The Dark Knight

by Phillips, Tori

  “We will cross the bridge,” he told her as he scooped up most of their gathered sticks. “Then we will eat. Do you know how to clean a fish?” he asked, suspecting that such a fine lady would not.

  She stared at the trout, bit her lip and then shook her head. “I must plead ignorance. My lady mother taught me how to distill medicines from plants and how to make wine and beer, but not how to cook.”

  Sandor shook his head with a rueful smile. “Among my people, even little girls know how to bake bread.”

  She gave him an injured look, though her eyes sparkled with a glint of mischief. “I suppose they also know how to roast stolen chickens.”

  Sandor chuckled. “Wandering hens are the most toothsome.”

  They picked their way over the bridge’s treacherous planking and walked up the hillside to the spot Tonia had chosen for her gravesite. The sun now stood at its zenith in the azure sky. Sandor dropped the firewood onto the bare earth of the grave. Building a fire here would warm the dirt, making it easier to dig, though his heart grew heavy at the thought. Delighting in the pleasure of their stroll, he had almost forgotten his primary duty. Cousin Demeo had already been in the Tower for nearly a week. Sandor must complete his grim task by this evening so that he could leave by the morrow’s first light. He glanced at Tonia. She had seemed so happy while they were in the woods, but the sight of her grave had banished her laughter. When she caught him looking at her, she gave him a little smile then pointed to the bundle of windfall sticks.

  “Methinks you will never get a fire started with that lot. The wood is damp,” she remarked. “There are dry logs inside the fortress at the guards’ hearth. We should go there to cook our dinner.” She averted her eyes from the scored earth.

  Sandor didn’t blame her, but he needed to make quick work of the digging. Assuming a levity that he did not feel, he replied, “A true Gypsy can start a fire in a rainstorm.”

  He busied himself with breaking up the sticks and arranging them in an orderly pile in the middle of the turned earth. Then he drew out his tinderbox from the ditty bag that hung on his belt. The spark from his flint ignited the kindling. He blew on it to encourage the fire’s life. As he predicted to Tonia, the flames responded. Soon a cheerful fire crackled in the depression, chasing the remnants of the morning’s chill.

  While the wood burned down to hot coals, Sandor gutted and cleaned the fish on one of the nearby stones. Tonia watched him with a studied interest.

  “Your hands are quick and sure with your knife,” she remarked with a light bitterness. “I am relieved that the warrant forbids you to shed my blood.”

  Sandor didn’t look at her. He could never reveal the macabre duty he was instructed to perform after she was dead. He skewered the larger fish on a green wood twig and set it over the bed of coals. May the dogs eat the heart of the gadjo who had desired such a final indignity against so beautiful and gentle a woman.

  One day, I vow I will avenge your death, sweet Tonia.

  Chapter Five

  The afternoon passed pleasantly enough for Tonia, as long as she didn’t think too much about the hole that her companion was digging. In the warmth generated by the sun and the man’s exertions, he had shed his jerkin and forearm dagger, and rolled his long, loose sleeves to his elbow. Sitting on her rock, Tonia couldn’t help but admire the play of his muscles that strained the unbleached muslin of his shirt and bulged against the leather breeches that molded around his legs like a second skin.

  When he paused in his work, which was often, he sent her smiles that made her heart beat faster. What a difference between this man and the lordlings that had come a-wooing her—and her father’s fortune—at Snape Castle! Not one of her suitors had exuded half as much virility as this intriguing Gypsy—a man sent to kill her in the name of the King. Tonia had to keep reminding herself of that sobering fact, lest she fall completely under his spell.

  Standing up, she shook out her skirts. It was a little late in the game for her to admire the comeliness of any man when she was within hours of meeting her Maker. Her thoughts should be centered on the promised delights of heaven, not the pleasures of the flesh on earth. Years ago, Tonia had forsworn men and marriage in search of the greater good—and because she had never found anyone in Northumberland with whom she could imagine making love. Her cheeks warmed at that candid admission. She shot a quick glance at the Gypsy, but he was bent over, prying yet another rock out of the hole. His position only served to emphasize the force of his thighs and the slimness of his hips. Her flush deepened and she quickly turned away lest he notice her change in color.

  Tonia prayed that he would uncover a boulder too large to dislodge. Then he would have to start on another hole—and buy her more time.

  A scant twenty yards away, his beautiful silver-gray horse nosed among the brown grasses, searching for a tender shoot or two. Tonia forced her mind from its wanton musings as she sauntered over to the magnificent animal, so like his owner. Baxtalo lifted his head as she drew closer. His nostrils widened as he inhaled her scent.

  “You are a pretty one,” Tonia crooned, keeping eye contact with the horse as she moved toward him. “So fine with such a broad chest and strong legs.” So like his owner.

  The horse pricked his ears forward but did not shy away when Tonia touched his forehead. She wished she had an apple or a carrot to sweeten her introduction. Still murmuring endearments, she ran her hand along his neck. He sidestepped a little but did not pull away.

  “My father would pay your master a wealth of golden angels for you, I am sure,” she said as she noted the firmness of his muscles under his well-groomed coat. She glanced over her shoulder at the man, but he worked with his back to her. “Methinks your master will not part willingly from you.”

  If Tonia was ever going to dash for freedom, now was the moment. She moved around to the horse’s near side and laid her arm over his back to see if he would accept her. Baxtalo stood very still. One ear twitched. Tonia looked over the horse’s withers for one last glimpse of her would-be executioner. Oddly, she regretted leaving him in the lurch like this. In his own quiet way, the Gypsy was very charming. And quite handsome as well.

  She sighed. “I am sorry that I never saw his face,” she murmured to the horse as she took a firm grip on his mane. “’Tis a pity that I must steal you from him, for I know he loves you dearly. I will try to return you when I am safely home.”

  With one last look at the Gypsy’s back, Tonia hiked up her skirts to her knee, then vaulted onto the horse’s back—a feat she had learned as a child from her French godfather, Gaston. Baxtalo snorted and tossed his head. Tonia hung on with her knees clamped against his sides, and both hands entwined in his mane.

  “Go!” she commanded the horse, kicking his flanks.

  With another snort, Baxtalo bolted across the meadow toward the stream. Tonia lay low over his neck as the two of them crossed the water in two quick, wet strides. Behind her, she heard the headsman shout.

  “Be sure to tell your master how sorry I am,” she said to the horse as they dashed into the woods. “Truly, I am not a thief at heart.”

  Tonia pointed him downhill, where she suspected there was a village or town. She knew that her former guards had gone somewhere to replenish their food supplies while they had waited for the King’s executioner. She did not think beyond reaching that village. Surely there would be a church where she could claim sanctuary and send for her father. For now it took all her strength to hang on to her prize as Baxtalo raced under low-hanging tree branches. Her blood sang, intoxicated with her freedom.

  Suddenly the horse wheeled and came to an abrupt halt. Had Tonia not been an experienced rider, she would have been thrown from his back. Renewing her grip on his mane, she again kicked his sides.

  “Please, I pray you, sweet Baxtalo, let us be gone!”

  A sharp whistle pierced the silence of the woods. It hung on the air then rose in its pitch. Tonia realized it must be the Gypsy calling. Lying over
the horse’s neck, she implored the animal to go. “’Twill be the death of me if we linger here!”

  Snorting, Baxtalo stamped the leaf-covered ground. Once more, the same signal whistled through the trees. This time the horse responded. To Tonia’s horror, he turned again then dashed back up the slope toward Hawksnest.

  “Nay, Baxtalo! Please!” Tonia pulled his mane to the left and dug her knee in his side. The horse paid her no more attention than if she were a fly.

  Her stomach clenched into a knot; panic as she had never before experienced welled up in her throat. She looked down at the uneven ground that raced under the horse’s hooves. She should let go of his mane and jump, but the fear of possibly breaking an arm or her neck kept her clinging to Baxtalo’s back. They crossed the stream with a splash. Once again in the meadow, the horse increased his speed.

  Looking over his head, Tonia saw the Gypsy standing on the edge of her grave, his hands planted on his hips and his feet wide apart as he waited. With a final burst of speed Baxtalo thundered toward him. The horse leaped over the hole in the ground, circled around it and came to a stop beside his master.

  Hiding her face in Baxtalo’s mane, Tonia wept silent tears of frustration. She didn’t dare to look at the headsman. She knew that he must be furious at her. Whatever charitable feelings he may have had for her earlier would be shattered after this escapade.

  Patting the horse, the Gypsy spoke soothingly to him in a strange language. Then he touched her foot. “Tonia?” he asked. “Are you well?”

  She shut her eyes. “Nay, Master of Death. The sun has grown cold for me.” Filled with despair, she felt chilled and nauseous.

  To her bewilderment, he chuckled. “So you thought you could steal my horse?” he asked.

  Tonia peeked at him through her lashes. A half smile hung on his full lips and a twinkle lurked in the depths of his flashing blue eyes. She moistened her dry lips.

  “Not steal, merely borrow for a time,” she whispered.

  His smile widened. “My horse?” Then he stroked her cheek where a tear hung. “Na rov, little gadji. Do not cry. ’Tis not your fault that you failed. You did not know that ’tis impossible to steal a horse from a Rom. We are the horse masters of the world,” he added in a tone that did not boast.

  Tonia pulled herself upright on Baxtalo’s back and held up her head. “Your eyes deceive you, Gypsy. I am not crying. ’Tis the wind from the ride that makes my eyes tear.” She wiped away the offending evidence. At all costs she must maintain what shreds of her dignity remained.

  The headsman gave her a long look. Tonia wished she dared to rip off his mask so that she could read his expression better, but having already offended him, she would not risk his further anger. She wondered how long she had to live now.

  The Gypsy said something to the horse, then turned and started up the hillside toward the fortress. Baxtalo followed close behind him. Tonia groaned to herself. Not now! Not yet! She didn’t want to die today. Her sudden fierce desire for life surprised her. When she had lived among her friends in their little convent, she had often meditated upon the lives of the holy martyrs and had secretly wished she had been able to show the depth of her faith by dying in Rome’s Colosseum during the ancient days of the cruel emperors. Now, faced with the prospect of her own all-too-real execution, she quailed. Tonia hung her head at her cowardice. God must be very disappointed with her.

  Sandor led them through Hawksnest’s crumbling archway. The remaining walls of her prison looked even more foreboding than earlier this morning when she had so happily skipped out of them. She gave her shoulders a shake. Above all else, she must not betray her terror to this man. She would not give him that power over her.

  Tonia swallowed the knot in her throat before she asked, “What do you mean to do with me, my Lord Executioner?”

  He looked back over his shoulder. “I crave your pardon, my lady, but I must return you to your cell.” He halted Baxtalo before the yawning doorway, then held out his hands to help her down. “I cannot trust you not to bolt again.”

  Tonia looked down her nose at him. She tried to gauge the expression in his eyes, but she could not discern his true feelings. Best not to irritate him. She offered him her hand.

  The Gypsy stepped closer and put both his hands around her waist. He swung her off the horse’s back as if she had been a feather bolster. Staring deep into her eyes, he lowered her slowly to the ground, allowing her body to slide down his. She inhaled sharply at the contact. Never taking his gaze from her face, his broad shoulders heaved as he breathed. Tonia’s hands skimmed along his muscular chest covered only by his muslin shirt. He tensed under her fingers. Her heartbeat drummed against her temples.

  He wet his lips. For a split second, Tonia wondered if he would dare to kiss her. She half hoped that he would. Quickly, before he could read the wanton desire in her eyes, she looked down at the cracked cobblestones of the courtyard, unnerved by her physical reaction. The shock of his physical presence made her body tingle in the most secret places. She could not ignore the attraction that drew her to him. She wondered if he felt it, too.

  The Gypsy did not release her when she stood on her feet within his embrace. Not looking up at him, she asked again, “What do you mean to do with me?”

  Sandor swallowed. This pretty gadji filled his senses with a fierce desire that refused to concede to common sense. He wanted Tonia, both her body and her spirit. Hot blood coursed through his veins like a raging torrent. ’Tis lust only. I have been too long without a woman. Though Tonia did not look at him, she quivered in his hands. His experience told him that she desired him as much as he wanted her. Uncle Gheorghe had said it was Sandor’s right to have her. Yet, the lady was a virgin and did not realize what a whirlwind their lovemaking would unleash.

  Sandor drew in a deep breath. Tonia was marked for death and by his hand. He would not send her to the Lord God broken and stained by him. In any case, the death warrant expressly forbade him to shed the lady’s blood and that included the scarlet tears of her maidenhead. He dropped his hands to his sides and stepped away from her.

  She regarded him for a heartbeat. “Are you going to kill me now?”

  Sandor clenched his hands behind his back. “Nay, Tonia.” He tried to introduce some levity into this dark and dangerous moment. “You are not ready, I am not ready and your grave is not ready to receive you. Also, I must give Baxtalo a good rubdown after his…ah…exercise. Please.” He pointed toward the doorway. The sooner he locked her out of his sight the better it would be for all of them.

  She gave him a searching look, then turned on her heel and went inside the ruined keep. Sandor followed close behind her. His fingers itched to reach out and touch the wild tangle of her hair that cascaded down her back. He gritted his teeth and fought against the demons of his desires.

  Tonia stumbled at the entrance to her cell. Sandor reached out to steady her, but she held up her hand to stop him. Then she lifted her chin and walked with a firm stately grace into the tiny, dank chamber. She stood with her arrow-straight back to him while he swung shut the heavy timber door and turned the key in the lock. He all but fled back to the guardroom.

  Sandor sank down on the bench, pulled off the irritating mask and mopped the cold sweat from his face. What was he to do? The beautiful gadji had bewitched him, just as his mother and his aunt had always warned him. He should kill Tonia and be done with it. Demeo needed his freedom. What if the boy had already caught some pestilence? The gadje Tower guards would not lift a finger to help a mere Gypsy; they would let him die among the vermin. Sandor’s return was already overdue. He should have been on the road today. His obligations to his family pressed against the back of his neck. Rubbing his eyes, he noticed that his hands trembled.

  “Black Sara, help me,” he prayed to the Rom’s most beloved saint, Sara-la-Kali, the Egyptian hand-maiden of the Blessed Virgin Mary. “Tell me what I should do.” He closed his eyes.

  The image of his grandmother sur
faced in his memory. She was reading the tarot—his fortune. He saw the Death card in her thin fingers and heard again her laughter. “Afraid of change, are you, Sandor? Remember what I say. You will have a friend who was your enemy. You will find life holding hands with death.”

  Opening his eyes, Sandor stared at his hands as if he had never seen them before. Wide palms with long fingers—good for working with horses—and for loving a woman. These were not killing hands. Curling his fingers into a ball, he cursed the misfortune that had sent him into the northern mountains on this ill-favored mission.

  He fumbled in his ditty bag, then pulled out the garrote. He fingered the hard knots in the leather thong that would stop up a victim’s windpipe and bring a quick death. He thought of the angry red marks the cord would leave on Tonia’s smooth white skin.

  “I am no murderer,” he assured Black Sara, as if the saint hovered in the air over his head. “How can I do this cruel thing?”

  In his mind’s eye he saw his uncle, ill in his bed, jeering Sandor’s lack of courage. He could almost hear Uncle Gheorghe tell him that he had the heart of a chicken. He saw Aunt Mindra squatting by the fire, keening for her son, the boy whose life depended upon Sandor. From the cradle, Sandor had been taught the importance of loyalty to his clan. The wide world was a harsh place for the Rom; his family must cleave together for protection and survival. To disregard the kris, the fundamental code of all Rom, would condemn him to a fate worse than the one decreed for Tonia. Sandor would be exiled from his people, cast out alone into a world that despised him.

  Sandor gripped the garrote. Just down the corridor was the beginning and the end of this worst trial of his life. Do it now. Make it quick. Do not look into her eyes. Just take her life and do not look back.

  Sandor pushed himself up from the bench. On silent feet, he moved down the stone corridor. He reached her door in too short a time. Pausing, he took a deep breath to calm his nerves. The knots in the thong bit deep into his palm, just as they would bite into her neck—in just a few moments’ time.