Chapter Four
“How long are we to remain here?” the squire asked. “I thought we were leaving for London immediately.”
Tate and Stephen had entered the garconnaire for a much-needed break.
It was dark and foggy outside, the air filled with smoke from the early-morning fires.
They had been with Toby all night, finally moving her to the chamber she shared with Ailsa towards dawn so that she could sleep more comfortably.
Having fallen asleep in the chair was not the best place for her to rest, but she had resisted every time they had tried to move her.
“Mistress Toby is ill with fever,” Tate said, removing portions of his armor and letting them fall to the floor.
“Feeling somewhat responsible for her health since it was at my behest that she showed us the donated herd yesterday morning, I feel compelled to see to her well-being. There is no better healer in all of England than Stephen.”
The squire had yet to learn the true virtue of patience. “But there are more pressing matters. There are assassins about. Does this not concern you?”
Tate looked at the tall, fair-haired lad with the deep brown eyes.
“Your Highness, it does indeed. But we are safer here at Forestburn than out on the open road. Furthermore, the thirty men-at-arms that Stephen brought from Harbottle are camped outside the walls of this place, so I am confident that you are well protected.”
It was rare that Tate addressed the lad formally.
In fact, there were times that young Edward forgot who he really was.
Traveling with Tate de Lara as his squire was a perfect cover.
In this capacity, he was able to see and experience things in his realm that he would not have normally tasted.
Additionally, he was away from his mother’s court where Roger Mortimer was determined to see him dead.
Tate had been mother, father, protector and savior to him in this very troubled time. He would have been dead without him.
“Those assassins yesterday morning were not aiming for you or the lady with the sheep,” Edward said. “They were aiming for me.”
“I am well aware of that.”
“They followed us from Rothbury. But how did they find us? How did they know where we were going?”
Tate glanced at Kenneth; the big blond knight was cleaning his blade with a soft cloth, removing the blood that had spilt on it earlier.
“We did not get a chance to ask,” Tate replied, his gaze still on Kenneth as if the two shared more information than they were willing to divulge. “They decided that dying in a skirmish would be better than being captured.”
“Perhaps there were spies at the church yesterday, hearing all that was said,” Kenneth suggested. “It would not have been difficult to get information from the locals to put them a step ahead of us.”
Edward’s jaw ticked as he paced around, having not yet learned that worrying was a useless endeavor. “So you tracked them and followed them to the town of Burnfoot to the north.”
“Aye,” Tate said.
“How many were there?”
“The group that we saw in Rothbury had split. We only found seven.”
“Did you kill all seven?”
“We had no choice. They drew the first sword.”
Edward stopped pacing. “The rest will find us. If we do not leave this place, it is only a matter of time before they track us down.”
Tate was used to Edward’s concerns. He was young and spirited, concerned for himself and his country. His passions ran deep, and sometimes, so did his foolishness.
“As I said, we are safer here than almost anywhere at the moment,” he said steadily.
“It is my suspicion that the rest of Mortimer’s assassins are in the vicinity of York, thinking we may be in that area.
It will take them time to realize that we are not.
By that time, we will be half way to London. They will not be able to catch us.”
“But it is three hundred miles to London,” Edward pointed out. “It will take us weeks to get there at a hard ride.”
“It will not matter if we leave tomorrow or the next day.”
Edward cocked an eyebrow, the Plantagenet stubbornness apparent. “No offense to the Mistress of the house, but I would think you would put my priorities over hers. I frankly do not care if she is ill or not.”
Tate had the Plantagenet stubbornness, too, with the added benefit of age to bolster it. “Your priorities are, and ever have been, my greatest concern. If you are questioning my loyalty, perhaps you should find someone else to lead your cause.”
“Perhaps I should.”
Tate snorted; it was a bluff and they all knew it. “No one else would put up with your constant whining. By virtue of the fact that I am your uncle, I must.”
Edward quieted somewhat. He wandered over to where Tate sat, pulling up a stool from the hearth and appearing somewhat forlorn. “It should be you on the throne, not me,” he muttered. “Had things been different.…”
“Had things been different, your grandfather would have married my mother and I would be the king. But things are not different. They are as they are. I accepted that long ago and so should you.”
“I am afraid that I will not be an effective ruler, Tate.”
Tate smiled at the youth, putting a big hand on his blond head. “You will be the best ruler England has yet to see. I see my father’s strength in you. Trust in yourself, Edward. We do.”
“Sometimes I wonder. There is so much at stake.”
Tate had heard these words before, many times. When Edward wasn’t doubting himself, he could be a responsible, decisive young man. But he was young and circumstances beyond his control had the tendency to frighten him.
“There is much at stake; that is true,” Tate agreed. “But the rewards far outweigh the risks, do they not?”
The lad gave his uncle a reluctant grin.
Tate gave the boy’s hair one last shake and returned to the task of removing the last of his armor.
He hadn’t realized how exhausted he was until he sat down.
Now, he was thinking seriously about a few hours of much deserved sleep.
Stephen was already snoring in the corner.
Tate had barely laid his head down when there was a knock at the door.
Morley, the man-at-arms, was the first to the door. He threw it open, sword in hand, to reveal Ailsa standing at the door. The sun was rising, giving her an unearthly glow as the rays filtered through the early morning fog.
“I am sorry to come,” she stammered. “But my sister… she is worse.”
Tate was up and so was Stephen. They crowded Morley away from the door, filling it with their bulk.
“What is wrong?” Tate asked.
Ailsa’s face was pale beneath her blue hood. The frail child looked like a porcelain doll, able to crack at any moment. “Her fever has worsened. She does not answer when I speak to her.”
Stephen was already out of the door, heading for the manor. Tate was close behind him with Ailsa bringing up the rear.
“Is she going to die?” Ailsa asked anyone who would answer her.
“She is not going to die,” Tate replied.
Ailsa ran until she was beside him as he walked and still, she had to run to keep pace. It was exhausting work.
“How do you know?”
“I just do.”
Ailsa was losing speed, breathing heavily. In the midst of his concern, Tate could see that the child was unused to physical exertion. He paused long enough to pick her up and resumed his stride. The last thing he wanted was for the younger sister to catch her death running about in the dank air.
Stephen was the first one up the stairs followed closely by Tate and Ailsa.
It sounded like a thundering herd against the wooden steps.
When they reached the top of the dimly lit stair hall, Tate could hear groaning coming from one of the rooms. He ignored the moans, trailing Stephen into the chamber that he had left Toby in.
When they finally reached her, she was lying upon the sheets, her damp skin as pale as the linen.
Her eyes were closed. Stephen put a large hand on her forehead and shook his head. “She is on fire,” he muttered. “We need to cool her down immediately. Have the servants bring a tub in here and fill it with tepid water.”
Ailsa fled the room with all the grace of a headless chicken.
The knights could hear the scuttling of feet as the servants were roused in the house.
Stephen saw a rag and a bowl of water beside the bed; Ailsa had been using it in a vain attempt to keep her sister cool.
He picked up the rag, dipped it in the water, and wrung it out.
“Pull the bed covers off of her,” he told Tate. “We will have to cool her as best we can until the tub arrives.”
Tate swung back the coverlet, exposing her to the chilly room. Stephen took her left arm, pushed up the sleeve of her shift, and swabbed water on her tender skin. “I need to get my bag.”
Tate had felt helpless until this point. He took the rag from Stephen. “I will do this. Go get your medicaments and be quick about it.”
Stephen quit the chamber. Tate looked down at Toby a moment, her pale sweating face, feeling his heart lurch strangely. Taking her right arm, he exposed the flesh and was faced with the bandaged wrist. It abruptly occurred to him why she was so ill. With a muttered curse, he unwrapped it.
The wounds were horribly red and swollen. Yellow pus seeped from two of them. Anger filled Tate; he knew with certainty that the source of her fever was not the chill from yesterday’s exposure. It was the poison racing through her veins from the cuts her mother had inflicted on her.
He swabbed the cool water against her flesh, avoiding the cuts.
When he ran the rag over her forehead and cheeks, she seemed to come around a bit and slapped at his hand.
The gesture made him smile; even in her current state, the woman was a fighter.
She would need all of her strength to battle this toxin.
He swabbed her cheek again just to see her reaction and was rewarded when she slapped at him again.