One of the other guards spoke up. “I heard tell they took her into the mountains.”
A third man nodded in agreement. “Aye, now I remember! The coach came back two days later. I was on duty at the Monkgate and waved him through.”
Kitt could barely contain his excitement. “Did the driver say where he had been?”
“Aye, I asked him that selfsame question for I had seen the woman and was interested. The driver said that he drove them as far as Harewold. ’Tis a wee village at the end of a cleft in the mountains. The driver told me that they had no more need of the coach for the rest of the way was too steep. They put the wench on the back of one of their horses. The driver heard them say they were going higher to somewhere called Eaglesnest or Hawksnest. Some such bird.” He scratched his greasy hair. “The King’s men ne’er came back here again.”
Kitt couldn’t understand why Tonia had been taken to such a remote place to await execution. He prayed that the soldier’s memory was not too addled by his drink. “So she still lives?”
“Nay,” snorted the first speaker. “’Tis been a week and more. That headsman from London surely has come and gone, and there’s an end to it. Pity, for she were a sweet piece.”
Kitt refused to believe that his cousin was already dead. They had been as close as brother and sister in their youth. He would have felt the void in the very marrow of his bones if she were truly gone.
Hold fast, Tonia! We are coming for you!
Chapter Seven
When Tonia opened her eyes on the following morning, she found that the sun dawned as clear and as bright as the day before. Though the wind still blew through her arrow slit, the cool air carried a hint of the coming spring. Closing her eyes and inhaling deeply, Tonia could almost smell the earth being plowed for the planting and the scent of delicate blossoms decking the trees in the warmer valleys below her eyrie.
When the Gypsy opened her door, he caught her singing for the pure joy of the new day. Her song died in her throat when she saw him.
“Good morrow.” Tonia gave him a shy smile. “’Tis a good day to be alive, is it not?” Though the man did not return her smile, at least he did not have that gruesome mask over his face.
He averted his gaze and looked instead at the cooling embers in the fireplace when she mentioned being alive. A muscle twitched along his jawline. “You have a good voice,” he finally said.
Tonia released the breath she had been holding. “My thanks for your compliment. Both my parents are very musical.” A small lump rose in her throat when she thought of her mother and father. Tonia swallowed with difficulty. She must maintain her cheerful demeanor if she hoped to persuade him to let her live yet another night. She knew that a weeping woman could drive a man’s patience over the brink.
“I have brought you some water…to bathe…ah…your face and other things.”
Before Tonia could express her surprised gratitude, he spun on his heel, stepped into the corridor and returned with a mossy oaken bucket slopping at the brim with water. He set it before the hearth. “’Tis cold but clean,” he told her, though he still did not meet her gaze. “When you are finished, please join me at the table by my fire. There is some cheese left. No bread.” He ran his hand through his thick brown-black hair.
Tonia stared at the bucket, hardly daring to believe her good fortune. “Does this mean that you do not plan to kill me today?” she whispered.
He glanced at her briefly before looking down to the floor. “Your grave is not deep enough,” he mumbled. Then he turned away and headed toward the door. “I will leave you to wash.” He practically fled from her presence.
Tonia knelt down beside the bucket and rolled up the sleeves of her gown. Though the water was icy, it felt wonderful to bathe her face for the first time in over a week. Her other guards had been miserly in their care of her while they waited for the executioner. As she washed her ears, neck and hands, Tonia daydreamed of a tub full of hot water and a cake of her mother’s rose-scented soap from Paris. She would have loved to wash her hair, though she knew that if she gave into the temptation at this chilly time of year, she might die from fever and a cough before the Gypsy ever got around to strangling her.
The memory of the garrote made her shudder. At least that dreadful cord had not been hanging from the man’s belt. After rinsing out her mouth and combing her hair as best she could with her fingers, Tonia poured the dirty water down the privy hole that was sunk in the wall at the far corner of her cell. Then, carrying the bucket by its stout rope handle, she ventured down the corridor to the guardroom. She considered it a good omen that her executioner had given her this much freedom of movement. When she turned the corner, the Gypsy rose from the bench.
He studied her face with an inscrutable look for an extra heartbeat, then his gaze softened a fraction. “I see that the water pleased you.”
Tonia put the bucket down on the hearth and warmed her still damp hands at his fire. “Aye, Master of the Morn, ’twas as sweet as swimming in damask roses.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “You can swim?” She laughed at his surprise. “Aye, my cousin Kitt taught me—after he had pitched me into the cow pond and discovered that I could not.”
A shadow of annoyance crossed the man’s face. “Your cousin sounds much ill-mannered.”
With a smile, Tonia shook her head. “Nay, Kitt is only full of high spirits,” she replied with fondness.
“You like this cousin?” he asked with a certain coolness. “Were you betrothed to him?”
His question startled her. “Me marry Kitt?” She laughed at the very notion. “Nay, we are too close in blood. He was my playfellow and best friend for many years—but marry Kitt? Hoy day! I pity the poor woman who will wed him. He will lead her a merry chase. What made you think I would marry my cousin?” She sat down near him.
He pushed the cheese closer to her. “’Tis the custom among the Rom to marry within the extended family. I married my father’s cousin’s daughter when she was thirteen.”
Tonia stared at him for a moment. She had not given a thought that he might be married. It seemed unlikely for an executioner to be a family man. Now that she had learned he was, she felt a twinge of disappointment—and a hot spurt of jealousy. She gave herself a shake. Why should his wife matter to her?
“Thirteen is young to be married,” Tonia remarked. She bit into the hard cheese.
He gave her a wry grin. “I was sixteen and considered myself fully a man. I have since learned that there is a great deal more to marriage than bedding a bride.”
Tonia felt a blush creep up her neck and into her face. She hoped that he did not notice her change of color. She tried not to think of him in bed…naked with those wonderful broad shoulders…and those slim hips…and those long legs…kissing his bride…holding her close to his bare chest…. Tonia choked on her cheese.
He thumped her on the back several times. “Tonia?”
Swallowing, she held up her hand. “Hold! I am recovered.” She flashed him a quick sidelong glance. “You could have let the cheese do your work for you, you know.”
Pursing his lips, he stared up at the low-vaulted ceiling. “You must think me a true villain.”
Tonia admired his profile for a moment, musing how noble he would look if he were dressed in a fine shirt of cambric and a doublet of velvet. As he was, his gold earring gave him a certain raffish appearance that she found very attractive. She stifled a sigh of desire. He’s a married man, she reminded herself.
“Do you have many children?” Tonia asked in an offhand manner.
He puffed out his cheeks. “Nay. My wife died in childbirth. She left none for me to remember her.”
Tonia’s sudden elation shocked her. She should never rejoice at the news of someone’s death. “I am sorry for that and for your loss,” she murmured. “What is her name that I may pray for her?”
He gave her a long, cool look before he replied, “’Tis not the custom of my people to speak the nam
es of the dead. ’Tis bad luck.”
“Oh.” Tonia chewed another bit of her cheese while she gathered her courage to broach the real subject that burned in her mind. “Very well. Since we two are still among the living, you can tell me your name.”
For once, her question seemed to amuse him. “’Tis important to you?”
“Aye, methinks we have kept company long enough and I am tired of making up titles for you. Surely you can trust me with your name by now. You have already told me your horse’s name and I know how precious he is to you.”
The Gypsy considered her request in silence before he finally nodded. “Very well.” Lacing his hands behind his head, he leaned back against the wall. “I was baptized Sandor after Saint Alexander.” The r sounds rolled off his tongue.
Intense astonishment made Tonia forget the last morsel of the cheese she held in her hand. “You were baptized? In a church?”
He nodded and a smug grin crossed his face.
Tonia knotted her brows. “But you are a Gypsy!”
A wide smile replaced his grin, transforming his features into those of an angel. “Even so I was well and truly baptized in a holy church—in seven of them if the truth be told. ’Twas my father’s little bit of bujo.”
Tonia gave him an arched look. “Methinks I spy a rat in the larder. What is this bujo?”
His lips curled with merriment. “It means…” He rolled his dancing eyes as he searched for the word. “Gypsy work—not hard labor. To coney—catch the gadje.”
Tonia gasped at this bold admission. “You hoodwinked some elderly priest while you stole from the poor box?”
Sandor held up his hands. “Nay, ’twas not I! I was but a babe at the time—an innocent party. And my father did not steal anything.” He chuckled to himself.
Despite her shock, Tonia found herself smiling back at him. “So how did your father trick the priest?”
Sandor swirled the watered wine in his cup. “’Twas the custom in the bishopric of Paris that every new-baptized child should receive a gold ecu from the parish treasury. ’Twas a most generous gift.” His eyes sparkled with mischief. “So first I was baptized in Sainte Marguerite’s church, then in Sainte Marie’s church, then at Sacre Coeur, and so forth. Each time the parish priest gave my mother an ecu. At the end of the day, my family had seven ecus in our bag, and I was named seven times over.”
Tonia glared at him. “’Tis a sacrilege to steal from the church!”
Sandor merely laughed. “How could it be called stealing if the money was freely given to us? We did not even have to ask for it. My grandmother always said that you can get more with cunning than with power. That is bujo.”
Tonia considered this skewered logic for a moment. “Were you really baptized seven times, or is your story just another tale like the donkey eating the cabbage leaves?”
Sandor raised one hand toward heaven. “Let me die if I lie!”
The talk of dying cast a pall over Tonia’s good spirits. “Methinks I am much closer to death than you are at this moment.”
His expression clouded. Then he pushed himself up from the table. “We burn daylight, my lady.” He picked up the shovel that had been leaning against the wall. “Come. We must give Baxtalo an airing. Methinks he will be glad of your company.”
Tonia popped the last piece of cheese in her mouth then, wrapping her cloak around her, she followed him out into the courtyard. She berated herself for bringing up the distasteful subject and so spoiling his cheerful humor, yet her ultimate fate preyed on her mind. How could such a charming man laugh with her even as he contemplated her murder?
Sandor attacked the cold ground with his shovel, venting his anger on the thick clods of earth that he tossed by the side of the grave. While he dug, he tried to decide what he was going to do about the increasingly desirable Lady Gastonia Cavendish. The time had come for him to be honest with himself. He knew in his heart that he was not going to kill her. He should have admitted that truth from the first moment when he saw her. Even as she curtsied to him, he had been thunderstruck by her beauty and her radiance. Had the lady been a gnarled crone ready for death, perhaps he could have done the deed, but he knew that God would be angry if Sandor snuffed out the life of such a beautiful example of his handiwork.
Pausing to sip some watered wine from his bota, he watched Tonia stroke and pet Baxtalo. Lucky horse! Sandor wished that she would run her fingers through his hair as she did with Baxtalo’s mane. His skin prickled. Sandor mopped his brow with his neckerchief then squinted up at the sun. Time moved forward, one more day that Demeo lay in the Tower.
By his calculation, Sandor realized that he was expected to arrive in London on the morrow or the day after. He was supposed to deliver the small box containing Tonia’s heart to the Constable of the Tower as soon as he reached the city. Only then would Demeo be freed. If Sandor did not appear within the week, he knew that the King’s officials would send soldiers to Hawksnest to investigate. He must be long gone by then. And the lady?
Across the meadow, Tonia sang a lighthearted ballad. Its pleasing notes floated back to Sandor. When she turned to look at him, he grinned and waved to her. Then he returned his attention to the hole that he now stood in. He guessed its depth was three feet and a bit. Not that he intended to use it for its original purpose. Digging it bought him time and occupied his body. Otherwise he might be tempted to seduce the enchanting woman who played with his horse.
Sandor gripped the handle of the shovel. The devil would punish him for thinking such lustful thoughts. Tonia was dedicated to God, not to be a man’s plaything. Yet what a waste! He glanced again at her. Even dressed in her plain gray gown with no ornamentation save for her wooden cross, she was as beautiful as a May morn. He recalled another one of old Towla’s sayings, “Beauty cannot be eaten with a spoon.” But then again, his grandmother had never laid eyes on Tonia. She was a feast.
She is a gadji, Sandor reminded himself. His shovel struck a good-sized rock. He worked the spade around it while his mind examined this problem. All gadje, most especially their women, polluted the Rom, or so Sandor had been taught ever since he was old enough to understand the differences between his people and everyone else in the world. Yet Sandor did not feel soiled by his contact with Tonia. On the contrary, she lifted his soul more than he had ever felt with any other. Was there evil in this magic?
He glanced toward the edge of the meadow where he had laid several snares in hopes of catching a wayward rabbit or two. His food store was very low. He had not intended to remain for so long at Hawksnest, nor had he planned to feed the woman who was supposed to be dead by now. This holiday from his responsibilities would come to a jarring end within another day or two. Then what?
Sandor looked over his shoulder at Tonia, but he did not see her. Baxtalo grazed near the stream, but the dark-haired beauty had vanished. Cursing himself under his breath, Sandor dropped the shovel and vaulted out of the hole. He should have guessed that she would make another bid for her freedom. After all, she did not know the truth inside his heart. He ran toward the last spot where he had seen her. The bent and broken grass, dry from the previous summer, showed plainly the direction she had taken. Sandor shaded his eyes as he scanned the edge of the forest. Tonia was clever in many ways, but he didn’t think she realized the dangers that lurked within the tangled undergrowth.
Sandor crossed the field in her wake. On a rock in the stream, he saw the wet print of her shoe. Tonia would soon rue her cold feet. He cleared the water in two strides, then moved into the woods where he paused to listen. No point in calling to her. She would never answer. It did not matter, for she had left a trail that was easy to follow. He only hoped that in her rush, she had not disturbed any of the wild animals. Many predators were lean and hungry at the end of a long winter and they would not hesitate to attack a lone human.
Not too far down the hill, Sandor spotted Tonia ahead of him. It appeared that a thick bramble held fast to her skirts. Relieved to find
her unharmed, though frustrated, he quietly descended behind her. When Sandor was close enough to hear her muttering under her breath, he stopped and leaned against the nearest tree.
“’Tis not the best place for a stroll, is it, Tonia?” he remarked.
She glanced over her shoulder, formed a round “o” with her lips then regarded her entangled skirts with disgust. “You seem to have an annoying habit of following me,” she replied.
Sandor picked his way around the bush, then hunkered down to inspect the situation. “By the command of our sovereign lord, you are my responsibility,” he reminded her. He broke off a branch, pulled it free from the bush, then pried the cloth loose from several long thorns.
“I am well able to fend for myself,” she fumed, watching him free her clothing.
He flashed her a look that was gentle but carried a warning. “Can you kill a boar?” he asked, unwinding her ragged petticoat from another thorn.
Tonia gasped. “What boar?” With a shiver, she looked quickly around. “I see nothing. Methinks ’tis a trick of yours to make me afraid.”
Sandor broke off another branch that held her fast in its thorny clutches. “I speak the truth to you, Tonia. There is a boar hereabouts and a large one judging from the size of his droppings. He is the king of this mountain, and he will not take kindly to your invasion of his realm.”
Tonia continued to search the area, now a little less sure of herself. “A boar, you say?”
Sandor nodded. “A very large one, fit for the table of the lord mayor of York.”
“Perchance ’tis not hungry.” She chewed her lower lip.
“Boars need no excuse to attack,” he said, pulling the last of her skirt free. “They are hag-ridden brutes spawned by the devil himself.”
“So my father has said. He often goes a-hunting the boar in the winter.”
The Dark Knight Page 8