The Dark Knight (7 page)

“I am no murderer,” he assured Black Sara, as if the saint hovered in the air over his head. “How can I do this cruel thing?”

In his mind’s eye he saw his uncle, ill in his bed, jeering Sandor’s lack of courage. He could almost hear Uncle Gheorghe tell him that he had the heart of a chicken. He saw Aunt Mindra squatting by the fire, keening for her son, the boy whose life depended upon Sandor. From the cradle, Sandor had been taught the importance of loyalty to his clan. The wide world was a harsh place for the Rom; his family must cleave together for protection and survival. To disregard the
kris,
the fundamental code of all Rom, would condemn him to a fate worse than the one decreed for Tonia. Sandor would be exiled from his people, cast out alone into a world that despised him.

Sandor gripped the garrote. Just down the corridor was the beginning and the end of this worst trial of his life.
Do it now. Make it quick. Do not look into her eyes. Just take her life and do not look back.

Sandor pushed himself up from the bench. On silent feet, he moved down the stone corridor. He reached her door in too short a time. Pausing, he took a deep breath to calm his nerves. The knots in the thong bit deep into his palm, just as they would bite into her neck—in just a few moments’ time.

Make it
quick. Do not look into her eyes.
May God forgive me for what I am about to do.
He turned the key in the lock.

T
he lady knelt beside her stool, head bowed and hands clasped in prayer. A single ray of sunlight shone through the high arrow loop bathing her in its golden light—as if the heavens reached out to bless her. Sandor stopped in his tracks, his breath taken away by Tonia’s unworldly beauty. He had come to kill an angel.

Do it now.
Take her from behind and dispatch her quickly.
Holding the garrote between his hands, he started toward her.

Just then she looked up and saw him. The dark lashes that shadowed her cheeks flew up. A soft gasp escaped her. Gathering her skirts, she rose, then immediately dropped a deep curtsy to Sandor as she had done at their first meeting.

He felt hot under his neckerchief. Tonia was a gentle-born lady, he a Gypsy outcast from the mainstream of common folk. She shouldn’t render him such an honor, especially not now. The silence between them stretched more taut than the cord he gripped in his hands.

Finally
Tonia cleared her throat. “I was praying to God just now.”

“So was I.”

“And I was asking Him why I had to die,” she continued in a whisper.

Sandor looked down at his hands. They shook. “I asked Him the same question.”

She stepped a little closer, her gaze fastened on his face. “Did God give you an answer?”

He shook his head. “Nay.”

She crept even closer. “Nor I. It seems that we are left to muddle out this problem on our own.” Her lips fluttered. Reaching up, Tonia touched his cheek—his bare cheek. “You have misplaced your mask,” she murmured.

Cursing himself for his stupidity, especially at this dire moment, Sandor turned away from her. “My mind was…was on other matters.”

“I am glad to see your face, at last,” she replied, circling around him so that she could look at him again. “By my troth, Gypsy, you are very easy on the eyes. Methinks I have seen you often in my dreams.”

Sandor groaned inwardly. His mask had helped to distance himself from her; now all his defenses were down. Her admiring expression melted his murderous resolve. “Then you have dreamed of
Beng,
the devil.”

Tonia shook her head. “In faith, you are no devil—nor do you look much like an executioner.”

“I am not an executioner, Tonia. That is my uncle’s calling. He was ill, so he sent me in his stead.”

Her finger tapped her chin. “I am right glad that he did.”

Sandor
twisted his mouth in a rueful grimace. “Aye, my lady, for if my uncle had come yester eve, you would be dead and buried.”

She swallowed, then looked down at the garrote that he had wadded up in his hand. “Did you mean to kill me—now?”

Sandor stared over her head so that he did not have to see her expression. “My time grows late. While I dally here with you, the King’s soldiers keep my young cousin in the Tower of London. Demeo is my pledge that I will fulfill my duty and return quickly.”

She released a choked, desperate laugh that grated on his already taut nerves. “Ha! I had no idea how much the King lusted for my death.”

“Methinks ’tis the King’s minions, and not Edward himself. He is but a boy who knows only what is whispered in his ear.”

“Their hate for me and my religion runs deeper than I thought.”

Sandor had no answer to this. From the first moment he had set eyes on Tonia, he had been aghast at the disparity between her alleged crime of treason and the beautiful innocent who stood condemned. He turned to go, but Tonia stopped him.

She touched the end of the cord that dangled from his fist. “Is this a garrote?”

“Aye,” he snapped, wishing he were a hundred miles away.

She tugged it from his fingers. “I have never seen one,” she said in a low tone.

“’Tis no sight for a lady.”

Breathing in shallow, quick gasps, she held up the thong to the light. She paled as she touched the hard knots. “What are these for?”

He gritted
his teeth. “’Tis best that you do not know. ’Twill be easier for you when…when the time comes.”

Clutching the garrote, Tonia began to sway. “Sweet Jesu,” she murmured. Her eyes rolled back in her head.

Sandor caught her before she fell against the sharp hearthstone. Holding her tightly to his chest, he lowered her gently to the cold floor. She lay still in his arms like a waxen figure, her black lashes fanned over her white cheeks. Without thinking, Sandor leaned down and brushed his lips against her cool forehead. His senses reeled. Cradling her in his arms, he rocked on his knees.

What was he to do? If he squeezed the life out of her now, she would go to heaven with her heart still beating like that of a frightened hen instead of the courageous woman that she had proved herself to be. He could not kill her now, he reasoned—her grave was only half-dug. She was safe from him for one more night. Sandor gazed down at Tonia. He wished he could keep her safe from danger forever.

Spirits crowded his imagination. His uncle admonished him to do the wretched deed; his aunt berated him for leaving poor Demeo in prison. Chuckling, his ancient grandmother reminded him of her words. Demeo’s pinched face looked out through rusty bars, imploring Sandor to come home soon.

“I am truly Prosto, the Fool,” he whispered to Tonia before he kissed her again.

Tonia slowly opened her eyes, then gasped. High flames leapt before her, heating her face.
I have died and gone down to hell. How did that happen?
Pulling herself upright, she realized that she was on the floor of her cell, staring at the roaring fire that danced in her hearth. She stretched her hands out to the warmth while she tried to remember what had happened. The Gypsy had come to her with death on his mind. Yet he had
not
killed her.

She smiled
to herself as she recalled his face. What a handsome rogue he was! Tonia had never met anyone quite as intriguing as this man. His hair was thicker than she had presumed, dark and full of unruly waves. When he had looked down at her, one curl had fallen across his wide forehead, making him seem almost boyish. The touch of humor that she had detected around his mouth also hovered in the corners of his impossibly blue eyes, yet his expression cloaked a certain air of hidden mystery. Tonia liked the strong planes of his cheekbones and jawline, and his even, white teeth that contrasted most pleasingly with his bronze-colored skin. The Gypsy possessed a ruggedness and vital power that drew her like a lode-star.

Tonia realized that she was not sitting on the cold, uneven stones but instead she lay on a thick lamb’s fleece. Then she spied a covered bowl and cup on the hearthstone. Lifting the scrap of muslin, she saw that the Gypsy had left her a wedge of cheese, a part of his bread and a handful of dry raisins. The cup held clean water.

Tonia quickly ate the food, blessing her jailer even as she wondered what he would do next. She considered calling to him to thank him for her supper—and to see his face once more—but she rejected the idea as soon as it was born. Best not to attract any attention to herself, in case he should change his mind and return with his wicked garrote. She shuddered at the memory of that cruel cord with its hideous knots. She should have listened when he told her not to look at it.

Fortified
by the food, and thankful that she still breathed in the land of the living, Tonia lay down again, snuggling in her cape and rejoicing in the warmth of the sheepskin. Her eyelids hung heavy as she gazed at the flames playing in the hearth. Soon sleep overcame her, wrapping Tonia in its blissful embrace.

Venus, the evening star, sparkled in the twilight as Sir Guy Cavendish rode through York’s old city gate. Attended by his son, Francis, and his nephew, Kitt, Guy went straight to the town hall before he sought a decent inn for the night’s lodging. Since the hour was late, the municipal building was closed for the night. Guy vented his anger and frustration on the two soldiers who stood at the portal. In turn, the men were only too happy to direct the irate blond giant and his kin to the home of Sir Tobias Whalley, the city’s magistrate. Upon arriving at the Whalley residence, Guy, usually the courtliest of men, wasted no time or breath apologizing for interrupting Sir Tobias and his family at supper.

Dispensing with the usual courtesies, Lord Cavendish came straight to the point. “Where the hell have they taken my daughter?” he thundered at the quaking Sir Tobias.

Mopping his florid face, the heavyset official replied, “What daughter is that, my lord? What is her name?”

Kitt Cavendish felt sorry for the rattled man. He had never before seen his uncle so furious. He gave Lady Whalley and their children a little smile and bow to calm their fright.

“Lady
Gastonia Cavendish, you dolt!” Guy bellowed, shaking the magistrate by his shoulders.

“You are a Cavendish?” Sir Tobias gasped out between shakings. “The Earl of Thornbury, perchance?”

“He is my brother!” Guy snapped, looking all the more like the snarling wolf that graced the Cavendish coat of arms. “I trust you have heard of our family?”

The magistrate looked exceedingly ill. “Aye, my Lord Cavendish! Who does not know your illustrious name?”

“Good,” Guy continued. “Then where is Gastonia? I received word yesterday that she had been arrested and brought here to trial within this past fortnight. Where is she now?”

The magistrate’s eyes bulged. “God in heaven! I didn’t think…that is…I did not know that Mistress Cavendish was related to
you,
my lord. Neither her title nor her family were mentioned.”

“Dogs,” muttered Francis under his breath.

Kitt said nothing, but his anger rose steadily. From earliest childhood, he had always idolized Tonia, who had led him in their games and sport. Of all his cousins, she was Kitt’s favorite. If his uncle didn’t throttle the magistrate to death, Kitt might very well do the job in payment for Tonia’s ignominious treatment.

Francis put his hand on his father’s arm. “Do not choke him, Father, or he will not be able to tell us what we most desire to know.”

Before his marriage three years ago, Francis had been both a diplomat and a spy in King Edward’s service. Now he used his skills to defuse the situation. One of the younger Whalley children began to weep into her napkin. Francis bowed to the mistress of the house.

“I
see that we have distressed your family, my lady. Pray take the children and withdraw to another chamber. I promise that no harm shall come to your good husband.”

Lady Whalley opened her mouth to say something, thought better of it and rose from the table. Like a mother hen, she gathered her chicks around her and shepherded them out a side door. The two serving men scampered after her, leaving the quaking magistrate to deal with the legendary Cavendishes on his own. Kitt lounged against the mantel, his fingers lightly drumming the hilt of his dagger. Giving the young man a sidelong glance, Sir Tobias whimpered. Backing away from Guy, he stumbled and collapsed in the settle.

Guy leaned over him. “Tell me what I want to know, malt worm. My fingers itch to flay you.”

“Softly, Father,” Francis suggested. “You will make him swallow his tongue.”

Whalley looked from one tall, blond man to the next. His lower lip wobbled. Kitt wondered if he was going to bawl.

“Gastonia Cavendish was brought before a special session of the court. Three judges had traveled up from London to try her. I merely observed the proceedings, my lord. Truly I had no hand in her fate.”

“And?” Guy prompted. His blue eyes narrowed into slits.

Sir Tobias ran his fat tongue across his lips. “Your daughter was charged with treason for daring to open a Catholic nunnery within England’s borders. The King, God save him, has outlawed all such popish practices. The justices were most precise on this point.” Sweat beaded on the magistrate’s brow. “They condemned her to death for her obstinacy.”

Guy lifted
the man out of the chair and shook him as if he were a rag poppet. “Tell me something that I do not already know. Where is my daughter
now?
”

Whalley groaned. “The soldiers took her away, my lord. I know not where except that ’tis out of this city. The justices sent a message posthaste to London for the services of the Tower’s executioner.”

With a sound between a growl and a cry, Guy dropped the magistrate onto the floor.

“’Twas over a week ago, my lord,” Whalley groveled. “Methinks that your daughter would be dead by now unless the headsman has been delayed. You have my deepest sympathies,” he added in a rush.

Guy’s expression turned to fury. “And you did
nothing
in Tonia’s defense? She is but three-and-twenty years old, and as innocent as the angels.”

The magistrate curled himself into a ball on the floor. “What could I do, Lord Cavendish? They were the
King’s
justices and not my own. I must consider the consequences to my own family. In truth, methinks the King’s men had already condemned her before they ever saw her,” he muttered into the furred collar of his gown.

Guy pulled him up to his feet. “Why do you say that?” he asked in a voice that was low and therefore very dangerous.

Straightening his clothing, the magistrate attempted to regain some of his composure. “They hardly gave the lady a chance to defend herself. They seemed to know all the particulars of her so-called convent. And I heard one of the judges say that her death will ‘clip the wings of her overweening family and teach them to mend their ways’—his very words, my lord.”

The fire
went out of Guy’s eyes. He sat down hard on the magistrate’s chair. Kitt shot an inquiring glance at Francis, who lifted an eyebrow in return. His kinsman was as much mystified by the justice’s words as Kitt was. The youngest Cavendish pushed himself away from the mantelpiece.

“Let us quit this place, Uncle, and find some inn for the night.”

“Aye, ’tis true.” Francis touched his father’s sleeve. “In the morning, we will ferret out Tonia’s prison. ’Tis too late to seek her now.”

With a muttered oath under his breath, Guy pulled himself out of the chair. Without a backward glance at the ashen magistrate or the half-eaten supper cooling on the table, he stalked out the door. Francis followed on his heels. As Kitt turned to go, he gave Sir Tobias a shadow of a bow.