Halloween Knight. Tori Phillips

Cuthbert grew pale and stayed within doors, though I saw Mistress Belle weekly when she brought me a basket of delicacies from her kitchens. She was ever kind to me and always inquired after the state of my poor health.”

      Mark made a face. She never showed me so much as a groat’s worth of tender concern when I broke my arm on her account! “Then Cuthbert died,” he prodded.

      “Aye, in June when the strawberries were at their peak. Fever—here one day and in his grave the next. Poor little Belle was grief-stricken. She loved the boy for all her willful ways.”

      A twinge of jealousy wormed into Mark’s heart. What enticement did that puling milksop have to win Belle’s love? He cleared his throat. “And then? What of Mortimer?”

      Montjoy sniffed deep with disgust. “Like ravens gathering over carrion, Cuthbert’s brother and sister swooped down upon Bodiam a fortnight before the young husband’s death. They must have packed their trunks the minute they received the news of his illness.”

      Mark raised his brows. “They came with many trunks?”

      “A cartload of baggage!” Montjoy snapped. “Enough to last them a year and then some. Shortly after Cuthbert’s untimely death things began to change.” His voice assumed a hollow tone.

      Out of the corner of his eye, Mark noticed Kitt creep into the room from the back door and slip into a dark corner. The boy stood as motionless as an alert deer. His blue eyes sparked with an indigo fire.

      The old man took no notice of the squire. “Belle came less often to visit me and when she did, she seemed quiet and withdrawn.”

      Mark furrowed his brow. Belle had never been the least bit quiet except the one time she had been sick with some childish complaint. “Had she caught Cuthbert’s fever?”

      She’s dead! cried a banshee’s voice in his brain. He felt as if he had swallowed a cold stone that now pressed against his very soul. Please God, do not let it be that!

      “Is Belle sick?” Kitt echoed from his corner.

      Montjoy stared hard at the boy, then shook his head. “Nay, though she would not say what was the matter except that she prayed her in-laws would soon remove themselves from her home. Then…when the wheat was ready for harvest, she stopped visiting me altogether.” He sipped his ale then continued. “At the same time, all the servants were dismissed.” He snapped his fingers. “Like that! Paid their wages and sent packing. Of course many of them came straightway to me.”

      “And?” Mark asked, keeping a wary eye on Kitt.

      “They told a sorrowful tale of this Mortimer Fletcher. The man is the son of a London wool merchant! He knows nothing of administering such a large estate as Bodiam. The servants told me that he bullied Mistress Belle as well as his own sister.”

      “I find that hard to believe,” Mark countered. “Obedience was never one of Belle’s virtues.”

      Montjoy allowed himself a slight shrug. “I only report what I have heard. Once all the servants were gone, save for a lackwit potboy, Mortimer filled Bodiam with his own minions culled from the gutters and foul bogs, I warrant. Since mid-August, the castle has become a hive of scum and villains. No one goes there except to deliver supplies.”

      Chills danced down Mark’s spine. Belle’s plight was considerably worse than he had imagined.

      “And Belle?” breathed Kitt with a tremor in his voice.

      The old man cast him another appraising look before he answered. “As I wrote to Sir Brandon: she has been seen in one of the towers.”

      “Which one?” Mark asked. Having lived at Bodiam for six years, he knew every nook and cranny in the castle.

      “The northwest corner,” Montjoy replied. “One of the village boys spied her while he was fishing. She was in the garret chamber.”

      Mark whistled. “He had good eyesight to recognize her through that narrow window.”

      The old steward nodded. “She waved and called to him. He could only catch the words my father but twas enough, especially when Mortimer set a pack of varlets after the boy.”

      Jobe suddenly came to life. “Methinks twill be most excellent sport.” He chuckled.

      Montjoy gaped at him with open horror. “Tis no afternoon’s pleasure that I speak of but the life of a dear, sweet child. This Mortimer is sly and cunning.”

      The African grunted. “More better!”

      The old steward drew himself up. “Attend to me, son of Satan! The man is a very snake. I myself ventured to knock at the gates. I demanded to see Mistress Belle. Do you know that he laughed in my face and threatened to have his minions toss me into the moat? I feel infinitely sorry for his wretched sister.”

      Mark cocked his head. Where there was a wench, there was a way. A plan began to form in his mind. “Tell me about Mistress Fletcher.”

      “Ivy!” Montjoy called. The girl appeared at the doorway but refused to cross the threshold.

      “Aye, sir?” she asked. She did not take her eyes off Jobe.

      “Ivy was a chambermaid at Bodiam in happier times,” Montjoy explained to Mark. “Tell them about Griselda, child.”

      Ivy made a face. “She is like a sour dishcloth. Limp and always complaining.”

      Mark crossed to her side. Gently he put his arm around the maid and lifted her chin so that she was forced to look into his eyes. “Tell me, pretty Ivy,” he said in his most seductive tone. “Is Mistress Griselda comely?”

      Ivy relaxed in his loose embrace and smiled at him. “I would not venture to say so, my lord,” she said with a giggle. “She is thin like an eel, has the voice of a jay and the face of a horse.”

      Mark caressed Ivy’s little chin. “And is this paragon of beauty betrothed to some fortunate suitor?”

      Ivy giggled again. “Her? Nay, my lord, and there is the nut and core of her unhappiness. She is desperate for a husband. At night, she shuts herself up in her chamber and whispers spells to conjure up one. Twas enough to give me the shakes.”

      Mark drew the maid a little closer to him. “Fear not, sweet soul,” he murmured.

      Montjoy rapped his knuckles on the arm of his chair. “Hear now, Mark! None of that! Release the child. She is not for your pleasure. Ivy! Fetch supper at once!”

      With a chuckle, Mark stepped away from the smitten creature. His vanity enjoyed the momentary conquest. Though Ivy was far too young and innocent for his taste, she reminded his body that he had not been with a woman since he had left the king’s court. “Peace, Montjoy! Your girl is safe from me.”

      The old man sniffed with disapproval. “I have never known any maid who was safe from your devilish charms.”

      Except Belle. Mark rounded on Kitt who plainly was much taken with the winsome Ivy. “You! Squire! Do not stand there like a dead tree. Help serve our food for we are famished. And mind you—do not practice your lecherous wiles upon little Ivy.”

      “But…but I never intended—” Kitt stammered.

      Mark waved him out of the room. “Begone!” Then he smiled at Montjoy and Jobe. “I have thought of a most rare plan. LaBelle Cavendish will be free from her tower within the next twenty-four hours.”

      And those thousand acres are practically mine.

      The turning of the key in the rusty lock awoke Belle from her light sleep. She pulled herself upright and rubbed the last bit of drowsiness from her eyes. Since the day was overcast she could not tell the hour. A dull headache drummed against her temples.

      The person on the far side of her prison door fumbled with the lock. Belle relaxed against the wall. “Tis only poor Will,” she told Dexter.

      The