Halloween Knight

by Tori Phillips

Mortimer gave him no answer. Rising, he paced to the narrow window that overlooked the moat. He clenched his hands behind his back. After a few moments, he spoke again.

  “I pray you excuse me, my lord. I have not…been well of late.”

  Mark smiled inwardly. “I am most sorry to hear of it. Perchance you need a change of scenery,” he suggested.

  Mortimer turned back to him. “You have hit the nail upon its head, my lord. In truth, I am heartily sick of this heap of stones. The sooner I can return to London, the happier I will be. I was not country-bred.”

  Mark placed his elbows on the table. “Then why do you infect yourself? Leave tomorrow.” And make Belle a most gladsome lady.

  He shook his head. “Alas, my affairs here are not yet…concluded.”

  Mark scented a secret in the air. “Then leave Bodiam and its management to me as Mistress Griselda’s dowry. As your brother-in-law, I will tend to these tedious problems. Unlike you, I was born to this way of life.”

  Again, Mortimer shook his head. “Gladly I will leave the estate to you, my lord. Indeed, that is the very nut and core of what I wanted to discuss with you this morning, but for the moment, this castle is my…concern, though it gives me sleepless nights and restless days.”

  Then prepare yourself, knave, for you have not yet experienced all that I have planned. Aloud, Mark said, “Ah! The dowry! Now you are speaking my language. I take it that the…entanglement that we mentioned a few days ago is resolved?”

  Mortimer mopped his sweating face again. “Just so, my lord,” he replied in a hoarse whisper. “And I beg that you never bring up that particular subject again.”

  “Done,” Mark said through thin lips.

  Mortimer returned to his seat. He drew out a paper from the stack on the table and passed it to Mark. “Tis the marriage contract that I prepared yesterday.” He pointed to the third paragraph of the densely written sheet. “Here I have spelled out all the lands and entitlements that I will give you as my sister’s dowry. You will find that I have been most generous.”

  Mark scanned the page. Mortimer’s use of legal terminology surprised him. As a member of a prosperous wool-merchant family, Mortimer had obviously become well-versed in complex business transactions. One thing was certain in Mark’s mind. He would not sign any document—particularly one with the words marriage bond and matrimony in the text. He pretended to read it with difficulty.

  “Hoy day, Mortimer! Tis a weighty piece of writing here, and I must confess that I always was lax in my book-learning. Allow me to peruse this in private. I am sure tis proper to the letter and form, but I must study it before I sign. As a man of business, I am sure you understand.”

  A shade of annoyance crossed the other man’s face, but he nodded. “Of course,” he agreed with reluctance. “Take your time, my lord, though I must warn you that my sister grows impatient to announce the banns. The season of Advent draws nearer and she wants to be well married before then.”

  Mark folded the paper and stuck it inside his jerkin. “Aye, Mistress Griselda has told me often enough.” She has whined about it unceasingly in my ears. He swallowed. “Then to soothe her anxiety, let us announce our betrothal at your feast on All Hallows Eve.”

  Sdeath! I cannot believe I just said those words!

  “Agreed!” Mortimer held out his hand to shake on the pact.

  Mark accepted his sweaty paw with loathing. Then he rose and beat a hasty exit saying that he wanted to ride over the property to inspect it. By the time Mark had returned to his own chamber, his temples throbbed with the beginnings of a nasty headache. He stuffed the marriage contract deep into his clothes chest, then he collared Kitt in the gallery.

  “Where to?” the boy asked, eager for an outing.

  “To Hawkhurst,” Mark muttered, “though I wish it were to the ends of the earth.”

  The visit to Montjoy’s cottage was a great success as far as Kitt was concerned. The winsome Ivy deigned to give the fledgling swain a peck on his cheek when he carried water from the well for her. For Mark it was another matter. The package that he expected from Sir Andrew had not yet arrived, nor was there any word from the elderly knight. Mark needed some time to acquaint himself with the mysteries of Sir Andrew’s fireworks before he unleashed them on the unsuspecting population of Bodiam. And time was running out—especially since he was now doomed to betroth a harpy on All Hallows Eve. Then there was the feast itself.

  “I need turnips,” he told the old steward. “Fifty pounds more or less and soon.”

  Montjoy lifted one shaggy brow. “Are they starving at the castle?” he inquired mildly.

  Mark grinned. “Nay, tis for Kitt.” He glanced across the room at the boy who was deep in conversation with Ivy.

  Montjoy nodded. “Ah! A growing lad’s appetite, I vow.”

  Mark’s grin widened. “Methinks he will grow heartily sick of them soon enough.”

  After enduring Montjoy’s usual stern lecture concerning the care and protection of the Cavendish offspring, Mark dragged the besotted Kitt away from the fair Ivy’s charms. Mark promised himself to give his squire a man-to-man talk in the very near future before the boy did something rash. After all, Kitt was a Cavendish and Mark was well acquainted with that family’s quirks and passions.

  They arrived back at Bodiam in time for the noon dinner. Kitt, still wrapped in a cloud of first love, stumbled through his table service with more than the usual number of mishaps. Griselda, buoyed by the news that her betrothal was closer to its dreaded consummation, talked nonstop during the eternal meal. Afterward, she insisted that Mark help her plan the feast. Despite his need for a long nap, he agreed. The opportunity to orchestrate the event to his benefit was too good to pass up.

  Griselda’s unusual industry surprised him until he realized that for the first time since she had arrived at Bodiam she had something constructive to occupy her mind. Up until now she had spent her time bemoaning real and imagined slights. As soon as the remains of the sweet course had been swept from the board, Griselda grabbed Mark’s hand and pulled him into the seldom-used withdrawing chamber. She had already made out a number of lists that were scattered around the surface of a long refectory table that was the room’s main furnishing.

  Griselda pointed to the nearest piece of paper. “Here are some of my ideas for a proper menu. What do you think?”

  Stifling a yawn, Mark scanned it. “Steamed cabbage pudding, roasted venison, tarts with apples and raisins, soul cakes with walnuts.” He gave her a smile. “Tis a goodly fare indeed. And the drink? Your guests should be well provided with good cheer.” And well pickled by the witching hour when the ghost comes a-calling.

  Griselda giggled through her nose. “Ale, claret for the gentry and mulled cider all round.”

  Mark nodded. He would make sure that the cider was mulled with some potent sackwine. The more befuddled the guests were, the more believable his haunting would be.

  Griselda snatched up a second list. “And here are some of the entertainments I have devised.” She frowned. “I would dearly love a trained bear. Do you think we could find one in time?”

  Mark shuddered inwardly. Such an unpredictable animal as a bear might queer his whole plan. Besides it would terrify Dexter into hiding and the cat’s presence would be required on this occasion.

  “Nay, sugared nymph,” he murmured, kissing her fingers. They were still greasy from dinner. “I must confess that I am mortally afeared of bears. Will a juggler do instead?”

  “But I had my heart set on a bear,” she pouted.

  He sighed and pulled her closer. “Methought you had your heart set only on me.”

  She brayed a discordant laugh.

  Mark removed himself from her grasp and pounced upon a drawing. “What is this?” He held up the paper.

  Griselda blushed red. “Tis a mere jotting of mine,” she simpered. “Tis a design for a mask. What do you think? I know of a most excellent mask-maker in London who could do it if we send this to
him in time.”

  Mark studied the bizarre sketch. It looked like a badger with feathers but it had distinct possibilities. It completely covered both the face and hair. He gave her a smile of genuine approval.

  “You possess a remarkable talent, my tricksy sprite. By my troth, I do not believe I have ever seen the like before—not even at one of the king’s masques.”

  She clapped her hands. “Truly?”

  “I swear it upon my soul. Pray, can you design others in like fashion? Twould make a great show if all the guests were so disguised. Think of the merriment we will have trying to guess who is who.”

  She nodded but did not rise to his compliment as Mark had expected. “Aye,” she replied with a deep sigh, “but there is one sticking point.”

  “Money?” he asked faintly. His own purse was practically empty.

  She waved away that objection. “Nay, tis the guests.” She pointed to yet another list with only a few lines written upon it. “I fear we are sadly lacking in that quarter. We have not resided in this area for too long and my brother…” She gnawed her lower lip.

  Mark again put his arm around her bony shoulders. “You may tell me, Griselda. Am I not your man?” Lightning will strike me dead for that lie.

  She rested her head on his shoulder. Her hair under her coif smelled of tallow grease. “When we first came to help nurse poor Cuthbert, Mortimer would not admit any visitors while my brother was so ill.” Her eyes filled with tears.

  By the rood, she must have actually loved the milksop. Mark gave her a little squeeze to comfort her—and to encourage her tale.

  She dabbed her eyes with the end of her sleeve. “Then, after Cuthbert died, we could not entertain because we were in mourning. Then Belle—” She glanced over her shoulder, and made a quick sign against the evil eye. “I mean, my sister-in-law grew quarrelsome and out of sorts with her grief, so Mortimer was compelled to put her to bed in a dark room until she recovered her wits.”

  “Just so,” he murmured. Mortimer’s double-dyed villainy became much clearer. Mark would suffer no pangs of remorse when he frightened the man senseless. Mayhap, Belle’s “spirit” should return to haunt him. Twas an intriguing thought.

  “Mortimer dismissed all her servants lest they annoy her. Instead he hired his own men.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “In faith I do not like them one little bit. They are nothing but knaves and varlets and they frighten me.”

  “They will soon be gone,” he promised her.

  “Since then Mortimer has shut the gates to all but the vendors. It has been very dull here—until you came, just like a knight out of a troubadour’s ballad.”

  Mark felt a little sorry for her—though not enough to make him forego his plans. Griselda’s future was not his concern. She’d be far happier back in London anyway, he told himself.

  “Fear not, my delicate primrose. I have an idea that will fill your hall to overflowing—and gain good opinions of you from all the countryside.”

  “I pant to know,” she murmured, batting her eyelashes at him.

  He groaned to himself. Tis my punishment for a lifetime of swearing false love to innocent maids.

  Ignoring her attempt at seduction, he rattled on. “Allow me to take this task in hand. I will ride to Hawkhurst and acquaint myself with your neighbors. After all, they will soon become my neighbors as well. I will invite the country folk to help us celebrate the harvest and to join in our dancing.”

  “Oh me!” she wailed.

  His heart sank. “Tis not a goodly plan?” He needed to smuggle the former castle servants back into Bodiam if his haunting was going to work.

  Griselda flopped down on a nearby bench. “Tis not the guests. You said dancing and I…I cannot dance a step.” She burst into gushing tears and buried her face in her hands.

  Mark released a sigh of relief. He went down on one knee beside her. “Is that all, sweet cuckoo-bud? Then dry your eyes. I am a dancing master of the first degree. We have a week to practice. By All Hallows Eve your feet will be the lightest in the hall.”

  She stared at him through a thick sheen of tears. Her lower lip quivered. “Tis true?”

  “Aye, truly,” he replied. At least this was one time that he did not have to lie. Everyone who lived at Wolf Hall knew how to dance well. The Countess of Thornbury had insisted upon it.

  “May we start today? This minute?” She pulled him to his feet.

  Mark kissed away his last hope of a late-afternoon nap. “On one condition, pigeon-egg of mine. First we design more masks so that I may send to this wonder-maker of yours in time, then we will dance.”

  Griselda showered him with foolscap. “Twill be done in a twink. I have many ideas that will please you, sweet Mark.” She screeched another giggle. “Perchance we can do a different kind of dance anon—in the privacy of your bed?”

  God shield me!

  Fortunately for Mark, though not for his feet, Griselda proved to be a slow but determined learner. Hour after hour he pushed her through the steps of a simple galliard, a bransle and the stately pavane. Kitt was sent scurrying to the minstrel’s gallery to retrieve a recorder. The boy naturally dallied in his journey, leaving Mark to hum a melody over and over again until Kitt’s return.

  Kitt’s repertoire of tunes surprised Mark. He had thought that the boy had done nothing during the first eleven years of his life but sit within Kat’s reach and eat sweetmeats. Twilight and the approach of supper time called a halt to the proceedings. With barely a backward glance, Griselda dragged herself upstairs to prepare for the evening meal. All thoughts of an amorous interlude had thankfully flown from her head. His feet numb from dancing on a stone floor, Mark could barely climb his own stairway. He threw himself across his bed with a groan.

  “Wake me in a half hour, Kitt. God’s teeth! I am exhausted.”

  Kitt rinsed his face in the basin. “Jobe stopped me outside the minstrel’s gallery. He wants to speak with you.”

  “Now?” Merciful heaven! What had Mark done to deserve this day? If he didn’t get some sleep soon he would be in no shape for tonight’s ghostly surprises. “What does he want?”

  Kitt dried his face. “I know not, and now I must go to the kitchens to fill my ears with more of the cook’s abuse. Ask him yourself.” The boy banged out of the room.

  The African’s low laughter caught Mark unawares. He opened his eyes in time to see Jobe emerge from the privy alcove. “Your pardon if I don’t get up to greet you, my friend. You see before you a man worn to the very nub.”

  Jobe flopped down beside him. “Ah! I had forgotten what a mattress felt like.”

  Mark cast him a sidelong glance. “Are you complaining of your royal accommodations in your garret hole? Perchance you would like to woo Mistress Griselda in my stead?”

  Jobe chuckled causing the bed to shake. “Nay, meu amigo. I leave that pleasure to you.”

  Mark yawned. “So what is amiss?”

  Jobe laced his hands behind his head. “A most interesting thing, methinks. Two men are digging up the cellar next to the chapel crypt.”

  Mark rubbed his aching eyes. “Whyfor?”

  “Ah! That is the question,” Jobe replied. “I bided my time in the shadows and listened. They are most unhappy to toil down there day after day. Indeed, they filled the air with curses against Master Fletcher, though he pays them well enough for their trouble.”

  Mark turned on his side to face his friend. “What do they seek?”

  Jobe shrugged. “They do not know, save that it is in a small chest. After a while I grew as tired as they, so I gave them my lovelorn monkey call. Alas, they were not in a loving mood.” He laughed. “They ran like children who have spied a mamba snake.”

  Mark rolled onto his back and stared up at the bed’s green velvet canopy. He knew that cellar but could not understand why anyone would have such a keen interest in the place. In the distant past, it had once housed plunder that Bodiam’s original owner had stolen while adventuring in Fr
ance. During Lady Kat’s tenure, the low dusty vault stood empty unless the year’s grain harvest had been especially good.

  “Most interesting,” he agreed. He would ask Belle about it when he saw her later this evening. “And how fares Mistress Belle?”

  Jobe flashed him a grin. “Ah! She is a lion cloaked in a woman’s fair skin.”

  Mark rolled his eyes. “What did she do this time?”

  “Took a bath.”

  Mark bolted upright. “Fire and brimstone! Just like the minx. Where? When?”

  “When she grew tired of watching Mistress Griselda climb all over you during the dance instruction. Indeed, your sweet Belle has a goodly range of oaths—and some in French as well. I was most impressed.”

  Mark fidgeted with the silken bed coverlet. “And just exactly where did she take this bath?”

  “In Mistress Griselda’s chamber.”

  Mark could do nothing but gape at him. Belle had always loved to court disaster but this was going too far. “Did you fetch the water for her?” he snarled.

  Jobe looked too pleased with himself. “Nay, she called through the door to one of the serving boys to prepare the bath. By my troth, she is a good mimic of Mistress Griselda’s shrill tune. Then she hid in the privy until the tub was filled. After that, she helped herself to soap, comb and brush—even a new shift and gown from Mistress Griselda’s chest.”

  Mark wanted to wring Jobe’s neck. “And just where were you when the little gamester was in her bath?”

  Jobe sighed. “Alas, in the privy alcove and sworn upon my honor to stay there until she called. And, upon my honor, I did so—though I must admit, twas tempting to take a quick peek.”

  Mark closed his eyes and tried to imagine the scene. “I am right glad you were there.” And not I. Since I have no honor, I would have taken a good long look.

  “Love is the most excellent sport of all,” Jobe remarked.

  “Don’t entertain any fantasies on my behalf. I am not in love with anyone—and certainly not with Mistress Belladonna! I am just here for Sir Brandon’s reward.”

  The African merely laughed in his face.