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