Read Online The Black Knave by PATRICIA POTTER - Free Book Online Page B

comment. “Have you heard of the man they call the Black Knave?”
    “Oh, yes, my lady. He and the price on his ‘ead is all the soldiers talk about.”
    “What else have you heard? Is he thought to be around here?”
    Trilby shrugged. “They say he is everywhere.”
    “Has anyone actually seen him?”
    The maid shook her head. “Not as I heard. But they say…”
    “Say what, Trilby?”
    “That he rides a black horse. That he is very tall, and that he always wears a mask. But then I also heard …”
    Bethia was growing impatient. Apparently Trilby wasn’t quite sure what might get her into trouble. Should she be listening to so much gossip? Should she be showing some of the awe evident in her voice?
    “That he is elderly. Or a gypsy. Some say he is the devil and can change form.”
    “Is that what you think?”
    “That is what the soldiers say. That is why they canna catch him.”
    “I do not think the devil goes around rescuing people from those who want to hang them. Or worse,” Bethia added.
    Trilby shuddered. “I wouldna want to meet him.”
    Bethia sighed. She would get no useful information from the maid. But she decided then and there to end her isolation in this chamber and talk to others in the household. Mayhap someone knew more about this … Black Knave. And how to reach him.
    “Come Trilby. Help me select a dress,” she said, going to the huge dresser where her new gowns, all quickly sewn on demand by the marquis, lay in their obscene splendor. “Any but the blue one.”
    Rory played the amorous husband at the banquet. He played it well enough to see the alarm in her eyes.
    He draped an arm around her, leered at her, even patted her backside as she sat down, all to the guffaws of the drunken guests. Only Cumberland seemed to remain sober, his cold gaze often resting on the new marchioness. Rory felt a chill go up his back. Cumberland’s interest was more than a little odd. Did he suspect Rory of disloyalty? Or was the interest centered on the MacDonell lass?
    He ate lightly of the endless courses necessary to entertain a duke: partridges stewed with celery in oyster sauce, pigeon pie, goose, salmon and numerous cheeses, eggs in their shell, and vegetable puddings. None of it, he noticed, was prepared very well. The fowl was raw, the vegetables too well done. His wife, he noted, ate even less, barely touching any of her food.
    He joined in toast after toast—to fathering numerous children, to the night ahead, to King George. Bethia’s face, he noticed, grew pale, her slender body more rigid. He wished he could reassure her even as he silently applauded her self-control. Though he thought he gave the appearance of drinking as much as the others, he really drank very little. He needed to keep his wits about him this evening. God’s blood, he needed to keep them about him as long as Cumberland overstayed his welcome.
    “Eat more, my lord,” one of the Forbeses yelled from far down the table. “Ye will be needin’ all your brawn t’night.”
    Rory heard the swift intake of his bride’s breath, but there was nothing he could do but appear to be leering while a number of ribald comments followed the drunken observation.
    “If ye need any help, milord …”
    “Aye,” came another voice. “Ye can count on me.”
    Other suggestions followed, some of them contemptuous of his own ability to perform. Rory looked toward Neil, who was silent. His cousin’s dark eyes, however, watched him as closely as Cumberland’s.
    “I believe I can service my wife quite adequately,” Rory said in a bored tone, taking a long drought from his tankard. She started to whisper something, but the sound was lost in the shouts. Instead, he felt a painful kick against his leg. He merely grinned at her and called for more wine, slinging his tankard so much of its contents spilled on the floor.
    He allowed another few moments of false good wishes, then pushed back his chair. He staggered as he stood, then offered