The Dark Knight

by Phillips, Tori

  “How now?” Guy asked, his tone becoming more velvet. “What news is this?”

  Celeste did not trust her tongue to speak. She steeled herself for what she knew was to come. The man with the box stepped a little closer to Caitland.

  Sir Roderick ran a finger under his plain, pointed collar. He cleared his throat. “On April the fifth of this year, the Lady Gastonia, along with her companions, was arrested in the name of the King for crimes against His Majesty.”

  Guy pretended to laugh. “’Tis a jest! My daughter is the most retiring and modest of women. How could she possibly have offended the King? She has never met him. And by what right do you come here to distress my lady wife with this falsehood?” he added.

  Tread very carefully, mon cher. Celeste gnawed the inside of her cheek.

  Caitland dabbed his mouth again. “This visit is none of my liking, I assure you, my lord. I am merely a messenger from my master, the duke, who speaks in the King’s name.”

  “Then say your message and be brief.”

  The visitor twitched. “The Lady Gastonia was taken to York, together with her friends, where they were brought before an ad hoc Star Chamber—”

  “Mon Dieu,” Celeste murmured under her breath. She lifted her fan from her girdle and waved it before her face. This mummery is worse that I had expected. She felt very warm.

  Caitland hurried on. “—where they were accused of treason—”

  Guy leaned over the man. “Treason?” he hissed. “Are you addlepated?”

  Caitland swallowed then wiped his forehead again. “I pray you, my lord, this message is as much an agony to me as ’twill be for you. Give me time and space to conclude it.”

  Guy held him in a withering glare before he nodded. “Go on.”

  “Treason by practicing heretical, popish rituals instead of the true faith as set forth by King Edward for the good of his people—”

  “And for the further acquisition of power by his grasping ministers, such as your master.”

  Caitland whimpered under his breath. His skin had taken on an unhealthy, pasty look. “The Lady Gastonia was charged with praying in Latin—instead of English as the King has directed his subjects—for burning blessed candles, for venerating relics and painted statues of the saints and for hearing the Mass, which is expressly forbidden.”

  “The Princess Mary also hears Mass—in Latin—and burns blessed candles, whyfore is she not arrested?”

  “Because she is…a royal lady,” squeaked the agitated man. “The King’s true sister of the blood. She is the undoubted daughter of our late King Henry—”

  “And so your master seeks to punish the princess by persecuting members of the nobility who might practice the same old faith in the privacy of their homes?” Guy whispered. “The same faith that Great Harry himself followed? Remember, messenger, I knew the old King well.”

  Celeste shivered to hear the threatening note in her husband’s voice. She prayed that he would keep the Cavendish temper in check, at least until after this horrible man had left their home.

  Sir Roderick slunk lower in his chair as if he sought to escape the tempest that was brewing. “My Lord Cavendish, the duke has sent me to tell you that he knows of your daughter’s whereabouts and to bear a warning to you and your whole family, most particularly to your brother, the Earl of Thornbury. Lady Gastonia was convicted of all the charges and was sentenced to immediate execution—”

  “Oh!” Celeste gripped the arms of the chair. Though she had heard this tale before, first from Tonia’s friend, Lucy, then from Tonia herself, hearing it a third time from the lips of this royal official made it seem even more cold-blooded. She did not have to pretend her distress. It was real enough.

  “And was this sentence carried out?” Guy asked, still whispering.

  Caitland plastered himself against the back of his chair. “I…I regret to inform you that the Lady Gastonia was executed by the King’s headsman on or about the twentieth of April. I know not where, my lord. ’Twas done in secret.”

  Guy pushed his face close to the perspiring Caitland’s. “I don’t believe this lie. You were sent here to test our loyalty with this vile tale. Is that how your master rules the King? With intimidation? Is this how the people of England will be ruled? By fear and hatred instead of love and loyalty?”

  Celeste fanned harder. A low humming sounded in her ears, a warning signal that she was close to swooning.

  “My lord, I did not wish to come here this day—nor any day. I am bound to obey the duke.” Caitland turned his head away. “Look inside yon casket for your proof of my news.”

  Celeste drew in several deep breaths in quick succession but her giddiness refused to leave her. I will not look at it.

  Caitland’s servant stepped between his master and Guy. Then he lifted the lid. Celeste shut her eyes as a foul, sickening stench wafted on the air. The silence in the room was more deafening than a thunderbolt at close range.

  “’Tis… ’tis her heart,” mumbled the courtier, holding his handkerchief over his nose and mouth. “Your daughter’s. May God forgive me for bringing it to you. I had no choice.”

  Guy slammed down the lid, catching the thumb of Caitland’s servant, who howled with the unexpected pain. Celeste placed a hand over her heaving stomach while she fanned herself even harder with the other. Her head swam.

  “My daughter’s heart?” Guy shouted. “What manner of churl is it who would conceive of such a knavish, horn-mad, brazen trick as this to play upon a gentle mother and a loving father? Weep, England, for you are ruled by monsters!”

  “Pea…peace, my lord,” jabbered Caitland. “Your own words could condemn you as well. ’Tis treason, methinks, to call the King a monster.”

  “I doubt young Edward had anything to do with this perfidy!” Guy ranted to the rafters. “I understand that he is not well, indeed he is very ill. Some say ’tis fatal.”

  “Peace, my lord,” Caitland babbled. “I pray you. ’Tis also treason to speak of the King’s death.”

  “Then speak to me of mine,” said a low feminine voice from the far end of the hall.

  Opening her eyes, Celeste beheld Tonia, looking like a wraith with her hair unbound and her eyes darkened by the smudges of worry under them. The visitor’s servant dropped the grisly box. Mercifully the latch did not come undone. The man cowered behind the table and hid his face in the crook of his arm. Lord Caitland slid out of his chair onto the floor. His red-veined eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.

  A grim smile wreathed Tonia’s lips. “Look at me, my lord,” she continued in honeyed tones. “And behold a woman most unmercifully wronged. I am the spirit of Lady Gastonia Cavendish.”

  Sir Roderick Caitland wet his tights before he fainted in a heap.

  For the first time in over a week, Tonia joined her parents for the evening supper. Following her surprise appearance in the great hall, her sister Alyssa had been hurriedly dispatched across the fields to Wolf Hall, where Guy had instructed her to remain indefinitely. Alyssa was only too happy to be perpetually entertained by Kitt’s merry company.

  After Tonia had withdrawn, Guy revived Lord Caitland and his terrified servant. Both men could not wait to flee the house and were astride their mounts within a quarter of an hour. Now at the end of that disquieting day, the Cavendishes enjoyed a quiet meal together.

  Guy drained the malmsey wine from the bottom of his goblet, then he gave his eldest daughter a wry look. “Well, sweetling, I must commend you. Your sense of timing was exquisite.”

  Celeste, looking much healthier since she had changed from her tight bodice to her loose dressing gown, patted Tonia’s hand. “Mais oui, ma chère, the expression on that little man’s face was like choice wine to me after what he had said and done to us.”

  Tonia smiled at her mother. It was the first time in weeks that she did not have to force a smile. “When I heard Pappa’s shouting, I knew who was here. ’Twas time that I did something for myself. The revenge wa
s sweet, even if he was only a lackey of the true evildoer.”

  Guy rubbed the back of his neck. “Northumberland, he is the wicked mind behind this evil plot. I have known of John Dudley for many years past, but I never suspected that his ambition had so blinded him that he would commit murder. This affront needs to be addressed.”

  Celeste put her hand on her husband’s arm. “But not tonight, nor this week, mon cher. You hit a sore spot with Lord Caitland when you mentioned the King’s health. Mayhap Edward is closer to death than we suspect. Once the Princess Mary is secure on the throne, the wind will blow from a different direction throughout this land. I counsel patience.”

  Guy covered her hand with his. “As always, you are the voice of moderation. We will wait and see what develops—for a while.”

  Tonia placed her hand over her stomach wherein lodged Sandor’s child. Would their babe ever see its father? She could not believe that Sandor had deliberately seduced and abandoned her. His love had been too intense and real. The appearance of the King’s minion armed with the dreadful box was proof that Sandor had arrived safely in London some weeks ago. Tonia could not bear to think that he might have been executed to keep the secret of her death forever in a grave. Fate could not be that cruel.

  “How now, Tonia?” Celeste leaned toward her daughter with a look of concern in her violet eyes. “Feeling unwell again?”

  Shaking her head, Tonia looked away. Would her mother tell Pappa of her pregnancy here and now? Tonia braced herself for the verbal whirlwind that would erupt.

  Guy lifted her chin with his forefinger. “Tears. Tonia?” he asked with deep concern.

  She bit her lip. She could not break his heart just yet—at least not until she had mended her own. She glanced down at her palm and traced the hairline scar there. Blood of my blood, where are you?

  “Aye, Pappa, a drop or two,” she confessed aloud. “You have no idea how good ’tis to be home.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Tower of London

  Mid-August 1553

  For the third time within a month, the cannons on the walls of the Tower fired a ceremonial salute. Pressing his face against the stout bar of his window, Sandor strained to catch the shouts he heard coming from the Thames River boatmen. Though great events were happening beyond his cell’s door, Sandor learned little from his guard, other than the fact that young King Edward had finally succumbed to his wasting illness and had died on July 6. The first round of the Tower’s cannon fire marked the boy-king’s passing. Church bells all over London tolled the death knell and counted out Edward VI’s scant fifteen years of age.

  Even before the King’s death had been announced to the populace, the Tower had turned into a hive of activity, though why, Sandor could not glean from Stipe, his dour jailer.

  “Eat yer victuals and pray,” was all that the bald-headed man said.

  “Pray for what, friend?” Sandor asked, half-afraid to learn the answer.

  “Fer salvation,” Stipe replied as he locked the door behind him. When the cannons boomed again a few days later, Sandor heard a few voices below his window shouting “God save the Queen.” When he asked Stipe for details, all he got was a sneer in return.

  “Ye think ’tis Mary Tudor on the throne, does ye? Ha, not so! We are ruled by another wench.”

  Sandor chewed on this piece of news while he gnawed on the hard rye bread that was his breakfast. He could not think who this new Queen could be unless the Lady Elizabeth, Mary’s half sister, had finally been legitimized by Parliament. He shook his head. Kings, queens—what did these gadje rulers matter to him except as a possible release from this windy prison? Sandor could think of no woman, except his beloved Tonia.

  He prayed that she had not starved to death at Hawksnest, waiting in vain for his return. Worse, he feared for her safety. He begged Black Sara to protect Tonia from the King’s men who searched for her. What must his beloved think of him? Did she believe that he had left her to her fate? Sandor gritted his teeth. Nay, Tonia loved him with her life’s blood. She would never doubt his fidelity.

  “Minek mange kado trajo kana naj man bold ogsago?” he sang an old Rom lament under his breath to soothe his troubled soul. “What is my life when I have no joy?” When I have no sweet Tonia to hold in my arms at sunset? “I shed bloody tears and I am homesick for you, my beloved.”

  The week passed by as the previous weeks had passed, with no news, no release and little hope. Sandor’s lifelong training had taught him to take each day as it came, without expectations or anticipation. Worry about the future was wasted energy. Tomorrow would come soon enough, with its own worries.

  Since meeting Tonia, Sandor had undergone a complete change in his philosophy. He had begun to dream of the future, with Tonia by his side. He could not imagine the two of them riding down unknown country roads, seeking nightly shelter on the wayside. His childhood fantasies resurfaced—dreams of living in a real cottage with a permanent roof over their heads and a stoutly built fireplace to warm them in winter. Sitting alone in his cheerless prison, Sandor allowed his mind to touch upon all sorts of gadje ideas. At least, thinking of them kept his mind alert.

  When the cannons boomed for a third time, Sandor did not give his jailer a chance to escape without answering his questions. When Stipe brought Sandor’s dinner of thin pottage and more stale bread, the Gypsy backed the man into a corner.

  “Whyfore the cannon? Who has died? What news, gadjo, or I will put a curse upon you that will wither your manly parts.”

  Sandor had no idea what sort of a curse could do such a dire thing, since only women dealt with magic as a general rule, but this simpleton didn’t know that. Like most gadje, he thought all Gypsies were witches and wizards.

  Beads of sweat popped out on Stipe’s brow. He made the sign against the evil eye. “’Tis no matter to ye or me,” he blathered. “’Tis only that the new Queen Jane ’as been sent down, and now we ’ave Queen Mary, God bless ’er. She should ’ave been queen in the first place, seeing that she is old ’Arry’s true daughter.”

  Sandor had never heard of this Queen Jane, but her fate was no concern of his. He wondered what the much-oppressed Mary Tudor would be like now that she finally held power in her hands. More to the point, what would Her Majesty do with him? He turned away from the nervous jailer and stared out of the window that overlooked the river.

  Stipe backed toward the door. “Ye best keep yer spells to yerself, Gypsy scum. The new Queen is a pious lady and methinks she will frown on such witchcraft.”

  Still staring out the window, Sandor waved him away as if the man were nothing but an annoying fly. The jailer slammed the door to show his displeasure.

  Miraculously Sandor’s release came a few days later with no advance warning. Stipe merely flung open the door, jerked his thumb toward the stairwell beyond, and growled, “Yer free, and good riddance to ye, says I.”

  Sandor blinked at him. “Tell me true, Stipe, is this some trick to lead me to the gallows?”

  The jailer curled his lip. “If’n the choice was mine, I’d of ’ung ye two months ago and thrown yer body on the refuse ’eap fer the dogs to eat.” He shrugged. “But now ’is ’igh and mighty lordship, the Duke of bloody Northumberland, is ’isself fast locked in the Tower, and faces his death this very day. Yer released by order of the Queen. If’n I was ye, I’d be on the first fast boat back to froggy France, and I’d count meself lucky.” It was the longest speech Sandor had ever heard Stipe utter.

  He grinned at his jailer. “My thanks, friend.” Before Stipe could change his slow-moving mind, Sandor snatched up his cap and cloak, then followed him through the door and down the narrow spiral stairway to freedom. Only one thought drummed on Sandor’s mind—Hawksnest and sweet Tonia.

  “Oy,” said Stipe, stopping before the final gate into the Tower’s Middle Ward. “About me privates—ye didn’t…do anything, did ye?”

  It took Sandor a moment to realize that the jailer still worried over hi
s alleged power to curse him. He gave Stipe a broad grin. “Nay, friend, for your good service this day, I promise you years of vigor. Enjoy it well!”

  Stipe grinned for the first time. Only then did Sandor realize that the man had barely a tooth in his head. “Ah well, then, that’s that,” he gloated with obvious pleasure.

  Sandor left him quickly and strode toward the stable by the Byward Tower. His heart nearly stopped when he did not find Baxtalo there. One of the tack lads informed him that young Demeo had taken the horse away with him when he had been released.

  Hurrying through London’s crowded thoroughfares, Sandor hoped that his family had not left the heath for their summer swing through the countryside. The Springtime Feast of the Kettles was three months past when Rom families traditionally decamped from their winter’s lodgings. Summer market days and village fairs brought out many people who sought the Gypsies’ skills with horses, blacksmithing and fortune-telling. Sandor shouted his relief when he climbed Hampstead Hill and saw the Lalow family’s vardo still under a copse of trees. The wagon sported a new coat of red paint and fanciful decorations.

  In answer to Sandor’s call, Baxtalo jerked on his loose tether and dashed to meet his master. Sandor embraced his horse with soul-satisfying joy. “I find you with God, my good friend, and tomorrow we will go to find our Tonia.”

  Uncle Gheorghe limped around the side of the vardo. To Sandor, the old man looked pinched and drawn. So the hand of sickness still lies on his shoulder. Sandor lifted his cap in greeting. “I find you with God, my uncle!”

  He covered the ground between them in several easy strides, then embraced the man who had been a second father to him. Gheorghe felt like a sack of loose bones in Sandor’s arms. His uncle settled himself on the wagon’s top step. He gave his nephew a hard stare with his watery eyes.

  “So the gadje finally grew tired of feeding you?”

  Sandor seated himself on the lower step. “Aye, Uncle, it seems the new Queen had no further need of me in her Tower.”