The Dark Knight

by Phillips, Tori

  The track down to Harewold was slippery in many spots, but at least the snow had melted enough to make the going easy for Baxtalo. An hour later, Sandor skirted around the village where people were already up and about their daily business. In the sky above the trees that ringed Harewold, he saw plumes of smoke from many chimneys. The breeze carried the sounds of men and dogs and the scents of a hundred breakfasts. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he must eat well at whatever public house he found near noontime. He would allow himself only one full meal a day while on the road. Tonight he expected to sleep under a hedgerow.

  “Or a warm hayrack, if we are lucky,” he said aloud to Baxtalo.

  Harewold was less than a mile behind him when he spied a party of men coming toward him. As the riders drew closer, Sandor’s heartbeat increased, though he kept his expression neutral. By the look of the fine horseflesh, by the rich cloth of the riders’ apparel and by the long swords that hung from the belts of the three men in the lead, he deduced that he had blundered into a party of nobles.

  The aristocracy had always made Sandor uneasy. Experience had taught him that gentlemen were usually hand-in-glove with officers of the law. Sandor’s brand mark itched under his shirt. He hoped that the men were merely hunters out for a day’s sport, though they carried no falcons on their wrists nor did a pack of hounds accompany them. Pulling his cap low to cover his earring, Sandor slowed Baxtalo to a walk and sat back easy in the saddle with his arms away from his sides to show that he carried no weapons. He prayed that the noblemen would not mistake him for a highwayman.

  When the horsemen reined to a halt, Sandor marveled at the stature of the three who wore the swords. The eldest man in the middle sat particularly tall astride his warhorse and he held himself with an air of command. Sandor was tempted to stand in his stirrups to equal them.

  The youngest gentleman lifted his hand in greeting. “Good day to you.”

  “And to ye, m’lords,” Sandor replied, mimicking the accent of the local folk. He too raised his empty hand. “’Tis a fine day to be abroad a-hunting.”

  The second young man smiled at him, though he regarded Sandor with an unsettling intensity. “Aye, my friend, you have hit upon the nut and core of it. ’Tis a hunt we are on, though the lay of this land is strange to us. Do you know these parts?”

  “Middling well,” Sandor hedged. He eyed the four men-at-arms who rode behind the gentlemen.

  “Is there a castle called Hawksnest nearby?” snapped the eldest man.

  “Or Eaglesnest?” added the youngest. “We were told ’twas in this direction.” He pointed down the road that led into Harewold and from there to the mountain where Tonia waited among the ruins.

  Sandor’s heart thudded as if a bolt from a crossbow had skewered it. The devil take these gadje! They are King’s men sent from London to see if I have killed my beloved.

  Thinking quickly, he nodded. “Aye, m’lord,” he answered. “’Tis an abandoned abbey ye seek, but ye have taken a wrong turning at the fork. ’Tis way on the other side of this mountain. To get there, ye must backtrack a wee bit, then take the trail to the left. ’Twill lead ye round to the pass. From there ’tis another few leagues. Ye canna miss it. ’Tis a great crumbing mass o’ stone.”

  The oldest man swore an oath that set Sandor’s teeth on edge. Without a word of thanks for the false directions, he wheeled his horse around and started back down the road they had just come. The men-at-arms and the second gentleman followed after him.

  The youngest noble again raised his hand, this time in farewell. “Our thanks to you.” He pointed to Harewold’s church tower that was just visible above the bare branches of the trees. “What village lies yonder?”

  Sandor did not think twice about the second lie he knew he must tell. After all, this young lord was only a gadjo and it was no sin for a Rom to mislead one of them. Besides, Tonia’s precious life was at stake, and Sandor would do anything to protect her from the wicked swords of these tall men.

  “’Tis but a wee spot in the road, m’lord, called Tip o’ the Wold by them that lives there. I know not what others call the place. ’Tis nothing there for yer lordship but a flock o’sheep.”

  By now, the other horsemen had disappeared over the rise in the road. Sandor wet his lips. This unlucky meeting wasted daylight, but there was no help for it. “God speed ye on yer hunt, m’lord,” he said, eager to put some distance between himself and these noblemen.

  The young man turned his horse. “Do you come this way?” he suddenly asked. “You are welcome to join us.”

  ’Tis a nightmare of the devil’s devising! The hideous truth was that Sandor indeed had to travel to the east in order to reach the main post road. He touched his cap like a good commoner would and replied, “Me thanks to ye, m’lord. I am on me way to York. I will ride with ye and point the turning for ye, so please ye.”

  The young man nodded, then spurred his horse to catch up with the others. Sandor patted Baxtalo. “We find ourselves in strange company, my friend. Let us hope that there is a turn in the road soon. Once free of them, we will fly with the wind.”

  Baxtalo snorted in answer. Sandor lightly touched the horse’s flanks and they trotted after the others. A few miles down the road, a fork branched away to the left—almost in answer to Sandor’s unspoken prayer.

  “Paika tut ‘te, Sara-la-Kali.” He whispered his thanks under his breath to his patron saint, Black Sara. Surely she had been watching from heaven and had helped him hoodwink these gadje. He vowed to light a candle before her statue the next time he visited her shrine in Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer in the south of France. There he would introduce Tonia to his favorite protector.

  Sandor pointed down the faint track. “Aye, there it be, m’lords, and good hunting to ye.”

  The oldest nobleman nodded. He dipped into the scrip at his belt then flipped a silver coin at Sandor. “My thanks for your service,” he said before he headed down the track.

  Sandor caught the sixpence as if it had been a fly buzzing around his face. “Godspeed, m’lords,” he replied, touching his cap brim again.

  Pocketing his reward for his lies, he chuckled to himself at this little bit of bujo, Gypsy coney-catching. Then he kneed Baxtalo into an easy canter toward the post road. The sooner he put some distance between him and the gentry, the better he would feel. As for sweet Tonia, Sandor had to leave her fate between the hands of God.

  “Jallin a drom!” he encouraged Baxtalo. “Let us go down the road!”

  Kitt shielded his eyes against the morning’s bright sun as he watched their guide ride away. Though the man had spoken civilly enough there was something about him that bothered Kitt, though he could not put his finger on the spot. Perhaps it was the stranger’s skin that looked so tanned at this pale time of the year. Or maybe it was because he did not appear to be a farmer or craftsman, though he spoke like one. Kitt touched the hilt of his sword. If the stranger turned out to be a highwayman, he would pay dearly for it. Within a few minutes, the rider disappeared from view.

  Kitt’s stallion stamped his hoof with impatience while his master still watched the empty road. “Aye, boy,” he calmed the horse. “I heed your concern. We are not lost in this wild country—at least, not yet.”

  Still mulling over the disturbing guide, Kitt urged his mount forward, following after his uncle and cousin.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Kitt kept his misgivings to himself until near the twilight hour, when his uncle reined to a halt. The track had run out after they had forded a cold stream. Now deep within the mountains, it was obvious that they were miles from any pretense to civilization.

  “A pox upon that dog-hearted knave who sent us here!” Guy bellowed. The mountains echoed his frustration.

  Giving Francis a meaningful glance, Kitt said out of the side of his mouth, “I had wondered about that man myself.”

  Guy overheard his nephew. His eyes narrowed into slits. “Tell me your mind.” A silken thread of danger lace
d his tone.

  Kitt drew up beside his uncle. “Methought our guide spoke false, though why I suspected this, I cannot say. But ’twas enough to make my neck itch.”

  Francis nodded. “I had the same feeling at the time. ’Twas his eyes. He did not look at us straight as any honest man would have.”

  “Why?” Guy asked, scanning the narrow valley around them.

  Kitt also looked around, half-expecting to see a horde of bandits swarm out of the hills. “Mayhap he is in league with a pack of brigands. He has sent us into a trap and tonight they mean to rob us. ’Tis a goodly spot for a massacre.”

  Guy bared his teeth. “Let them come. My blood already boils over Tonia’s fate. A bit of swordplay would do me a world of good.”

  Francis rolled his eyes, though he did not smile. “Celeste would disagree, methinks. I gave her my promise that I would bring you back home in one piece.”

  Guy snapped his fingers under his son’s nose. “I care not for my well-being. ’Tis Tonia’s sweet ghost that haunts my hours, day and night. The devil damn that detestable villain who sent us here! If ever I lay eyes on him again, I will tear him apart with my bare hands.”

  Jenkins, one of the men-at-arms, cleared his throat before he dared to break into his master’s conversation. “My lord, we had best make a campsite here while there is still light to find wood and build a shelter.”

  Guy nodded. “See to it!”

  Then he dismounted and led his horse away from the others. Kitt started to follow after him, but Francis leaned over his saddle and caught his cousin’s arm. “Give Father some time alone. His heart is broken with the thought that Tonia is dead. We are poor company for a grieving man.”

  “Then it rests on our shoulders to maintain a sharp watch tonight lest we be taken unawares,” Kitt replied. “Jenkins and I will stand guard for the first part of the night.”

  Francis agreed. “Brooks and I will spell you. Horton and Stiles will take the early morning watch.” He glanced up at the evening sky. “At least, methinks ’twill not rain or snow.”

  For Tonia, the day crawled by like a year of Lent. Though the sun was warm, the breeze that blew her hair about her face was chill. She did not mind. At least she was not locked in that horrid cell, away from the light and fresh air. To while away the time, she walked down toward the stream where Sandor had tickled the trout. She wondered if she had the skill to do that trick.

  The sight of her open grave, now half-filled with water and muddy slush stopped Tonia in her tracks. For a fleeting instant, she reexperienced the stab of fear that had ruled her body until Sandor’s gentle love had banished the terror. Sickened by the image of herself lying white and cold in that dirty hole made her turn away. She almost bolted back to the ruined fortress before an interesting thought occurred to her.

  In the world’s eyes, I am dead—and if dead, then I must have a grave.

  Her courage returning, she studied Sandor’s handiwork more closely. Though it had rained and snowed since he had turned the earth, she didn’t think the mound of dirt beside the hole was too hard packed as yet. Furthermore, he had left his shovel in the stable. Spurred by her restlessness and the need for some activity to engage the dragging hours, Tonia practically skipped down to the gurgling stream at the base of the incline. She plucked a fist-size stone from the creek bed and carried it back to the grave, where she tossed it into the bottom of the hole. It landed with a small splash.

  “’Tis a start,” she said under her breath. Then she returned for another rock.

  After an hour of stone gathering, Tonia felt satisfied that she had filled the grave with enough rocks to approximate the size and shape of her body. She knew that if the grave was to look authentic, it should be rounded above the surrounding land, instead of sunk below the lip of the hole. By now, the sun had risen to its noon height. Tonia’s stomach growled, reminding her that she had eaten little breakfast. She had had no appetite that morning. Her sorrow that Sandor was leaving had filled her instead. Now, after this short piece of hard work, she found that she was both hungry and exhausted.

  I have grown into a weakling since a month ago. No wonder caged birds seem so listless. I swear I will never imprison another creature again.

  Shaking the mud from her fingers, she returned to her small corner of comfort amid the ruins of Hawksnest. After washing her hands and face at the well, she toasted some of the bread and cheese over the low fire in the guardroom. The silence closed around her. She drew her knees to her chest and wrapped an arm around them. While she waited for the cheese to melt, she said a little prayer for Sandor’s safety. She wondered how far he had traveled down the London post road by now.

  After her simple meal, washed down with more well water, Tonia curled up on the fleece that Sandor had left for her. She covered herself with the blanket and closed her eyes.

  I’ll just take a little rest.

  When she awoke, the sun was much lower in the sky. Scolding herself for her laziness, Tonia hurried out to the stable, located the shovel with no difficulty and then marched down to her sham grave. In the waning afternoon’s light, she could not discern what exactly lay at the bottom of the hole. All to the better, she thought. She stuck the spade into the mound and lifted up a few clods of earth. With an unladylike grunt, she heaved the handful into the pit.

  “Hoy day!” she muttered to herself as she scooped up another pitiful pile. “Sandor made this work look like child’s play.” She tossed it after the first.

  Thinking of him and how handsome he was when bare chested, with the muscles rippling down his arms, she whimpered in the back of her throat. Sandor was truly a man among men. All the other men she had known, save for her family, were wet rags compared to him. The good Lord had indeed worked in a mysterious way when he had sent the fascinating Gypsy into her life. And how she thanked God for him!

  “Ugh!” she exclaimed as her shovel sliced through a thick red worm that had made an unexpected appearance in the mound.

  Tonia had seen men digging in her father’s fields all her life, but until now she had always taken their labors for granted. After this experience, she knew that she never would underestimate farmers again. She had only dug a few shovelfuls and already her shoulders ached. The rough wooden handle chafed the tender skin of her palms.

  Arching her back, Tonia squinted at the sun. Twilight already? She stared down at the hole. Her efforts had only covered the top of the stones. She groaned aloud. What a hopeless milksop I am! Gritting her teeth, she jabbed the shovel deep into the dirt. Sandor would laugh if he could see me now.

  Only after the sun had completely set did Tonia trudge back up the hill to her room. Her head ached; her arms burned; blisters puffed up on her palms. Her neck, shoulders and back protested the harsh activity. The well’s cold water felt like paradise. While she warmed another hare pie, her eyelids drooped with fatigue. The fresh air and the exercise had sharpened her appetite and she was tempted to eat a second pie. Only the knowledge that she had to conserve her food supplies stopped her. After banking the fire, she fell back into the hard cot. Sleep claimed her before she finished her nighttime prayers.

  The following morning dawned cloudy and colder than the previous day, but Tonia could not smell any rain. Someday she would have to ask Sandor to teach her how to read the weather signs. Before attacking the still-high dirt mound, she ripped the hem of her bedraggled petticoat and wrapped her blistered hands with the strips. Even so, digging was agony. To take her mind off the pain, Tonia sang old familiar songs under her breath.

  With her arms feeling as if they were clothed in leaden sleeves, she was forced to take more rest breaks. Tripping over her hems, she swore at her long skirts. In exasperation, she threw down the shovel, grabbed the bottom of her gown and pulled it up between her legs. Though her calves, clad in her torn stockings, were now immodestly exposed, she didn’t care a fig. Whom would she shock with her wanton display? The birds had the more important tasks of mating and nest buildi
ng to hold their attention, nor had she seen or heard any of the animals that she knew must dwell in the wood across the stream.

  Thinking of the boar that Sandor had said lurked on the mountainside, Tonia paused and scanned the edge of the trees along the stream’s bank. Then she glanced down at his dagger that lay on the grass nearby. She smiled grimly. Let it try to attack me. I am starving for a nice platter of roast boar. Recalling her family’s succulent Christmastime treat with a polished apple stuck between its tusked jaws, Tonia’s mouth watered. Methinks I could eat the whole thing in one sitting—stiff tail and all! She went back to work with vigor.

  By sunset, Tonia patted the last shovelful of dirt onto the finished gravesite. She stepped back a few paces to admire the product of her aches, bruises and blisters. Pursing her lips, she nodded her satisfaction. ’Tis the very image of a fresh grave. A shiver chilled her heart; she rubbed her arms. I am a goose to be afraid. ’Tis only the evening wind and nothing more. Nevertheless, Tonia decided to light the lantern in case Sandor’s “troublesome spirits” wafted about Hawksnest.

  She gathered up the shovel and dagger. Then she gave the site a final look. Tomorrow I will make a cross for it.

  After another solitary meal with only the moan of the freshening wind to break the silence, Tonia huddled under her blanket and was asleep long before the moon rose.

  The public room of the Fat Cat was filled with the cheerful inhabitants of Harewold. The innkeeper looked especially pleased to be serving men of such noble bearing as the three weary Cavendishes. He dashed back and forth between the counter and kitchen hatch, bearing trays full of cool ale and hot stew.