Halloween Knight

by Tori Phillips

  He bowed to her. “As my esteemed ancestors were before me. I am from a different world than you.”

  She swallowed. “The one below this earth?” She could not tear her gaze from his gleaming ebony skin, the golden hoop in one ear and the bandoliers of sharp daggers that crisscrossed his broad chest. “Are you from hell itself?”

  Jobe grinned, then shook his head. “Nay, little one, I speak only of Africa and its golden joys. There is my heart’s home.”

  “You speak our language well,” she remarked.

  He inclined his head. “My thanks to the Creator for giving me a good ear. I learned Portuguese from my captors, Gaelic from the Irish and three years in Mark’s company has taught me English. Shall we proceed, mistress, afore unfriendly eyes discover us?”

  Her heart still thumping in her throat, Belle led the way toward the great hall where supper was in progress. When they drew near to the rear of the minstrel’s gallery, Belle signaled a halt. She turned one of the apples carved in the decorative panel, and a secret door sprang open. Jobe returned her grin as he squeezed himself into the narrow compartment. Once Belle shut the door, it became almost as dark as the linen cupboard had been.

  Standing on tiptoe, Belle whispered to Jobe. “The original owner of Bodiam was a master brigand. He won his title and fortune by riding roughshod over half of France as well as a good many of his neighbors here in Sussex. In short, he trusted no one, not even his own flesh and blood,” she related. “He built a number of these spy nests within the walls so he could see and hear what his family and retainers said about him. Watch now for the light.”

  So saying, Belle moved her hand along the surface of the wall that faced the hall below them. When her fingers touched a raised piece of wood, she slid it to one side. A long sliver of light from the hall’s candles pierced the darkness.

  “Bem! Tis good,” breathed Jobe. “But why do they not see this hole in the wall?”

  “Tis masked amid the linen-fold carving on the other side,” Belle replied. She peered through the oillet at the high table, then swore under her breath. “Froth and scum! Look how Griselda fawns over Mark. She is practically chewing on his ear. And she is rustling about my home in a most costly silken gown. I wager tis not yet paid for.”

  Supper was more dismal than usual. Even the cook’s offerings lacked his usual flair. The baked tripe pie did not sit particularly well in Mark’s stomach. Meanwhile the great chamber buzzed, not with music or song, but with whispered stories of the latest excitement within Bodiam’s crenellated walls.

  Griselda leaned heavily on Mark’s shoulder. “Did you hear it too?” Her breath smelled of too much wine.

  Mark lounged against his high-backed chair, crossed his ankles under the oaken table and decided to play the fool. “Hear what?” he asked loudly.

  Emitting a high-pitched squeak, Griselda looked over her shoulder into the shadowed corners of the large chamber. “Last night—the hoofbeats,” she whispered.

  Mark spied Kitt’s suppressed grin as the boy served them cold strips of smoked pike fish floating in some grayish sauce. Mark scowled both at the food and at Kitt’s obvious eavesdropping. He will give our game away if he doesn’t learn to hide his thoughts.

  Aloud, he replied, “In faith, sweetheart, I had just managed to fall asleep when some disturbance awoke me. Me-thought twas a late night visitor for your brother.”

  “Would that it had been,” Mortimer remarked with a glare at his sister. “As I told you before, my lord. Twas nothing.”

  “Aye, you did, but when I returned to my chamber, I found that someone had strewn all my clothing on the floor.” Let everyone digest that nugget along with the unspeakable fish, he thought.

  Griselda dug her nails into Mark’s arm. “God save us, Mortimer!” she squealed before he could shut her up. “Twas the same with me this forenoon.” Her pale eyes grew enormous. “When I opened my clothes chest, I found that everything had been turned inside out!”

  Good boy, Kitt! You’ll become a proper rogue yet!

  Mortimer tossed Mark a meaningful look. “My sister has no lady’s maid at the moment,” he ventured to explain. “Tis no wonder her fripperies have become disarrayed. I trust nothing was stolen from you?”

  Mark shook his head. “Nay, methought twas a prank….” He leaned his elbows on the table then continued in a very loud whisper, “Then I heard the most ungodly caterwauling coming from…from the privy hole in my alcove.”

  Will, the potboy, dropped his serving platter with a loud crash. The hall grew deathly still. Only the hiss and pop of the logs on the fire broke the silence. Mark waited to see who would speak first. This game grows more interesting.

  Mortimer wiped his face with his napkin. “The wind,” he snapped. “It sometimes blows through the chinks and holes in the most unnerving manner.”

  “Tis the self-same howling as the carpenter and his prentice heard this afternoon,” the steward ventured from one of the lower tables. A number of the other retainers nodded their agreement. “Scared the wits out of both of them.”

  “Bewitched we are,” muttered the grizzled marshal. He signaled for more ale in his cup.

  “Oooh!” Griselda clung tighter to Mark’s arm. “Tis true, I fear. Tis Belle Cavendish bewailing her d…doom!”

  Mark lifted his brow. “There, there, my sugar comfit,” he crooned. “Do not be afeard. Who is this Belle?” he asked Mortimer.

  The man glared at Griselda before he answered. “Tis she whom I told you of. The one who…ah…died suddenly last evening. A bad business—not to be spoken of, if you grasp my meaning.”

  “My condolences,” Mark murmured to no one in particular. There is no hole in hell hot enough for you, Fletcher.

  Squealing again, Griselda made the sign against the evil eye. “She haunts us, I just know it.”

  Now to play my ace card. “That is hard news indeed—especially since the feast of Samhain draws apace. Tis the time of year when owls cry out deathly warnings, ghostly dogs howl, witches fly to the moon on broomsticks and goblins wander over hill and dale.”

  Mortimer fidgeted in his chair. “Fantasies for children and other weak-minded creatures!” He gave his sister a lethal stare.

  Mark put his arm around the shivering Griselda. “Not so, Mortimer. In times past, I had heard but did not myself believe the tales of spirits who walked abroad on the night before All Hallows Day. But in my travels since then, I have witnessed many great wonders so that now…”

  Pausing, he looked around the hall. Every eye was upon him. He sensed that every ear strained to catch his next words. “Now I do believe that the dead visit us on that fearful night.”

  “Angels preserve me!” Griselda threw her arms around his neck and practically crawled into his lap. She clasped him like a vine around a tree trunk.

  Mortimer drained his wine cup and poured himself more before Kitt could serve him. “Old wives’ tales!” His hand shook as he lifted his drink.

  Mark shrugged. “Be that as it may, but one cannot be too careful at this time of year. Might I make a suggestion?”

  “Aye, speak, my lord,” said the steward. Several members of the household banged the table with their cups and knife handles.

  Mark addressed the castle’s retainers. “Have no fear, my good people. There is a remedy to keep this house and all who dwell within it safe from goblins, ghoulies and other creatures that live in the shadows of graveyards.”

  “Tell us!” the men shouted.

  Mark glanced at his ashen-faced host. Mortimer nodded and drank more wine. This plays out even better than I had hoped. “Master and Mistress Fletcher should hold a goodly feast here on All Hallows Eve. Invite all your friends and neighbors. Aye, even the good, god-fearing folk of Hawkhurst should come. Fill this hall with many friendly faces.”

  “Sounds expensive,” Mortimer mumbled.

  “Nay, tis a blessing,” Griselda retorted with rare spunk. “Twill save us from…that evil one.” She bit her
lower lip. “What must we do at this gathering?”

  “Why, we will make merry with a great deal of noise,” Mark replied, his imagination embellishing the folklore Mistress Owens used to tell on dark nights.

  “We must fill the hall with many burning tapers and keep the hearth fire high to ward off unwholesome spirits. The cook should prepare foods in thanksgiving for your good harvest—dishes that feature apples and nuts particularly. You should leave a dish of cream on every hearth in the castle—to appease the goblins lest they do us mischief.” Belle’s fat cat should appreciate that touch.

  Mortimer swore into his cup but made no other objection.

  Mark continued to elaborate. “We will play games like Hoodman Blind, dance country jigs and enjoy a clever entertainment—anything that keeps us cheerful until after the midnight hour. Everyone will wear masks so that the spirits will not know who we are. Twill be goodly sport. Oh, and all the doors must be unlocked,” he added.

  Mortimer narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

  Mark gave him a superior look. “So that the spirits will be able to flee this place without hindrance.”

  Griselda nodded so hard that her headdress wobbled askew. “Aye! Tis a good idea. Everyone knows that Bodiam is haunted by the ghost of a great Black Knight.”

  Mark pretended surprise. “How now?”

  Griselda curled into a ball in his arms. “They say that on All Hallows Eve he rides, dressed in full armor, through…through this very hall!”

  “Tis true enough,” murmured the steward. “I myself have heard this tale.”

  Mortimer glared first at his sister, then at his steward. “Tis confections of the imagination to frighten small children into early bedtimes. I’ll hear no more of this talk—and there will be no Samhain feast, sister. I’ll not have my house filled up with a lot of hungry, thieving knaves.”

  At that moment, one of the candles in the candelabra on the high table snuffed itself out. Even Mark was taken aback since there was no draft blowing through the chamber. Mortimer stared bug-eyed at the smoking candlewick. Just then Griselda screeched and rubbed her arm.

  “Something stung my hand!” she yowled.

  “Tis too late in the night for bees,” Mark muttered, glancing around.

  A second candle winked out.

  Rising from his chair, Mortimer thumped his fist on the tabletop. “Who did that?” he bellowed.

  From the pierced wooden screen at the end of the hall, low laughter began. It rose in volume, then suddenly turned into the most fearsome hooting and howling that Mark had ever heard. The sound reverberated off the vaulted ceiling and reechoed down the large chamber. The potboys scattered to the safety of the kitchens. The castle retainers fell over the benches in their haste to escape the terrifying noise. Mortimer staggered back into his chair. Griselda swooned, her head falling heavily onto Mark’s chest.

  The tiny hairs on the back of Mark’s neck prickled. Even though he suspected Jobe at work, he had to admit that the monkey call was more than enough to chill the blood. Just then a small pellet hit him squarely between the eyes. Though the missile stung, Mark knew exactly what it was. He scanned the dark recess of the empty minstrel’s gallery. Jobe was an expert at blowing dried peas through a hollow reed. At that moment, the last candle’s flame disappeared. Mark heard the tiny sound of a pellet bouncing along the table.

  Well aimed, my friend!

  Behind the paneling, Belle muffled her giggles with both of her hands. Below her, the hall emptied like the outgoing tide at Winchelsea. With a wide grin, Jobe slid his blowpipe back into his belt.

  “Most excellent sport!” he whispered.

  Chapter Eleven

  As the last stroke of midnight died away, the phantom hoofbeats once again echoed in the courtyard. The hardened men-at-arms on guard reacted with something close to panic. Even though she had known what to expect, chills ran down Belle’s spine. From her vantage point in the deserted garret of the western mid-tower, she hovered in the shadows as she observed the accelerating chaos sixty feet below her. Sitting on the wide window ledge, Dexter surveyed the scene with his unblinking golden eyes.

  “Kitt should be abed,” she remarked to the cat, “instead of staying up half the night and banging two bowls against the wall. He will be impossible to live with once he returns to Wolf Hall. You mark my words.”

  Dexter washed a milk-white paw.

  Belle tried to locate her little brother’s hiding place in the tower opposite her, but she could not discern his movements. Meanwhile, the action in the courtyard mounted.

  “By my life!” cried one of the grooms to the yawning blacksmith, “I swear I saw it fly right by me. A ghostly horse caparisoned for a joust, he was.”

  “Nay,” shouted a stable hand. “Tis a great water horse come out of the river yonder. Ye can smell him!”

  “Tis two, three or more!” exclaimed a quaking lackey. Will nodded his curly head in stupefied agreement.

  “Search for the beast!” ordered the marshal, but no man dared to obey his command.

  Just then, Mortimer, attended by the steward, Fowler and a gaggle of gaping underservants, came through the wide arched doorway. Planting himself on the top of the broad steps, he attempted to quell the rabble.

  Belle giggled. “Hoy day, Dexter! Look at his spindly legs!” Clad only in his nightshirt, Mortimer reminded her of a ruffled stork. “He must stuff padding down his tights to give himself a fine shank. I knew of many a dashing fop at the king’s court who did that.”

  Dexter paid her no mind. Instead he cleaned his other forepaw until it gleamed as white as its mate.

  “How now?” Mark’s voice rose above the general din. “What is all the fuss this time, Mortimer? Lose another horse?”

  The hoofbeats suddenly ceased.

  Belle drew closer to the window. “Mark doesn’t know I am up here,” she explained to the disinterested cat. “He thinks I am tucked away in my trundle bed like a good little girl. Pah! He should know better than that by now. He should—Great Jove!”

  Mark moved into the circle of torchlight. Practically naked, he was dressed only in his burgundy-and-gold striped tights, a sight that literally snatched Belle’s breath away.

  Where had the gangly, wiry youth of her childhood days gone in the last eight years? The powerful, well-built man that Mark had become claimed her riveted attention. Something fluttered in the pit of her stomach as she watched him take command in the courtyard like the lead performer of a court masque. His mere presence compelled the attention of the jittery rabble.

  The firelight caught the flash of his dark eyes and caressed the rippling muscles of his broad, bare chest. Belle could not suppress a sigh when she recalled how he had so recently held her close to his heart. But Mark had been decently clad then, not looking like he had just stepped down from a Grecian pedestal. The tight hose outlined his muscular thighs and sturdy calves to perfection—no padding needed there. And the bulge between his legs? Positively scandalous! Belle could not tear her gaze away from him. Her knees trembled. She swallowed hard.

  “I hope that he has not come fresh from Griselda’s bed!” she sputtered to Dexter. “Not undressed like that! Oh, la, la! Quel magnifique!” she added, lapsing into her mother’s French tongue. Hot jealousy welled up inside her. She tried to ignore its sting. Mark is not the least bit interested in Griselda. Belle did not want to admit—even to the cat—how much his handsome body enticed her. Her cheeks flushed. Be sensible, she scolded herself. Mark was only her father’s hireling.

  A sudden booming from the south battlements startled her. Jobe must have found the kettledrum in the minstrel’s gallery. Its deep tone throbbed in the night. Everyone froze in place. Belle’s heart beat in time with its rhythm. Pandemonium broke out in the courtyard below her.

  The men and boys scattered in every direction like a disturbed hill of ants. Several shouted to lower the drawbridge; they would not stay a minute longer inside Bodiam’s haunted walls. Others dropped to
their knees gabbling disjointed prayers. Many fled back to the safety of their beds. Belle closely watched Mortimer’s reaction.

  “Fly now, you dissembling cur! Leave my home!” she whispered.

  Dexter crouched as if he would spring out of the tower window.

  Mortimer stiffened as his craven minions scuttled away from the mysterious drumbeat. He paled, flinched but held his ground. His knobby knees shook beneath the hem of his nightshirt. Surveying the shambles of his domain, his eyes narrowed and his mouth thinned with anger.

  “Pernicious bloodsucker!” Belle hissed under her breath. “Not afraid yet? Your greed still holds you in its thrall? This little dance is only the prologue. Fear me, brother-in-law. I am the broom that will sweep this castle clean of such filth as you Fletchers!”

  The distant church bells pealed the hour of two after midnight before the castle settled down to an uneasy rest. Long before then Belle and Dexter had returned to their snuggery. Too excited to sleep, she stirred up her fire and waited for the friendly “spirits of the night” to come bragging of their exploits. Dexter curled into a large black-and-white ball. He barely moved when someone finally knocked on her door.

  “Tis Mark,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Are you still awake?”

  A warm glow flowed through her at the sound of his voice. I must be losing my mind. He is only a land-hungry mercenary. Yet her fingers trembled as she unbolted the door. He slithered inside like the shadow he pretended to be. She noticed with a twinge of disappointment that his handsome body was now modestly covered in dark clothing. To shield her true emotions, she assumed her usual mocking tone.

  “How goes the haunting? Or were you too busy with the fair Griselda to notice?”

  He made a face, then flashed her a smile. “Twas a most satisfying sight, chou-chou. You should have seen it!”

  Wouldn’t you be surprised! “Oh?” she asked with an arched eyebrow. “Do you speak of Griselda in the throes of a love frenzy or the ghost of the Bodiam Knight?”

  “You minx!” Mark caught her in his arms and whirled her around the tiny space. “Let us not speak of Mistress Fletcher. Her face alone curdles fresh cream in a churn. I last saw her after supper when I dumped her on her bed—not in it. She was quite unconscious at the time. Here!”