Silent Knight. Tori Phillips

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      The bitter iron taste of bile rose in Roger’s throat. All his life he had devoted himself to one goal — to advance the Ormond family from that of the petty landless knight his father had been to one of England’s finest families, like that of his overlord, Sir Thomas Cavendish, earl of Thornbury. By the good fortune of riding on the victorious shirttails of Henry Tudor at Bosworth field, Roger’s father had been granted Snape Castle, a poor holding on the windswept northern moors. Through two advantageous marriages, as well as a number of savage raids on his weaker neighbors and across the Scottish border, Roger Ormond had managed to expand his father’s lands and increase the family fortune. Only fear of the powerful earl of Thornbury, whose vast domain now lay directly to the west of Snape Castle, kept the rapacity of the ambitious Ormonds at bay.

      When Walter first arrived at Henry VIII’s court six years ago, all the world, it seemed, had eagerly spread out their costly cloaks at the feet of the handsome young man. Roger winced inwardly at the memory. How proud he had been to see his son and heir feted and fawned over by the great of the land! That pride had turned to gall all too soon. Roger could not remember a time when his anger had so choked him as when Walter came crawling back to Snape, whining of his ill-treatment at the hands of the king himself.

      Roger had hoped the disgrace would straighten out the headstrong boy. Perhaps in time, and with gold, the damage to the family’s ambitions might be repaired. Instead, Walter had slunk into lower company and absented himself often from Roger’s watchful gaze. Now the ghastly piper demanded to be paid his dire reckoning. And the price? God’s nightshirt! What an ignoble end to such a promising beginning!

      The priest had barely uttered the final Pax Domine when Walter turned on his heel to leave.

      “Nay!” Roger’s hand clamped around his son’s wrist. “Whither away so quickly?”

      “To ease my bladder, Father.” Walter’s thick cloak muffled the sting of his sneering reply. “Surely I do not need your permission to do that?”

      “Then be quick about it. I will see you in my closet immediately after,” Roger growled, tightening his grip.

      “I have an appointment elsewhere.” Walter broke his father’s grasp, then edged backward into the deeper shadows of the emptying chapel.

      “Attend to it later. I will see you first.” Gathering his own cloak more tightly about him, Roger strode past the younger man. “Mark me, boy, or there will be the very devil to pay.”

      Roger did not wait for a further reply, but stalked through the doorway.

      In the chill outer corridor, Roger spoke to one of his retainers. “Wait upon my son, Grapper,” he instructed the burly man. “Make sure he is in my presence within a quarter of this hour.”

      “Aye, master.” The servant touched his forelock.

      “And if you must truss him like a bandy cock, then do so. I care not in what state he arrives, only that he comes.”

      The retainer grinned, revealing a few yellowed teeth rooted in blackened gums. “’Tis my pleasure, sir.” With that, he hurried after Walter’s retreating figure.

      

      “Your man laid hands upon me!” Walter’s fury choked his words.

      Roger turned from the low fire where he had been warming himself after the cold of the burial service. “’Tis no surprise, since you were apprehended saddling your horse in the stable.”

      Walter’s eyes blazed from the shadows cast by his low hood. “My appointment will not wait,” he rasped. A cloud from his breath hung in the damp air before him.

      Roger slammed his fist down on the thick oaken tabletop, rattling the account ledgers stacked there. “Your doxy can wait until doomsday! Indeed, she is better off without your attentions.”

      Walter’s shoulders shook with suppressed rage. “My business is mine own. I take it ill that you should question me. I am of age, and I do as I please.” He put his hand to the door latch of the tiny counting room.

      Roger picked up a heavy clay inkpot and hurled it at his son. Walter swore a loud oath as the vessel missed his head by inches. Striking the door, the pot shattered; the ink splattered against the wood leaving a large black stain. Walter swore again when he saw that a number of thick drops had splashed onto his cloak.

      “By the devil and his dam, you will not move until I give you leave!” Planting his palms on the table, Roger leaned across it toward his son. The distance between them rippled with his hot wrath. “Remove your cloak, knave!”

      Walter backed away, nearly falling over a low three-legged stool. “The room is cold. I prefer to keep it on.”

      “Your cloak, sluggard, or shall I have Grapper cut it from your back?”

      Walter opened his mouth to make some retort, then thought better of it. Unbuckling the clasp, he swung the heavy cloth from his shoulders with a flourish. Holding it at arm’s length, he opened his hand, allowing the material to fall to the floor in a woolen puddle. He followed up with an elaborate bow, his right leg extended.

      “Now take off your hat,” his father ordered in a low dangerous voice.

      Walter’s eyes widened a moment before he assumed a cynical air. “Does my bonnet displease you, sir? Has my hatter been remiss? The color does not suit? I am most amazed.”

      Roger drew himself up to his full height. At six feet three inches, he enjoyed his reputation as a giant among men. Over the years, he had found that his mere presence could intimidate his adversaries, and he often made it a point to use his height and bulk to his advantage. “Your hat, Walter. I shall not ask again.”

      Backing against the wall, Walter snatched the black velvet bonnet from his head. He tossed it on top of his cloak. As he glared at his father, his eyes gleamed like twin daggers of heated Spanish steel.

      Roger struck a flint to his tinderbox, and lighted the double-branched candlestick on his desk. Then he lit the candles on each side of the stone mantelpiece. The round tower room glowed with golden light.

      Walter stared into the flames like a mesmerized moth. His tongue ran across his lips. “Are we celebrating the fair Edith’s death?”

      Roger replaced the tinderbox precisely next to his sealing wax. “How dare you!” he whispered, staring at his son. To his surprise, Roger found himself enjoying this little scene. He couldn’t remember the last time Walter had looked so uncomfortable in his presence. “Have you no respect for the dead?”

      “Only when you have respect for the living,” Walter snarled in reply.

      Roger crossed around to the front of the table, like a cat stalking a mouse in the dairy. Walter slid along the wall, putting as much distance between them as the room allowed. “Remove your doublet,” Roger commanded in the same menacing whisper. “Be quick about it, knave. My quiver of patience is already spent this day.”

      “Is this some jest, Father?” Walter’s gaze flickered across the closed door. “Is it your pleasure to freeze me to death?”

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