mind. “Tell me about Mistress Fletcher.”

“Ivy!” Montjoy called. The girl appeared at the doorway but refused to cross the threshold.

“Aye, sir?” she asked. She did not take her eyes off Jobe.

“Ivy was a chambermaid at Bodiam in happier times,” Montjoy explained to Mark. “Tell them about Griselda, child.”

Ivy made a face. “She is like a sour dishcloth. Limp and always complaining.”

Mark crossed to her side. Gently he put his arm around the maid and lifted her chin so that she was forced to look into his eyes. “Tell me, pretty Ivy,” he said in his most seductive tone. “Is Mistress Griselda comely?”

Ivy relaxed in his loose embrace and smiled at him. “I would not venture to say so, my lord,” she said with a giggle. “She is thin like an eel, has the voice of a jay and the face of a horse.”

Mark caressed Ivy’s little chin. “And is this paragon of beauty betrothed to some fortunate suitor?”

Ivy giggled again. “Her? Nay, my lord, and there is the nut and core of her unhappiness. She is desperate for a husband. At night, she shuts herself up in her chamber and whispers spells to conjure up one. Twas enough to give me the shakes.”

Mark drew the maid a little closer to him. “Fear not, sweet soul,” he murmured.

Montjoy rapped his knuckles on the arm of his chair. “Hear now, Mark! None of that! Release the child. She is not for your pleasure. Ivy! Fetch supper at once!”

With a chuckle, Mark stepped away from the smitten creature. His vanity enjoyed the momentary conquest. Though Ivy was far too young and innocent for his taste, she reminded his body that he had not been with a woman since he had left the king’s court. “Peace, Montjoy! Your girl is safe from me.”

The old man sniffed with disapproval. “I have never known any maid who was safe from your devilish charms.”

Except Belle. Mark rounded on Kitt who plainly was much taken with the winsome Ivy. “You! Squire! Do not stand there like a dead tree. Help serve our food for we are famished. And mind you—do not practice your lecherous wiles upon little Ivy.”

“But…but I never intended—” Kitt stammered.

Mark waved him out of the room. “Begone!” Then he smiled at Montjoy and Jobe. “I have thought of a most rare plan. LaBelle Cavendish will be free from her tower within the next twenty-four hours.”

And those thousand acres are practically mine.

The turning of the key in the rusty lock awoke Belle from her light sleep. She pulled herself upright and rubbed the last bit of drowsiness from her eyes. Since the day was overcast she could not tell the hour. A dull headache drummed against her temples.

The person on the far side of her prison door fumbled with the lock. Belle relaxed against the wall. “Tis only poor Will,” she told Dexter.

The black-and-white cat sat at her feet with his tail wrapped over his front paws. He stared at the door as if he expected a mouse to crawl under it. At long last, the bolt slid back and Will stepped inside. A gust of cold wind sailed through the lancet window, lifted some of Belle’s loose bedding straw in its path and carried them through the open portal. She shivered inside her filthy gown. The material was a light wool and it offered scant protection against the cold blasts from the north that whistled outside the walls. In the space of one short day, autumn had arrived in full force. Tonight would be bone-chilling.

“Goo’day, mistress,” said Will as he set down his full bucket with a hard thump. Clean water sloshed over the top and splashed Dexter. The cat jumped sideways then leapt to the comparative safety of the window’s narrow ledge.

Belle gave a wan smile at the bumbling young man. Will had been a potboy and turnspit at Bodiam ever since she had moved into the castle when her father had married her stepmother. Though Will had grown tall and brawny, his mind was still that of an amiable eight-year-old child. She was glad that Mortimer had not tossed him out with the rest of her loyal servants. Not that Mortimer had a compassionate bone in his body. It was merely a practical matter of finance. Will worked for nothing but food and a place to sleep. Since his wits were poor, the boy would give no trouble to the current despot who ruled Bodiam. Thank heavens for Will’s gentle soul and sweet nature! Belle suspected she would have died of starvation by now if it were not for his kindness and Dexter’s cunning skills.

“Good day, Will.” She flashed the boy as bright a smile as she could muster. “What’s the news today?”

Will squatted down beside her. “I wager you will never guess—not in a month o’ Sundays!” He giggled.

Though her stomach rumbled with hunger, Belle bided her time. Will would take deep offense if he thought she was just interested in the morsels of food he brought instead of his news. She knew no one ever spoke to him except to hurl curses. She took his large hand in hers.

“Let’s see. Did the cook fall into the soup, perchance?”

Giggling again, Will shook his head.

“What a pity!” Belle kept her tone light and teasing. “Hmm. Did Mortimer dig up something of interest in the storeroom?”

Will wrinkled his nose. “You are colder and colder. Come, guess again!” He wriggled all over with suppressed excitement.

Belle pretended to think. “Can you give me a hint? Just a wee one?”

Will’s grin broadened. “Tis something to do with Mistress Griselda.”

Belle furrowed her brow and pondered in earnest. Will loathed her sister-in-law. What could have sparked his interest in her? “Is she going back to her father’s home?” Belle asked, half afraid of the answer. If Griselda left Bodiam, there was no telling what evil Mortimer might do.

The potboy made a face. “Tis not that wondrous but the next best thing.”

Belle’s patience with Will’s game wore very thin. All she could think about was food. “I have made three guesses,” she pointed out.

Will gave her a very superior look. “And all of them were wrong.”

Belle squeezed his hand by way of encouragement. “Then you must make it all right, Will. Please tell me, what is your great news?”

The boy puffed out his broad chest. “Mistress Griselda has got herself a suitor.”