The Dark Knight (14 page)

She smiled at him. “I pray that is not too important, since we lack salt and the bread is on the table in our room.”

“Aye, ’tis not necessary, but what follows is. I beg you to be brave and trust me.”

A shadow of fear darted into her deep blue eyes. Her lips trembled with a forced smile. “I have just promised to obey you. What is it?”

Sandor swallowed before replying. “We take a blood oath. I make a cut on your palm—only a very little cut,
sukar,
” he hastened to assure her. “And I do the same on my hand. Then we join our palms like this.” He entwined their fingers so that their palms pressed against each other. “I will tie our hands together then we recite the oath. ’Tis very quick. I have done it before and have lived to tell the tale.”

Tonia gulped. “’Tis important?”

He nodded. “Our blood will mingle together, then truly we will become one. ’Tis a very ancient custom among my people.”

Tonia drew in a deep breath. She stretched out her hand to him, palm up. “I have come this far with you and I have sworn to follow your path always. What is a drop or two of blood?”

Sandor
placed a grateful kiss on her lips. “Bear me many sons, Tonia, for they will all have your fire in their veins.”

He untied his red silken neckerchief and placed it over the edge of the worn stone font. Then he drew out his small dagger. Its blade gleamed in the candlelight. “Close your eyes,” he whispered as he took her hand in his. “I will be gentle.”

His own hand shook as he poised the knife above her soft, ivory skin. A decade ago at his first marriage, his bride’s cousin had performed the incision. Sandor prayed that he would be as quick and painless for Tonia’s sake. She flashed him a quick smile then scrunched her eyes closed. She bit her lower lip.

Holding his own breath, Sandor made a sudden slice across the pad of her hand. A spurt of crimson appeared.

“Oh!” Tonia murmured.

Sandor cut his own hand then clasped hers quickly. “’Tis done, my beloved. Open your eyes and look into mine.” With his free hand, he wound the scarf around their hands.

Tonia raised her lids, and when she saw what he was trying to do, she helped tie the knot. “It didn’t hurt much,” she assured him. Relief replaced the fear in her face.

He kissed her again for encouragement—and because he enjoyed the taste of her lips. “I will recite the oath in my own language, then you will repeat it in yours.”

She nodded and squeezed her fingers tighter around his. He felt the warm slickness between them.

“Mandi’s
ratti kate ‘te amndi pirmni. Mendi dui si yek,”
he intoned. Then he smiled at her. “I give my life’s blood to my lover. We two are now one.”

Tonia repeated the oath slowly as she gazed into his eyes. With each word, Sandor felt himself grow stronger and more deeply in love with his beloved
gadji.
When she had finished, he released their hands, stepped out into the main chapel where he scooped up a handful of snow. He pressed some against her wound.

“’Twill aid the healing,” he told her. Then he bandaged her hand with his scarf.

Tonia looked up at him, her eyes brimming with tears of joy. “Are we married now?” she asked.

Sandor chuckled, glad that the bloodletting had been accomplished. “Aye, except for the ring.”

Tonia shook her head. “I need no ring to remind me of this moment.”

“But you do,” he insisted, opening the small leather bag that he wore on a leather lace around his neck. He pulled out a small dark ring. “’Tis a horseshoe nail,” he told her. “One of Baxtalo’s that I have carried for good luck. It worked, for I have found you.” He slipped the ring over the third finger of her left hand. It proved to be a little large. “When we are free from care, I will give you a gold one that fits.”

Tonia kissed the head of the nail. “But this is the only ring I want.”

Sandor’s heart swelled at her answer. “Do you remember that I told you I have two first names, one to use and one to hide from the devil?”

She nodded, looking a little perplexed. “As the final bond between us, I will whisper my true name in your ear so that you will be able to call me in the afterlife.” Bending down, he kissed her earlobe before he whispered, “I am Sandor
Mateo
Matskella.”

“Mateo
,” she breathed.

“Aye,” he replied, loving the way she pronounced his secret name. “But you must never say it aloud unless we are in a holy place, or when we make love, for that is a holy act. The devil must never learn it.”

“I promise,” she said. “I fear that I have no such secret to share with you. You have heard all the names I have.”

“Then I will new-baptize you, Gastonia Alicia Cavendish, for you must have your own name that will keep you safe from evil spirits.” Again he whispered in her ear. “From now on, you are named Gastonia
Caja
Alicia Cavendish Matskella.” Straightening up, he smiled down at her. “’Twas my mother’s name.”

“Caja,” she repeated, rolling the sound around her tongue.

“But it must remain your secret,” he cautioned her. “The devil is always listening.”

Tonia rose on tiptoe and twined her arms around her new husband’s neck. “Methinks the devil is miles from here, frozen in some bog. I love you, Mateo,” she whispered. “Your Caja loves you.”

With a joy that he felt would burst through the seams of his jerkin, Sandor lifted her so that her feet swung free from the cold floor. “And I love you, my Caja,” he whispered back. “Let us leave this cold place for a better one. Within this hour, I will warm you in our marriage bed, though ’tis only a cot in the guardroom.”

Tonia grinned
at her new husband. “At least, ’twill be off the floor.”

With that, Sandor gathered her again in his arms. Tonia lifted the lantern from the font, then pulled her hood over her head. Sandor stepped into the snowy nave. Then he jumped in the air.

Startled, Tonia glanced up at him. Kissing her nose, he explained. “I pretended that a broomstick was lying across the threshold. ’Tis the last part of the wedding ceremony. We jump a broomstick to show that we are ready to start our new life together.”

Tonia touched the cleft in his chin. “I am ready. As for the broomstick? We’ll do that part when we find a priest. In the meantime, let us light up the world with our fire and banish all the evil spirits away.”

With a laugh, he kissed her forehead.
“Jallin’ a drom!”
he whooped as they raced through the snow back to their retreat.

“What does
that
mean?” Tonia shouted over the wind.

“Let us travel down the road!”

Greenwich Palace, London

Late April 1553

S
ir John Dudley
, Duke of Northumberland, loitered under the grand staircase, feeling uncomfortable and conspicuous while he waited for Sir Roderick Caitland to keep his appointment. Every so often, the wily duke glanced up and down the long gallery hoping to catch sight of his minion. He twirled his large emerald ring around his thumb and cursed Caitland’s tardiness under his breath. As the clock in the ornate tower struck two in the afternoon, Northumberland spied his quarry and strode out to meet him. Before Caitland could finish his courtly greeting, the duke had propelled them both outside.

“Hold your tongue,” Northumberland growled, hurrying them down one of the paths in the knot garden. The crushed cockleshells that covered the walkway crunched under their feet. “These walls have many ears.”

Caitland said nothing but kept pace with his master. The morning’s
rain had finally ceased, though the pruned rosebushes still dripped. Northumberland bunched his cloak in his hands to keep the damp from seeping into the hem. At the far end of the garden, they made a sharp turn to the left, which brought them into a small boxwood-lined bower large enough only for a stone bench. On warm spring and summer evenings, the retreat was the scene of many amorous assignations, but at this midday hour only a scolding jay kept company with itself. It flew away when the two men seated themselves on the cold marble.

Northumberland glanced down the path once more to make sure they had not been followed. Ever since King Edward’s health had become more alarming, the simmer of intrigue about the palace had grown to a boil.

Satisfied that they were alone, the duke asked, “What news from the north?”

Caitland shook his head. “Little, your grace. The Cavendish wench was taken to Hawksnest to await execution. Her guard returned to the Tower two days ago with the report that the executioner had arrived at Hawksnest.”

“Did they see her die?”

Caitland again shook his head. “Nay, your order said no witnesses and so the executioner dismissed them.”

Northumberland twirled his ring. “Just so. And this executioner. Where is he? I must have my proof or this whole enterprise has been for naught.”

The other man shrugged. “No one has seen or heard from him. I questioned his family myself this morning. A disgusting rabble, but methinks they spoke the truth when they said they knew nothing of him.”

Northumberland
curled his thin lips. ’Twas a shocking state of affairs when good, stout Englishmen disdained the headsman’s office, leaving it in the hands of heathen foreigners. “Did you threaten these Gypsies?”

Caitland shifted on the hard seat. “Aye, with the usual fines and torture. One of the women snarled something in their language but the man held firm.”

Northumberland twirled his ring in silence for the next few minutes while his thoughts raced. Great power had come into his hands within these past few years, and now he craved more of it like the elixir of poppy. This was possible only as long as the boy king or a young Protestant heir sat on England’s throne. The duke needed someone innocent and pliable, one who was willing to listen to Northumberland’s wise counsel. At all costs, the late King Henry’s elder daughter, the Lady Mary, must be excluded from the succession forever. With her strong Catholic sympathies, especially in the north of England, and her equally headstrong Tudor will, she would grind Northumberland and his family into oblivion.

“I have worked too hard, too long for that,” the duke muttered under his breath.

Caitland cleared his throat. “There is one other piece of news from York, your grace.”

The duke gave him a sidelong glance.

“One of my men there sent a swift messenger who reports that the Cavendishes have been aroused. Sir Guy and two others from his family were seen in that city—asking questions.”

The duke closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He curbed the poisonous oath that scratched his tongue. It would not profit him to utter it. On the contrary, he must not let even Caitland know how much the Cavendish family’s Catholic influence terrified him.

“What
did they learn?” he snapped.

“Something, though my man did not know what. They rode out of York a day later, going on the westward road.”

The duke tugged on his ring. “Away from their home. This bodes ill. I had wanted to keep that troublesome family in the dark until you arrived at Snape Castle with the proof of their daughter’s demise.”

Caitland flashed him a startled look. “You wish
me
to carry…ah…the box to them?”

Northumberland raised one eyebrow slowly. “Aye, whom else could I entrust with my most private mission? The honor is all yours. You will be amply compensated for your trouble in the new reign, I assure you.”

The other lord took out his handkerchief from his sleeve and wiped his face with it. “You speak treason when you speak of the King’s death,” he whispered, looking over his shoulder as he spoke.

“I am no fool to bury my head in the sand, Caitland. The King grows weaker daily. Methinks only his religious zeal to root out all popish practices keeps him alive even now.”

Caitland shifted his weight again. “And the heir?” he said through unmoving lips.

Northumberland permitted himself a small chuckle. “She already waits in the wings, though the Lady Jane Gray does not yet know of her good fortune to come.”

“God shield her!” Caitland murmured.

The duke
frowned at him. “Has your heart turned sheepish? Do you lack the fire that I need for this undertaking? Perchance you would like to retire to your country home now?”

Beads of sweat stood out on Caitland’s brow. His skin turned a pasty color. “Nay, your grace, I am, as always, your liege m-man,” he gabbled.

“See that you remain so.” The duke gave him a wintry smile.

He couldn’t completely trust anyone these restless days. Only when the Gray girl was firmly on the throne and just as firmly wedded to his youngest son would the duke feel free to draw an untroubled breath. Catholic Mary Tudor must be quelled, preferably locked away, and all those who supported her cause made to bend their knee to Protestant Queen Jane and King Guilford Dudley. Once the powerful Cavendish family was brought to heel, the other Catholics would follow suit. Influence in the north hinged on the Cavendishes.

The duke knotted his hand into a fist. His large ring bit into his flesh. “The chit must surely be dead and rotting in her grave by now.”

“There was talk of a late spring snowstorm in the Pennines,” Caitland suggested. “Mayhap the executioner has been delayed.”

“Mayhap he is roistering in a sottish inn somewhere until my gold runs out of his pocket,” the duke snarled. “Go back to his family. Tell them if you have not heard from him within these next two days, you will deliver that ragged boy of theirs from the Tower—piece by piece.”

Caitland stared at his master. “How now, your grace?”

This man
is too soft for my business. I will deal with him in good time.
Aloud, the duke replied, “Use your imagination, slug! Send a finger one day, an ear the next, a foot thereafter. And so on. Hopefully, you will not run out of body parts before the rogue’s return.” He glowered at Caitland. “Well, see to it! Begone! I need to attend to my holy meditations.”

The flustered lord made no reply. He executed a quick bow, and then scuttled down the cockleshell path like an overlarge beetle.

Once you have served my purpose, Caitland, I will squash you too.

Tonia hummed a sprightly country tune under her breath as she heated one of the hare pies on a makeshift hob. Today had been her wedding day—unorthodox, yet so perfect. Soon she would be reunited with her family where she and Sandor could settle down—Pausing, she frowned a little. What if Sandor didn’t want to live the life of a country gentleman? He was a rover. Mayhap, he would want her to travel the highways and byways riding behind him on Baxtalo’s broad back.

“A farthing for your thoughts,
sukar luludi,
” said Sandor from the doorway of the guardroom. He stamped the snow from his boots before he came closer. “You had such a serious look on your face. I hope that you do not regret becoming my wife—at least not so soon.” His lips smiled, but his eyes looked worried.

Tonia laughed to ease his concern. “I was thinking of the future.” She cocked her head. “And I wondered if you wanted to live in a house instead of traveling hither and yon.”

He set down the water bucket then removed his cloak before he said, “Is this very important to you?”

Tonia tried to read the real question in his eyes, but he did not look directly at her. “Our future together is very important to me.”

He sat
down on the bench beside her and slipped his arm around her waist. “’Tis important to me as well.”

“Would you be unhappy to live in one place for the rest of your life?”

He puffed out his cheeks. “
Jaj!
If the truth be told, ’tis a question I have often asked myself. I have known no other way but on the road.”

Tonia took his hand in hers. “Why do your people always travel? Why don’t they become farmers or tradesmen? Surely, ’twould make a better life for them than sleeping in a ditch.”

He chuckled. “A ditch does not make a bad bed, if it is dry.” He pulled her closer to him so that his body heat warmed her. “The old people say that we Gypsies are doomed to roam the earth forever. ’Tis our destiny.”

Tonia scanned his face. “What king or magistrate has decreed this?”

“The Lord God,” he replied without bitterness. “Hundreds of years ago, a Rom blacksmith camped outside the walls of Jerusalem. One day, while he was shoeing a horse, two Roman soldiers came out of the city gate and stopped before the blacksmith’s tent. They asked him to forge four nails, long and sharp, for a crucifixion.”

“Oh,” gasped Tonia, realizing for whom the nails were intended.

He nodded. “Aye, ’twas for the Son of God. The soldiers had tried to buy nails throughout all of Jerusalem but no one would sell them any. The Rom blacksmith agreed, especially when he heard the price that the soldiers were willing to pay him. He told them to come back after the midday meal and the nails would be ready. Immediately he heated up his forge. He cast the first and the second and the third nail, but then he paused.”

“He was
sorry for what he was doing?” Tonia asked, swept up in the tale and not caring if it were true or not.

Again Sandor chuckled. “Sorry? Nay, ’twas thrift that stayed his hand. The blacksmith knew the manner of a crucifixion and he thought to himself, ‘The feet require only one nail, not two, for they can be crossed one on top of the other. I will give the soldiers these three, wrapped in a cloth, and they will think ’tis four. I will be twice paid—by the soldiers, who are nothing but
gadje,
and I will save the iron of the fourth nail for a future use.’ As soon as the soldiers left with their nails inside the cloth, the blacksmith took down his tent, loaded his cart and drove down the road.”

Tonia bowed her head. “And so they crucified Jesus with only three nails.”

“Aye.” Sandor released a long sigh. “That night ’twas very dark, for the clouds covered the moon when the blacksmith lay down to sleep. In the middle of the night, he was awakened by a strange hissing sound and when he looked outside his tent he saw a large nail, glowing red-hot, hanging in the air before him. The man was so frightened that he struck his tent immediately and hurried off into the desert. But the fiery nail followed him. Every night it hung over him, reminding him that he had made the Son of God suffer more for the lack of the fourth nail.”

“Sweet
Jesu!” Tonia whispered.

“And so that is why the Rom can never stay in one place for very long. God is angry at our greed and the Christians revile us for forging the nails in the first place.” Sandor shook his head. “At least that is what I was always told.”

She touched his cheek. “Do you believe this story?”

He shrugged. “It could be true. The Rom have always worked in metal. I myself make the shoes and nails for my horses.”

Tonia turned over his hand and caressed the hard calluses that were the hallmark of his work. “Will we too be pursued by God?”

He gave her a hug. “I know not, ’tis but no matter. You will be safe with me.” They shared a moment of thoughtful silence before Sandor spoke again. “To tell you the truth, I must be a very bad Rom, for I have always wanted to live in a house.”

Tonia relaxed and laid her head on his shoulder. “Methinks that you have repaid your own debt to God by sparing my life.”

Sandor gave himself a shake, then tilted her face up to him. “Before we speak more of our future, we must consider the present.”

“I am here with you.”

He brushed her lips with a quick kiss. “Aye, but we cannot stay here. Even now, there are powerful men in London wondering why I have not returned.”

“To report my death to them.”

His expression grew very hard. “Aye, but there is more to it that was not written in the warrant. I warn you, ’twill curdle your blood with horror. It did mine when I first heard their command.”

His voice
was completely emotionless and the sound chilled her. “What more did they desire? The death of my family as well?”

Sandor closed his eyes. “Your heart,” he said in a strangled tone.

Tonia sagged against him. “But…but there was to be no bloodletting. I read the warrant myself.”

Sandor hugged her tighter. “I was ordered to take out your heart
after
your death and to put it in a small casket.” He barked a sharp laugh. “Ha! They even gave me the box, all bound with brass and a lock.”

Tonia clasped her cold hands together. Shudders racked her body. “You would have done this? Plunged a knife into my…my breast?”

“Nay, my best beloved,” he soothed. “How could I do that? I could not even kill you, much less desecrate your beautiful body. I knew that I could not from the first moment that I beheld you.”