Kitt licked his lips like a puppy anticipating its supper. “What is this test?”
Jobe leaned closer. “His eyes are covered so that he will not know where he is taken. Then the senior warriors march him a day and a night into the wilderness.”
Mark shuddered at the idea, but Kitt glowed with excitement.
Jobe continued, “Then they leave him alone with only his spear and his shield. The boy must track and kill a lion. He must skin it and drink its blood for its courage. Afterward, he must find his way back to his village with his prize. Then he is declared a man. He will keep the lion’s pelt all the days of his life.”
Swallowing, Mark decided that his long apprenticeship under Brandon’s tutelage had not been so difficult after all.
Kitt’s eyes grew larger. “And what if the lion wounds the boy or he gets lost while returning home?”
Jobe stared hard at him. “Then he dies.”
Kitt licked his lips. “What of his poor mother?”
The African shrugged. “She is only a weak woman. Women do nothing but weep or complain all the day long. You will soon learn that for yourself.”
Kitt tossed his long hair out of his eyes. “My lady mother was never weak.”
“Amen to that,” Mark murmured under his breath. I would rather face a lion any day than an angry Lady Kat.
Jobe nodded. “I see that, young master. You suckled courage from a strong mother.”
Kitt squared his shoulders. “Tis true. My family are the bravest in all England.” He turned again to Mark. “Do you hear that, Lord Hayward? Even your wise counselor says that I am ready to be a man. Let me go on this quest. Tis my right!” he added pounding his fist on his knee.
Mark studied the boy’s determined expression. Sighing, he tossed away his last shred of common sense. “If we are to ride together, I require three promises from you.”
Kitt could not contain the glee in his eyes nor in his voice. “Anything, my lord! I will not fail you!”
Mark stood to emphasize his tenuous authority over this half-grown lordling. “First, you will obey me and Jobe in all matters, even if you disagree with them.”
“But what if—?” Kitt began.
Mark held up his hand for silence. “Attend to me, Kitt. One day far in the future you will become the eleventh Earl of Thornbury and the lord protector of England’s border shire against the Scots. If you expect men to obey you then, you must learn the virtue of obedience now. Your noble father taught me that lesson when I was a good deal younger than you.”
Kitt considered the point, then nodded. “Aye, my lord, I will.”
“Second, until further notice, you will act as my squire. Has anyone instructed you in the duties of one?”
The boy made a face. “Aye, Lord Hayward. I am not a complete fool. I agree to this condition. And your third?”
Mark stared down at him and wondered if he himself had ever looked so young and vulnerable. “Third, since we are to live together in close harmony, please call me Mark. ‘Lord Hayward’ sounds strange in my ear when spoken by your mouth.”
Kitt grinned. “Aye, my lord…that is…Mark.”
Mark resigned himself to the sure knowledge that his days were numbered when next he saw Lady Katherine Cavendish—or maybe sooner, when he met Belle. “So, my friends, to sleep. We ride hard on the morrow. Squire Kitt, prepare our beds and bank the fire.”
The youngster practically fell over his feet in his haste to prove his worth.
Later, when the three lay close together under their blankets, Kitt whispered to Jobe, “Tell me about your lion.”
The African chuckled, “Twas a leopard and my tale will make your hair stand on end. Tis best saved for the daylight hours.”
“Oh!” Kitt burrowed deeper in his simple bedding.
Mark rolled onto his side and squeezed his eyes shut. I have a very ticklish feeling about this enterprise.
Griselda Fletcher plucked a raw pippin from the fruit bowl on the high table. She sliced and quartered it, then prized out the seeds from its core with the tip of her eating knife. She spread the pips on her empty trencher and began to count them.
“Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor—”
Mortimer regarded her with open disgust. His sister was such a sheep! “What are you doing, wench?”
Glancing up, she frowned at him. “Seeking my future husband since you have done nothing about finding one for me,” she whined.
Mortimer clenched his teeth as his sister’s high nasal voice grated on his nerves. “Hold your venom, chit,” he snapped. “I am attempting to procure you a dowry or had you forgotten that one minor point?”
Griselda pulled her plain features into a sour pout. “Methinks you would have attained Belle’s fortune long ago if you had just used a little more honey and less vinegar with her. Didn’t I tell you—?”
Mortimer slammed his fist on the heavy table. The apple seeds jumped at the impact. “Silence! Your song grows tedious and its tune abuses my ears.”
Griselda restored order among her fortune-telling pips. “Cuthbert said she was stubborn, remember? You should have let me—”
Mortimer abruptly stood. “I should have left you at home!”
The mewling woman continued, “Aye, where mayhap Father would have me wed by now. I am near six-and-twenty with no-o-o hus-husband!” She dissolved into gulping sobs.
Mortimer ignored her torrent of tears. “And you will never have a suitor if you insist upon weeping and wailing. A man does not find red eyes and a snotty nose the least bit attractive—and certainly not in his bed!”
“Oh!” Griselda shut her mouth.
Mortimer stalked over to the cheerful hearth and tossed another log on the fire. With a volley of crackles, red-orange sparks flew up the blackened chimney. He stared into the flames while he collected his thoughts. Fire had always soothed him, even from earliest childhood.
He held out his chilled fingers to the blaze. “Since the weather has turned colder, methinks Mistress Belle will soon become more…pliable.” He sniggered through his nose.
Griselda furrowed her thick brows. “But she is well enough, though sick in her mind, isn’t she?” she whimpered. “You promised she would get better soon. You said that—”
Mortimer turned on her. “I said that I would take the matter of Cuthbert’s inheritance in hand and there’s an end to it!”
His sister blew her nose in the tail of her dragging sleeve. “By my troth, I do not know why you bothered to bring me with you, I surely do not,” she moaned. “All you do is rail at me the whole livelong day as if it was my fault that you cannot find that chest of jewels. You act as if it was my fault that—”
Mortimer crossed the distance between them in two quick strides. Without a word of warning, he slapped her smartly across her whining mouth. The sharp crack of the blow echoed down the length of Bodiam’s empty hall.
“Take that for your faults that are beyond counting!” he snarled at her. “I rue the day I thought of you. Were it not for the tongue of scandal, I would have left you to snivel in your own chamber at home.”
“You s-said I was to b-be a g-good nurse for Cuthbert,” she sobbed in her sleeve.
“Ha! What a jest! He died. Perchance twas your fault.” He pushed his face closer to hers. “Now heed me well, Griselda. Whisper one more word about