Mark relaxed his stance. “What have you caught for supper, Jobe?” he asked in a bantering tone.
The giant dropped his burden on the ground, then held him down with a well-placed foot on his chest. “Tis nothing but a man-child, meu amigo, though he swears with a fearsome tongue.”
The boy beat on Jobe’s boot. “Let me go, you lob of the devil!”
Mark took a closer look at their prisoner, then burst out laughing. “Hoy day, Jobe! You have done well! Tis a worthy prize indeed!”
Jobe lifted one corner of his lip. “This little mouse? This flea?”
His taunt only incited the boy to greater oaths. “Let me up! I will show you what is a flea and what is not, you flap-eared varlet!”
Mark hunkered down beside the snarling captive. “Methinks you are a Cavendish by the look of you.”
The boy went very still and turned a pair of bright blue eyes on Mark, who continued, “Indeed, Jobe, I am sure tis a member of that noble family—though he was absent from the supper table last evening. Perchance he was preparing his horse for today’s outing.”
The boy said nothing but had the courage to return Mark’s stare. Mark observed the boy’s rapid pulse throb in his neck.
Standing, he sheathed his sword. “Let him up, Jobe, but gently. Tis not seemly that the future Earl of Thornbury should grovel in the dust to the likes of us.”
With a rumbling chuckle, Jobe pulled the boy to his feet by the scruff of his jerkin. Then he stood behind his captive like some great bogle from a child’s nightmare. He held the boy in place with a large hand on each shoulder.
Mark grinned. “By the height that he inherits from his father and grandsire, and by the fire in his golden hair that bespeaks of his good mother, I say tis young Christopher Cavendish. By my troth, Jobe, I have not laid eyes on Lady Kat’s Kitten since he was chewing on his teething coral.”
Christopher lifted his chin and shot Mark a look of disdain. “I have not been called that puling name since I could walk. To my friends I am Kitt.”
The boy’s inference was not lost on either of his captors. Mark gave him a warm smile. “Then count us among your closest associates, good Kitt, for I have known your good family most of my lifetime, and Jobe is my boon companion.”
Kitt glanced up at the African. Then he ventured to touch the dark skin on the back of the man’s hand. “You are not painted?” he asked in awe.
Laughing, Jobe shook his head. “Only by the Lord God Almighty.”
“Tis a wonderment indeed,” Kitt observed.
Mark crossed his arms over his chest. “Tis even more of a wonderment that you ride alone on the highway so far from home.”
Before Kitt could answer, Jobe dropped to one knee and reached for one of their saddlebags. “Hold, meu amigo. In my land, a good tale should always be accompanied by food. Are you hungry, little warrior?”
Kitt shuffled his feet. “I could partake of a bite or two,” he replied with dignity.
Jobe grinned at Mark. “Boys are the same in every land,” he observed.
Within the hour Kitt had consumed most of the provender that Lady Kat had packed for Mark and his companion. Relaxed by the food, some wine and the comforting warmth of the fire, the boy told a detailed story of his preparations and escape from Wolf Hall—and his parents.
“I have come to help you save Belle,” he concluded.
Mark searched the starry heavens for angelic guidance. “This journey is not a social visit, Kitt. Your father thinks there may be some danger.”
Kitt’s eyes sparkled in the firelight though he managed to maintain a serious expression. “Good! I am prepared.”
I will throttle him! Aloud, Mark asked, “How? You are barely tall enough to swing a sword. Nay, tis impossible.”
Kitt swelled up like a young fighting cock. “I can shoot the eye out of a crow at a hundred paces with an arrow. And I am a most marvelous horseman.”
Jobe nodded. “In this he speaks the truth, meu amigo. The boy has followed us in a most cunning manner all day. Methinks you would not have noticed him until now.”
Mark’s vanity bristled at his friend’s words. “Why now?” he snapped.
The African’s smile flashed in the firelight. “Because the young master would have told you he was hungry.”
Kitt gaped at him. “My plan to the very letter, but how did you guess?”
Jobe leaned closer and whispered, “Because I am a powerful jinn.” He chuckled.
Kitt gulped and traced a hasty sign of the cross.
Mark glared at both of them. “Jobe is uncommonly wise, Kitt, but he is made of flesh and blood as we are. Now, my friend, I have need of your wise council. What are we going to do with the boy?”
Kitt gave Mark a steady look. “I am going with you to Bodiam, will you or nil you. Tis my duty as Belle’s most able-bodied male relative—at the moment.”
Stubborn like his father! Mark shook his head. “I applaud your courage, Kitt, but I cannot permit the deed. Your parents would hang me at the crossroads if any injury befell you.” He sighed. “Blast you, boy! We shall lose three precious days to take you home and return again. Those three days might cost Belle a month of sorrow. Did you think of that?”
Kitt did not flinch as Mark had hoped he would. Instead the boy replied, “You would waste your time, my Lord Hayward. Unless Papa chains me to my cot, I will still follow after you.” His expression softened. “Please, sir. Take me with you for I grow stale at Wolf Hall and I long to prove myself. My lady mother is…er…In truth, she would keep me wrapped in lambswool and placed in a strongbox if she could.”
Mark tipped his wineskin to his mouth, took a long drink then asked. “How old are you now?”
“Eleven years since last March.”
Mark pondered the boy’s answer. He himself had been fostered to Kitt’s grandfather and made Sir Brandon’s page before he had turned eight. By the time Mark was Kitt’s age, he had traveled to France, had lived at King Henry’s court for several seasons, knew how to gamble at cards and had gotten drunk at least once. Considering Lady Kat’s protective instincts toward her only chick, Mark strongly doubted that Kitt had experienced any of these adventures despite being the beloved son of such a champion as Sir Brandon Cavendish.
Jobe broke the silence. “In my land, you would have begun the rites of manhood by now, young master.”
Kitt blinked. “What might those be?”
Jobe fingered one of the many knives that hung from his shoulder strap. “Once a boy has learned how to use his spear as well as his bow and arrows, and once he has learned to track game over many miles, tis time for his final test.”
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