The Dark Knight (5 page)

She smiled when she saw the food on the small table before her. “’Tis a feast,” she murmured before biting into the hard cheddar.

With approval in his heart, Sandor watched her enjoy their small meal. “My grandmother always said that a good woman was one who ate a poor dish and praised it for its richness.” Actually, old Towla Lalow had described this trait as belonging to a good
wife,
but Sandor saw no reason to mention that fact to his victim.

The lady laughed. “Methinks I would like your grandmother, for she sounds like a very wise woman.”

“She is,” he replied softly, remembering the puzzling fortune Towla had told him only a few days ago.

They ate the rest of their breakfast in a silence that was more companionable than strained. The lady’s quietude impressed Sandor, for he knew that his wife, who had died in childbirth two years ago, would have chattered nonstop like a witless jay if she had faced the same fate that this lady faced. Remembering his loss, he again blessed God for taking his wife with quick, painless hands. For her sake, he would do the same for Lady Gastonia when the time came. He was relieved to see that the
gadji
left no scraps or crumbs.

Slinging his
bag over his shoulder, he rose and beckoned to her. “Come, my lady, if you wish to watch me…work.” He could not bring himself to name his macabre task.

With a heart-stopping smile she followed him out of her dark prison.

Fortified by the food and buoyed by her reprieve, Tonia almost skipped along the uneven paving stones as the executioner led her into the sunshine. Crossing the bare courtyard, she glanced back at the place wherein she had spent the past week. The dilapidation of the mountain fortress surprised her. The wing that housed her cell was the only section of Hawksnest that still had four standing walls. The second and third levels of the fortification had long since tumbled down the sides of the ravine. Until now, Tonia had thought she had been kept in a more substantial building. From its air of desolation, she guessed that Hawksnest had not been used for well over a hundred years, perhaps longer.

She nodded to herself. Considering the precise directions of her death warrant, the King and his overzealous minions intended that her execution would not only be done in secret, but that she would virtually disappear from the face of the earth—her resting place unknown, unmarked and unmourned. She knotted her brows together in a frown. ’Twas meant to be a cruel punishment for her family as well as for herself. How could men who professed to love God do something so pitiless as send her to eternity without the comfort of shriving her soul? Their perfidy was doubly damned for forcing her dear parents to grieve her unknown fate for the rest of their lives.

She cast
a quick glance at the tall man who walked ahead of her. Perhaps he would send a message to her father. Then Tonia remembered that the headsman could not write. Perhaps he would allow her to send a last letter to her family, telling them where they could find her grave. She chewed on her lower lip. Since her too-intriguing executioner couldn’t read, he didn’t know that her grave was to be unmarked. She decided that she would not enlighten him; in fact, she would do exactly the opposite.

Just then, he veered to the left toward what remained of the stable block. He whistled and a soft whinny answered him. Glancing over his shoulder to Tonia, he smiled at her beneath the ominous black mask.

“’Tis Baxtalo, my horse,” he explained, his tone much more lighthearted. “He must be wondering what happened to me.”

Tonia stopped outside the stable while the man disappeared through the dark doorway. She heard him speak a strange language to his mount. Tonia gave a quick look around the now-empty courtyard. Ahead of her, she saw the yawning portal that led to the outside world—and freedom. Her instinct to run almost overwhelmed her until her common sense prevailed. If she bolted now, he could easily catch her, especially when she had no idea of the lay of the land beyond the fortress’s walls. The executioner might decide that she was too much trouble and kill her on the spot. Tonia’s best hope for her life was to stretch out the time as long as possible, as well as win her executioner’s trust and goodwill.

Hearing
the horse’s hooves scrape against the stones, Tonia looked back toward the stable. Grinning with pleasure, the man led out a spirited gray stallion with charcoal mane and tail. At Snape Castle, Tonia had grown up riding the best horses that her father could buy, and she recognized a good animal when she saw one. In fact, the quality of the headsman’s mount surprised her. The execution business must pay exceedingly well, she thought. Then she remembered that the man had said that he was not an executioner.

He guided his horse toward Tonia. “Are you afraid of this one, my lady?” he asked in a solicitous tone.

Smiling, Tonia shook her head and approached the horse with her hand out, palm up. “Nay,
monsieur.
I love horses and yours is particularly fine.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “I wonder where you got him.” She recalled that Gypsies were reputed to be sly horse thieves.

He caressed the horse’s velvety nose and patted its neck with obvious pride of ownership. “I have raised him from birth. He was a gift to me from his dam. That is why I call him Baxtalo. It means ‘lucky’ in my language.”

The sleek animal sniffed Tonia, then allowed her to pet him. She admired his confirmation.
He’s in excellent condition. I wonder if he would allow me to sit on his back after he’s gotten used to me.
Baxtalo could be her savior.

While Tonia mused on the fresh possibilities that the horse offered, his owner returned to the stable. When he emerged, Tonia saw that he carried a short-handled shovel over one shoulder. The headman’s mouth had reverted to its usual serious expression.

When he
drew near to her, his blue eyes hardened to ice behind the slits of his mask.

“Come, Lady Gastonia, show me where you would like your grave.”

T
hough his
brief words chilled her to the marrow, Tonia kept her smile fixed on her lips. “My family and friends call me Tonia.”

Amazement replaced the headsman’s grimmer look. A cynical grin curled his full lips. “You think I am a friend, my lady?” he asked in a gruff tone.

“They say that a gentle death is a good friend to be desired, and you have promised to be gentle.” Tonia prayed that he did not see how much she shook under her cape.

He stared at her for a moment, then took up Baxtalo’s reins. “The day grows older,” he muttered as he started toward the main gate.

“And more beautiful, methinks,” she replied, following him.

He didn’t look back at her but plodded through the archway. Tonia’s heart soared as she left the walls of her prison behind her. Beyond the gate, a broad, rock-strewn meadow sloped down to the stream that they had seen from the wall walk. Though the remains of last summer’s grass were brown and brittle underfoot, Tonia thought it the most splendid piece of earth she had ever seen. After watering his horse, the headsman turned the animal loose to forage. Then he looked at her.

He swept
his arm in a graceful arc, like the lord of the forest that grew on the far side of the stream. “Well, my lady…er…Tonia, where pleases you?”

A hundred miles north of here at the very least.
She skipped down the gentle hillside until she stood before him. Turning, she looked back up at the ruined fortress. Even in the bright sunlight, it exuded a dark, forbidding air. She certainly did not want to be buried within its looming shadow. Closer to the stream, she saw a hillock that overlooked the deep valley below them. She wondered if the dead were able to admire the beauty of their final surroundings.

“There.” She pointed to the sunlit spot.

He nodded. Without a word, he walked over to the mound, braced his legs apart for balance on the slope and struck the earth with his shovel. He muttered something under his breath. Tonia joined him.

“Still yet frozen.” He pushed the shovel down with his foot. A few clods of dark earth broke free.

Tonia concealed her glee. She sent a quick prayer of thanksgiving to Saint Michael. The executioner’s spade loosened another small clod or two. At this snail’s pace, it would take him a week to dig a grave that would be deep enough to hold her—and if the weather again turned cold, that time could stretch out even longer.

Masking her joy at this unexpected turn of events, Tonia pretended to be crestfallen. “’Tis not very promising, is it?” She prodded one of the dirt clods with the squared toe of her shoe.

The large man merely grunted as he attempted to wrest another shovelful of earth from the hillside. Gathering her cape around her, Tonia perched on a low stone that protruded from the ground. In silence, she watched him labor.

After
a quarter of an hour, he had managed to scrape off the top layer of sod roughly in the contour of a grave. Though the shape did little to comfort Tonia, the frozen earth below encouraged her hope for a long reprieve. Pausing, the headsman mopped his perspiring lower face with the sleeve of his padded woolen jerkin.

Tonia took a breath. “Methinks ’twould be more comfortable for you if you removed your mask,” she suggested.

He shook his head, wiped his palms on the thighs of his brown leather breeches and then returned to his task.

Tonia pushed her windblown hair out of her face. “I give you my word of honor that I will not haunt you—afterward.”

Avoiding her gaze, he again shook his head.

Tonia rubbed her shoulders. Even though the sun shone, the wind kept the air chill. She rose and sauntered over to inspect his progress. Happily he was less than a foot down at one end.

She cocked her head. “’Twill take some time, methinks, for I wish to be buried deeply in the earth.”

He jammed the shovel’s head into the dirt until it stood upright, quivering on its own. He glared at her. “
I
will say when ’tis deep enough.”

Tonia refused to back away. Instead she assumed an injured expression. “Agreed,
Monsieur de Mort,
but I tell you truly, I had a nightmare of the wolves and wild boars feasting on my bones.” She did not need to feign her revulsion at this thought.

He looked
down at the shallow hole. “I give you my word. You will rest in peace, my lady.”

She inclined her head in a small gesture of thanks. “The day is yet young and the sun still warms his rays. Come, let us walk in yon forest and allow the earth to…ah…soften a bit.” She held out her hand to him.

He bent his head and studied his work. “I have promises to keep,” he muttered.

Tonia swallowed, knowing exactly what he meant. “Aye, ’tis true, but you have also given me a promise—to plant my body deeply in this earth. Yet the ground is not ready for such a great hole. Let us walk awhile and enjoy the day while the sun does its task.”

She held her breath. A walk would give her more time to win the man’s trust. If she intended to escape on his horse, he had to permit her more freedom of movement.

The executioner wiped the dirt from his hands, then nodded. He looked across the rickety bridge that spanned the stream in front of the fortress. “What do we do on this walk?” he asked in an odd, husky tone.

A spiral of fear shot through Tonia. She hoped that he didn’t intend to ravish her within the hidden recesses of the trees. After all, he had told her he wouldn’t last night. But that
was
last night. She lifted her chin. “My grave will be a lonely one. I long to find some pieces of wood to fashion a cross to place at my head. ’Tis a simple thing.”

His lips twitched. “Everything is a simple request with you, and yet, you have complicated my life. Very well, come, but mind the bridge. Some of the wood is rotten.”

Tonia
lifted her skirts and tripped down the hillside toward the stream. “You are afraid that I will drown, and so cheat you out of the King’s shilling? Methinks not, good executioner, for the water does not look very deep.”

He gave her a sidelong glance. “’Tis cold as iron, my… ’Twould chill you.”

She laughed lightly to herself at the absurdity of the situation. Then she asked, “What about your horse? Will he follow us?” Crossing her fingers under her cape for good luck, she prayed that the animal would.

The tall man shook his head. “Baxtalo will stay in the field where he has the most hope of finding some good fodder to eat. He knows not to wander away.”

Tonia lifted one eyebrow. “Truly? He must be well trained.”

The headsman chuckled. “Aye, by myself,” he said with a note of pride.

The air grew cooler when they stepped among the trees. Dry leaves from the previous autumn carpeted the ground, while twigs and small branches snapped underfoot with sharp cracks that echoed off the surrounding hillsides. Tonia’s escort took the opportunity to gather some windfall kindling. Every so often he held out a stick to her with a silent question in his eyes. Each time, she shook her head. She was in no hurry to find the materials for her cross.

Her foot slipped on a damp, moss-covered rock. The headsman caught her hand before she fell. The shock of that physical encounter ran through her like wildfire. His skin was warm and, though hard calluses had roughed the pads of his fingers and palms, his touch was oddly soft—almost caressing. Startled, she looked up at him. His steady gaze bore into her as he tightened his hold on her. A tremor shook her and she was glad of his support. A strange aching took hold of her limbs.

I must
be coming down with a fever or am faint from lack of food.

“Methinks breaking your leg is not in the warrant, Tonia,” he murmured. A sudden twinkle lit his eyes before he looked away. He squeezed her hand briefly before he released it. Tonia’s breath caught in her throat. Her name on his lips gave her an unexpected rush of warm pleasure. She coughed to cover her momentary confusion.

“I agree,” she replied. He started to turn back toward the meadow. “Sir!” she called to stop him. She didn’t want him to return to his gruesome chore. When he looked over his shoulder, she continued in a more controlled voice. “Sir, since we will be together a little longer, will you not please tell me your name? Surely you must be weary of hearing yourself called Master Death.”

Sandor heartily agreed. He enjoyed saying Tonia’s name. It had a pleasing roll on his tongue. But the inherent caution that marked all the Roms’ interaction with outsiders held him back from sharing his identity with her, though he had a strong desire to hear her say his name. He pulled his gaze away from her pleading eyes. He found it harder and harder to resist the lady when he looked into those bewitching blue orbs.

“I could give you one name today, another tomorrow and a third the day after that,” he replied.

Tonia drew
closer to his side. Her cape brushed the back of his hand, sending a shiver of awareness rippling through him. The temptation to slip his arm around her waist and pull her against him grew harder to resist.
She is a dead woman who merely breathes for a time. She is nothing to me but a cold corpse.
Even as he thought it, he did not believe a word of it.

She touched his arm. “But none of those fine names would be your own true one, would it?”

His body burned. “The Rom consider a person’s name to be the most intimate thing we possess. Knowing your name gives someone power over you.”

She smiled up at him. He could barely breathe. “You know my name. Does that give you power over me?”

How I wish it were true!
He cleared his throat. “The Rom never reveal their private lives to
gadje.
’Tis our way to protect ourselves.”

She furrowed her brow. “What is a
gadje?
”

A smile trembled on his lips. “You, your family, the king who desires your death, his ministers and churchmen, everyone in England who is not a Rom.”

While Tonia considered this piece of information, he admired the beauty of her face. She reminded him of the saints that were painted on the stained glass windows of the Christian churches he had visited in France.

She laughed, a sound like dainty silver bells on the wristlets of dancers. “You say the word
gadje
as if it were coated in mud.”

You cannot guess how close to the mark you have hit.
How could he tell this beautiful, pure, holy lady that his family would consider her worse than the dung in the streets? That her mere touch, her nearby presence defiled him? Yet Sandor craved her smiles, the brush of her fingertips—and more.
’Tis nothing but wanton lust that tortures my loins.
Yet he had known lust with others—even
gadji.
With Tonia his feelings were much different, even different from those he had experienced with his dead wife. Nothing in his twenty-five years of living helped him to understand why the power of Tonia’s attraction shook him to his core.

Sandor
shifted the weight of his armload of wood. “’Tis for protection that the Rom do not mix with the
gadje
except to do business. Did you know that in England there is a harsh law against the Gypsies? In truth, I am a felon.”

Tonia’s eyes widened, though she did not draw away from him. “What is this law?”

“Twenty years ago, when the English saw so many Rom come into their land, they grew sore afraid. We were called lewd people and outlanders. King Henry VIII decreed that we were to be banished forever from his kingdom. Just three years ago, King Edward signed a law that said any Rom found in England would be branded and made a slave for two years.”

Halting, Tonia stared at him. “Are you so marked?”

Should he show her his livid scar or should he lie? Why did her opinion matter to him anyway? She was to die by his hand in the very near future. Sandor put down his load of sticks, untied his jerkin’s laces, then the laces of his shirt. He pulled back the cloth so that she could see the wine-colored “V” seared on his chest.

Her body
stiffened; she could not smother her gasp of shock at the sight. “’Tis a cruel mark,” she whispered, her eyes wide. “It must have hurt you beyond imagining.”

“Aye,” he replied, closing up his shirt and retying his jerkin. “Fortunately I fainted afore they were done.”

“What does the ‘V’ mean?”

Sandor curled his lips with disgust. “Vagrants. Yet we have always worked for our bread.”

Worked to dupe the dull-witted
gadje,
but Sandor decided against revealing the details of his clan’s many shady professions. He, at least, had always been fair in his horse trading with the English, even though Uncle Gheorghe had often called him
prosto,
a fool, for doing so.

“Why did you stay in England after…that?”

Sandor picked up the firewood. “One trip across the Channel was enough for me. Life is good in England. The weather is kinder than in Flanders or the German kingdoms. The land is fat, full of fruit that falls from the trees and chickens that wander far from home.” He gave her a sidelong grin.

Tonia pursed her lips. “You mean you steal chickens from honest farmers.”

Sandor shrugged. “’Tis not so bad. A Gypsy may convey a hen or two to feed his family, but we would never steal the whole henhouse. That would deprive the farmer of his livelihood.”

“But ’tis wrong to steal. ’Tis a sin.”

He shook his head at her innocence. “Methinks that God looks at your sins and mine with a different eye, Tonia. The Lord Jesus knew hunger when he was a man upon the earth. Tell me, noble lady, have you ever been hungry?”

“Not
until I came to this place,” she answered with distaste.

Sandor decided to change the subject. This talk of laws and sins with such a holy woman as Tonia made him very uncomfortable. “Well, I am hungry now. What say you to a fine dinner of fresh fish?”

She quirked a half smile. “I would say you were a wonder-worker. Can you truly conjure up a fish?”

He laughed, pleased by her amazement. “Not conjure them, but entice them, if luck is with me and yon stream is well supplied. Come.”