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Brandon chuckled wryly. “You sound like Kat.” His brief smile dissolved. “But to the point. I have lain here for nearly a month, bedridden worse than my aged father on his ‘creaking’ days. Then a fortnight ago, I received this.” He plucked a wrinkled paper from the side table and held it out to Mark. “Tis from Montjoy. Do you remember that old badger?”
Nodding, Mark took the letter. “He still lives?” he asked, picturing the ancient steward of Bodiam, now supposedly in quiet retirement. The man must be nearly a hundred years old. Mark scanned the short note. “He writes with a cleric’s hand. His letters are clear.”
“What do you make of his message?” Brandon growled.
“‘A black cloud has shrouded Bodiam Castle,”’ Mark read aloud. “‘All loyal retainers have been dismissed. Visitors are sent away. Last evening, a village lad spied Mistress Belle high in one of the towers. She begged him to send for her father. Then the boy was chased from the home park by several armed men. Come quickly, my Lord Cavendish. Methinks your daughter is in great peril. Montjoy.”’
“I am a man on the rack, Mark,” Brandon said hoarsely. “My Belle needs me and I cannot move from this dankish bed!” He slammed his fist into one of the bolsters. It exploded in a geyser of goose feathers. The two men stared at the fluttering down that filled the small bedchamber. “Kat will boil my brains for supper,” Brandon mumbled morosely. “Tis the fifth pillow I have destroyed since Montjoy’s letter arrived.”
Mark’s mouth went dry. To the best of his knowledge, Belle had never begged for anything in her life. Bargained, demanded, schemed and coerced—but never begged.
“Mayhap Montjoy exaggerates. Twas always his fashion to look on the dark side of life,” Mark suggested, though a certain unease seeped through him.
Brandon curled his lip. “Aye, I know well his melancholy humors, yet this letter smacks of plain truth. The old man would not have sent it over three hundred miles simply to amuse himself. There is only one remedy for it. You must go to Bodiam in my stead.”
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.
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