Halloween Knight. Tori Phillips

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      Mark frowned at his companion’s enthusiasm. “Let us not act in haste, Jobe. He may have henchmen.”

      “More better!” the giant answered with relish.

      Mark pulled his bonnet lower over his forehead. “The road turns to the left below that rise. Let us continue at our present pace. At the bend we will fly like the wind.”

      “And not fight?” Jobe snorted his disappointment.

      Narrowing his eyes, Mark squinted at the late afternoon sun. “If our tail is still with us by nightfall, we will…persuade him to sup with us.”

      Jobe beamed. “More better!”

      Three hours later, Mark and Jobe sought their night’s shelter under the spreading boughs of an oak, its leaves decked in autumn’s red and gold. Mark hoped the mysterious rider had left them.

      Jobe chuckled. “He is a sly one,” he said as he unsaddled his large bay.

      Mark wondered why a lone robber would bother to pace them all day. Jobe and he traveled lightly and in plain attire. The most costly things that the men owned were their weapons.

      “Build up a large fire to draw his attention,” he told his friend. “Meanwhile I will circle around and catch him from behind.”

      Jobe shook his head. “Most unwise, meu amigo.”

      Mark frowned at him. “How so?”

      The African lightly cuffed Mark’s chin. “That white face of yours will shine out in the night like a second moon. Our shadow would have to be blind not to see you coming. On the other hand, I become one with the night. Besides, your life is my concern.”

      Mark swore under his breath. “I can fend for myself.”

      Jobe chuckled. “Aye, with me at your right hand.” He threw off the long cape he wore. His bandoliers of knives and his copper bracelets shimmered in the faint starlight. “Build up the fire and prepare for a roast.”

      Mark grabbed his friend by the arm before the giant could melt into the darkness. “Do not kill the knave. England is a civilized country and twill annoy the Sheriff of Yorkshire if we leave a dead body on his highway. Bring back our guest while he still breathes.”

      Jobe thumped him on the shoulder. “As you say,” he whispered. “Though killing is easier,” he added before he disappeared.

      Mark stared into the darkness and tried to follow Jobe’s route, but he gave up. It seemed that the huge man had disappeared into thin air. After gathering a large armful of windfall kindling, Mark soon had a fire roaring. He unsheathed his dagger and sword, laying them close at hand while he tended the blaze.

      The minutes crept by with no sound down the road. Mark stepped out of the circle of firelight, and backed up against the broad trunk of the tree. He held his sword lightly in his hand. His left forearm always ached in tense moments like this. It reminded him of Belle and the reason why he was skulking around a dark countryside instead of warming his bottom by a hearth in Wolf Hall. Gritting his teeth, he made himself think of the green pastures Brandon had promised him.

      Suddenly, a yelp ripped the cool night. Mark tightened his grip on his sword and snatched up his dagger in his right hand. More yowls and snarls signaled Jobe’s success. In the light of the half moon, Mark saw his friend heft a flailing body over one of his massive shoulders. The African laughed with genuine pleasure that drowned out the fearsome oaths his slim prisoner screamed in his ear.

      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.

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