Halloween Knight

by Tori Phillips

  She swallowed. “I will never give up my home to him!”

  Mark stroked her cheek. Soft like the petal of a rose. “Nor do you have to. Tis time for Belle Cavendish to become another wraith of Bodiam Castle.”

  Her cornflower blue eyes flashed with her old fire. A mischievous smile curled her lips. “Tell me more!”

  He tapped her nose. “Nay, chou-chou. I will show you.” With that he lifted her in his arms and started for the door.

  Belle squeaked with surprise. “Mark, what are you doing?”

  “What I should have done in the first place, Belle. I’m taking matters into my own hands. Now transform into a ghost and be silent!” He slipped out the door with Dexter at his heels. Mark turned the lock behind them, then adjusted his dark cape over her.

  “Where are you taking me?” she whispered from under the concealing cloth.

  He chuckled. “To the land of shadows, my sweet.”

  “I can walk!” she protested.

  “But I can run faster if it comes to that.” Pray God twill not come to that. “Now close your pretty mouth, chou-chou. This next part of our journey will make or mar us.”

  She muttered a French oath but lay still in his arms. Once again, Mark marveled at how feather-light she was. Mortimer would pay and pay for this, he vowed.

  Earlier that day, Mark and Kitt had investigated the lesser-used sections of the castle, searching for a suitable base for their supernatural operations. In his idle conversations with Mortimer, Mark had learned that the new lord of the manor was unfamiliar with much of the retainers’ old quarters, particularly in the west wing. Since the general dismissal of the loyal castle staff, many of the chambers now lay vacant.

  Holding his tender burden closer to his heart, Mark crept among the deepest shadows at the outer edges of the central courtyard. Though the buttery door was locked for the night, he remembered from his earlier days at Bodiam how to pry open the hatch.

  “Hold tight,” he murmured as he swung his legs through the opening.

  “Do I have a choice?” she asked.

  He landed on the balls of his feet. “Nay,” he whispered. Too bad this midnight lark couldn’t have taken place in a happier time. At thirteen, Belle’s figure had budded with sweet promise of the beauty she would become. Her newly acquired charms had not been lost on her father’s lusty twenty-year-old squire. Mark’s arm ached when he recalled the disastrous end to his wooing.

  Dexter, despite his ponderous size, easily followed Mark over the hatchway’s sill. Mark elbowed the hatch back into place, then hurried down the gloomy passageway to the narrow stairs that led to the gallery above the huge kitchen. On the landing, Mark paused and listened. The cook and the four potboys shared two adjoining chambers at the far end of the passage. Their loud snores echoed off the stone walls.

  Satisfied that none of the servants were awake, Mark turned down a narrower passage that ran at right angles to the first. A large dusty tapestry hung down to the floor at the far end. Without pausing, Mark slipped behind it.

  The dust tickled his nose as he fumbled for the latch of the door concealed there. With a small squeak, the door swung open on its rusty hinges. Must grease that. Bounding between Mark’s feet, Dexter led the way into the cozy room that had once been the private preserve of Montjoy when he had ruled over Bodiam’s daily life.

  Mark set Belle on her feet. “You are home,” he whispered. He shut the door as quietly as he could. “Forgive me for not preparing your bower properly, but I had not expected you to arrive here so soon.”

  Belle blinked her eyes and looked around. She grinned when she recognized the chamber. “Perfect!” she murmured.

  “Indeed!” Mark felt very pleased with his choice of a hideaway. No one now living at Bodiam, with the possible exception of dim-witted Will, knew of this room’s existence. “I fear the bed sags a little and the mattress is moldy, but—”

  Belle shook her head. “Tis heaven, Mark! I have slept on a cold floor for over a month.” She whirled on him and gave him a hug that heated his blood and sent it racing through his veins. “You are a wonder! Oh, thank you!”

  Then she spun out of his arms before he had the chance to pursue the depth of her gratitude. She ran her fingertips along the armchair that stood next to the empty fireplace. A threadbare cushion was all that remained of Montjoy’s bolsters that had comforted his aching joints on his “misery days.” She tapped lightly on the thick window glass that kept out the night’s frosty gusts.

  “Thank heavens for Montjoy’s aching bones!” Belle laughed. Built next to the kitchen flue, his snuggery was the warmest spot in the castle.

  Mark nodded. “Remind me to thank Lady Kat for hanging that tapestry. It may have kept out the drafts and noise then, but twill keep out your enemies now.”

  He drew closer to Belle. In the moonglow that shone through the tiny square window, she resembled too closely the ghost she would soon portray. “The dawn comes on winged feet and the cook will soon awake. There is much I must do before then. Give me your gown.”

  Belle narrowed her eyes. “If you think for one moment that I will lie with you in gratitude, you are—”

  Mark stopped her mouth with a hard kiss. He had only meant to silence her, but the fires that he had banked for so long suddenly roared into flames. He teased her lips with his tongue. Belle made small mewing noises in her throat, then to his surprise parted her lips under his. Mark wound her in his embrace and deepened his kiss. He drank from her sweet spring as if he had been parched for many years—eight to be exact.

  With great reluctance, he released her mouth. “Ah, ma petite chou-chou, you were always a tease.”

  She bristled. “I didn’t ask for—”

  He covered her lips once more with his. “Hush!” he whispered between his urgent kisses. “Did anyone ever tell you that you talk too much?”

  She gripped his arms and shook him. “Methinks I would rather kiss your horse!” She licked her love-swollen lips.

  He chuckled. “That could be arranged, though you will have to wait a few more days for the pleasure. Now, chou-chou, we have bantered long enough. Give me your gown.”

  “You pig!” she snarled.

  He held up his hands in front of his face in case she took it into her head to use her claws. “Peace, Belle! I have no carnal desires for you.” My tongue will surely shrivel for that lie! “I intend to use your garment to effect the first of our hauntings.”

  She cast him a hard stare. “Truly? On the shreds of honor that you still possess?”

  In reply, Mark spread his cloak on the lumpy mattress. “Go to sleep, chou-chou, while I work my magic elsewhere.”

  Belle turned her back to him, then wriggled out of the filthy garment. Clad only in her tattered shift, she scurried to the bed and wrapped herself up in his cape. “I shall keep watch for your return,” she murmured. Her eyelids fluttered shut.

  Dexter leapt onto the bed beside her and wiggled his thick body under a corner of the cloak.

  Snatching up the gown, Mark rubbed his itchy nose. “Mark me, cat, some day soon you and I will trade places. In the meantime, guard her well.” Then he stole out of the room, leaving Belle to sleep in true peace.

  Back safely in his own room, Mark shook Kitt awake.

  “How now?” the boy muttered. “Tis morning so soon?”

  “Nay,” Mark replied as he hunkered down by the cool fireplace. “Tis the witching hour. Get up and dress in your darkest clothing.”

  The boy stopped yawning. “Are we to play at goblins now?”

  Mark scooped up two large handfuls of the ashes and bundled them in Belle’s pitiful remnant of clothing. “Aye, foot it, boy! We must be back in our beds before the cock crows.”

  Something intruded into Mortimer’s sleep. Through a muffled mist of blackness, a man shouted “Who goes there?”

  Another called, “Tis here!”

  A third bellowed, “Tis there!”

  “Tis gone!” cried a four
th.

  Mortimer slowly opened his eyes. The glass panes of his chamber window reflected dancing red-orange flames. The castle burns! He threw back his thick down coverlet and swung his legs to the floor. More cries of alarm brought him to full wakefulness. Without bothering to search for his fleece-lined slippers, he dashed across the rug and pushed open his window that overlooked the courtyard.

  A dozen men-at-arms, each one holding a blazing torch, crisscrossed the open quadrangle of the castle. Sleepy-eyed servants stumbled from various doorways in various states of undress.

  “You!” Mortimer shouted at the nearest guard. “What’s amiss at this unholy hour?”

  The man did not hear him but continued to thrust his torch into the darkened nooks behind doors, inside rain barrels and under the low roofs of the woodsheds. More shouts, more frenzied searching convinced Mortimer that some order must be brought into this chaos before those sheep-witted dolts truly set Bodiam afire. He lit his bedside candle, grabbed his dressing gown and located his slippers. Knotting his sash with one hand while he held his candle aloft with the other, he hurried down the gallery.

  Griselda poked her head out of her door. “What is it?” she screeched.

  “Stay in your room!” he shouted over his shoulder. “I need none of your hysterics now!” Mortimer clattered down the main staircase.

  His sergeant-at-arms met him in the hall. The gruff man’s skin looked bloodless in the eerie light of his torch.

  Mortimer shook his finger in the man’s face. “Fowler! What is the cause of this hellish din?”

  Fowler rubbed his rough beard. “Damme, Master Fletcher, I know not. A half hour ago the men on the gatehouse battlements heard hoofbeats.”

  Mortimer furrowed his brow. “At this time of night?”

  “Aye,” the sergeant replied tersely. “The men reported that it sounded as if the rider crossed the causeway then rode over the drawbridge into the keep.”

  Mortimer’s heartbeat quickened. “I left strict orders that the bridge should be raised at night, you clodpate!”

  “Aye,” the man snarled in reply. “It was—still is. The gate is still double-locked and barred, yet the men swear that the hoofbeats came into the courtyard and circled around.”

  Mortimer’s mouth went dry. “And then?”

  Fowler licked his lips. “Then wee lights blinked on and off.” He lowered his voice. “Like the will o’wisps that haunt the swamplands and moors.”

  Mortimer’s neck hairs prickled. “The devil take it, man! You have all been hoodwinked by someone who drank too much ale at supper!”

  Fowler slowly shook his head. “Though I did not hear the phantom horse, Master Fletcher, I swear upon my mother’s soul that I saw the lights.”

  Mortimer gripped his candlestick until the carving on the stem bit into the palm of his hand. “Where away?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

  Fowler pointed to the northwest tower. “Several winked at the arrow slits ascending the stairs, then they disappeared. Then once again they winked at the bottom and began the ascent again.”

  Mortimer’s blood pounded in his temples. “And what did you see when you investigated?”

  Fowler looked away. “No one dared draw near the tower, Master Fletcher.”

  Mortimer’s anger overcame his fears. “What? I pay you maggots to defend my home. Your bravery costs me a pretty penny, yet a few lights turn you into a gaggle of geese?”

  Fowler stood his ground. “I’ll fight any man who casts a shadow upon my courage,” he growled. “Any man of flesh and blood. But I will have nothing to do with spirits and demons, nor should anyone with half a wit,” he added with a glare.

  Before Mortimer could spew more of his nervous anger, another one of the guards ran up to them. “Tis there again!” he babbled. “The light in the highest tower window. It shines like a beacon.”

  Belle’s chamber! Mortimer felt light-headed.

  “Hoy day, what is going on?” drawled the voice of his guest from behind him.

  Mortimer spun on his heel. Sir Mark, dressed only in his nightshirt, yawned in his face. “Is there some sport at play here?” the nobleman asked with a grin.

  Blast the knave! Mortimer plastered a reassuring smile across his mouth. “Tis nothing but a false alarm, my lord. A few of my men have drunk more than they should. Pray forgive the disturbance. Return to your slumber. I will attend to their chastisement.”

  Lord Hayward yawned again and scratched his head. “Aye me, Master Fletcher. Twas the first good night’s sleep I have enjoyed since I came under your roof. Hell’s bells, twill take me hours to return to the land of Morpheus.” He leaned closer to Mortimer and flashed him a leer. “Mayhap I will soothe myself with that sweet young wench I passed in the hall.”

  A roaring filled Mortimer’s ears. “What wench?” he asked in a faint voice. Save for Griselda there were no other women in Bodiam—now that Belle was…gone.

  The tall lord chuckled. “A toothsome creature by the quick look I had of her. Long blond hair flowing down her back and slim as a willow. Shame on you, my good host! You should have told me of her sooner.”

  Mortimer almost gagged. The bitter iron taste of bile filled his mouth. “Pray ex…excuse me, my l…lord,” he stammered. “The air gr…grows colder and I m…must see to my m…men. Get you to bed!” With that, he practically ran down the wide steps into the courtyard. Fowler followed a short distance behind.

  Mortimer’s thoughts tumbled against each other in confusion as he crossed the quadrangle. When he passed by his terrified retainers, they grew silent and fell in behind him. At the door to the tower he paused. All the narrow windows facing inside the castle were dark as pitch.

  He pointed to the lowest one. “You saw lights there?” he asked the sergeant.

  A chorus of “Ayes” answered him from the assembled guards.

  “And a light still glows from the top floor, Master Fletcher,” one of them added in a small voice. “If you lean over the portcullis you can see its beams dance on the moat. Twas there not five minutes ago.”

  Several of the hardened men muttered prayers and made signs against the evil eye. Not one of the sheep offered to go up the tower’s winding stairs. Mortimer gritted his teeth. Only he knew who lay behind the locked door at the top. No one save that witless fool Will had ventured up there since Mortimer had imprisoned Belle over five weeks ago. He took a deep breath.

  “Very well! Since none of you have any real blood in your veins, I will see this wonder for myself.”

  Mortimer kicked open the door. No one behind him moved an inch. Flinging an oath over his shoulder, he began the steep ascent alone. Under his breath, he whispered charms to ward off whatever evil lurked above him. Nothing moved in the shadows as he passed from the first to the second floor. In the surrounding silence, he heard his heart pound within its ribbed cage.

  A thin sliver of light gleamed under the door on the topmost floor. The key stuck out from its lock with mocking invitation. Mortimer was glad that no one could see his trembling hand. He now regretted that he had not asked Sir Mark to accompany him. He gripped the candleholder.

  The door was still locked. Mortimer’s sweating fingers fumbled with the key. Cursing, he wiped his slick hands on his dressing gown, then tried again. When the door swung open, Mortimer nearly dropped his candle with fright.

  A lighted taper affixed by its own wax atop the whitened skull of some horned beast greeted him. The gruesome thing’s lower jaw was completely gone. The night wind that blew through the unprotected window caused the flame to dance upon its wick. Mortimer inched his way inside the cold chamber.

  The ice-cold, empty chamber.

  Every nerve in his body screamed at him to flee. He forced himself to stand still and look again. Against the far wall lay the small heap of dirty straw that had been Belle’s pallet. The ragged brown blanket lay there—neatly folded. Beside it was the small pitcher for her water—now broken in half.

  In the exact cente
r of the chamber lay Belle’s ragged gown, pooled on the floor as if she had just stepped out of it. Some grayish matter lay within its ring. Mortimer’s curiosity overcame his fears. He advanced with mincing steps. What he saw made him drop the candlestick.

  A heap of fine ashes lay amid the gown’s folds and protruding from them were a few white sticks. Mortimer touched one and discovered to his horror that it was the brittle bone of—a duck.

  “Holy Mother of God!” he cried aloud as he backed away from the terrifying sight.

  Instead of Belle’s dead body, only her dust remained sprinkled with the mute evidence of her demise. Jesu! How could he explain this ghastly occurrence to anyone? What was he going to tell the Cavendish family? And what infernal fire had consumed Belle’s body so quickly yet left her ashes so cold?

  Just then a gust of wind blew out the candle on the skull, plunging the chamber into total darkness.

  With a howl, Mortimer fled the room. He slammed the door shut against the unbelievable sight within, then plunged down the winding stairs. Between the second and first floors, he heard a low chuckle behind him. Blinded by his panic, he ran faster, nearly pitching headfirst against the round wall. The laughter behind him increased in volume—a mirth deeper, richer, more demonic than anything he had ever heard before.

  Mortimer had no idea when or if the terrifying sound ceased. At the base of the stairs, he fainted.

  Jobe heard Mortimer’s collapse on the stone floor below him. With a self-satisfied grin, the huge African slipped back into the west wing’s gallery that joined the drum tower on the second-floor level. There he retrieved his bundle of bedding, food and other necessities. When he heard the door at the base of the tower slam shut, he quietly ascended the spiral stairs to Belle’s abandoned prison as Mark had directed him. Jobe locked himself into the garret chamber—the very last place Mortimer would think to look for any mysterious guest who planned to haunt the castle during the coming days.

  Working by the wan light of the half-moon, Jobe tossed the filthy straw and ash-strewn gown out the window. The broken pitcher followed immediately afterward. The shards made two small “plops” into the moat like the sounds of leaping fish. Then he covered the open window with several layers of black woolen curtains that Kitt had located from some unknown source. Jobe lit the candle on the cow’s skull. Mark’s master stroke, he thought. Mark had remembered the bleached head from the days of his youth when the moat had been drained and cleaned. He told Jobe that Mistress Belle, at the age of nine, had latched onto the grisly thing and had squirreled it away in her special hiding place. Sure enough, after twelve years, it had still lain in the dovecote as Mark had remembered.