Tori Phillips by Silent Knight Page A

good fortune of riding on the victorious shirttails of Henry Tudor at Bosworth field, Roger’s father had been granted Snape Castle, a poor holding on the windswept northern moors. Through two advantageous marriages, as well as a number of savage raids on his weaker neighbors and across the Scottish border, Roger Ormond had managed to expand his father’s lands and increase the family fortune. Only fear of the powerful earl of Thornbury, whose vast domain now lay directly to the west of Snape Castle, kept the rapacity of the ambitious Ormonds at bay.
    When Walter first arrived at Henry VIII’s court six years ago, all the world, it seemed, had eagerly spread out their costly cloaks at the feet of the handsome young man. Roger winced inwardly at the memory. How proud he had been to see his son and heir feted and fawned over by the great of the land! That pride had turned to gall all too soon. Roger could not remember a time when his anger had so choked him as when Walter came crawling back to Snape, whining of his ill-treatment at the hands of the king himself.
    Roger had hoped the disgrace would straighten out the headstrong boy. Perhaps in time, and with gold, the damage to the family’s ambitions might be repaired. Instead, Walter had slunk into lower company and absented himself often from Roger’s watchful gaze. Now the ghastly piper demanded to be paid his dire reckoning. And the price? God’s nightshirt! What an ignoble end to such a promising beginning!
    The priest had barely uttered the final Pax Domine when Walter turned on his heel to leave.
    “Nay!” Roger’s hand clamped around his son’s wrist. “Whither away so quickly?”
    “To ease my bladder, Father.” Walter’s thick cloak muffled the sting of his sneering reply. “Surely I do not need your permission to do that?”
    “Then be quick about it. I will see you in my closet immediately after,” Roger growled, tightening his grip.
    “I have an appointment elsewhere.” Walter broke his father’s grasp, then edged backward into the deeper shadows of the emptying chapel.
    “Attend to it later. I will see you first.” Gathering his own cloak more tightly about him, Roger strode past the younger man. “Mark me, boy, or there will be the very devil to pay.”
    Roger did not wait for a further reply, but stalked through the doorway.
    In the chill outer corridor, Roger spoke to one of his retainers. “Wait upon my son, Grapper,” he instructed the burly man. “Make sure he is in my presence within a quarter of this hour.”
    “Aye, master.” The servant touched his forelock.
    “And if you must truss him like a bandy cock, then do so. I care not in what state he arrives, only that he comes.”
    The retainer grinned, revealing a few yellowed teeth rooted in blackened gums. “’Tis my pleasure, sir.” With that, he hurried after Walter’s retreating figure.
     
    “Your man laid hands upon me!” Walter’s fury choked his words.
    Roger turned from the low fire where he had been warming himself after the cold of the burial service. “’Tis no surprise, since you were apprehended saddling your horse in the stable.”
    Walter’s eyes blazed from the shadows cast by his low hood. “My appointment will not wait,” he rasped. A cloud from his breath hung in the damp air before him.
    Roger slammed his fist down on the thick oaken tabletop, rattling the account ledgers stacked there. “Your doxy can wait until doomsday! Indeed, she is better off without your attentions.”
    Walter’s shoulders shook with suppressed rage. “My business is mine own. I take it ill that you should question me. I am of age, and I do as I please.” He put his hand to the door latch of the tiny counting room.
    Roger picked up a heavy clay inkpot and hurled it at his son. Walter swore a loud oath as the vessel missed his head by inches. Striking the door, the pot shattered; the ink splattered against the wood leaving a large black stain. Walter swore again when he