скачать книгу бесплатно
Even though he was prepared for this request, Mark shrank from it. The old break in his arm actually ached at the thought of meeting Belle again, no matter how dire her current predicament might be.
“Surely Sir Guy would be a better choice,” Mark hedged. “As your brother and a man of mature years and wisdom, he would—”
“Crows and daws, boy!” Brandon snapped, reverting to the master Mark had served for nearly fourteen years. “Did you ride your horse blindfolded as you approached Wolf Hall? The harvest is in full swing. Guy must be here, there and everywhere at once to oversee our lands as well as his own since I am bound to this bed like a trussed hen.”
Pausing, he gulped down his cider. “Nor does my good sire know a breath of this tale and twill be your hide on my wall if he does. My father still thinks of himself as a young man of four-and-twenty years when the truth of the matter is that he is nearly seventy. Daily he wages a losing battle with stiff joints and failing eyesight. Still, these infirmities would not stop him from riding south to Bodiam if he thought his beloved granddaughter was in danger.” Brandon shook his head. “My lady mother would never forgive me if Papa went on that fool’s errand.”
Mark gave him a wry grin. “But I am just the fool you can send?”
His mentor’s gaze bore into him. “Aye, there is no one else. Francis is in Paris, studying law and philosophy at the University. It appears he is more skilled with books and quill pens than with a sword and buckler.”
Remembering the serious young man who was Brandon’s other youthful byblow, Mark nodded. He rubbed his forearm again.
Brandon narrowed his eyes. “I know you and Belle have had your disagreements in the past,” he began.
“Ha!” Mark gave him a rueful grin. “From the time she could wield a stick or fire an insult, she has used me as her personal quintain. I would much rather train wild cats to dance a galliard on their hind legs.”
Brandon flexed his fingers. “She has grown into a winsome young lady since you left to fight the Irish.”
Mark snorted. “And pigs fly on golden wings round yon battlement, my lord.”
Brandon gave him a wintry smile. “How did you fare in Ireland? Did you make your fortune as you swore you would? After seven years, are you now the lord of a vast Irish estate?”
Avoiding Brandon’s gaze, Mark stared out the narrow lancet window into the setting sun. “You know full well I am not, my lord. I was fortunate to escape the isle with a few items of clothing and my horse,” he replied in a barely audible voice. “My only wealth is a peck of experience.”
Brandon leaned forward. “What would you say if I gave you a goodly parcel of land east of Wolf Hall—one that was fertile ground and well-watered?”
In the face of such an offer, Mark’s objections melted. He could almost smell the rich loam of those tempting fields. He wet his lips with his tongue. “And the price for this bounty is a trip to Bodiam Castle, my lord?”
Brandon flashed him a wolfish grin. “You were always a clever lad, Mark. Bring my Belle home safe and sound, and a thousand acres are yours.”
Enough to buy me a wife and a manor of my own!“ For such a prize, I would ride into the mouth of hell, my lord.”
“You may very well do that, lad, if Montjoy’s report is true.”
Mark brushed aside the old steward’s dire message. He was more concerned what Belle would do to him once she had learned of the outrageous price her father had paid to Mark for her return to the bosom of her family. “Have no fear for me, my lord. Jobe and I will leave tomorrow at first light. You will have the gentle LaBelle nestled in your inglenook by this time next month.”
Brandon shot him a quizzical glance. “Who or what is Jobe?”
Mark chuckled. “Both my shadow and my guardian angel. You shall meet him anon.”
Bodiam Castle, Sussex
As the last pale ray of the cloud-cloaked sun faded in the west, Belle heard Mortimer Fletcher’s heavy key scrape the lock of her prison door. Drawing in a deep breath for strength and courage, she struggled to her feet to face her brother-in-law and jailer. A wave of giddiness assailed her. She pressed her back against the chill stone wall to steady herself until the weakness passed.
Her stomach growled for the food she knew that he carried. She could smell the succulent aroma of roasted chicken even through the thick oak panels of the door. She took another deep breath. The door swung open with a protesting squeal. A small smile of satisfaction flitted across her lips as she watched the old hinge wobble in its mooring. She had spent many days picking at the mortar with her bodkin.
Mortimer, dressed in a clean linen shirt peeking out from under a fine scarlet velvet doublet, stepped into the tower garret. He balanced a cloth-covered trencher in one hand while he gripped a lighted candle in a brass holder with the other. The key to her freedom protruded from the lock. The flickering golden light sharpened Mortimer’s facial features. The man reminded Belle of a stoat.
“Good evening, mistress.” He smiled in a viperish manner. “Hungry yet?” He brought the candle closer to the trencher. “Sick of bread crusts?”
Against her will, Belle’s mouth watered. She knotted her hand into a fist behind her back. “I prefer to dine on toadstools and bat wings than to touch anything your cook might prepare,” she answered as tartly as she could.
Anger flashed across Mortimer’s face before he concealed it behind another false smile. “Take care what you wish for, mistress. Inside of a week you will beg me for exactly that loathsome nourishment.”
He set the candle on the floor, then lifted the cloth. Belle saw not only half a juicy capon glistening in a red-currant sauce, but a small loaf of fine-milled white bread and a dish of apples stewed in precious cinnamon—cinnamon from her spice chest no doubt! The sight of the tempting supper made her feel fainter. Biting her lower lip, she turned away.
Mortimer drew a little closer to her, but she noticed that he did not make the mistake of swaggering within the range of her fingernails as he had done on the first day he had locked her in this windy eyrie. As if she still had the strength to scratch out his eyes! He must not realize how weak I am.
“Come, sister, let us be friends again,” he coaxed in a syrupy voice that sickened her soul.
“I am not your sister, thank the good Lord!” she retorted as she backed away from him. The moldy straw of her bedding rustled underfoot.
Mortimer clicked his tongue against his teeth. “This conceit of yours does you no good, Belle. Indeed, you are pale and wan.” He snickered at his own little jest. “You know Cuthbert was the dearest brother to me.”
Belle knotted her fist tighter to keep from screaming. “Is that why you danced so high upon his fresh-turned grave! Ha! He often told me how his siblings plagued him during his childhood—you especially.”
“Twas all in good sport, I assure you,” Mortimer replied in an oily manner. “But soft, your food grows cold.”
She glared at him in the gathering twilight. “My heart grows even colder at the sight of you—and your food. I know how you expect me to pay for my supper.”
His black brows drew together in an angry knot. He set down the trencher near the open door and lifted a pot of ink from behind the bread. He pulled a folded paper from his doublet. “A mere dip of the pen. A few lines to scribble and all shall be joy between us as before,” he said in a sing-song voice. He ventured to take a step closer to her.
Belle leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes. “You don’t even know the meaning of those words, dull worm,” she whispered under her breath. “You were born on a dunghill.”
Mortimer cocked his head. “How now? I did not hear that.”
She sighed. “Methinks you should bathe more often, Mortimer, for your ears are full of wax. Go away! I am not in a writing mood today or tomorrow or ever.” She unleashed a torrent of her pent-up anger upon him. “I will not now, nor ever sign away Bodiam Castle to you. Come rack or ruin to us both. I will see you in hell first!”
Mortimer backed up. His hand shook as he made a sign against a witch’s evil eye. “Hold your tongue, woman! Think whose dreadful name you invoke. They say the devil has his eyes and ears everywhere.” He glanced over his shoulder at the black stairwell behind him as if he half-expected a satanic visitor to ascend the worn steps. “Spit on your palm and say a prayer lest you be damned.”
A small laugh crackled from Belle’s dry throat. “Look who calls the kettle black! Scuttle away to your beetle hole, Mortimer. Your presence offends my nostrils.”
The thin man drew himself up. “I have bathed today, mistress. You, alas, have not done so in a fortnight. Tis you, not I, who offends.”
Belle turned away from him. “Then begone and take your foul paper with you.”
“You are a fool,” he sneered. He turned on his heel and bent to pick up the trencher and candle. “God shield me!” he bleated.
Belle stared at him in the dim light and wondered if he had been bitten by a mouse. He touched the trencher with the toe of his suede slipper.
“What’s amiss?” she asked.
“Bewitched!” he gibbered. “The capon has disappeared!” He pointed at the empty place on the trencher.
Belle rejoiced inwardly. Oh, sweet, cunning Dexter! Aloud, she remarked. “Mayhap the rats bore it away for a feast. The Bodiam rodents grow quite large, you know. Or…” She allowed a small pause while Mortimer twitched like a fish on a hook. “Mayhap twas the ghost that haunts this tower.”
Mortimer turned as white as Belle’s fictional specter. “What spirit? Where?”
She savored her only effective weapon against her brother-in-law. Like her late husband, both Mortimer and his puling sister were deeply superstitious.
“They say tis the ghost of the ancient knight who built this castle on the blood of innocents. Now he walks its galleries as a penance for his sins.”
Mortimer shuddered.
Belle hid her smile of triumph. “And they say he guards the family who abides here in peace but woe to those strangers who break Bodiam’s good cheer.”
Mortimer snatched up the trencher and candle, then backed out of the chamber. “Tis you who have angered this unhappy spirit, not I!” He slammed the door behind him and rattled the key in the rusted lock. “Look to yourself, mistress!”
With another wail, he clattered down the stairs.
Belle sank to the floor. In the darkness, she listened intently for some tell-tale sound. “Dexter!” she whispered. “Dex-ter!”
A large round form filled the tiny window. Then it jumped and landed squarely on Belle’s lap. She stroked the creature’s sleek fur as it pawed and kneaded a bed to its liking among the folds of her bedraggled skirt.
“Have you something for me, you artful thief?” she asked, tickling its pointed ears.
In answer, Dexter dropped the capon in her open hand. He rubbed his cheek against her arm as she greedily devoured his sticky offering.
“Oh, you are a love!” she sighed afterward while Dexter industriously licked her fingers clean of the drippings. “How well you were named, for you are my only friend in this reeky place. You are truly my right-hand cat!”
Chapter Two
Jobe slowed his horse to a walk. Puzzled, Mark reined in beside the huge African. “How now, friend? We will burn precious daylight if we tarry. The road is still dry. We can make another five miles if we press on.”
Jobe stared straight ahead. “We are followed, meu amigo.”
Mark did not glance over his shoulder but the hairs on the back of his neck stiffened. Ruffians made travel more dangerous these days, ever since King Henry had closed the monasteries and returned the beggars to England’s highways. He fingered his dagger in its sheath. “Where away?” he asked under his breath.
Jobe unbuttoned his brown leather jerkin so that he could easily reach his wicked arsenal of small throwing knives. “He rides to our left but stays well back. He has been with us since midday.”
Mark wet his lips. When he had sailed away from Ireland’s rocky shore, he thought he had left behind such brigands as this. “Mayhap tis a traveler on a similar route. The London post road is well-used.”
Jobe rumbled his disagreement in the back of his throat. “Stop your horse and pretend to check his hoof for a stone. I wager that our shadow will halt as well.”
“Done,” Mark murmured, then he spoke in a louder tone. “Ho! Methinks my horse has caught a pebble!” He alighted smoothly, looking behind him as he did so. He saw someone turn off the track and disappear into a small copse of trees. He patted Artemis’s neck before he remounted.
Jobe cast him a half-smile. “And so?”
Mark gathered his reins in his hand and kneed his horse into a trot. “Aye, but the knave ducked for cover before I could spy his face.”
Jobe smiled, displaying startlingly white teeth against his ebony skin. “Bem! Tis good! I long for some good sport.”
Mark frowned at his companion’s enthusiasm. “Let us not act in haste, Jobe. He may have henchmen.”
“More better!” the giant answered with relish.
Mark pulled his bonnet lower over his forehead. “The road turns to the left below that rise. Let us continue at our present pace. At the bend we will fly like the wind.”
“And not fight?” Jobe snorted his disappointment.
Narrowing his eyes, Mark squinted at the late afternoon sun. “If our tail is still with us by nightfall, we will…persuade him to sup with us.”
Jobe beamed. “More better!”
Three hours later, Mark and Jobe sought their night’s shelter under the spreading boughs of an oak, its leaves decked in autumn’s red and gold. Mark hoped the mysterious rider had left them.
Jobe chuckled. “He is a sly one,” he said as he unsaddled his large bay.
Mark wondered why a lone robber would bother to pace them all day. Jobe and he traveled lightly and in plain attire. The most costly things that the men owned were their weapons.
“Build up a large fire to draw his attention,” he told his friend. “Meanwhile I will circle around and catch him from behind.”
Jobe shook his head. “Most unwise, meu amigo.”
Mark frowned at him. “How so?”
The African lightly cuffed Mark’s chin. “That white face of yours will shine out in the night like a second moon. Our shadow would have to be blind not to see you coming. On the other hand, I become one with the night. Besides, your life is my concern.”
Mark swore under his breath. “I can fend for myself.”
Jobe chuckled. “Aye, with me at your right hand.” He threw off the long cape he wore. His bandoliers of knives and his copper bracelets shimmered in the faint starlight. “Build up the fire and prepare for a roast.”
Mark grabbed his friend by the arm before the giant could melt into the darkness. “Do not kill the knave. England is a civilized country and twill annoy the Sheriff of Yorkshire if we leave a dead body on his highway. Bring back our guest while he still breathes.”
Jobe thumped him on the shoulder. “As you say,” he whispered. “Though killing is easier,” he added before he disappeared.
Mark stared into the darkness and tried to follow Jobe’s route, but he gave up. It seemed that the huge man had disappeared into thin air. After gathering a large armful of windfall kindling, Mark soon had a fire roaring. He unsheathed his dagger and sword, laying them close at hand while he tended the blaze.
The minutes crept by with no sound down the road. Mark stepped out of the circle of firelight, and backed up against the broad trunk of the tree. He held his sword lightly in his hand. His left forearm always ached in tense moments like this. It reminded him of Belle and the reason why he was skulking around a dark countryside instead of warming his bottom by a hearth in Wolf Hall. Gritting his teeth, he made himself think of the green pastures Brandon had promised him.
Suddenly, a yelp ripped the cool night. Mark tightened his grip on his sword and snatched up his dagger in his right hand. More yowls and snarls signaled Jobe’s success. In the light of the half moon, Mark saw his friend heft a flailing body over one of his massive shoulders. The African laughed with genuine pleasure that drowned out the fearsome oaths his slim prisoner screamed in his ear.
Mark relaxed his stance. “What have you caught for supper, Jobe?” he asked in a bantering tone.
The giant dropped his burden on the ground, then held him down with a well-placed foot on his chest. “Tis nothing but a man-child, meu amigo, though he swears with a fearsome tongue.”
The boy beat on Jobe’s boot. “Let me go, you lob of the devil!”
Mark took a closer look at their prisoner, then burst out laughing. “Hoy day, Jobe! You have done well! Tis a worthy prize indeed!”
Jobe lifted one corner of his lip. “This little mouse? This flea?”
His taunt only incited the boy to greater oaths. “Let me up! I will show you what is a flea and what is not, you flap-eared varlet!”
Mark hunkered down beside the snarling captive. “Methinks you are a Cavendish by the look of you.”
The boy went very still and turned a pair of bright blue eyes on Mark, who continued, “Indeed, Jobe, I am sure tis a member of that noble family—though he was absent from the supper table last evening. Perchance he was preparing his horse for today’s outing.”
