Halloween Knight

by Tori Phillips

  The lady struck her brow. “Sweet angels! You are not the only one with a muddled mind. I have clean forgotten to give you this.” She pushed the largest basket toward him. “Tis a wealth of provender from practically every household in Hawkhurst. Tis food enough to last a week.”

  Mark clutched at it and whipped off the top. His mouth watered when he beheld the array of wrapped bundles. “Your pardon, my lady,” he said, tearing open the nearest one. “I am famished.” He sank his teeth into the plump leg of a cold roast chicken. Paradise on earth!

  Lady Kat chuckled. She handed him several fat wineskins. “Take these for your thirst. And that bag contains clean clothing for you. I fear we were not allowed to bring in a razor but Kitt will visit you anon and will shave you.” She winked at him. “Tis amazing what miracles occur whenever a bit of gold crosses an outstretched palm.”

  Mark swallowed his food. “I am in your debt, sweet lady.”

  She shook her head. “Nay, Mark, Brandon and I are forever in yours. You have not only returned our children to us, but they are now better than they were before.”

  Mortimer limped into the empty great hall of Bodiam and surveyed the shambles of his domain. In the pale cold light of the November morning, the remains of the All Hallows Eve feast rotted on the tables. Crouching in the midst of the broken crockery and scattered food, that damnable cat ate his fill. No servant had lingered to clear away the mess since that horrible night a week ago. All had deserted Mortimer save for a few men-at-arms who skulked in the gate house. Only one aspect of the entire debacle cheered Mortimer—Griselda had fled back to their father’s home in London. At last, Mortimer was spared her glass-shattering voice morning, noon and night.

  He gnawed the inside of his cheek. How had his brilliant future turned so quickly to ashes? True, he still held the castle, but its possession was a hollow victory. While he was in Rye, the bailiff had reminded him that the taxes on the estate were past due. The sum of eight hundred pounds had staggered him. He knew that the holding was large but his quest for the fabulous jewel had blinded him to the details of day-to-day management. Now he not only had lost the brooch that he had expected would fulfill his vaulting ambition, but the overdue taxes would pauper him.

  All because of that chit and her swaggering paramour. The instant he had seen them together that ghastly night, Mortimer remembered exactly who Sir Mark Hayward was. Belle had mentioned his name several times after Cuthbert died. Mortimer ground his back teeth. How stupid he had been to miscalculate Lord Cavendish’s affection! Because the vixen had been born on the wrong side of the blanket, Mortimer had presumed Sir Brandon would be glad to shed her as soon as possible. He should have known that Belle’s renowned father would not sit idly by while he snatched away her jointure. Of course Sir Brandon would send his most trustworthy man—his former squire.

  A chill wind blew through the hall. Mortimer wrapped his dressing gown tighter around his thin body. He could not muster up the energy to light a fire in the yawning fireplace. Why bother? His own room was warm enough. He swore at the cat.

  A tiny voice in the back of his mind suggested that he abandon the castle with its staggering debt and return to the old comforts of London. He still owned a share in his father’s profitable wool business, though the expenses he had incurred at Bodiam had eaten sharply into his assets. Forget the Cavendishes and their blasted jewel. But his mouth watered when he recalled how that enormous ruby had glinted in the firelight that night. Once again he saw the luster of the huge teardrop pearl in his mind’s eye. He clenched his fists until his nails drew blood on his palms.

  The brooch was his by right. He would have it yet. His day in the court of justice would end in triumph. As a canny business man, he had pursued an active interest in the law. He had more knowledge of legal twists and turns than the country bumpkins of Rye. In two weeks, the Quarter Sessions would meet and Mortimer intended to be ready. He would win his plea with ease.

  Let Mistress LaBelle weep anew to see her scheming lover swing from the gallows tree. The very thought cheered Mortimer.

  Belle latched her chamber door, then leaned against it as if she sought the oak’s strength from its panels. For the past two weeks she had spent every waking moment reading ponderous tomes of the law under the guidance of old Doctor Bellario, her half-brother’s tutor from Oxford. Her head ached from her studies. Tonight, the doctor pronounced himself well satisfied with her progress. Tomorrow she would ride down to Rye and the day after…

  She swallowed at the thought. Of all the wild schemes she had ever concocted, this one was the most bold—and the most important one in her life. She must not fail. Pushing herself away from the door, she crossed to the small dressing table that Doctor Bellario’s housekeeper had hastily set up for her when Belle had first arrived on the famous lawyer’s doorstep. She placed her lighted taper close to the square looking glass. Then she drew a large pair of scissors from her apron pocket. The silver metal gleamed in the candle light.

  Belle sat down on the stool before her glass and stared at the pale face in the mirror. They say that the ancient gods honor great sacrifices with sweet incense. Mark had sacrificed his precious freedom for her and would perhaps lose his life as well if she were not clever enough. This small sacrifice of hers was nothing in comparison to his. Barely worth a grain of frankincense. Yet how she trembled at the thought of what she was about to do.

  She lifted her chin. LaBelle Marie was a Cavendish through and through. Cavendishes feared nothing. She removed her simple coif and unplaited her hair. It shimmered in her fingers. Belle had always been proud of her shining glory. Too proud! Twill teach me much needed humility. Besides…twill grow again.

  She brushed out her long tresses, enjoying the feel of her hair as the bristles pulled through its golden wealth. Her lower lip trembled. She bit it. None of that! Just do it!

  Selecting a lock over her ear, she picked up the scissors. The blades looked sharp and hungry, reminding her of an impatient crane ready to snap up an unsuspecting minnow. She drew in a deep breath. Don’t be such a goose. You have done far more frightening things in your checkered past. What is a snip or two?

  Guided by her reflection, she slid one blade along her cheek until it disappeared behind the curtain of her hair. The steel was cold against her flushed skin. Do it now! She squeezed her fingers together. The long tress parted from her head just above her ear. Belle gazed at the mass of golden threads in her hands. Tis begun. There is no turning back now.

  She allowed her shorn locks to flutter to the floor. An hour later, a sea of spun gold surrounded her stool. The candle burned low in its brass socket. Leaning closer to the mirror, Belle trimmed her bangs. She blew away the tiny snippets from her mouth and nose. Then she sat back and regarded her new appearance.

  The face of a young man stared at her. The bodice of a woman’s gown appeared ridiculous on such a youth. Belle grinned. By my larkin, I look like Kitt. And not much older than he. She made a face at herself, then retrieved a castoff lock from the floor. She held it under her nose. A mustache would definitely suit her better, especially since she intended to portray a young doctor of the law.

  Belle fluffed her short hair with her fingers. Her head suddenly felt very light and free. She stood and backed away from the dressing table so that she could catch more of her reflection. With her fists planted on her hips, she struck a wide-stance pose.

  Methinks I will make a right pretty fellow. I will wear my dagger with as brave a grace as Francis and speak in a low voice. I will tell of a thousand bragging tricks that I have played against sweet innocent maids. Oh, I shall be the most strutting of all the preening peacocks in England!

  And, if my manly attire does not offend the Lord God, I will win the freedom of my only true love.

  Chapter Twenty

  The fortnight had done healing wonders to Mark’s body, but his mind grew more uneasy with each passing day. No word—not one scribbled note from Belle. Though Kitt and his mother v
isited him often, they professed to know nothing of her except that she was still in London and that she enjoyed excellent health. On the morning of his trial, Kitt appeared in his cell with a new set of clothing in suitably muted colors of buff and brown.

  “What news of the world?” Mark asked while the boy carefully shaved his bruised face under the eagle eye of the deaf mute keeper.

  Kitt wiped the razor clean of lather. “The courthouse was filling to the rafters when I came down here.” He furrowed his brow. “I hope that Papa has saved me a good seat.”

  Mark rolled his eyes. “Are you so anxious to witness my downfall?” he asked after Kitt shaved under his chin.

  The boy patted Mark’s face with a bit of toweling. “Nay, you will win, I am sure.”

  Mark eyed himself in a sliver of looking glass. Not too many nicks this time. Kitt’s skill as a barber had much improved. “Has my blessed lawyer appeared yet?” he asked as casually as he could. He dared not reveal to the lad how nervous he was. Mark hated the idea that some stranger would fight his most important battle for him while he was forced to stand by in silence.

  Kitt shrugged. “I have not seen nor heard of his arrival, but there are many strangers in the courtroom. I am sure he will not let you down.”

  Mark wet his lips. “And Belle? Will she be there?”

  Kitt shrugged again. “I do not know. Mama has said nothing about her to me—and I did ask her.”

  Mark turned away from him. “I thank you for that, Kitt. You are a good squire—the best a knight could ever have.”

  “Truly?” He asked in awe.

  Mark flashed him a brave smile over his shoulder. “Cross my heart and hope to spit,” he replied.

  Two sour-faced guards appeared at the grilled door. “Tis time,” one of them growled. He rattled a pair of rusted handcuffs connected with a length of chain.

  Mark nodded. Then he clasped Kitt in a fierce bear hug that caught the boy by surprise. “Take good care of yourself,” he said in a husky undertone. “And tell that wild sister of yours that I love her.”

  Kitt gulped. “Aye, my lord,” he mumbled.

  Mark adjusted a fold of his short cape. If this was to be his last day on earth, he intended to look his best. He squared his shoulders and stepped between the guards. They fastened the irons on his wrists, then led him up the winding stair to the second floor. Mark heard the roar of the crowd long before he entered the prisoner’s box. He held up his head with pride. Only his eyes moved as he scanned the audience for any friendly faces.

  Most of the leading citizens of Hawkhurst had come. Montjoy looked old and gray beside a solemn Ivy. Mark’s heart leapt when he spied Sir Brandon and Lady Kat seated in the center of the gallery next to the Lord Mayor of Rye bedecked in his golden chain of office. Jobe, shrouded and hooded in his long black cloak, sat directly behind the noble couple. Kitt wiggled his way through the press of people to join his parents. He sent Mark an encouraging wave. Brandon’s expression suddenly turned thunderous.

  Mark followed the line of his mentor’s gaze and nearly swore out loud. A young man with fashionable close-cropped hair and a golden mustache conferred with several officials. The newcomer handed them a thick letter sealed with red wax. Then he looked directly at Mark. His brilliant blue eyes widened when he beheld the fading bruises of Mortimer’s beating still visible on Mark’s face.

  God’s teeth, tis Belle!

  What had she done to her beautiful hair? Mark cast another quick glance at Brandon. He was as surprised to see her as Mark was. Mark clamped his jaws together. What hare-brained folly was this? If Belle’s true gender was discovered, she would certainly suffer for it. Old King Henry may have rejected Rome’s authority, but the new bishops of England still clung to their old-fashioned views when it came to women masquerading as men.

  Belle hitched up her long black robe and stalked across the floor with a purposeful stride. At least, she didn’t mince her steps like a woman.

  “Good day, my lord,” she greeted Mark in a deep voice. She would not look him in the eye. “I am Doctor Bartholomew from London. I have been engaged to speak in your defense.”

  It was on the tip of Mark’s tongue to ask her what the hell she thought she was doing, but he stopped himself in time. If Belle intended to play her role even to him, he would make good use of her own game.

  He bowed his head. “Good day, Doctor, I thank you for your pains on my behalf, but I fear I cannot pay you for your services.”

  She fiddled with the tassels of her neck ties. “No payment is necessary. When I win your case, I will be well satisfied and that is my reward.” She turned to go.

  Mark caught her arm. “Nay, good Doctor, I am a man of honor, though it is currently in tatters. I pray you, take this ring of mine for your fee. Tis the only thing of value I have to offer you except my heart and that I have already given to a fair lass.”

  She shot him a quick sidelong glance before she asked, “And do you love this most fortunate woman?”

  Despite the seriousness of his situation, Mark smiled. “With every fiber of my wretched being. For her sake, not mine, please take this ring.” He pulled off his gold signet ring from his little finger and held it out to her.

  Belle stared at it, then nodded. “For the lady’s sake, I will accept it,” she replied in a gruff tone. She slid the band over her left ring finger. “Be of good cheer, my lord. Tonight you will be with your love once more.”

  Mark pressed his lips together before he replied. “For her sake and mine, I pray that you are right.”

  A black gowned bailiff struck the floorboards three times with his thick staff, then intoned, “Oyez, oyez, oyez! All rise. This court is now in session. The honorable Justice Matthew Barnes and the honorable Justice William Noble presiding. All those who have business with this court come to the bar. To the rest, be seated and be silent.”

  Everyone sat except Mark. As the accused, he was not granted the privilege of a stool. Squaring his shoulders, he gripped the edge of his box. Belle took her place at the table in front of him. She opened her leather case and laid out an impressive number of papers in front of her. On the other side of the chamber, the crowd parted to allow the plaintiff to step forward. Mortimer Fletcher, dressed in a rich black brocade doublet and a white frilled collar, advanced to the railing before the two somber justices.

  Mortimer inclined his head in a show of respect. “Honorable lords, I am Master Mortimer Fletcher, a wool merchant late of London and now residing at Bodiam Castle. I seek justice and fair restitution to the fullest measure of the law.”

  Someone hissed from the packed gallery. Mark wondered if it was Kitt but was afraid to look. The bailiff rapped his staff.

  “Read the charges,” commanded Justice Noble.

  The bailiff unscrolled a document. “That upon the thirty-first of October of this year, Sir Mark Hayward did purposefully and with intent to defraud present himself as a suitor to Master Mortimer Fletcher’s sister, Mistress Griselda Fletcher of London; that the said Lord Hayward did willfully and with cruel intent break his spousal contract with the said Mistress Fletcher; and that the said Lord Hayward did maliciously and with full intent wreak substantial damage upon the household and furnishings of Master Fletcher in excess of eighty shillings. Finally, that the said Lord Hayward did abscond with and deprive Master Fletcher of a rare jeweled brooch worth in excess of a thousand pounds.”

  The crowd gasped at the enormous sum. Mark dug his nails into the wood of his box. So the Cavendish jewel was the crux of the matter! He should have known that Mortimer could not let it go.

  Justice Barnes turned toward Mark. “How does the prisoner plead?”

  Before Mark could reply, Belle rose. “Not guilty on all counts, my lord justice.”

  The court buzzed with her sudden appearance. Leaning over their high desks, the two justices stared down at Belle. Standing her ground, she returned their look.

  “Who speaks for the prisoner?” bellowed Justice Ba
rnes. “Come forward and be recognized by this court.”

  Belle stepped around the table and approached the bench. “I am Doctor Nicholas Bartholomew from the Inns of Court in London. I bring a letter from Doctor Richard Bellario whose reputation I am sure precedes him, even here in Rye.”

  Mark sucked in his breath through his teeth. Don’t get too arrogant, Belle.

  The justices nodded. Justice Noble signaled for the letter. After receiving it from the bailiff, he looped a pair of spectacles over his ears, and read aloud, “ ‘To the Justices of the Peace at Rye, greetings. At the request of the Earl of Thornbury, I have undertaken the defense of one Sir Mark Hayward. A recent illness has unfortunately left me too weak to travel. In my stead, I beg your worthies to accept Doctor Nicholas Bartholomew. I have acquainted him with the points of this controversy between Master Mortimer Fletcher and Sir Mark Hayward. After a great deal of study of the matter, I have furnished him with my opinions. I beseech you, let not his lack of years be an impediment in your reverend estimation of his qualities. In truth, I have never known so young a body with so old a head. I commend him to your gracious acceptance. Written by the hand of Doctor R. Bellario, London.”’

  The judges conferred with each other, then Justice Noble proclaimed, “This court is pleased and honored to welcome Doctor Bartholomew to its bar.”

  Before the introduction of Mark’s lawyer, Mortimer had looked the picture of supreme confidence. Now his complexion turned chalky. He pulled a white linen handkerchief from his sleeve and mopped his brow. Brandon Cavendish reclined against his high-backed chair, crossed his arms over his chest and smiled at the flustered man. Mark tried to relax but failed. Belle’s bold deceit could crumble at any moment.

  Justice Noble turned to the plaintiff. “Master Fletcher, do you swear before Almighty God that the testimony you are about to give this court is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth whatsoever?”