Tori Phillips - The Dark Knight

Then she laughed, though there was no mirth in the sound. “Did you know that my good judges have decreed that none of my blood shall be shed?”

Sandor suspected that they did not want her death to defile them any more than they already were. When he did not reply, she continued.

“When my father learns of my execution, the King and his minions can truthfully say that they did not spill my blood, yet I will be stone dead all the same.” She shook her head. “Oh, the clever wit of the lawyerly mind! They split their words thinner than a cook can slice an onion. Aye, and weep the same tears without sorrow while doing it.”

Behind his back, Sandor gripped the garrote. He said nothing since there was nothing he could tell her that would refute her clear-eyed deduction. He cleared his throat. Best to warn her to make herself ready to meet death. His hands shook.

She sipped more water from the cup then asked, “How will you do it? Kill me, that is?”

Sandor winced inwardly yet marveled at the candor of her question. He held up the knotted garrote. “With this, my lady.”

Her mouth trembled just a little before she bit her lower lip. Then she asked, “Will it hurt much?”

I have no idea. Aloud, he spoke in the same voice he used to soothe a skittish colt. “They say ’tis quick.”

She gave him a taut smile. “Who are ‘they,’ I wonder? And how do these wise men know such a thing? Has anyone come back from the dead to tell them?”

Sandor knelt before her so that they were eye-to-eye. He longed to take her hand in his. He hated the idea that she feared him. “I could wait until you sleep, then cover your face with my cloak.”

She touched the furred edge of his cape. “How could I fall asleep knowing that I would never wake again in this world?”

He tore his gaze from hers. “I have no answer to that, my lady. I only know what I must do. I pray that you forgive me.”

She touched the back of his hand. “Gentle Lord of Death, I have already forgiven you.”

Sandor’s skin burned under the light pressure of her fingers. A nerve throbbed at his temple. Do the deed now and be gone for the sake of your soul! He rose, towering over her. “Then, my lady, I must ask you to make your peace with God. I will give you a few moments alone.”

He turned on his heel, anxious to flee from her before she unmanned him completely. Quick as a cat, she fell to her knees and clutched the hem of his cloak.

“Then my first prayer will be to you, Monsieur de Mort.”

Sandor’s resolve shivered at the sight of the innocent beauty at his feet. He clenched his hands under the cover of his cape. “I am neither God nor the devil, my lady. Why pray to me?”

Tonia could not remember feeling so cold in her life. Her mouth had gone completely dry. Death was so close to her that she could smell the dark reaper’s breath of decay over her shoulder. Mustering the last shred of her courage, she stared up at the powerful man who stood over her. Avoiding the sight of his large, long-fingered hands, she wished she could read his expression on the face that was hidden by his black hood.

“I beg you for one boon—a small one—before you snuff out my life.”

He cleared his throat again. “What boon?”

She wet her lips. “I ask your generosity to allow me to live until dawn. I wish to admire the beauty of the sunrise one more time. ’Tis only a few more hours,” she added. She smiled for additional effect, though she had no idea if he was moved or not. “Besides, I do not think you intended to begin your journey back to London when the night hours are only half-spent.”

He said nothing, but looked over her head as if he sought some guidance from a ghost in the corner of her cell.

Grasping at this small hesitation, she added, “Methinks that my cold corpse would make poor company until the morning.”

Continuing to stare at the far wall in stiff silence, he clenched and unclenched his hands. Tonia found this action alarming. She tightened her grip on his cape.

He moistened his lips. “You think that I…” He paused then snapped, “Are you offering me your body for my pleasure in exchange for a few more hours of life?”

With a gasp, Tonia let go of his cloak and sat back on her heels. She hadn’t meant that at all. She shook her head, embarrassed to look at him and fearful that he might believe such a lewd thought. “I am a virgin, dedicated to our Lord. I do not know if you believe in God but…”

“I am no savage, Lady Gastonia,” he rumbled overhead. “And I do believe in the same God as you, though I worship in a different manner.”

A sliver of relief pierced her terror. “Then you should realize that I was not offering you my chastity as payment for my boon. If you require carnal pleasure, ’tis best that you strangle me now.” She dared to look up at him to discover that he stared down at her. “Do you think that I could greet my Lord God with the sin of impurity staining my soul?”

The executioner drew in a deep breath. His chest seemed to double its width. “Nay, lady. You need have no fear of this…dirty Gypsy.” He spat out the last two words. “I have no intention to defile you.”

Tonia sighed inwardly, her mind spinning with a flicker of hope. If she could beg a few hours from him now, then she had a chance to beg a few more in the morning, and perhaps a few more after that, until she could devise some way to escape him altogether. “I fear no Gypsy, Master Death, only the devil, and I do not think you are he.”

Though he remained silent, the man’s shoulders relaxed their tense posture. Tonia took another deep breath, then continued. “What are a few hours to you? Nothing, but they are a lifetime to me. In the name of the merciful God that both you and I serve, will you grant me my request?”

He rubbed his forehead, then he flicked his cape from her grasp. He strode to the cell’s door before he answered her. “I am not made of stone, my lady, and as you pointed out, the hour is late. I am tired and need to sleep. You may spend the rest of the night at your own leisure. I will not intrude until the sun climbs over yon mountain’s crest.” He flung open the door. A wintry gust of wind whipped through the small chamber, causing the lantern’s light to flicker.

Tonia glanced at the fat candle glowing inside its glass house. “You have forgotten your light, Monsieur de Mort.”

One corner of his mouth twitched. “My people believe that a burning candle in the night keeps troublesome spirits at bay. I would not have your remaining hours—nor mine—be filled with disquiet. I bid you good-night, my lady.”

Before she could thank him for this little kindness, the headsman whirled out the door, slammed and locked it behind him. Tonia sagged against the stool, weak with gratitude for her small reprieve. She cradled her head in the crook of her elbow and wept a few tears of relief. Though she tried to direct her mind toward spiritual matters, thoughts of the mysterious stranger intruded into her prayers.

Everything about the man intrigued her, beginning with his masked visage. Though she could not see most of his face, she thought that he must possess some good looks. His mouth belied his somber occupation, for his full lips looked as if they hovered perpetually on the edge of a smile. His profile, accented by the firelight, spoke of great inner strength. He moved his powerful body with the easy grace of a dancer. Yet Tonia sensed an air of isolation about him, as if he preferred to stand on the edges of a dance floor and observe the merrymaking of others. His eyes? They fascinated her. Turquoise blue behind his mask, they flashed his changing emotions like the suddenness of summer lightning. Had she detected a warmth simmering in their depths, a glimmer of compassion?