The Dark Knight

by Phillips, Tori

  Tonia widened the neck of his shirt. A cold lump formed inside Sandor’s gut. Again she touched his neck. Did she seek the vein that carried his life’s blood? More tears ran down her cheeks. Tonia bit down on her lower lip. Anguish etched every line of her body. She raised the dagger higher in preparation to strike. Sandor’s instincts screamed inside his brain. Still he lay as if in blissful repose. He wanted to give Tonia every opportunity to back away from this terrible deed.

  Dashing the tears from her face, she drew in a deep breath and raised the knife high above her head.

  Chapter Nine

  With a low moan, Tonia dropped the dagger and buried her face in her hands. Sandor bolted upright and kicked the blade across the chamber. Then he took Tonia into his arms and gently rocked her. Through the tight bodice of her gown, he felt the pounding of her heartbeat.

  “You knew?” She wept against his shoulder. “I…I couldn’t do it.”

  “Aye, murder is a tricky thing. It kills the murderer far worse than the victim.” He rubbed her back.

  She collapsed against him. “I am no mur…murderer.”

  Sandor pulled her into his lap. “’Tis not in your soul to kill,” he said, with relief in his voice. He never wanted to lie that close to death again. His own heart drummed against his chest.

  “I only wanted my freedom,” she whispered. “I am innocent of the King’s trumped-up charges.”

  I know that you are, sukar luludi. But he could not tell her his conviction, not until he had devised an escape from their dilemma. Burying his face in the dark cloud of her hair, he allowed his silent tears to flow. Jaj! How he wished an angel would fly down from heaven and whisk them both away to France!

  Tonia curled against him like a kitten. Spent by her emotions, she slipped into a deep sleep. Sandor held her in his arms for the remainder of the night.

  When Tonia opened her eyes, she saw a pewter-gray light outside her window. Sandor came through the door carrying a large load of dry firewood from the pile her former guards had left in an antechamber. He was dressed in a fresh shirt and a sheepskin jacket. His face shone clean of his dark bristles. When he saw her, he grinned.

  “As I promised, you have awakened in this world and not the next, though ’tis a chilly morn to greet you.” He stacked the split logs and kindling on the hearth. “And there is nothing to break your fast but icy water from the well.”

  She gave him a wry look. “In short, you offer me cold comfort.” It was a weak jest, but he laughed, releasing the tension between them.

  “Aye,” he replied, “but your wit will keep you warm.” He grew more serious. “In truth, Tonia, the weather has turned as the moon foretold. Snow hovers in the sky.”

  Taking his work-stained shirt from the sack he carried over his shoulder, he stuffed the cloth in the arrow loop window to block out the wind. “Methinks ’twill be better to trade daylight for warmth.”

  Tonia stretched out her cold fingers to the renewed fire. “’Tis no matter.” As long as I still live and breathe upon this earth.

  While she warmed herself and shook the last wisps of sleep from her body, Sandor bustled out of the chamber. He soon returned, carrying a jug of the promised well water and a bucket of the same for washing. A thick wool blanket, woven with wide colorful stripes unlike any Tonia had ever seen, hung over his arm. He placed the jug on the table next to her chipped cup as if he served her the finest French wine. Then he draped the blanket over her shoulders. Smelling faintly of horse, its weight and its warmth took her by surprise. With a gasp of pleasure, she snuggled within its depths.

  “’Tis old and travel-worn,” Sandor apologized, “but it has served me well for years. My grandmother wove it and knitted spells of protection within the stripes. ’Twill keep you safe as well as warm while I am gone.”

  His words acted like a knifepoint, puncturing her fragile sense of well-being. “You are going away? Now?”

  He looked away. “Aye, for food, my lady.”

  She stood, clasping the blanket around her like a shield. “Let me come with you. I am weary of this place.”

  He made a dismissive gesture with his hand though he still did not look at her. “Nay, upon my bond and oath, I cannot do that.”

  Anger flared in Tonia’s breast. By his oath and bond he was her executioner, but by the gentleness of his look and touch, she had thought him otherwise. “How now? Has the Master of Death returned?” Was this to be their final moments together—and her last day on earth?

  He winced at her rebuke. “By the tarocchi cards, Death means a change. ’Tis a new beginning as well as an end—or so my grandmother told me.”

  Tonia sniffed. “I do not read a pack of pasteboards to tell me what I should believe. My Book of Hours holds all the truth I need for this world and the next. I wish that I had it with me now! ’Twould give me more solace than your slippery words.”

  Sandor buttoned up his jacket, adjusted his neckerchief and pulled his pointed-brim felt cap down over his ears. A clutch of black cockerel’s feathers bobbed jauntily from the hatband. His expression turned grim. “Tell me one truth, my lady. If I took you with me, wouldn’t you escape from me at your first opportunity, no matter what vow you had given me that you would not?”

  “I…I…” Tonia bit her lower lip. Of course she would grasp for her freedom if given the chance. “I just want to go home,” she finally replied. Her anguish colored the simple words.

  Sandor finally met her eyes with his. “You will anon,” he told her. “You may rely upon my word, though only God knows when or how.” He pulled on his gloves. His right forefinger poked through a hole in the old leather. He touched his hat brim by way of a salute to her. “Baxtalo is saddled in the forecourt and awaits me. Be of good cheer, Lady Gastonia, and think of the feast I will bring you.” The wind moaned down the corridor behind him. “And say a prayer or two for my safe return. I fear that your life depends upon it.”

  With that, he went through the doorway, slammed the heavy portal and turned the key in the lock. The grating sound terrified Tonia. Shaking off the blanket, she raced to the grilled window and shook the bars. “Perfidious knave with honey words!” she shouted at him. “You have sealed me in my tomb. Why?”

  He slung his black cloak around his shoulders. “If I did not lock you in, would you still be here upon my return?” He snapped shut the cloak’s brass clasp under his chin. “Here you are safe. Outside in the forest? You would surely meet the death that you fear so much. Trust me on this point.”

  Sandor turned away from her. “You had best bundle up in yon blanket, Tonia. ’Twill be a long cold day and—” he gave her a meaningful look over his shoulder “—I have left you my eating knife by your jug. ’Tis not much more than a thorn, but ’twill serve you if…if someone else comes.”

  Tonia’s mouth went dry. “Who? No one comes here except the damned!”

  Sandor paused at the bend of the corridor. “Aye, you speak the truth. Should a devil seek shelter from yon storm and discover you here, do not hesitate but skewer him under the ribs near the heart. But if you hear the whistle of a meadowlark, then sheath your chiv and put on a smile for ’twill be me—and our supper.” He touched his cap brim again. “Fare thee well, Tonia. Jel sa Duvvel.” He rounded the corner.

  Standing on her toes, Tonia shook the cold bars. “What did you say?” she shouted after him.

  “Go with God.” His blessing echoed off the stone walls.

  Tonia leaned her cheek against the door’s rough wood. “And with you, you double-dealing, two-faced churl!” she whispered.

  Never had a day stretched so long. Every minute was an hour; each hour lasted a year. Tonia spent the creeping time maintaining the fire, listening to the wind that grew in strength and saying her rosary on her fingers since her judges had stripped her of her holy beads. As the day waned toward twilight, she prayed for strength and courage, for safe deliverance and, most of all, for Sandor’s promised return.

  He wouldn’t l
eave her to starve a slow death in this dank prison, she told herself, but as the hours dragged by, she became less sure. For the first time since her arrest, Tonia found herself completely alone. The solitude crept around her, chilling her more than the cold stones of her cell. She moved as close to the hearth as she dared, but the fire’s heat did little to stop the shivers in her soul.

  Sandor had duped her! Treating her like a gullible coney rabbit, he had left her in this cage and so fulfilled his commission. She would certainly die—of starvation, of thirst or of the cold, but not by the shedding of her blood as the warrant had decreed, nor by his hand, as he had promised her.

  She pulled the little knife from its plain leather sheath and touched its chill blade with a fingertip. If any blood was spilled, it would be by her hand. Was that why he had left her this final escape? Shuddering, she resheathed the weapon. Suicide was the worst sin on the church’s list of offenses against God’s laws. ’Twas a crime against oneself as well as against God who alone had the right to give or take a life. How could that man think that Tonia would kill herself, even in the depths of her abandonment? But of course, Sandor was only a Gypsy and not schooled in good Christian morals, in spite of his seven baptisms.

  Thinking of him made her body ache, not for lack of food nor cold, but for him—his touch, his warmth, the sound of his melodic voice telling her the most outrageous stories as if they were gospel-true. To her surprise, she realized that she missed him, not just for the company of another human being, but for himself. Wrapped in his thick blanket, Tonia lay down on Sandor’s sheepskin rug and inhaled the comforting scent of horse and a fainter musk that was his own. Despite her intentions to the contrary, she dozed.

  When she awoke, the chamber was much darker. Her fire burned low in the grate. Chiding herself for her lapse, Tonia tossed on several more logs and blew the red embers to encourage a renewed flame. She eyed the woodpile. It had shrunk to half the size it had been this morning. She realized that she must husband her fuel, no matter how cold it got. Once the wood was reduced to ash, she would freeze to death within a day.

  When the logs caught fire, Tonia set the stool under the narrow window, stood on tiptoe and pulled a little bit of the shirt away from the frame. A thick veil of snow fell outside her walls. At least Sandor had spoken the truth in one respect—the weather had indeed turned wet as his moon goddess had prophesied to him. Tonia replaced the cloth and hurried back to the fire.

  The silence beyond her locked door seemed louder than a thunderstorm in summer—and more ominous. Night was nearly here and Sandor had not returned. For the first time, Tonia ceased to worry about her own fate as she considered that of the man and his horse who were out somewhere in this white tempest. Tonia had heard stories of people getting lost in a snowstorm and freezing to death only yards from their doors. What if Sandor was riding around in circles, unable to find the way back to Hawksnest?

  A wave of apprehension swept through her. He could not be lost! That thought had barely crossed her mind when a second, even more shocking one followed: she could not bear it if she never saw him again. With trembling fingers, Tonia lighted a small twig, then touched it to the wick of her candle end in the lantern Sandor always left beside her pallet “to keep away the troublesome spirits.” If she put the lantern in her window, its light would give him a beacon to guide his way back to her. She paused. Or it might beckon other, more sinister men—the very ones that Sandor had warned her about.

  Tonia stared into the candle’s light. That was a risk she would have to take. Sandor must return to her, not only with food to feed the hunger of her body but also to satisfy the cravings of her heart. She shut the little glass door tightly so that the wind would not threaten it, then she went to the window. After pulling away the protective cloth, she hooked the lantern’s handle over a protruding bit of the upper frame. Then she made a hasty retreat to the fire. Her lantern swayed in the wind that now blew through the cell, but the candlelight did not waver. Picking up the dagger, Tonia held it between her hands and stared at its hilt, imagining the holy cross. Kneeling before the fire, she prayed to God to send back the intriguing man whose image filled her mind.

  The wind howled louder around the ruined battlements and snowflakes fluttered through the window’s bars. And blind darkness enveloped the fortress—except for one lone spark of light.

  Sandor thought that he would feel free once he and Baxtalo left the fortress behind them. At least, his horse had perked up as soon as they had crossed over the drawbridge. Now Baxtalo deftly picked his way down the narrow, overgrown path toward the valley. Sandor gave his mount a slack rein while he retreated into the dark corner of his mind that he had ignored for the past week and more.

  He should have been in London by now, even with the unexpected delays that wet or icy roads presented. By allowing his heart to rule his head, Sandor had put not only cousin Demeo in greater jeopardy of the King’s rough vengeance but also the rest of his family. And for what? A gadji with eyes like sapphires, though Sandor had only seen a real sapphire once in his life. Lady Gastonia should mean nothing to him. She was not a member of his family or clan, not even a Rom. Yet, he had only to conjure up her face in his mind’s eye to know that he could not do what he had been sent north to do.

  There was no murder in his heart, only love. He gasped aloud, causing Baxtalo to prick his ears. Love? Where did that word come from? How did Sandor know he was in love? Lust, yes. Tonia’s lush body, though hidden within her prim gown, enticed and seduced him past all common sense. But love? What did he know of that elusive emotion?

  His parents had died when Sandor was too young to remember his mother’s kisses or his father’s laughter, though old Towla had often soothed him in the dark nights with stories of his mother’s beauty and his father’s cleverness. His grandmother told Sandor that his parents had loved him, but he could not remember it. He couldn’t even remember their faces.

  Had Sandor ever really loved his little wife? They had been children when they were married. He had liked his bride well enough and his body took pleasure from hers when he had tried to get a child on her. When he had finally succeeded, she had died giving birth to their stillborn babe. Remembering her, he felt no love, only shame to have killed so young a flower.

  Sandor recalled the tarocchi his grandmother had cast for him just before he had set out on this impossible journey. The Lovers—a happy couple embracing under a striped umbrella while Cupid flew over their heads. ’Twill be a soul mate for you, his grandmother had predicted. Was Tonia his soul mate? Aye, from the first moment of their meeting, even before she had greeted him, Sandor had known that she was like no other woman he had ever met. But Tonia was also a gadji, a member of a society that hated Gypsies and who were, in turn, despised by the Rom for their unclean ways. Where did his loyalties lie?

  Use this time away to examine your heart, his grandmother had advised him when she turned over the Hermit card. Sandor shifted in the saddle and patted Baxtalo on the neck while he summoned up the courage he needed to look where wise old Towla had directed him. The Hermit signified a search for self-knowledge. Sandor pulled his hat lower over his face in an effort to keep the stinging of the wind out of his eyes.

  He was a Rom, born in a tent in a French field and cradled in a horse collar like all true Rom were. The open road was his life. Home was where he stood during the day and where he laid down his head at night. There was no past for him—and no future—only the eternal present.

  Once, when Sandor was a boy, he had peered through the window of a gadje cottage and seen the family within sitting around the fire. Though they were poor and their floor was only hard-packed earth, they had a dry roof over their heads and food in their bellies. Sandor had smelled the savory soup that the woman simmered in her kettle. The hungry child could almost taste its rich broth. Soaked and barefoot on a rainy April evening, Sandor turned away from the domestic scene, knowing that his supper would be a piece of two-day-old bread. The boy
had envied the gadje and he yearned for the security of their world.

  When Uncle Gheorghe learned the reason for Sandor’s sad face and mumbled answers, he had cuffed the boy on both ears. One must accept how he is born, his uncle had shouted at him. If you do not, your life will be very long and miserable. Sandor never brought up the subject of a secure home again. But at night, his dreams were filled with it.

  Sandor saw himself the master of a prosperous farm in a fat land that was well watered and lush with thick clover. He would breed his own horses, sons and daughters of Baxtalo. He was tired of working horses for the gadje men. If Sandor had to confess his innermost desire, it would be a permanent home for him and his family. It was a dirty gadje dream, one that Sandor should be ashamed to contemplate.

  Still he yearned for it—and for a gadji wife to warm his wide four-poster bed at night. She would be slim as a willow, her long hair black as a raven and silky as fine ribbons. And her blue eyes would shine with love when Sandor smiled at her. Tonia!

  Yet she was a nun, dedicated to God. He kept forgetting that fact.

  Sandor gave himself a shake. “I am woolgathering, Baxtalo,” he explained to his patient horse. “I ask you true, how would you like a warm dry stable to call your own instead of a muddy field? Do you dream of a paddock full of mares for you to cover?” He patted Baxtalo again. “Aye, you would hate that life as much as I. It gladdens my heart to know that we two think alike.

  “In truth, I am the very Prosto that the cards said I was,” he continued, taking some comfort in voicing his disturbing thoughts aloud. “Like the Fool, I have one foot over the cliff already.” He glanced over the side of the path at the steep drop toward the stream at the bottom of the ravine. “’Twould not be too difficult to take that second step, would it?”

  Old Towla had warned him that there would be a choice and a risk—the Death card had pointed to a great change. Sandor hunched inside his cloak. He did not fear physical danger, for he had faced that all too often while growing up on the fringes of the gadje world. Beatings and branding at the hands of gadje sheriffs had been the stuff of his childhood. It was the danger to the core of his very existence that gave him pause.