“Hell’s bells!”

She groaned. “What’s amiss?”

Mark rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “Tis dawn,” he began, glancing over to Belle. “You were supposed to—” He stared at her naked shoulders with growing shock. “God’s teeth!” he bellowed. He leapt out of bed, the blood pounding against his temples. “Are you…naked under that?” She couldn’t be! His heartbeat quickened at the speculation.

Belle lay back against her pillow, revealing a hint of the shadow between her breasts. Mark’s breath came out in short gasps.

She folded her hands over her stomach. “Of course. What did you expect?” she replied.

God save me! Mark backed farther away, nearly stepping into the cooling ashes of last night’s fire. What did I do to her? “What happened?”

Belle’s pink lips puckered with annoyance. “Methought you would awake happier than this. After all, I gave you what you most desired…!”

Dear Reader,

In keeping with the season, this month’s Halloween Knight features a bewitching heroine, a haunted castle and an inspired cat. Widow Belle Cavendish is being held by her evil brother-in-law, and it’s up to a young knight and his companions to save the day. Maggie Award-winning author Tori Phillips is up to her old tricks with this delightful tale of rescue that culminates in a Halloween banquet full of surprises!

USA Today bestselling author Margaret Moore returns with her new Regency, The Duke’s Desire—the story of reunited lovers who must suppress the flames of passion that threaten to destroy both their reputations. For Medieval fans, Dryden’s Bride by Margo Maguire features a lively noblewoman en route to a convent who takes a detour when she falls in love with a noble knight. And for our Western readers, Liz Ireland’s Trouble in Paradise, with a pregnant heroine and a bachelor hero, is out there waiting for you to pick up and enjoy.

Whatever your taste in historicals, look for all four Harlequin Historicals at your nearby book outlet.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Halloween Knight
Tori Phillips

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Available from Harlequin Historicals and TORI PHILLIPS

Fool’s Paradise #307

*Silent Knight #343

*Midsummer’s Knight #415

*Three Dog Knight #438

*Lady of the Knight #476

*Halloween Knight #527

To five young heroines-in-training,

Rachel, Ashley & Katrina Bigelow;

Alyssia & Gillian Eiserman;

with love from

their godmother.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue

Afterword

The time when screech owls cry, ban dogs howl and spirits walk.

—HENRY VI PART 2

Chapter One

Wolf Hall, Northumberland, England

Late September 1542

“You come none too soon, Mark.” The bed ropes creaked as Sir Brandon Cavendish shifted his weight. He did not bother to mask his grimace of pain from his former squire.

Sir Mark Hayward, lately returned from Ireland after a fruitless seven years seeking riches and honor in His Majesty’s service, offered his arm to his bedridden mentor. “Your message smacked of urgency, my lord. I rode posthaste from London. Thank God the roads were dry.” He eased Brandon nearer to the bedside table. “Am I to avenge you against the blackguard who broke your hip?” he asked with a grin.

Brandon lay back against a flock of bolsters and closed his eyes for a moment. “Belle’s in trouble,” he announced without a preamble. “At least, methinks she is.”

Mark groaned inwardly. He had known Brandon’s natural daughter ever since the little minx first appeared at Wolf Hall dressed in a ragged infant’s gown. LaBelle Marie Cavendish attracted disasters like honey drew bears.

“Tis an old tale twice-told, my lord,” he muttered. He sipped his mulled cider to steady his nerves. “Methought Belle was married a few years ago. Her troubles should be her husband’s now.”Poor sot!

Opening his eyes, Brandon leveled an icy blue glare at the younger man. “She was. The boy’s dead. Thereby hangs the reason for her present distress.”

Mark squelched his impulse to ask if Belle had driven her late spouse into his early grave. Instead he took another drink of cider while his heart beat faster.

Brandon emptied his own mug before he continued. “Cuthbert Fletcher was never my idea of a husband for Belle. The boy was a weakling, though pretty in his features. Belle took one look at that milksop—God rest his soul—and declared that she must have him as a husband or else she would die. Nearly drove me stark mad with her artful wheedling.”

Mark snorted in his cup. Comes from spoiling her rotten since the age of two. “But you allowed the match,” he observed aloud.

When Mark had heard of Belle’s nuptials four months after the event, he had toasted the health of her luckless bridegroom in Irish whiskey. He had never gotten so drunk in his life as he did on that rainy night.

Brandon gave him a meaningful look. “Because Cuthbert would take her, despite her…background.” He cleared his throat. “None of the young noblemen looked twice at my Belle once they learned she was born of a French commoner on the wrong side of my blanket. Belle was the fairest maid at Great Harry’s court when we took her there two years ago, yet not one of those strutting peacocks would stoop to woo her—except that whey-faced Cuthbert—the son of a wool-merchant.”

Mark tightened his grip around his mug at the thought of pretty Belle being snubbed by a gaggle of flap-mouthed galliwags dressed in satin. The lass had more spirit in her little finger than most men possessed in their bodies—and that was usually the trouble with the headstrong vixen. He massaged his forearm where it had broken eight years ago—the last time he had seen Belle.

“Most men never bother to look beyond their own noses,” he remarked. A trickle of sweat rolled down the back of his neck despite the coolness of the twilight’s air. “So Cuthbert died?” he prodded.

“Aye,” Brandon growled. “Of a fever this past June. Belle wrote us a heartbroken letter.”

Mark blinked. “She doesn’t live nearby?”

Brandon attempted to pour himself more cider from the pitcher but splashed most of it on his nightshirt. After swearing under his breath, he replied, “Nay. My good Kat gave Bodiam Castle to the newlyweds as Belle’s jointure estate. Belle is still in Sussex.”

Mark’s eyes widened. “A most generous gift from your lady wife,” he murmured.

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.”

Brandon leaned forward. “What would you say if I gave you a goodly parcel of land east of Wolf Hall—one that was fertile ground and well-watered?”

In the face of such an offer, Mark’s objections melted. He could almost smell the rich loam of those tempting fields. He wet his lips with his tongue. “And the price for this bounty is a trip to Bodiam Castle, my lord?”

Brandon flashed him a wolfish grin. “You were always a clever lad, Mark. Bring my Belle home safe and sound, and a thousand acres are yours.”

Enough to buy me a wife and a manor of my own!“ For such a prize, I would ride into the mouth of hell, my lord.”

“You may very well do that, lad, if Montjoy’s report is true.”

Mark brushed aside the old steward’s dire message. He was more concerned what Belle would do to him once she had learned of the outrageous price her father had paid to Mark for her return to the bosom of her family. “Have no fear for me, my lord. Jobe and I will leave tomorrow at first light. You will have the gentle LaBelle nestled in your inglenook by this time next month.”

Brandon shot him a quizzical glance. “Who or what is Jobe?”

Mark chuckled. “Both my shadow and my guardian angel. You shall meet him anon.”

Bodiam Castle, Sussex

As the last pale ray of the cloud-cloaked sun faded in the west, Belle heard Mortimer Fletcher’s heavy key scrape the lock of her prison door. Drawing in a deep breath for strength and courage, she struggled to her feet to face her brother-in-law and jailer. A wave of giddiness assailed her. She pressed her back against the chill stone wall to steady herself until the weakness passed.

Her stomach growled for the food she knew that he carried. She could smell the succulent aroma of roasted chicken even through the thick oak panels of the door. She took another deep breath. The door swung open with a protesting squeal. A small smile of satisfaction flitted across her lips as she watched the old hinge wobble in its mooring. She had spent many days picking at the mortar with her bodkin.

Mortimer, dressed in a clean linen shirt peeking out from under a fine scarlet velvet doublet, stepped into the tower garret. He balanced a cloth-covered trencher in one hand while he gripped a lighted candle in a brass holder with the other. The key to her freedom protruded from the lock. The flickering golden light sharpened Mortimer’s facial features. The man reminded Belle of a stoat.

“Good evening, mistress.” He smiled in a viperish manner. “Hungry yet?” He brought the candle closer to the trencher. “Sick of bread crusts?”

Against her will, Belle’s mouth watered. She knotted her hand into a fist behind her back. “I prefer to dine on toadstools and bat wings than to touch anything your cook might prepare,” she answered as tartly as she could.

Anger flashed across Mortimer’s face before he concealed it behind another false smile. “Take care what you wish for, mistress. Inside of a week you will beg me for exactly that loathsome nourishment.”

He set the candle on the floor, then lifted the cloth. Belle saw not only half a juicy capon glistening in a red-currant sauce, but a small loaf of fine-milled white bread and a dish of apples stewed in precious cinnamon—cinnamon from her spice chest no doubt! The sight of the tempting supper made her feel fainter. Biting her lower lip, she turned away.

Mortimer drew a little closer to her, but she noticed that he did not make the mistake of swaggering within the range of her fingernails as he had done on the first day he had locked her in this windy eyrie. As if she still had the strength to scratch out his eyes! He must not realize how weak I am.

“Come, sister, let us be friends again,” he coaxed in a syrupy voice that sickened her soul.

“I am not your sister, thank the good Lord!” she retorted as she backed away from him. The moldy straw of her bedding rustled underfoot.

Mortimer clicked his tongue against his teeth. “This conceit of yours does you no good, Belle. Indeed, you are pale and wan.” He snickered at his own little jest. “You know Cuthbert was the dearest brother to me.”

Belle knotted her fist tighter to keep from screaming. “Is that why you danced so high upon his fresh-turned grave! Ha! He often told me how his siblings plagued him during his childhood—you especially.”

“Twas all in good sport, I assure you,” Mortimer replied in an oily manner. “But soft, your food grows cold.”

She glared at him in the gathering twilight. “My heart grows even colder at the sight of you—and your food. I know how you expect me to pay for my supper.”

His black brows drew together in an angry knot. He set down the trencher near the open door and lifted a pot of ink from behind the bread. He pulled a folded paper from his doublet. “A mere dip of the pen. A few lines to scribble and all shall be joy between us as before,” he said in a sing-song voice. He ventured to take a step closer to her.

Belle leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes. “You don’t even know the meaning of those words, dull worm,” she whispered under her breath. “You were born on a dunghill.”

Mortimer cocked his head. “How now? I did not hear that.”

She sighed. “Methinks you should bathe more often, Mortimer, for your ears are full of wax. Go away! I am not in a writing mood today or tomorrow or ever.” She unleashed a torrent of her pent-up anger upon him. “I will not now, nor ever sign away Bodiam Castle to you. Come rack or ruin to us both. I will see you in hell first!”

Mortimer backed up. His hand shook as he made a sign against a witch’s evil eye. “Hold your tongue, woman! Think whose dreadful name you invoke. They say the devil has his eyes and ears everywhere.” He glanced over his shoulder at the black stairwell behind him as if he half-expected a satanic visitor to ascend the worn steps. “Spit on your palm and say a prayer lest you be damned.”

A small laugh crackled from Belle’s dry throat. “Look who calls the kettle black! Scuttle away to your beetle hole, Mortimer. Your presence offends my nostrils.”

The thin man drew himself up. “I have bathed today, mistress. You, alas, have not done so in a fortnight. Tis you, not I, who offends.”

Belle turned away from him. “Then begone and take your foul paper with you.”

“You are a fool,” he sneered. He turned on his heel and bent to pick up the trencher and candle. “God shield me!” he bleated.

Belle stared at him in the dim light and wondered if he had been bitten by a mouse. He touched the trencher with the toe of his suede slipper.

“What’s amiss?” she asked.

“Bewitched!” he gibbered. “The capon has disappeared!” He pointed at the empty place on the trencher.

Belle rejoiced inwardly. Oh, sweet, cunning Dexter! Aloud, she remarked. “Mayhap the rats bore it away for a feast. The Bodiam rodents grow quite large, you know. Or…” She allowed a small pause while Mortimer twitched like a fish on a hook. “Mayhap twas the ghost that haunts this tower.”

Mortimer turned as white as Belle’s fictional specter. “What spirit? Where?”

She savored her only effective weapon against her brother-in-law. Like her late husband, both Mortimer and his puling sister were deeply superstitious.

“They say tis the ghost of the ancient knight who built this castle on the blood of innocents. Now he walks its galleries as a penance for his sins.”

Mortimer shuddered.

Belle hid her smile of triumph. “And they say he guards the family who abides here in peace but woe to those strangers who break Bodiam’s good cheer.”

Mortimer snatched up the trencher and candle, then backed out of the chamber. “Tis you who have angered this unhappy spirit, not I!” He slammed the door behind him and rattled the key in the rusted lock. “Look to yourself, mistress!”

With another wail, he clattered down the stairs.

Belle sank to the floor. In the darkness, she listened intently for some tell-tale sound. “Dexter!” she whispered. “Dex-ter!”

A large round form filled the tiny window. Then it jumped and landed squarely on Belle’s lap. She stroked the creature’s sleek fur as it pawed and kneaded a bed to its liking among the folds of her bedraggled skirt.

“Have you something for me, you artful thief?” she asked, tickling its pointed ears.

In answer, Dexter dropped the capon in her open hand. He rubbed his cheek against her arm as she greedily devoured his sticky offering.

“Oh, you are a love!” she sighed afterward while Dexter industriously licked her fingers clean of the drippings. “How well you were named, for you are my only friend in this reeky place. You are truly my right-hand cat!”

Chapter Two

Jobe slowed his horse to a walk. Puzzled, Mark reined in beside the huge African. “How now, friend? We will burn precious daylight if we tarry. The road is still dry. We can make another five miles if we press on.”

Jobe stared straight ahead. “We are followed, meu amigo.”

Mark did not glance over his shoulder but the hairs on the back of his neck stiffened. Ruffians made travel more dangerous these days, ever since King Henry had closed the monasteries and returned the beggars to England’s highways. He fingered his dagger in its sheath. “Where away?” he asked under his breath.

Jobe unbuttoned his brown leather jerkin so that he could easily reach his wicked arsenal of small throwing knives. “He rides to our left but stays well back. He has been with us since midday.”

Mark wet his lips. When he had sailed away from Ireland’s rocky shore, he thought he had left behind such brigands as this. “Mayhap tis a traveler on a similar route. The London post road is well-used.”

Jobe rumbled his disagreement in the back of his throat. “Stop your horse and pretend to check his hoof for a stone. I wager that our shadow will halt as well.”

“Done,” Mark murmured, then he spoke in a louder tone. “Ho! Methinks my horse has caught a pebble!” He alighted smoothly, looking behind him as he did so. He saw someone turn off the track and disappear into a small copse of trees. He patted Artemis’s neck before he remounted.

Jobe cast him a half-smile. “And so?”

Mark gathered his reins in his hand and kneed his horse into a trot. “Aye, but the knave ducked for cover before I could spy his face.”

Jobe smiled, displaying startlingly white teeth against his ebony skin. “Bem! Tis good! I long for some good sport.”

Mark frowned at his companion’s enthusiasm. “Let us not act in haste, Jobe. He may have henchmen.”

“More better!” the giant answered with relish.

Mark pulled his bonnet lower over his forehead. “The road turns to the left below that rise. Let us continue at our present pace. At the bend we will fly like the wind.”

“And not fight?” Jobe snorted his disappointment.

Narrowing his eyes, Mark squinted at the late afternoon sun. “If our tail is still with us by nightfall, we will…persuade him to sup with us.”

Jobe beamed. “More better!”

Three hours later, Mark and Jobe sought their night’s shelter under the spreading boughs of an oak, its leaves decked in autumn’s red and gold. Mark hoped the mysterious rider had left them.

Jobe chuckled. “He is a sly one,” he said as he unsaddled his large bay.

Mark wondered why a lone robber would bother to pace them all day. Jobe and he traveled lightly and in plain attire. The most costly things that the men owned were their weapons.

“Build up a large fire to draw his attention,” he told his friend. “Meanwhile I will circle around and catch him from behind.”

Jobe shook his head. “Most unwise, meu amigo.”

Mark frowned at him. “How so?”

The African lightly cuffed Mark’s chin. “That white face of yours will shine out in the night like a second moon. Our shadow would have to be blind not to see you coming. On the other hand, I become one with the night. Besides, your life is my concern.”

Mark swore under his breath. “I can fend for myself.”

Jobe chuckled. “Aye, with me at your right hand.” He threw off the long cape he wore. His bandoliers of knives and his copper bracelets shimmered in the faint starlight. “Build up the fire and prepare for a roast.”

Mark grabbed his friend by the arm before the giant could melt into the darkness. “Do not kill the knave. England is a civilized country and twill annoy the Sheriff of Yorkshire if we leave a dead body on his highway. Bring back our guest while he still breathes.”

Jobe thumped him on the shoulder. “As you say,” he whispered. “Though killing is easier,” he added before he disappeared.

Mark stared into the darkness and tried to follow Jobe’s route, but he gave up. It seemed that the huge man had disappeared into thin air. After gathering a large armful of windfall kindling, Mark soon had a fire roaring. He unsheathed his dagger and sword, laying them close at hand while he tended the blaze.

The minutes crept by with no sound down the road. Mark stepped out of the circle of firelight, and backed up against the broad trunk of the tree. He held his sword lightly in his hand. His left forearm always ached in tense moments like this. It reminded him of Belle and the reason why he was skulking around a dark countryside instead of warming his bottom by a hearth in Wolf Hall. Gritting his teeth, he made himself think of the green pastures Brandon had promised him.

Suddenly, a yelp ripped the cool night. Mark tightened his grip on his sword and snatched up his dagger in his right hand. More yowls and snarls signaled Jobe’s success. In the light of the half moon, Mark saw his friend heft a flailing body over one of his massive shoulders. The African laughed with genuine pleasure that drowned out the fearsome oaths his slim prisoner screamed in his ear.

Mark relaxed his stance. “What have you caught for supper, Jobe?” he asked in a bantering tone.

The giant dropped his burden on the ground, then held him down with a well-placed foot on his chest. “Tis nothing but a man-child, meu amigo, though he swears with a fearsome tongue.”

The boy beat on Jobe’s boot. “Let me go, you lob of the devil!”

Mark took a closer look at their prisoner, then burst out laughing. “Hoy day, Jobe! You have done well! Tis a worthy prize indeed!”

Jobe lifted one corner of his lip. “This little mouse? This flea?”

His taunt only incited the boy to greater oaths. “Let me up! I will show you what is a flea and what is not, you flap-eared varlet!”

Mark hunkered down beside the snarling captive. “Methinks you are a Cavendish by the look of you.”

The boy went very still and turned a pair of bright blue eyes on Mark, who continued, “Indeed, Jobe, I am sure tis a member of that noble family—though he was absent from the supper table last evening. Perchance he was preparing his horse for today’s outing.”

The boy said nothing but had the courage to return Mark’s stare. Mark observed the boy’s rapid pulse throb in his neck.

Standing, he sheathed his sword. “Let him up, Jobe, but gently. Tis not seemly that the future Earl of Thornbury should grovel in the dust to the likes of us.”

With a rumbling chuckle, Jobe pulled the boy to his feet by the scruff of his jerkin. Then he stood behind his captive like some great bogle from a child’s nightmare. He held the boy in place with a large hand on each shoulder.

Mark grinned. “By the height that he inherits from his father and grandsire, and by the fire in his golden hair that bespeaks of his good mother, I say tis young Christopher Cavendish. By my troth, Jobe, I have not laid eyes on Lady Kat’s Kitten since he was chewing on his teething coral.”

Christopher lifted his chin and shot Mark a look of disdain. “I have not been called that puling name since I could walk. To my friends I am Kitt.”

The boy’s inference was not lost on either of his captors. Mark gave him a warm smile. “Then count us among your closest associates, good Kitt, for I have known your good family most of my lifetime, and Jobe is my boon companion.”

Kitt glanced up at the African. Then he ventured to touch the dark skin on the back of the man’s hand. “You are not painted?” he asked in awe.

Laughing, Jobe shook his head. “Only by the Lord God Almighty.”

“Tis a wonderment indeed,” Kitt observed.

Mark crossed his arms over his chest. “Tis even more of a wonderment that you ride alone on the highway so far from home.”

Before Kitt could answer, Jobe dropped to one knee and reached for one of their saddlebags. “Hold, meu amigo. In my land, a good tale should always be accompanied by food. Are you hungry, little warrior?”

Kitt shuffled his feet. “I could partake of a bite or two,” he replied with dignity.

Jobe grinned at Mark. “Boys are the same in every land,” he observed.

Within the hour Kitt had consumed most of the provender that Lady Kat had packed for Mark and his companion. Relaxed by the food, some wine and the comforting warmth of the fire, the boy told a detailed story of his preparations and escape from Wolf Hall—and his parents.

“I have come to help you save Belle,” he concluded.

Mark searched the starry heavens for angelic guidance. “This journey is not a social visit, Kitt. Your father thinks there may be some danger.”

Kitt’s eyes sparkled in the firelight though he managed to maintain a serious expression. “Good! I am prepared.”

I will throttle him! Aloud, Mark asked, “How? You are barely tall enough to swing a sword. Nay, tis impossible.”

Kitt swelled up like a young fighting cock. “I can shoot the eye out of a crow at a hundred paces with an arrow. And I am a most marvelous horseman.”

Jobe nodded. “In this he speaks the truth, meu amigo. The boy has followed us in a most cunning manner all day. Methinks you would not have noticed him until now.”

Mark’s vanity bristled at his friend’s words. “Why now?” he snapped.

The African’s smile flashed in the firelight. “Because the young master would have told you he was hungry.”

Kitt gaped at him. “My plan to the very letter, but how did you guess?”

Jobe leaned closer and whispered, “Because I am a powerful jinn.” He chuckled.

Kitt gulped and traced a hasty sign of the cross.

Mark glared at both of them. “Jobe is uncommonly wise, Kitt, but he is made of flesh and blood as we are. Now, my friend, I have need of your wise council. What are we going to do with the boy?”

Kitt gave Mark a steady look. “I am going with you to Bodiam, will you or nil you. Tis my duty as Belle’s most able-bodied male relative—at the moment.”

Stubborn like his father! Mark shook his head. “I applaud your courage, Kitt, but I cannot permit the deed. Your parents would hang me at the crossroads if any injury befell you.” He sighed. “Blast you, boy! We shall lose three precious days to take you home and return again. Those three days might cost Belle a month of sorrow. Did you think of that?”

Kitt did not flinch as Mark had hoped he would. Instead the boy replied, “You would waste your time, my Lord Hayward. Unless Papa chains me to my cot, I will still follow after you.” His expression softened. “Please, sir. Take me with you for I grow stale at Wolf Hall and I long to prove myself. My lady mother is…er…In truth, she would keep me wrapped in lambswool and placed in a strongbox if she could.”

Mark tipped his wineskin to his mouth, took a long drink then asked. “How old are you now?”

“Eleven years since last March.”

Mark pondered the boy’s answer. He himself had been fostered to Kitt’s grandfather and made Sir Brandon’s page before he had turned eight. By the time Mark was Kitt’s age, he had traveled to France, had lived at King Henry’s court for several seasons, knew how to gamble at cards and had gotten drunk at least once. Considering Lady Kat’s protective instincts toward her only chick, Mark strongly doubted that Kitt had experienced any of these adventures despite being the beloved son of such a champion as Sir Brandon Cavendish.

Jobe broke the silence. “In my land, you would have begun the rites of manhood by now, young master.”

Kitt blinked. “What might those be?”

Jobe fingered one of the many knives that hung from his shoulder strap. “Once a boy has learned how to use his spear as well as his bow and arrows, and once he has learned to track game over many miles, tis time for his final test.”

Kitt licked his lips like a puppy anticipating its supper. “What is this test?”

Jobe leaned closer. “His eyes are covered so that he will not know where he is taken. Then the senior warriors march him a day and a night into the wilderness.”

Mark shuddered at the idea, but Kitt glowed with excitement.

Jobe continued, “Then they leave him alone with only his spear and his shield. The boy must track and kill a lion. He must skin it and drink its blood for its courage. Afterward, he must find his way back to his village with his prize. Then he is declared a man. He will keep the lion’s pelt all the days of his life.”

Swallowing, Mark decided that his long apprenticeship under Brandon’s tutelage had not been so difficult after all.

Kitt’s eyes grew larger. “And what if the lion wounds the boy or he gets lost while returning home?”

Jobe stared hard at him. “Then he dies.”

Kitt licked his lips. “What of his poor mother?”

The African shrugged. “She is only a weak woman. Women do nothing but weep or complain all the day long. You will soon learn that for yourself.”

Kitt tossed his long hair out of his eyes. “My lady mother was never weak.”

“Amen to that,” Mark murmured under his breath. I would rather face a lion any day than an angry Lady Kat.

Jobe nodded. “I see that, young master. You suckled courage from a strong mother.”

Kitt squared his shoulders. “Tis true. My family are the bravest in all England.” He turned again to Mark. “Do you hear that, Lord Hayward? Even your wise counselor says that I am ready to be a man. Let me go on this quest. Tis my right!” he added pounding his fist on his knee.

Mark studied the boy’s determined expression. Sighing, he tossed away his last shred of common sense. “If we are to ride together, I require three promises from you.”

Kitt could not contain the glee in his eyes nor in his voice. “Anything, my lord! I will not fail you!”

Mark stood to emphasize his tenuous authority over this half-grown lordling. “First, you will obey me and Jobe in all matters, even if you disagree with them.”

“But what if—?” Kitt began.

Mark held up his hand for silence. “Attend to me, Kitt. One day far in the future you will become the eleventh Earl of Thornbury and the lord protector of England’s border shire against the Scots. If you expect men to obey you then, you must learn the virtue of obedience now. Your noble father taught me that lesson when I was a good deal younger than you.”

Kitt considered the point, then nodded. “Aye, my lord, I will.”

“Second, until further notice, you will act as my squire. Has anyone instructed you in the duties of one?”

The boy made a face. “Aye, Lord Hayward. I am not a complete fool. I agree to this condition. And your third?”

Mark stared down at him and wondered if he himself had ever looked so young and vulnerable. “Third, since we are to live together in close harmony, please call me Mark. ‘Lord Hayward’ sounds strange in my ear when spoken by your mouth.”

Kitt grinned. “Aye, my lord…that is…Mark.”

Mark resigned himself to the sure knowledge that his days were numbered when next he saw Lady Katherine Cavendish—or maybe sooner, when he met Belle. “So, my friends, to sleep. We ride hard on the morrow. Squire Kitt, prepare our beds and bank the fire.”

The youngster practically fell over his feet in his haste to prove his worth.

Later, when the three lay close together under their blankets, Kitt whispered to Jobe, “Tell me about your lion.”

The African chuckled, “Twas a leopard and my tale will make your hair stand on end. Tis best saved for the daylight hours.”

“Oh!” Kitt burrowed deeper in his simple bedding.

Mark rolled onto his side and squeezed his eyes shut. I have a very ticklish feeling about this enterprise.

Griselda Fletcher plucked a raw pippin from the fruit bowl on the high table. She sliced and quartered it, then prized out the seeds from its core with the tip of her eating knife. She spread the pips on her empty trencher and began to count them.

“Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor—”

Mortimer regarded her with open disgust. His sister was such a sheep! “What are you doing, wench?”

Glancing up, she frowned at him. “Seeking my future husband since you have done nothing about finding one for me,” she whined.

Mortimer clenched his teeth as his sister’s high nasal voice grated on his nerves. “Hold your venom, chit,” he snapped. “I am attempting to procure you a dowry or had you forgotten that one minor point?”

Griselda pulled her plain features into a sour pout. “Methinks you would have attained Belle’s fortune long ago if you had just used a little more honey and less vinegar with her. Didn’t I tell you—?”

Mortimer slammed his fist on the heavy table. The apple seeds jumped at the impact. “Silence! Your song grows tedious and its tune abuses my ears.”

Griselda restored order among her fortune-telling pips. “Cuthbert said she was stubborn, remember? You should have let me—”

Mortimer abruptly stood. “I should have left you at home!”

The mewling woman continued, “Aye, where mayhap Father would have me wed by now. I am near six-and-twenty with no-o-o hus-husband!” She dissolved into gulping sobs.

Mortimer ignored her torrent of tears. “And you will never have a suitor if you insist upon weeping and wailing. A man does not find red eyes and a snotty nose the least bit attractive—and certainly not in his bed!”

“Oh!” Griselda shut her mouth.

Mortimer stalked over to the cheerful hearth and tossed another log on the fire. With a volley of crackles, red-orange sparks flew up the blackened chimney. He stared into the flames while he collected his thoughts. Fire had always soothed him, even from earliest childhood.

He held out his chilled fingers to the blaze. “Since the weather has turned colder, methinks Mistress Belle will soon become more…pliable.” He sniggered through his nose.

Griselda furrowed her thick brows. “But she is well enough, though sick in her mind, isn’t she?” she whimpered. “You promised she would get better soon. You said that—”

Mortimer turned on her. “I said that I would take the matter of Cuthbert’s inheritance in hand and there’s an end to it!”

His sister blew her nose in the tail of her dragging sleeve. “By my troth, I do not know why you bothered to bring me with you, I surely do not,” she moaned. “All you do is rail at me the whole livelong day as if it was my fault that you cannot find that chest of jewels. You act as if it was my fault that—”

Mortimer crossed the distance between them in two quick strides. Without a word of warning, he slapped her smartly across her whining mouth. The sharp crack of the blow echoed down the length of Bodiam’s empty hall.

“Take that for your faults that are beyond counting!” he snarled at her. “I rue the day I thought of you. Were it not for the tongue of scandal, I would have left you to snivel in your own chamber at home.”

“You s-said I was to b-be a g-good nurse for Cuthbert,” she sobbed in her sleeve.

“Ha! What a jest! He died. Perchance twas your fault.” He pushed his face closer to hers. “Now heed me well, Griselda. Whisper one more word about any casket of jewels and I will flay you alive—with my bare hands!”

A dart of cunning flashed into Griselda’s watery eyes. “Not found it yet then?” she murmured. “Methinks that Belle was more clever than you expected. Methinks—”

Mortimer grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her until her headdress slipped off her greasy brown hair. “Stop thinking at all!” he bellowed. “It addles your brain that, God knows, was never sound to begin with! Do nothing! Say nothing! And above all, think nothing! Now, go to your chamber and play with the rats. The sight of you makes my hand itch to strike you again!”

With a squeal of terror, Griselda scuttled toward the staircase. Mortimer swept the apple pips onto the floor and stalked out of the hall. He hated to admit that Griselda’s jibe about the hidden jewels had struck too close to home. His mouth watered to think of the large ruby brooch. It lurked within some hidden spot in Bodiam just waiting for him to find it.

He clattered down the damp stairs to the underground storeroom where two of his most trusted minions systematically toiled at digging up every paving stone in the floor. I will have my prize if I have to pull down every stone in this gorbellied castle to find it!

Chapter Three

Early in the evening a week after the mismatched threesome had left Wolf Hall, Mark knocked on the door of a small cottage just off the village green of Hawkhurst. After a long wait, the door cracked open and Montjoy peeped around the corner. Mark gave the old man a wide grin.

“Salutations, Montjoy! Remember me?” he asked, hoping that the ancient steward had not gone soft in his wits.

Montjoy opened the door a little wider and held his glowing lantern higher so that the golden light fell upon all three of his visitors. He sniffed deeply. After a hard week of travel, Mark knew that they reeked like pigs in a wallow. He flashed Montjoy another encouraging grin.

The old man nodded with resignation as if he greeted Death on his doorstep. “Aye, Master Mark, I recall your imp’s face though you have grown a bit since I last clapped an eye upon you. I presume that your beard now dents a razor on occasion?”

Mark rubbed the dark stubble on his jaw. “Aye, Montjoy. I fear I am not at my best appearance at the moment.”

Montjoy raised the lantern to the highest extent of his arm and stared at Jobe. The African stood behind the other two with his muscular arms crossed over his massive chest. His copper bracelets, silver knives and a single golden hoop earring reflected the candle’s light.

Before Mark could make the proper introductions, Montjoy sniffed again. “And I perceive that you now keep company with the devil. Tis no surprise. I predicted that you would dance down the road to perdition sooner or later. By the look of things, it appears to be sooner.”

Kitt smothered a giggle.

Mark rolled his eyes. “Peace, old man. While tis true that Jobe comes from a hot climate, twas Africa not hell that was his birthplace. Now I call him my best friend. This…” He laid a hand on Kitt’s shoulder, “…is my squire…ah…Bertrum.”

At the last split second, Mark decided not to reveal the boy’s true identity. Montjoy would surely fire a letter off to Wolf Hall within the hour if he realized that the precious Cavendish heir was embroiled in Belle’s latest difficulty.

Kitt started to speak, but Mark squeezed the boy’s shoulder to silence him. Casting him a sidelong glance, Kitt shut his mouth.

Mark cleared his throat. “We have been on horseback since dawn, Montjoy, and are weary beyond reckoning. Is Belle still in trouble or is that yesterday’s news by now?”

At the mention of her name, Montjoy’s expression grew even more mournful. “Tis serious business,” he intoned, shaking his head. “Come in and I will impart all.” He opened wide the door and ushered the three inside. He pressed himself against the wall as Jobe passed him.

Mark grinned when he saw a hot fire blazing in the hearth. The rising wind blew out of the north, bringing the sure promise of rain before midnight. “K…Bertrum, feed and water the horses. The stable is in the mews behind the house, as I recall. Then you may help with the supper preparations.”

Kitt blinked. Mark smiled inwardly. This was probably the first time the lad had ever been ordered to do a menial task for someone other than his family. High time, he thought. Kitt shot a longing glance at the fire before he ducked outside into the cold again.

Montjoy tapped the side of his nose. “That one reminds me of someone though I cannot put my finger on it.” Shaking his head, he shuffled to the draught chair close by the fireplace. There he eased his old body into his cushioned nest and wrapped a knitted lap rug around his spindle shanks.

“Ivy!” he called, his voice surprisingly strong for one so frail-looking. “A strop of ale for our guests!”

Mark unpinned his cloak and laid it over the bench by the door. Jobe followed his lead. Then the dark giant hunkered down in front of the fire’s welcome warmth. A young maid, dimpling with the freshness of her youth, came into the front room carrying a platter with a jug and several mugs. Spying Jobe on the hearth, she screamed and nearly dropped the lot. Mark rescued the ale and attempted to soothe the trembling girl.

“Soft, pretty lass. Take no amiss. Jobe is as gentle as a kitten in a basket, especially to such a winsome creature as yourself.”

Ivy uttered no coherent words but merely gaped at the African. He returned her stare with a tooth-flashing smile. Burying her face in her hands, she fled into the back room.

“Hist!” Montjoy threw Mark a look of stern disapproval. “Ivy is a good girl and I’ll not have you meddling with her virtue as you are wont to do with impressionable young things.”

Mark returned an innocent expression to the old man. “Ah, Montjoy, you are wicked to recall my misspent youth!”

“Humph!” Montjoy poured himself a mug of ale and motioned to Jobe to help himself. “Let us attend to the business at hand. When will Sir Brandon arrive with his escort?”

In the act of swallowing the sweet Sussex brew, Mark choked at the question. He wiped the foam out of his eyes, caught his breath and replied, “My lord is not coming.”

Montjoy sat up straighter. His old eyes glowed. “How now? Has Sir Brandon lost his sound wits? His own daughter is in the gravest of danger.”

Sighing inwardly, Mark wondered again just how serious the matter was. Belle always had the habit of exaggerating her difficulties when things didn’t proceed to her liking. “My lord is a-bed with a broken hip and every man at Wolf Hall is needed to bring in the harvest. Sir Brandon sent me in his stead.”

Montjoy mumbled under his breath then asked, “How many accompanied you?”

Mark replied, “Myself, Jobe and my squire are at your service.”

The steward’s eyes bulged from his wrinkled face. “That is all? May the angels in heaven preserve Mistress Belle!”

“Jobe is worth ten men in any fight,” Mark hastened to explain. He prayed that the old man would not suffer a seizure. “Trust me, I have seen him in the midst of a fray.”

Montjoy passed a hand across his forehead as if he sought to wipe away a headache. “Fools, the lot of you! Aye, and your lord and master too.”

“I am my own master now,” Mark murmured into his mug. In a louder tone he asked, “Your message was most murky and full of your usual dire humor, Montjoy. Pray tell, what exactly has Belle done now?”

The ancient steward of Bodiam glared at him. “She has done nothing. Methinks the poor lass is being held prisoner against her will by that pustulous slug of a brother-in-law, Mortimer Fletcher.”

Mark lowered himself onto a three-legged stool that faced the steward’s chair. The hairs on the back of his neck quivered at the sharp vehemence of Montjoy’s words. “How now? Explain your tale and leave nothing out.”

Cradling his mug between his bony hands, Montjoy leaned forward. “For the first year of Mistress Belle’s marriage to young Cuthbert Fletcher, all was well at Bodiam. True, she soon led the boy around by his nose but he seemed to enjoy it. The winter was hard here. Cuthbert grew pale and stayed within doors, though I saw Mistress Belle weekly when she brought me a basket of delicacies from her kitchens. She was ever kind to me and always inquired after the state of my poor health.”

Mark made a face. She never showed me so much as a groat’s worth of tender concern when I broke my arm on her account! “Then Cuthbert died,” he prodded.

“Aye, in June when the strawberries were at their peak. Fever—here one day and in his grave the next. Poor little Belle was grief-stricken. She loved the boy for all her willful ways.”

A twinge of jealousy wormed into Mark’s heart. What enticement did that puling milksop have to win Belle’s love? He cleared his throat. “And then? What of Mortimer?”

Montjoy sniffed deep with disgust. “Like ravens gathering over carrion, Cuthbert’s brother and sister swooped down upon Bodiam a fortnight before the young husband’s death. They must have packed their trunks the minute they received the news of his illness.”

Mark raised his brows. “They came with many trunks?”

“A cartload of baggage!” Montjoy snapped. “Enough to last them a year and then some. Shortly after Cuthbert’s untimely death things began to change.” His voice assumed a hollow tone.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mark noticed Kitt creep into the room from the back door and slip into a dark corner. The boy stood as motionless as an alert deer. His blue eyes sparked with an indigo fire.

The old man took no notice of the squire. “Belle came less often to visit me and when she did, she seemed quiet and withdrawn.”

Mark furrowed his brow. Belle had never been the least bit quiet except the one time she had been sick with some childish complaint. “Had she caught Cuthbert’s fever?”

She’s dead! cried a banshee’s voice in his brain. He felt as if he had swallowed a cold stone that now pressed against his very soul. Please God, do not let it be that!

“Is Belle sick?” Kitt echoed from his corner.

Montjoy stared hard at the boy, then shook his head. “Nay, though she would not say what was the matter except that she prayed her in-laws would soon remove themselves from her home. Then…when the wheat was ready for harvest, she stopped visiting me altogether.” He sipped his ale then continued. “At the same time, all the servants were dismissed.” He snapped his fingers. “Like that! Paid their wages and sent packing. Of course many of them came straightway to me.”

“And?” Mark asked, keeping a wary eye on Kitt.

“They told a sorrowful tale of this Mortimer Fletcher. The man is the son of a London wool merchant! He knows nothing of administering such a large estate as Bodiam. The servants told me that he bullied Mistress Belle as well as his own sister.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Mark countered. “Obedience was never one of Belle’s virtues.”

Montjoy allowed himself a slight shrug. “I only report what I have heard. Once all the servants were gone, save for a lackwit potboy, Mortimer filled Bodiam with his own minions culled from the gutters and foul bogs, I warrant. Since mid-August, the castle has become a hive of scum and villains. No one goes there except to deliver supplies.”

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.”

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.

Chapter Four

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.

Her tart tongue made him itch to shake her but the sight of her wan face broke his heart instead. He knelt down beside her. “What has happened to you, chou-chou?” he asked, reverting to the pet name he had called her since she had been a toddler.

Belle’s eyes narrowed. “Surely tis obvious even to you, Marcus,” she replied, not looking at him. “I have been lying about on goose down quilts all the livelong day and pleasuring myself with sweetmeats while singing roundelays.” Her lower lip trembled before she bit it.

Mark stroked her sunken cheek. Her skin was dry and cold to his touch. “God’s teeth! I will kill Mortimer Fletcher by inches. Tis a good thing that your father cannot see you in this wretched state.”

At the mention of Brandon, she attempted to rise. “Papa? Oh, where is he?”

Mark caught her before she fell to the hard floor. Belle weighed nothing in his arms. With his free hand, he fumbled with the clasp that held his cloak around his neck. “Soft, Belle. Your father is still at Wolf Hall.”

A faint sheen of tears filled her eyes, but she dashed them away with the back of her hand. “He did not come for me?” she whispered.

Mark wrapped the cloak around her and held her close to his chest willing his warmth into her thin bones. “Tush, chou-chou. Do not think ill of him. He lies abed with a broken hip.”

She gasped.

“He will mend in time and with Lady Kat’s gentle care,” Mark soothed. “Tis fear for your safety that pains him more than his injury. He has sent me in his stead.”

Belle arched one of her delicate eyebrows. “Then I suppose you will have to do. Beggars cannot be choosers. Where are your men-at-arms?”

Mark smoothed a lock of her golden hair. “I fear I have none, only—”

She bolted upright in his arms. “What!” she wailed. “Oh, Mark! I see your brains are still as thick as Tewksbury mustard!”

He fumed in silence for a moment. His brilliant plan for Belle’s escape was not working as he had expected. Though she was as weak as a milksop, the chit showed no inclination to express her admiration or gratitude for all the trouble—not to mention the personal sacrifice—he had already endured on her behalf.

“Do you take me for a fool, Belle?” he growled.

She snapped her fingers. “Nay, sir! If I could, I would not take you at all!”

Mark was torn between the urge to kiss her or to shake her. “You ungrateful little wretch! I have half a mind to leave you as I found you.” He attempted to gather her back into his embrace. He had liked that part of the rescue very much.

Belle glowered at him. “Begone then! Methinks I have given you enough amusement for one night.”

Mark glowered back. Their cold noses practically touched. “You will note that I am not laughing, Belle.”

Her mouth, faintly pink, enticed him. Her lips hovered near to his—just as they had done at their last meeting. Just before Belle had pushed him out of the apple tree.

She wrinkled her nose. “Cudgel your lusty thought, Mark. These lips are not yours for kissing and the time is out of joint. By my troth, I had rather be wooed by a snail than to be rescued by one.”

“A snail?” he snarled. The minx had not changed one jot in the last eight years. She was still as impossible as ever. “So be it!” He rose, carrying her with him. “We have dallied here too long as it is.”

Belle beat against his chest with her fists. Though her blows had none of their former strength, Mark was hurt by her lack of cooperation.

She grimaced. “Unhand me, you purple-headed malt-worm!”

He tucked the cloak under her chin. “Tut, tut. There is no need to thank me now, Belle. Later on, of course, you may shower me with your proper gratitude.”

She bit his thumb.

He almost dropped her.

“Belle!” He shook her to gain her full attention. “As much as I have enjoyed this pleasant chitchat with you, do you not think it wise that we quit this dank cell and make a swift exit into yonder woods?”

She wriggled out of his arms. “Nay!” She sank down onto her reeky pallet.

Mark thought of a number of dastardly things he could do to speed along this frustrating enterprise but he rejected all of them. If Belle didn’t kill him afterward, Brandon would. Then it would be good-bye forever to Mark’s future estate. He dropped down beside her.

“In plain words and simple sentences, pray explain to me why leaving Bodiam is not to your liking?” he asked stretching his patience to the limit

Belle shook her hair out of her face. “Because this castle is mine. Is that simple enough for your understanding?”

Mark failed to comprehend her obtuse logic.

She sighed. “Oh, why am I infected with you?”

He attempted a dash of levity. “Because I am the most wonderful man you have ever known?”

She jabbed him several times with her finger. “Don’t you dare give yourself airs with me, you gull-catcher! I am not one of your hot wenches dressed in flame-colored taffeta.”

A warm flush of embarrassment crept up Mark’s neck. Belle knew him far too well for comfort. “I never thought—” he began.

“Ha!” she cut him off. “Of course not! Tis why men like you fill this poor world with ill-favored children!”

Mark counted to ten before he trusted himself to reply. “Let us forget my past sins for the moment, Belle. Instead, let us attend to the matter at hand before daylight takes us by surprise. If you refuse to leave here because Bodiam is your home, then exactly how do you expect me to rescue you?”

For once she allowed her defenses to drop. “Papa was supposed to come with an army,” she replied in a voice filled with despair.

She took his hand in hers and held it close to her heart. Her gentle touch sent hot blood rushing through his veins. Mark took several deep breaths to steady himself. His nose tickled.

“You have no idea what it is like to be a bastard, even one that is as well-loved as Papa loves me,” she said softly. “There is nothing in this world that is mine by right—not my name, nor a title, nor acceptance in society, not even the motley rags I wear. I have nothing—except Bodiam. My sweet stepmother deeded her castle to me for my lifetime.” She lifted her chin a notch. “And I will never relinquish it, especially not to that double-dealing sot of a brother-in-law who seeks to wrest it from me.”

She leaned closer to Mark. “If I steal out of my own home like a thief in the night, Mortimer will claim that I abandoned my property and that he, as the brother of my late husband, could take possession according to the law. By God in His heaven, Mark, I swear I will never leave Bodiam.”

He squeezed her hand. “Even if you die for it, chou-chou?” he asked in a gentle voice.

“Aye,” she answered.

Mark put his arm around her and drew her against his side. Again he was struck by how thin she had become. He could feel each one of her ribs. His anger at Mortimer increased a hundredfold. Killing was too good for the scullion.

“Methinks you are going to cause me a heap of trouble—again,” he remarked in a rueful voice.

She snorted. “You once told me that I excel in trouble-making.”

Mark chose to ignore that jibe. “Then if you will not leave the castle, we must find a way to make Mortimer go,” he reasoned aloud though he did not know how he could effect this miracle before Belle died from the cur’s maltreatment.

Instead of pushing him away, she snuggled inside the crook of his arm and rested her head on his shoulder. “How many men did you say accompanied you?”

He swallowed. “Only one—though he fights like ten…and my squire,” Mark added as an afterthought. Belle would kill him if she knew that Kitt slept within Bodiam’s unhappy walls.

Her lips curled into a weak smile. “Is your squire’s name Bertrum by any chance?”

He blinked at her. “How the devil did you—?” He rubbed his itching nose.

For the first time, Belle actually laughed. The music of her mirth filled his ears like a summer’s song.

“Don’t tell me you are Griselda’s unfortunate suitor?”

Mark shrugged. “Twas not a bad idea for gaining entry into the castle though I must confess I was not prepared for the woman herself. Zounds! Mother Nature did not fashion Mistress Fletcher well. And may the good Lord amend her voice or render it silent altogether. She squeals like a stuck pig!”

Belle gave him an arch look. “My spy tells me that you sang to her, paid her loving compliments and kissed her hand.”

“Twas all in counterfeit, chuck. I swear!” Why did he feel like an impaled worm on a fish hook? “Trust me, sweet Belle. Twas all for you.”

Belle rapped him on the chest with her knuckle. “Ha! I have heard you whisper that watery vow in a trusting maiden’s ear too many times.”

Mark rubbed his nose again. “Do you think I enjoy playing Griselda’s swain?”

A mischievous smile curled her lovely lips. “After all these years of chasing skirts, methinks tis a just punishment for you, Marcus.”

He pulled his handkerchief out of his sleeve and blew his nose before giving her an answer to her cruel observation. “I had only intended to enact the role one day before I carried you out of this den. The mere thought of Griselda’s company is enough to curdle any man’s ardor—even mine.”

Belle chuckled. “Poor Marcus! I fear you must continue to act the love-struck fool for a while longer.”

He swore into the depths of his handkerchief. Either the dust or the moldy straw made his nose run and his eyes water. “Until when?” he asked groaning inwardly.

“Until I can devise a plan to send Mortimer and his ill-favored sister fleeing from Bodiam forever.”

Mark sneezed. “Forsooth, you are a wicked lass to wish this fate on me, Belle. By the book, what plagues my nose?”

In answer, Belle lifted a corner of her blanket. An overweight feline regarded Mark with large amber eyes. “I had forgotten that you cannot endure the company of a cat. Tis Dexter, my best friend.”

Mark sneezed again by way of salutation. “Does he reside with you here?”

She nodded. Then she lifted the great hairy brute out of his nest and plopped him on her lap. “Aye, he keeps me warm at night and brings me bits of food now and then—also the occasional rat, quite dead, of course.” The creature purred in a loud, bragging manner.

Mark shuddered. “How delightful!” He regarded the cat with open disgust. “Belle, forget this foolish whim. You should not sleep another night in this hole with a rat-bearing cat!” I would make you a far better bedfellow if I could. Taken aback by this thought, Mark hurried on. “Once in the safety of Wolf Hall we will plot against Mortimer and his ungodly sister.”

Belle hugged the cat closer to her. “Never! You may as well go home, Mark, and leave me in mine.”

With a muttered oath, he stood and brushed bits of straw from his dark blue hose. As a child, Belle had been as stubborn as a jackass. Why did he think she had changed now? “Very well! I am a fool of all fools but I will do what you ask of me, though the cost is high. That shameless jade tried to lead me to her bedchamber after supper this evening. Aye, and we had only met a few hours earlier!”

Belle whispered into one of the cat’s pointed black ears. “Poor Griselda must be very desperate indeed!”

“She breaks looking glasses with her toothy smiles,” Mark muttered.

Belle waved him away. “Begone, Marcus. Get your beauty sleep so that you may be even more enticing to the fair Griselda on the morrow.”

“This is not what I had bargained for,” he grumbled. He sneezed again.

Belle peeled off his cloak and held it up to him.

He shook his head. “Keep it. The night is cold. Twill warm you better than that ball of fur.”

“Nay, I cannot,” she insisted. “Mortimer visits me daily. He would spy it at once and guess your true intentions. The knave may look like a toad, but he has a quick mind. Be warned. He hides a thousand daggers in his thoughts.”

Mark retrieved his cloak with great reluctance. “Sleep well, chou-chou,” he said with forced cheer. “I will come again tomorrow night.”

“May your angel protect you till then,” she replied.

He put his hand to the latch, then paused and glanced over his shoulder at her. In spite of her miserable condition, she tossed him a challenging look, the very same expression she had worn just before she had pushed him off the tree branch. The memory of that last encounter simmered in his mind. Why not?

He put down his lantern, crossed the space between them in three long strides, then bent over her. Before she could utter a startled objection, he kissed her full on her lips.

His broken arm and the eight years’ wait had been well worth it. Belle tasted of paradise. He ducked her flailing fists.

“Where,” she sputtered with delectable anger, “in your great heap of knowledge, did you locate that idea?”

He winked at her. “Been thinking about that for a long time, ma petite chou-chou.”

Humming a bawdy tune under his breath, he let himself out of the little chamber. Once on the other side of the door, he sobered. With great reluctance, he relocked Belle’s cheerless prison.

Dexter mewed in Belle’s ear then patted her face with one of his forepaws. Slowly she awoke to a gray day. Fat raindrops plopped on the stone ledge of the open window.

“Go find a rat, Dexter,” she groaned as she snuggled deeper in the delicious warmth of her blankets.

Blankets? Belle shook the cobwebs of sleep from her mind. Dexter sat down and stared fixedly at her. His long white whiskers quivered. Barely believing her sudden good fortune, Belle counted three blankets where last evening there had been only one. The topmost was her familiar filthy covering that had kept the winds at bay. It hid two plain brown blankets made of thick wool—clean and free of rents.

“Oh, Dexter! What kindly spirit visited us last night?”

Mark’s kiss still tingled on her lips. She banished the disturbing memory. Nay! He had left her long before she fell asleep.

“Besides he hates me,” she explained to the cat. “He nearly lost the use of his sword arm because of my childish prank. That kiss of his was merely…unfinished business.”

Dexter got up, stretched then pawed at a loose pile of straw. He mewed once or twice for Belle’s attention. His claws scraped against something unfamiliar.

Belle investigated. Dexter had unearthed a covered crock that was still very warm to the touch. When she raised its lid, the aroma of stewed meat and seasoned vegetables wafted in the chill breeze.

“Oh most blessed spirit!” Belle cried with joy. Lifting the pot to her mouth, she drank greedily. “Kat would chide my lack of proper manners if she saw me now, but tis a goodly broth! Heaven-sent to be sure!’

Dexter licked his lips with a long pink tongue by way of reminding Belle to share her wealth as he had shared his with her. She poured a little gravy into the lid.

“Someday, Dexter, you will overeat and explode,” she observed with a smile. Then something red in the straw caught her eye. “More wonders?” she asked the cat.

She picked up one of her stepmother’s precious roses, its stem plucked free of thorns. The last bloom of this year, Belle surmised as she inhaled its rich perfume. This gift, more than the blankets or the stew, brought rare tears to her eyes.

No one had ever given her a flower before, not even Cuthbert.

Belle brushed the velvet petals against her cheek. “I wonder, Dexter, if Sondra’s tales are true. Does the ghostly knight of Bodiam really exist?”

Not for a moment would she allow herself to believe that Mark Hayward, the bane of her childhood, was her mysterious benefactor. She must put that lunatic idea out of her mind at once before it had a chance to take root there.

“Tis not Mark’s style at all,” she told the purring cat.

Chapter Five

Mark overslept the next morning and the rain-plagued day only went downhill from there. When Kitt appeared with his shaving water, it was merely tepid instead of steaming hot the way Mark liked it. He opened his mouth to chastise the boy but held his tongue when he saw a fresh bruise under his eye.

Mark touched the injury. “More of that beslubbering cook’s opinion?” he asked.

Kitt turned away. “I fell over my own feet,” he replied. “Indeed, I have been informed that they would make a fine pair of shovels,” he added in an undertone.

Mark stropped his razor while his anger grew warmer. “What pignut told you this witticism?”

Kitt shrugged his shoulder then turned his attention to his bedmaking. “Tis none of your concern, Mark. Jobe says that a man must fight his own battles.”

Mark considered this bit of wisdom as he lathered up his face with cold soapsuds. “You are still in the schoolroom, Kitt.” he remarked. While he shaved, he observed his apprentice squire in the looking glass.

Kitt tossed his head. “Not now. I am on the road to a new beginning, Jobe says.”

Methinks Jobe says far too much in this stripling’s innocent ear!

Kitt shook out Mark’s hose, then laid his other clean shirt across the lumpy bed covering. “How fares my sister?” he asked in an off-hand manner.

In the mirror, Mark saw that the boy cast him a penetrating look. “As well as can be expected,” he answered, rinsing his razor. “Belle was never fond of small dark places.” He chose not to reveal her true sad state to her brother. Being blessed with a strong dose of the Cavendish temperament, the lad would no doubt hurl himself headlong into some rash deed.

Kitt polished one of Mark’s boots with his sleeve. “Then why do we tarry in this fetid place? You told me that we would be in Hawkhurst by now. Let us grab Belle and be gone.”

Mark dried his face with a scrap of hucktoweling. Mortimer Fletcher was a parsimonious host. “There are complications. Your sister refuses to leave Bodiam and thereby hangs the tale.”

Kitt’s jaw dropped. “She’s addlepated!”

“Agreed,” Mark growled under his breath.

“I will shake some sense into her woolly head,” Kitt announced. “Lead me to her!”

“Nay.” Mark pulled his shirt over his head, then held out his arms to the boy. Kitt stared at them. Mark pointed to the bandstrings that hung down from each cuff. “A good squire ties up his master’s laces.”

With a snort, Kitt attended to his new task. “Belle is my sister,” he continued in a low tone. “As her brother, tis my sworn duty to—”

Mark grabbed a handful of Kitt’s collar and backed the boy against the wall. “Listen to me well, my little minnow. I am caught between two people who are hell-bent to destroy each other: your sister and Mortimer Fletcher. We must tread our way carefully between them if we expect to quit this place with the minimum of bloodshed. Tis no schoolboy game that we play here, but one in deadly earnest. You will do exactly as I say. For the time being, Belle is not to know you are at Bodiam. Have I made myself clear, pudding-head?”

“Marvelously much,” Kitt snarled. Then he nodded. “I will obey you—for now. But I like it not!” With that bit of defiance, he banged out of the chamber with the basin of soapy water.

Mark shook his head at his reflection. Why did God make the Cavendish family so stubborn?

Mark planned to snatch a quick breakfast, then ride into the forest where he would meet Jobe. Instead, Griselda pounced on him like a cat at a mouse hole.

“Good morrow, Sir Mark,” she squealed in that ear-piercing voice of hers. “You slept well?”

He fixed a painted smile on his lips. “All the night through, sweet dumpling.” He forced himself not to choke on his words. Of all the many maids he had wooed in the past thirteen years, Griselda was the most unappealing and perversely the one wench most anxious to invite him between her sheets.

“I would have warmed your dreams,” she simpered through her nose as she latched onto his arm like an apothecary’s leech.

“I fear I did not dream at all,” he murmured. His stomach gnawed for food.

Griselda caressed his cold fingers. “Then I shall make it my duty and my pleasure to give you sweet dreams every night, my dearest love.”

Twould be nightmares! Mark widened his smile. “I look forward to that happy time, my dainty duck.”

Griselda pulled him back from the stairway where he could smell the aroma of roasted meats and baked breads in the hall.

“Why wait?” she whined. “We have already agreed to the match. Tis nothing but a few words in front of the church door between us and our bliss.”

Mark dug his heels against the paving stones. “Nay, my sportful honeycomb! Twould be a most unseemly haste. I have not yet spoken with your brother, nor signed a betrothal agreement.” Nor given you a kiss to seal the bargain, he added to himself with a shudder. Nor will I ever! I would rather dance a galliard in hell first!

Griselda stuck out her thin lower lip in a ghastly pout. She reminded Mark of a well-dressed gargoyle. A man should not have to face such sights on an empty stomach.

“Then find Mortimer!” she shrieked as she practically threw him down the stairs. “For by my troth, sweet Mark, I shall not go cold to my bed again this night! Seek him in one of the storerooms for he spends much time down there in the dark.”

Like a mushroom or some other bit of fungus, Mark thought as he fled from the panting shrew. He paused at the laden sideboard in the hall to fortify himself for his interview with Fletcher. While washing down an onion and parsley omelet with some ale out of the pitcher, Mark was accosted by one of the potboys.

“Here now! Tis for dinner, that!” the dull-eyed oaf said, pointing to the ravaged dish. “And tis not dinnertime yet.”

Mark swallowed his food before speaking. “But I have not broken my fast until now.”

“Oh,” said the overgrown boy. He scratched his head. “But still, tis for dinner and cook will be full of wrath if he knows that ye have made a great hole in his omelet.”

Mark beckoned the servant to lean closer. He whispered in the boy’s ear, “Then we shall not tell him, shall we? Besides, tis a passing good bit of victual. Try some. I shall not betray you,” he added.

The lackwit grinned, looked over his shoulder, then scooped out a portion twice as large as Mark’s. He nodded at Mark while he ate.

Mark returned his smile. “A word to the wise, my friend. Wipe your mouth free from crumbs or else twill be you and not I that the cook will cudgel.” Then he left the lad to his fate.

Mark hoped to catch Mortimer unawares at his mysterious business in the depths of Bodiam’s large storerooms but the man met him on the stairs.

“How now, my lord? Methinks you have lost your way.” Mortimer blocked further progress with a dissembling smile on his face.

“Indeed so?” Mark replied, knowing exactly where he was within Bodiam’s walls. “I had thought these steps might lead to the flower garden that I spied from my casement.”

“A walk outside on such a foul day?” Mortimer ascended a step closer, forcing his guest to turn around and retrace his journey. Mortimer ushered him into his small office off the hall. He offered the nobleman the better of two straight-back wooden chairs that flanked a worn oaken table.

Once they were seated, Mortimer opened the conversation. “My sister is much taken by you, my lord.” He rubbed his hands together as if to warm them. “Methinks you will make her a fine husband.”

Mark swallowed a knot in his throat. He had never intended for his deceit to run this far, but thanks to Belle’s obstinacy, he now found himself in a most ticklish predicament. Bedding maids was one thing, but marrying one was quite another—and matrimony with the loathsome Griselda was past all imagination.

Mark leveled his gaze at Belle’s tormentor. “You are kind to say so, good sir,” he replied with a false smile. If he had to keep grinning like a painted poppet his face would soon crack in two.

Mortimer regarded him with the calculating eye of a merchant about to begin sharp negotiations for a sack of wool. If Mark did not play his part to perfection, he suspected that he would soon find himself on the far side of the moat—or worse, bobbing head down in its green waters.

Leaning forward, he put his elbows on the table. “You and I are men of the world, so let us not fritter away the forenoon with dull prattle. What dowry are you prepared to offer me to relieve you of the fair wench?”

Mortimer nodded with satisfaction. “You are a man after my own heart,” he replied.

You speak the exact truth in that, you puking moldwarp. Mark continued to smile. “You have a goodly castle here. Is the holding large?” he asked.

Fletcher inclined his head. “A middling sort. You know, a few farms, some grazing lands and a small wood for hunting.”

Jack-sauce! Bodiam is half of Sussex and worth a prince’s ransom! “Is the property entailed or claimed by creditors? I do not intend to incur any debts if I take your sister to wife.”

For the first time, Mortimer looked uncomfortable. He drummed the tabletop with his fingers as if he played an imaginary virginal. “No creditors have a claim to it, but…”

Mark lifted one brow. “The estate is not yours?”

The man turned a mottled reddish color. “I am the legal guardian of Bodiam and can assure you that what I offer will be yours free and clear.”

Now we arrive at the meat of this poxy feast. Mark skewered his host with a penetrating look. “Exactly who owns this fair castle?” he asked softly. Let us see how close he cuts to the bone of truth.

Mortimer released a deep mournful sigh. “Tis a sad tale, my lord.”

“Tell me,” Mark prodded. “I enjoy a story well-told.” How clever a liar are you?

Mortimer affected to look somber. “Griselda and I had a brother named Cuthbert. A sweet lad but often sickly. Two years ago, he married into the Cavendish family. Have you heard of them?”

Mark nodded. “Aye, they are a right noble clan from the north. Most fortunate for your brother.”

Mortimer curled his lip in a sneer. “Only half right. The chit in question is a Cavendish bastard. Twas she who was fortunate to find any decent husband at all.”

Mark clenched his fists under the cover of his sleeves. How dare this churl speak of Belle as if she were nothing but a tavern strumpet! He longed to leap over the table and throttle Mortimer. “And so?” he asked, keeping his voice steady.

Mortimer did not notice the fire in Mark’s eyes for he warmed to his sniveling tale. “My father warned Cuthbert that he would drag down the family’s good name with this union, but the boy was besotted with the wench and would not listen to common sense. They married. A year later…” Mortimer lowered his voice. “He fell ill of a strange fever. Griselda and I rushed to his side, but…he died.”

Mark fought the urge to make the sign of the cross that had formerly been a habit when one spoke of the dead. Ever since Great Harry had broken with the Church in Rome all such popish displays of piety were forbidden. Instead, he murmured, “God bless his soul.”

“Amen,” Mortimer answered, then hurried on. “Between you and I, methinks she killed my poor brother.”

Anger throbbed in Mark’s brain. You will surely sup in hell! “Tell me more,” he growled. Dig your grave a little deeper.

“Aye!” Looking satisfied, Mortimer sat back in his chair. “You would only have to see her to know how cruel and cunning she is.”

“Then show her to me,” whispered Mark. “I have never gazed upon a murderess before.”

Mortimer gulped then shook his head. “Alas, I cannot. Since her husband’s untimely death, she has been taken ill herself. No doubt her great sin weighs her down with righteous guilt. Trust me. I have her—and her estate—in my safekeeping.”

“How safe?” Mark snapped. Safekeeping indeed! The knave was more two-faced than Janus.

Mortimer surprised him by suddenly laughing. “Ah ha! I knew you to be a rogue the instant I clapped my eye on you!”

These words and Mortimer’s sudden levity made Mark uneasy. “Are you a conjurer who knows the secrets of men’s hearts?” he asked lightly.

“Nay, take no offense, friend. I am no wizard. We two are alike in our thoughts, and so I know yours as well as my own.”

Bile rose in Mark’s throat. Be thankful you do not read my mind this very instant. “And what thoughts of mine are the twins of yours?”

Leaning across the table, Mortimer whispered, “To see the Cavendish wench dead and these estates back in the hands of upright men such as ourselves.”

Mark’s breath caught in his throat. An icy chill ran down his spine. This devil couldn’t mean he would kill sweet Belle! “Is she near death?” he forced himself to ask.

Mortimer chuckled. The sound was far from mirthful. “Who knows?”

God shield us, Belle! I hope you have thought of a clever plan or else we’ll both be crow’s meat ere the week is out.

Mark fiddled through the onerous dinner with little appetite. On the other hand, Mortimer and his vile sister enjoyed the various courses with gluttonous delight. Griselda’s table manners alone were enough to turn Mark’s stomach, while thoughts of poor Belle starving in a cold garret tore his heart. Tonight he would bring her a real feast—and hopefully talk some sense into that pretty head of hers. As soon as the last of the stewed apples had been removed, Mark rose from his seat. Griselda clamped herself to his side.

“Would you care to hear me sing, my lord?” She giggled. “Or do you have other pleasures in mind to while away such a gloomy afternoon?”

She is bold as burnished brass and terrifying as a witch met at the crossroads. After years of pursuing the weaker sex, Mark discovered that he did not enjoy the role of the prey. Alas, turnabout is fair play. “I fear I am prone to headaches when confined indoors.”

Her claws reached for him. “Then I will soothe your brow.”

He ducked away from her. “Nay, saucy puddleduck. My thanks for your concern but a ride in the fresh air will clear my malady.”

Griselda glanced at the arched window that dominated the hall. Wind-driven rain lashed at the glass panes. “Tis near to drowning out there, my lord. You will catch your death in this weather.”

Tis far safer in the midst of the storm than inside this charnel house. He pried her hands from his arm. “Bertrum!” he shouted down the length of the hall. “Quit lollygagging! Saddle our horses at once!”

Kitt’s blue eyes widened. “Now, my lord?” he ventured.

Mark sidestepped another one of Griselda’s amorous attacks. “This instant or twill be your hide nailed to the door!”

Kitt muttered something under his breath as he scuttled down the wide stairway toward the courtyard. Mark all but ran after him.

Within the half-hour, the two were riding through the familiar woods that surrounded Bodiam Castle. Though the rain pelted his face and chilled him through his sodden cloak, Mark felt alive and free for the first time in twenty-four hours. If it was not for that hard-headed minx in the northwest tower, he would keep riding all the way to London.

Thinking of Belle curbed his enjoyment. She hated confinement. Mark recalled the time years ago when she had been locked in the buttery for some household transgression. She had screamed and kicked the stout door for several soul-wrenching hours. When Kat finally released her, she was horrified by the sight of Belle’s bleeding hands and feet, but the child had not shed one tear of pain or remorse. With her head held high, she limped up the stairway to her secret refuge in the dovecote. There she had stayed until long past nightfall. Afterward, no one ever mentioned the incident, nor had Belle ever again been confined against her will—until now. Like an exotic wild bird, she wasted away inside the cold damp walls of her cage, yet she refused the freedom he offered her.

Mark tightened his grip on the reins. While he had ridden south on Brandon’s errand the rich estate that Belle’s father had promised the land-poor nobleman had filled his mind. Now that he had seen Belle’s piteous condition and met her jailer, Mark’s thoughts turned to revenge. He longed to strike Mortimer dead and lay Bodiam and all its possessions once again at the feet of their rightful owner. Patience, he counseled himself as he ducked under a dripping bough. We are too few for a frontal attack but there are alternatives to a fight. We must use all our cunning—and soon before Mortimer plays his end game.

Mark expected to find Jobe cold, wet and in a foul mood in his hideaway. Instead, the delicious aroma of roasting meat greeted Mark and Kitt when they dismounted in front of the old woodcutter’s croft. Inside, Jobe had a small but cheerful fire crackling in the cobblestone hearth. Several fat rabbits, skinned and skewered, cooked over the flames. Jobe’s immense presence filled the small room.

“Welcome, meus amigos!” he roared when Mark pushed open the rough-planked door. “Your dinner is ready.”

Kitt shook the raindrops from his cap. “How did you know we were coming?” he asked in surprise.

Jobe only chuckled, laid a finger against the side of his nose and winked in reply.

Mark unpinned his cloak. “Jobe has the gift of second sight, Kitt. I do not know how he does it; I only know that he can sense the future.”

“Aye,” the man agreed, “Just as I knew that the lady would not accompany you this day—though why she won’t, I do not know.”

Kitt regarded the African with increased respect. “Most marvelous wonderful! Can you teach me how to do that, Jobe?”

He chuckled again. “You must be born the seventh son of a sorcerer in the dark of the moon as I was.”

“Oh.” The boy sighed. “My father is only a knight.”

Mark warmed himself in front of the fire. “Tell me, wise friend, do you see a happy ending to this mad enterprise of ours?”

Jobe did not answer at once. He removed the rabbits from the fire and deftly jointed them on a large wooden board. He passed the succulent portions first to Mark then to Kitt before he replied. “I see devil darkness and brilliant stars falling from the skies,” he intoned in a deep-timbered voice. “I see misery, greed, yet laughter and…” Pausing, he stared at Mark.

The hairs on the back of Mark’s neck quivered a warning. “What?” He said a quick prayer that Jobe had not foreseen his death.

The African’s smile split his broad face. “Amor, meu amigo!” His laughter rolled up from deep within his chest. “The goddess of love will enfold you in her silver snares!”

Mark shook his head firmly. “Nay, your prophecy has gone awry this time. I am not the marrying kind. There are still too many flowers in the garden for me to savor.”

Jobe only laughed again, then addressed Kitt. “You will see anon, little one. Mark my words.”

Kitt looked from one man to the other then swallowed. “Can you…? I mean, do you see into my future, Jobe?”

The giant placed a large hand on Kitt’s golden head and looked deeply into the boy’s bright eyes. At length he nodded. “I see a strong heart and many adventures. You will drink life to the dregs.”

Kitt blinked with confusion but dared not question Jobe any further. With a grin, Mark passed his wineskin to the boy. “Do not pretend to understand what Jobe says. I never do, yet somehow things seem to happen as he says.” He narrowed his eyes. “But not falling in love, Jobe. I flatly refuse to do that.”

The African only shook his head. “Tis too late, meu amigo. You have already done so.”

Chapter Six

The long hours since dusk crept by like tardy schoolboys. Belle wrapped her precious blankets tighter around her shivering body. Dexter snuggled closer against her side before he resumed his dreams of fat silver fish. The girl stroked his sleek body.

“Ah, sweet cat, how I wish I could be like you these days! Full of food, a warm coat and without a care for tomorrow.” She sighed. “Tomorrow is all I have to live for now.” How swiftly her happiness had disappeared since Cuthbert’s death! Only her anger at his feckless brother fueled her weakening body. Her stomach growled. Will had forgotten to bring her fresh water today. Nor had she heard from Mark.

“Where is that flap-mouthed coxcomb?” she asked aloud in the enveloping blackness of her prison. She curled her lip. “Playing the ardent suitor, methinks. Aye, and enjoying his easy conquest. No doubt Griselda’s calf-eyed looks flatter that jolthead’s vanity.” She curled herself around Dexter’s ample body and shut her eyes. “Mark Hayward is a pig’s bladder,” she murmured as she allowed herself to drift into the comfortable oblivion of sleep.

The grating sound of the key in the door’s lock awoke Belle with a start. By the time she had pulled herself into a sitting position, Mark had slipped inside.

He hunkered down beside her and flashed her one of his cocky grins. “Good evening, Mistress of the Manor.”

Belle’s heart fluttered again, as the treacherous thing had done the previous night when Mark had first reappeared in her life. The impish wiry boy whom she remembered from her childhood had turned into one of the most handsome men she had ever seen. His devilish brown eyes that had so often goaded her to tantrums in those distant sunny days now shimmered in the lantern light with sensual promise. Her mouth went dry when she looked into their bottomless depths. No maid had resisted Mark’s honeyed wooing when he was her father’s squire. Surveying the man that he had become, Belle knew that he must have left a wide swath of broken hearts in Ireland. She yawned to prove to herself that she didn’t give one fig for Mark’s lusty odyssey.

“I have a plan,” she told him without bothering to wish him a good evening nor to inquire the state of his health. He looked far too virile.

Mark cocked one of his dark brows in the most beguiling manner. “How now, Belladonna? No kind word to greet me?”

She blew a stray hair out of her eyes. “In case your sight has failed you, Mark, we are not seated amid civilized company. All my kind words have dried up in this hellhole.”

Mark’s unnerving grin only widened. He put down the sack that he carried. When he untied it, a delicate warm aroma of fresh bread tickled her nostrils. Dexter crawled out from under the blankets and sauntered over to inspect the latest offering.

Mark cast the cat a wary glance. “Not for you, kitty,” he muttered as he rummaged in the bag. “Here.” He handed Belle something wrapped in a well-used napkin. “Tis a chicken pie, not rat poison, chou-chou,” he added. “And I suggest that you eat it before your beast does.”

Belle almost thanked him but decided that she shouldn’t encourage him. The memory of last night’s surprise kiss still unnerved her. Instead, she stuffed her mouth full of the delicious meat and vegetables. Dexter pounced on stray crumbs. Before she had finished the last of the pie, Mark handed her a thick slice of bread slathered with fresh butter and garnished with pickled relish. She sighed with contentment. Mortimer might be a spare man in many areas, but he certainly did not stint when it came to his cook.

Mark sat down on the filthy straw and stretched out his legs. His blue hose tightened over taut calf and thigh muscles. His presence was so utterly male, so bracing. Belle sucked in her breath, though she affected a sneer.

“Mind your pretty clothes, Marcus,” she taunted. “You are not sitting on perfumed sheets in some lady’s bower.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.