Tori Phillips - Silent Knight

Walter’s shoulders shook with suppressed rage. “My business is mine own. I take it ill that you should question me. I am of age, and I do as I please.” He put his hand to the door latch of the tiny counting room.

Roger picked up a heavy clay inkpot and hurled it at his son. Walter swore a loud oath as the vessel missed his head by inches. Striking the door, the pot shattered; the ink splattered against the wood leaving a large black stain. Walter swore again when he saw that a number of thick drops had splashed onto his cloak.

“By the devil and his dam, you will not move until I give you leave!” Planting his palms on the table, Roger leaned across it toward his son. The distance between them rippled with his hot wrath. “Remove your cloak, knave!”

Walter backed away, nearly falling over a low three-legged stool. “The room is cold. I prefer to keep it on.”

“Your cloak, sluggard, or shall I have Grapper cut it from your back?”

Walter opened his mouth to make some retort, then thought better of it. Unbuckling the clasp, he swung the heavy cloth from his shoulders with a flourish. Holding it at arm’s length, he opened his hand, allowing the material to fall to the floor in a woolen puddle. He followed up with an elaborate bow, his right leg extended.

“Now take off your hat,” his father ordered in a low dangerous voice.

Walter’s eyes widened a moment before he assumed a cynical air. “Does my bonnet displease you, sir? Has my hatter been remiss? The color does not suit? I am most amazed.”

Roger drew himself up to his full height. At six feet three inches, he enjoyed his reputation as a giant among men. Over the years, he had found that his mere presence could intimidate his adversaries, and he often made it a point to use his height and bulk to his advantage. “Your hat, Walter. I shall not ask again.”

Backing against the wall, Walter snatched the black velvet bonnet from his head. He tossed it on top of his cloak. As he glared at his father, his eyes gleamed like twin daggers of heated Spanish steel.

Roger struck a flint to his tinderbox, and lighted the double-branched candlestick on his desk. Then he lit the candles on each side of the stone mantelpiece. The round tower room glowed with golden light.

Walter stared into the flames like a mesmerized moth. His tongue ran across his lips. “Are we celebrating the fair Edith’s death?”

Roger replaced the tinderbox precisely next to his sealing wax. “How dare you!” he whispered, staring at his son. To his surprise, Roger found himself enjoying this little scene. He couldn’t remember the last time Walter had looked so uncomfortable in his presence. “Have you no respect for the dead?”

“Only when you have respect for the living,” Walter snarled in reply.

Roger crossed around to the front of the table, like a cat stalking a mouse in the dairy. Walter slid along the wall, putting as much distance between them as the room allowed. “Remove your doublet,” Roger commanded in the same menacing whisper. “Be quick about it, knave. My quiver of patience is already spent this day.”

“Is this some jest, Father?” Walter’s gaze flickered across the closed door. “Is it your pleasure to freeze me to death?”

“If you were not my heir, I might be tempted to try it.” Roger drew his dagger from his belt and ran his finger lightly along the blade. “The hour runs apace. Take off your doublet, and your shirt, as well.”

Walter backed toward the fireplace. “Has your mind snapped in twain? I must give Edith more credit than I thought. I did not know you harbored so deep an affection for her that your brain has become sickly at her death.”

With a roar, Roger vaulted over the stool. Shoving one arm against the younger man’s throat, he pinioned his son against the wall. Ignoring Walter’s struggles, Roger slashed through the padded green velvet and the cinnamon-colored satin lining of Walter’s jacket. Within a minute, the expensive clothing hung in tatters from the young man’s shoulders. This violent action reduced Walter to frozen shock.

Grabbing his son by the scruff of his neck, Roger pulled him into the center of the light cast by the four candles. When he saw the profusion of open sores dotting Walter’s chest and disappearing below the drawstrings of his trunk hose, Roger nearly gagged. He pulled Walter’s head closer to the flames. His stomach turned sour at the sight of the bald patches shining through Walter’s close-cropped hair. A red mist rose up before Roger’s eyes, and a deep ringing filled his ears.

“You pernicious piece of a dungheap!” Roger followed up these words by slamming Walter once more against the coarse stone wall.

“What mean you?” Walter gasped, attempting to pry Roger’s finger’s from around his throat.

Roger suddenly released his son, who staggered to the stool and flung himself down upon it. The sting of scalding tears pricked at the older man’s eyelids, before he dashed them away. “How long have you had the pox?’

Walter picked up his cloak and drew it around his shivering shoulders.

Roger drew back one thick-booted foot and kicked the stool out from under his son. The wood splintered as Walter fell to the stone floor. “Where did you collect this souvenir of pleasure?” Roger growled. “At court? In the stews of London? Under a hayrack?”

Hugging the cloak, Walter scrambled away from the stamping feet.

“Answer me!” Roger roared. A vein at his right temple began to throb. By nightfall, he knew, he could expect another one of his vicious headaches. He ignored the warning. “When did you know you carried this... this filth?”

“’Tis but a rash.” Pulling himself to a standing position, Walter stared his father in the eye. “I have been scratching overmuch. ’Tis nothing but lice.”

A small part of Roger’s mind applauded his son’s impudence, though the fury of hellfire still burned through him. “Lice? Aye, that and more, from between a drab’s legs! Mince no words with me, hedgepig! I’ve seen enough of the world to know the pox. Have you sought treatment?”

Walter paused before answering, surprised at the turn of questioning. “A physician in York gave me mercury, though I think he sought to kill me, not to cure me.”

Roger turned toward the fire and stared into the glowing embers. “Too bad ’twas young Edward who died. ’Twould have been better if it had been you,” he said very softly, not caring whether Walter heard him or not. All his hopes and ambitions for the Ormonds had disappeared like the feeble smoke curling up the chimney.

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