The Dark Knight (11 page)

Use this time away to examine your heart, his grandmother had advised him when she turned over the Hermit card. Sandor shifted in the saddle and patted Baxtalo on the neck while he summoned up the courage he needed to look where wise old Towla had directed him. The Hermit signified a search for self-knowledge. Sandor pulled his hat lower over his face in an effort to keep the stinging of the wind out of his eyes.

He was a Rom, born in a tent in a French field and cradled in a horse collar like all true Rom were. The open road was his life. Home was where he stood during the day and where he laid down his head at night. There was no past for him—and no future—only the eternal present.

Once, when Sandor was a boy, he had peered through the window of a
gadje
cottage and seen the family within sitting around the fire. Though they were poor and their floor was only hard-packed earth, they had a dry roof over their heads and food in their bellies. Sandor had smelled the savory soup that the woman simmered in her kettle. The hungry child could almost taste its rich broth. Soaked and barefoot on a rainy April evening, Sandor turned away from the domestic scene, knowing that his supper would be a piece of two-day-old bread. The boy had envied the
gadje
and he yearned for the security of their world.

When
Uncle Gheorghe learned the reason for Sandor’s sad face and mumbled answers, he had cuffed the boy on both ears. One must accept how he is born, his uncle had shouted at him.
If you do not, your life will be very long and miserable.
Sandor never brought up the subject of a secure home again. But at night, his dreams were filled with it.

Sandor saw himself the master of a prosperous farm in a fat land that was well watered and lush with thick clover. He would breed his own horses, sons and daughters of Baxtalo. He was tired of working horses for the
gadje
men. If Sandor had to confess his innermost desire, it would be a permanent home for him and his family. It was a dirty
gadje
dream, one that Sandor should be ashamed to contemplate.

Still he yearned for it—and for a
gadji
wife to warm his wide four-poster bed at night. She would be slim as a willow, her long hair black as a raven and silky as fine ribbons. And her blue eyes would shine with love when Sandor smiled at her. Tonia!

Yet she was a nun, dedicated to God. He kept forgetting that fact.

Sandor gave himself a shake. “I am woolgathering, Baxtalo,” he explained to his patient horse. “I ask you true, how would you like a warm dry stable to call your own instead of a muddy field? Do you dream of a paddock full of mares for you to cover?” He patted Baxtalo again. “Aye, you would hate that life as much as I. It gladdens my heart to know that we two think alike.

“In
truth, I am the very Prosto that the cards said I was,” he continued, taking some comfort in voicing his disturbing thoughts aloud. “Like the Fool, I have one foot over the cliff already.” He glanced over the side of the path at the steep drop toward the stream at the bottom of the ravine. “’Twould not be too difficult to take that second step, would it?”

Old Towla had warned him that there would be a choice and a risk—the Death card had pointed to a great change. Sandor hunched inside his cloak. He did not fear physical danger, for he had faced that all too often while growing up on the fringes of the
gadje
world. Beatings and branding at the hands of
gadje
sheriffs had been the stuff of his childhood. It was the danger to the core of his very existence that gave him pause.

“My family depends upon us, Baxtalo,” Sandor said aloud. His breath took the form of small clouds in the freezing air. “I owe them my fealty. Uncle Gheorghe is sick and has not the strength to defend the women should the King’s
musgre
come with their pikes and staves. And they will, you know, if I do not bring them Tonia’s dripping heart in their fine little box.”

Sandor leaned out of the saddle and spat on the frozen ground. “Let destruction gnaw at the King’s entrails,” he cursed under his breath. “I care not a fig for his law or his justice.”

At the
bottom of the incline, the path met with a wider roadway and more level ground. Glad for the excuse to take his mind off his perplexing questions, Sandor gathered up Baxtalo’s reins and urged him into a trot. The sooner they arrived at the village and found food, the sooner they could return to Tonia.

As he rode farther into the valley, a grim thought crossed Sandor’s mind. His problem would be solved if he did not go back to Hawksnest. Locked inside a cold cell with no food, little water and dwindling fuel, Tonia would freeze to death within a day or two at most. Sandor had heard that freezing was not a painful death. In fact, the old people said it was very pleasant toward the end, like falling to sleep. Tonia would not suffer, nor would her blood be spilled. Sandor’s hands would be clean of her death.

“But not my soul,” he said aloud. By abandoning Tonia to the Fates on that lonely mountaintop, he would have murdered her as sure as if he had tightened the garrote around her neck. And what about the macabre business of her heart in a box? What fiendish mind had conceived so vile a request? Sandor gripped the reins too hard, causing Baxtalo to toss his head. He patted his horse’s neck.

“I agree, my friend, to desecrate her body would be a greater sacrilege.”

Though he had butchered his share of pigs and chickens, the thought of slicing through Tonia’s breast, even if she had been dead a week, sickened him. He clamped his jaws together. Let the
musgre
whip him, tear at his flesh with flails and cut out his own heart while he still lived. Sandor would gladly give over his life if they would set Tonia and his family free from their wicked coils. He would think of some device to cheat the King and his bloody-minded ministers. The
gadje
themselves had proclaimed in their edict against “the many outlandish people calling themselves Egyptians” that the Rom practiced “subtle and crafty” skills to “deceive the people.” Very well, Sandor would engage in some of this infamous trickery to protect the woman he loved.

Love Tonia? Sandor
puffed out his cheeks. Aye, with all his soul he did. Like the painted Prosto on the gilded card dancing over a yawning abyss, Sandor felt giddy with his decision—and very happy.

T
hough it was nearly
midday by the time Sandor reached the village of Harewold, the lowering sky made it look more like early evening. He approached the hamlet slowly, taking care not to draw unwarranted attention to himself. From long experience he knew that a stranger in any village, particularly one as remote as this, would attract open curiosity. Once the inhabitants saw his darker skin and southern Continental features, that curiosity could turn less friendly.

He dismounted and led Baxtalo through the cobbled streets that radiated from the ancient gray stone church that dominated the village center. Sandor paused at the public water trough where he broke the skin of ice and allowed his horse to drink. Meanwhile, he surveyed the unfamiliar surroundings.

As luck would have it, the day was the weekly open market in the square, though the customers did not linger and socialize. The frigid temperature and the smell of snow in the air hurried them through their business. Sandor noted that the village boasted several public houses. He chose the one sporting a sign of a large orange cat, which appeared to enjoy the most patronage. It was easier for a man to lose himself amid a crowd, especially if that man wore a golden hoop in his ear.

Before
giving Baxtalo over to the care of the well-bundled ostler, Sandor eyed the stables that enclosed the inn’s courtyard. Shabby but the straw smelled fresh.

“Give him a good rubdown,” he told the boy, handing him a groat. “There will be another of these if you do a good job.”

The boy only nodded, conferring more of his attention on the horse than its owner. Sandor watched with satisfaction as the ostler led Baxtalo toward the dark shelter of the stable. He knew intuitively that his best friend was in good hands. As he mounted the stone steps to the inn’s side door, Sandor hoped that his welcome inside would be as cordial.

The Fat Cat’s small public room was crowded with farmers, tradesmen and a few of the market’s vendors, all seeking respite from the cold. A large fire roared in the wide hearth and savory cooking aromas mingled with the less pleasant odors of the clientele. Sandor found a vacant stool to one side next to the wall. In a
gadje
establishment such as this one, he always felt more secure with thick plaster at his back, less chance for some rapscallion to accost him from behind.

Only after he had given the tap boy his order for a mug of the house ale, a bowl of stew and a loaf of bread did Sandor undo his cloak and jacket. Though he took care not to reveal the location of his money pouch, he allowed the serving boy to see the sixpence that he held between his fingers. Experience had taught Sandor that his obvious foreign appearance might deny him service, but the silver sheen of ready money went a long way toward hospitality, especially in a coin-poor village such as this one.

When the
stew arrived, Sandor fell upon it like a wolf in the dead of winter. It had been nearly a fortnight since he had last eaten a good meal, when his Aunt Mindra had cooked a feast of
hotchiwitchi
made from a fat hedgehog that had taken a fatal stroll across Hampstead Heath. Sandor sopped the thick gravy of the mutton broth with a heel of the rye bread. Then, twirling his sixpence between his fingers, he ordered another bowl.

“And two more loaves of your good bread for my journey,” Sandor added, acutely aware that the sound of his accent had caused his nearest neighbors to stop their conversations and stare at him. “Have you any cheese?”

“Aye, ’tis hard but not stale,” the boy replied, mesmerized by the sixpence.

Sandor knew that the value of his coin could buy a wealth of food for himself and Tonia, provided the innkeeper was an honest man, though Sandor doubted that honesty would be extended to him. Prices suddenly doubled for Gypsies and other outlanders.

“A pound of your not-stale cheese then.” Sandor smiled at the lad. “And have you any meat pies?”

The server furrowed his brow. “Aye, ’tis made of hare—” he lowered his voice “—though there’s more turnip and carrot in it than hare,” he confided.

With a conspiratorial wink, Sandor nodded. “I will have two of these pies if they are not large. Tie them up in a cloth for I have far to go.”

“Where
away, stranger?” asked one of the listeners.

Sandor gave the man an easy smile. “All the way to Londontown and a cold ride ’twill be.”

The man narrowed his eyes. “Harewold is middling far off the London post road. Might I ask what ye be a-doing in these parts?”

Sandor allowed his hand to drop under the table where he could reach his long dagger if necessary. “You speak true, friend. I have been in the mountains on business, the King’s business.” Though Sandor kept his voice low, more of the inn’s customers turned his way at the mention of the young monarch. The innkeeper stepped out from behind his counter.

He cocked his head at Sandor. “Ye nae have the look of a King’s man about ye.”

Sandor gave him a wolf’s smile. “Executioners are a breed apart, though a law-abiding man such as yourself need have no fear of the King’s justice.” For further effect, he pulled out his black hood from his pouch and dropped it on the rough-hewn table. “Here is the badge of my office.”

There was a collective intake of breath among the nearby patrons, then everyone seemed to have something very important to say to his neighbor. The inn-keeper scurried back to his counter leaving Sandor alone with his food and his thoughts. He had not intended to reveal so much information, but now that he had, perhaps he could use it to his advantage in case anyone came searching for him at a later date. The hazy outlines of a plan for Tonia’s deliverance began to form in his mind. With an open smile, he turned to the man who had first spoken to him.

“I
am sure that you saw some of the King’s soldiers ride through here some days past, did you not?”

The man looked into the depths of his jack mug as if he were afraid that the executioner might curse him with the evil eye. “I nae have been to Harewold for a fortnight till now. With the weather fine, I had me fields to plow.”

The tap boy laid a sack filled with the extra food on the table. “Aye, there were some four or five soldiers that came through some days ago.” He wrinkled his nose.

Sandor played with the sixpence. “I pray that they did not dally too long with their refreshment. The King’s captain of the guard does not approve of sluggards.”

The lad shrugged his shoulders. “They came, took a short ease and then rode down toward the post road and were gone.” He sounded relieved.

This bodes well for my purpose.
Aloud, Sandor said, “And I too shall be on my way. There is much I need to do in London.”

The innkeeper cleared his throat, then dared to ask Sandor, “What be the name of the one ye turned off? Ahem…so that we may remember the poor sot in our prayers come next Sunday.”

Sandor shuddered inwardly. Why did the
gadje
continue to speak the names of the dead with love and reverence long after they were cold in the ground when people should pay more attention to those who still lived? “’Tis the King’s pleasure and not mine to tell names. I only do my duty as I am commanded.”

A strange glimmer stole into the man’s watery eyes. “Mind if’n I ask how ye did it? Did ye hang him or cut off his head?”

Sandor
gave him another wolfish grin. “Neither, my friend. I am the master of the garrote.” He clenched his hands and made a pulling motion. “’Tis quick and very, very quiet.”

The innkeeper and his customers stared at Sandor’s hands. Enjoying his role, the Gypsy splayed out his fingers on the table for their ghoulish admiration. Then he rose, tossed the sixpence to the tap boy and gathered up his cloak and the sack of food. To his table companion, he smiled and touched his hat brim. “Good day and God save,” he said.

He worked his way through the crowd out to the stable yard, where he retrieved a well-groomed Baxtalo. He tipped the ostler two groats for his horse’s good care and for a bag of oats. Snow had begun to fall while Sandor had dined inside the Fat Cat. Though the streets had only a thin covering over the cobblestones, he knew that the way back to Hawksnest would be a good deal more difficult than the morning’s ride to Harewold. He chided himself for having stayed so long.

Before he left the village, Sandor sought out the butcher’s stall. The vendor was in the act of closing down his business when Sandor located him. He purchased a string of sausages that the butcher claimed were fresh made, several tallow candles and a pig’s heart. Remnants of its life’s blood were frozen on the organ. Sandor added the sausages to his other provisions, but he wrapped the heart in a rag and stuffed it in his saddlebag. The cold air would keep it from deteriorating too much.

Then Sandor turned Baxtalo toward the eastern road so if anyone watched his departure, as he expected the patrons of the Fat Cat would do, they would later say that they saw him take the route to the post road. Once past the prying eyes of Harewold, Sandor circled around the village. The snowfall covered his tracks within minutes.

The grating
sound of the key in the door lock roused Tonia from her torpor. Hunger and the chill of her prison had made her groggy, but the new sound snapped her into full wakefulness. The person on the other side of her door had not called out her name nor said any soothing greeting. Her heart thudded into the pit of her stomach. What if it wasn’t Sandor who was having so much trouble turning the lock? She grabbed the little knife that he had left her, then she scurried into the darkest corner of the tiny cell. Gulping down her fear, she raised her puny weapon as the lock clicked open in the keyhole.

A man’s booted foot kicked back the door. Tonia tensed. Then a familiar form stepped into her cell. A load of dry firewood filled the crooks of his arms while he balanced a full jug of water in his hands. A heavy sack dangled from his teeth, making coherent speech impossible.

“Sandor,” Tonia breathed. Relief flooded her body. He had not abandoned her to starvation and a lonely death! Lowering her knife, she sagged against the wall.

His azure eyes widened when he saw her and the naked blade that she held. He deposited the water and sack on the table, then turned to her. “Missed me?” he asked with a half smile on his lips. His gaze searched hers for the answer.

Her knife clattered to the floor, and its blade rang against the stones. With a cry of “Sandor!” Tonia threw herself against him. The bulk of his body and the warmth that emanated from him soothed her fears.

Sandor
dropped the wood, then straddled the pile to take her in his arms. Trembling with joy, she clung to him, soaking up the comfort of his presence. Without thinking of the possible consequences, she rose on tiptoe to kiss him. She had meant to brush against his cheek, but he turned at the last split second so that their lips met.

Time stood still.

Sandor drew in his breath as her mouth closed over his. Then he pressed his lips to hers, caressing her more than kissing her. His velvet warmth touched Tonia like a whispered prayer, making her senses spin as he deepened his kiss. A quiver of pure delight surged through her veins. Her skin tingled and her lips burned. Though her eyes were closed, she felt as if the air surrounding them crackled with the golden sparks of a Twelfth Night fireworks display.

Sandor slowly pulled away. Tonia looked up at him. The smoldering flames that she saw in the depths of his bright eyes sent a tremor through her. She felt his heart beating rapidly against her own. Clearing her throat, she pretended that the pounding in her ears was nothing.

He did not speak but his hand slid down her spine, exploring each hollow of her back. His touch was oddly soft and caressing. A delicious shudder heated her body. Tonia knew that she should fight against her growing desire to move closer to him. A lifetime of prudence counseled her to resist. It was not too late to turn away and put him back in his place. She was a chaste virgin dedicated to God; he was a wild, unpredictable Gypsy.

But her
body, and the passion that she had long denied herself, resisted all common sense. Tonia ached for more of his touch. She burned for another one of his kisses.

Still Sandor remained silent, though his eyes spoke volumes, making no attempt to conceal his desire for her. His gaze dropped from her face to her shoulders and finally to the swell of her breasts where he lingered for a long moment. Fettered within her bodice, her nipples tingled as they hardened against the rough linen of her chemise. She gasped under her breath as an urgent tingling sensation spread out and down, heating her loins.

When he looked back to her face, Tonia moistened her lips in mute invitation. She held her breath. The prolonged anticipation was almost unbearable, and her limbs felt suddenly very heavy.

Sandor swallowed. “Forgive my rashness, my lady. I forgot that you are a nun.”

She blinked, then shook her head. “Nay, I never took formal vows. The King disbanded convents and forbade nunneries. My house of prayer was my own devising.”

He cocked his head. “But you said that you had dedicated yourself to God, not to man. I would not dare to steal from God.”

She tightened her arms around his neck. “You have stolen nothing from God—or me.”
Except my heart.

A slow smiled curled the corners of his mouth as he lowered his head to her.

“Do you truly want to do this?” Sandor murmured, his hot breath laving her cheek.

Her emotions, exploding from the hidden recesses of her heart, melted away the last of her resistance. Tonia arched herself against him like a harlot, though she felt no shame. His hand tightened against the small of her back, supporting her weight. Her pulses raced.

“Please,” she
whispered, offering her lips again to him. “Or I will die.”

“Then live,
sukar,
” he replied before he reclaimed her mouth.

Sandor’s fiery possession seared Tonia, and her mouth burned with his desire. His tongue traced the fullness of her lips, inflaming her to greater heights. His hunger shattered her common sense. Rational thinking whirled away like dry leaves in a wind. Parting her lips, Tonia welcomed him with abandon. He devoured her. She drank in his nectar.