Tori Phillips - Halloween Knight

Ignoring the gnawing pain in her stomach, Belle gaped at him. “Surely you jest with me.”

He shook his head. A light brown curl fell into his eyes. “Not so, never! He came this morning on a great horse.”

She furrowed her brows. “How on earth did he gain admittance? Is he a friend of Mortimer’s?”

The lad made a face. “Nay, the master gives many sour looks at him but says nothing. One of the guards told me that this nobleman stood on the moat’s bank opposite Mistress Griselda’s chamber window and he sang to her—for near half an hour, they say. Then the mistress commanded that the gates be opened. Since then she has done nothing but smile and smile and smile.”

Belle sat up a little straighter. “Tell me, is this poor swain deaf, dumb and blind?”

Will considered the question carefully before he replied, “Methinks not. He looks fair in his parts, though I would not swear to it. After dinner he sang again to Mistress Griselda. I heard him myself. He has a pleasing voice. And she turned red like an apple when he kissed her hand. But his squire is a right lackwit,” he added with a note of satisfaction.

Belle perked up at this intelligence. She wondered if the new squire might possibly be malleable enough to help her escape. So far, Will had been singularly stubborn in that particular area. The poor boy had been thoroughly cowed by a vicious beating. Aloud, she asked in a casual manner, “How now? What does this squire do?”

Will rolled his eyes. “Tis what he doesn’t know how to do. A right stumblebum—even worse than me. He has already angered both the cook and the steward by his poor service at dinnertime. Cook boxed his ears. But the lad’s nice to me all the same. His name is Bertrum.”

“I shall remember him in my prayers,” murmured Belle. And in my thoughts. Mayhap this Bertrum will be the angel of my freedom.

Will rose, then picked up yesterday’s empty water bucket and prepared to leave. Belle uttered an anxious bleat.

“Oh, Will!” She reached out to him. “Haven’t you forgotten to give me something?” she asked, praying that Bertrum’s sudden arrival had not addled Will’s memory. She pointed to the basket still hooked over his arm.

Stopping short, he grinned sheepishly at her. “Aye, ye are right, Mistress Belle! My mind mistook—almost.”

He pulled out the usual stale bread, then added a generous wedge of cheese that he had stolen from the kitchen. He dropped his precious gifts into her lap. Dexter hopped down from his perch and trotted across the floor to investigate the source of the delicious aroma. Belle covered the food with the hem of her skirt, then blew Will her customary kiss.

“May all the angels protect you,” she whispered to him.

He touch his fingers to his forehead. “And with you, Mistress.” Then he slammed the heavy door behind him.

Belle bit into the cheese, savoring its sharp tang on her tongue. Dexter sat beside her and watched as she devoured her meal. His pink underlip quivered. After she swallowed the last morsel, she sighed then cocked an indulgent eye at her loyal companion.

“How now, Dexter! Do not reproach me with those great golden eyes of yours. You know you dine very well and at your leisure, while I must wait for the crumbs to fall my way.” She patted her lap. Dexter hopped onto the proffered spot, circled once to find a position to his liking, then lay down with his front paws tucked under his chest.

Belle stroked him as she thought aloud. “What do you think of Will’s news? A moonstruck suitor for Griselda, accompanied by a bumbling squire? Tis a rich jest indeed. It almost makes me want to laugh—if I could remember how to do it. Oh, Dexter, will I ever laugh again?”

But the faithful cat had gone to sleep.

The midnight watch on Bodiam’s parapets had trod their appointed rounds for over an hour before Mark stole up the spiral stone staircase in the northwest tower. Although he carried a lantern, it was not yet lit for fear of attracting unwanted attention from a score of Mortimer Fletcher’s evil-looking minions. Mark needed no light to guide his way. In his green salad days, he had often roamed Bodiam’s galleries and stairways in the dark searching for one or another of Lady Cavendish’s adorable maidservants.

As he passed one of the arrow slits, he pulled his thick wool cloak tighter around his shoulders to ward off the keen draft that knifed through the opening. Pausing at the top of the steps, he pressed his ear against the stout door in front of him. He heard nothing but the whine of the wind. He backed against the far wall and stood stock still until the watch called out the next quarter hour.

Satisfied that he had not been observed, Mark knelt and lit the lantern candle with a spark from his tinderbox. In the flickering flame, his elongated shadow danced across the wall’s rough stones. Mark held the light close to the door then he whistled with surprise. A large iron key protruded from the lock. Mortimer was a fool to have complete confidence that no traitor lurked among his vile servants. After casting a final glance down the steep stairwell, Mark gently turned the key. The bolt protested with a teeth-gritting squeal. The noise was enough to wake the dead. The short hairs on the back of Mark’s neck stiffened.

He lifted the handle and gave a little push. The door creaked open like the lid of a coffin. All the old tales of goblins and ghosties that Mistress Sondra Owens used to spin around Bodiam’s kitchen hearth flooded back into Mark’s memory. Lady Kat’s wise woman often sent the young maids into flights of hysteria with her bloodcurdling stories. Mark had taken those opportunities to soothe the girls’ fears with many a stolen kiss and cuddle. He grinned at the memory. Like a shadow, he slipped through the narrow opening, then closed the door behind him.

A bundle of rags stirred in the corner of the privy alcove farthest from the open window. Mark gripped the lantern’s ring tighter. “Belle?” he whispered.

Two golden eyes pierced the darkness like no earthly creature. Mark loosened his dagger. “In the name of Saint Michael, I command you to be gone, hobgoblin!”

A wraith-like figure pulled herself into a sitting position on an untidy heap of foul straw. “How now, Mortimer?” she croaked in a mocking tone. “Methinks tis long past your bedtime. What churlish intent prompts this visit at such a late hour?”

Mark could barely believe his eyes or ears. Twas Belle’s voice, exactly the same as the one that often taunted his dreams, but the creature before him looked more like her spirit than the merry gremlin who had made his last year at Bodiam such a misery. “Belle?” he whispered again. Drawing nearer, he held up the lantern.

Her eyes blinked in the bright light. Beside her, a dark object disappeared under the straw. “Sweet Saint Anne!” she murmured, passing a hand across her forehead. “My hunger has conjured a nightmare.”

Mark’s apprehension changed to exasperation. “My gracious thanks for your sterling opinion of me, Belle Cavendish. Methinks after such a long time the very least you could say would be ‘How nice to see you again, Mark’ especially since I have traveled many miles to rescue you.”

Shielding her eyes from the lantern’s glare, she stared at him. “Mark Hayward?” she breathed at last.

He executed a curt bow. “In the flesh and at your service—at least for the present time.”

For one dazzling instant her face lit up with a radiant smile that banished every sensible thought in Mark’s head. The chill room grew perceptibly warmer. Then she shuttered her expression and replaced it with her more familiar one of amused contempt.

“Ah ha! I see that you still crawl between heaven and earth,” Belle remarked.