Halloween Knight. Tori Phillips

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      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 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.

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