Chapter Four #3
And take me from the world above.
Ailsa stopped her jig and clapped happily. The knights quieted her in unison again. “Hush!”
Ailsa’s mouth formed an “O” and she put her hand to her lips in a silence gesture.
She looked at Toby, fearful that she had disturbed her, but Toby was sleeping as peacefully as she could be given the circumstances.
Tate began to sing another song, a calming lullaby, as Stephen went to take his brew off of the fire.
He poured a good amount in a pewter cup and came back over to the tub.
“It should cool so she does not scald herself trying to drink it,” he said quietly. “But your singing has accomplished wonders; she is calm now.”
“Calm, aye, but she is still as hot as the sun,” Tate said. “I can feel it through my clothes.”
The last bucket of water went in to the tub.
It was nearly to the brim with tepid water that would help stabilize Toby’s temperature.
But it also made her shift transparent, something Tate could not see and Stephen tried not to notice.
When Toby started to shiver and her nipples hardened, Tate’s attention was drawn to the tantalizing peaks shrouded in wet linen.
So was Ailsa’s; noticing her sister’s state, she flew into a frenzy and ripped the coverlet off the bed.
She tried to tuck it in around her sister, causing water to splash all over the floor.
The knights would have scolded her had they not realized what she was doing. Stephen went so far as to help her. The drink was cooled sufficiently at that point and the former Hospitaller knight held Toby’s head up with one hand, administering the cup with the other.
The first spill of the warm brew into her mouth was a jolt. Toby sputtered and coughed, but Stephen managed to get an adequate amount of the foul-smelling liquid into her stomach. When he finally set the cup aside, Tate reached under the wet linens and lifted Toby’s wounded wrist above the water.
“Now,” his voice was a growl. “Tend this. I believe this is the source of her fever.”
Stephen inspected the wounds closely. “What manner of demon did this?”
Tate was reluctant to say with Ailsa present. He simply shook his head and Stephen saw that he either did not know or would not answer. He drew some powder from his satchel and mixed it with water, making a paste. Applying the paste to the wounds, he wrapped it with a strip of dry cloth.
“This should draw the poison out,” he said. “Keep it out of the water as best you can.”
Tate nodded silently. Toby was quivering against him in reaction to her prolonged submersion in the water, but she didn’t seem as hot as she had been.
He put a hand on her forehead again, feeling the warmth but confirming that his suspicions were correct; her fever was lessened.
Feeling somewhat reassured that she would survive, he settled back in the tub, his big hand holding her head against his shoulder and the other arm wrapped around her waist, and began to sing again.
It was soft and gentle, like a father singing to a sick child.
Somewhere in the singing, he tightened his grip, certain he could out-wrestle Death if it came to claim her.
The last time he had held a dying woman in his arms, Death had won.
Now it was the principle of the matter. Death would not best him again.
Eventually, they moved Toby out of the tub and onto the bed. She was calm and the fever seemed to be abating. There was nothing left to do but wait.
*
Arrows did away with some of the dogs that had attacked them the day before.
The troops from Harbottle were settled on the eastern side of the enclosure and the party of eleven men bearing the seal of Roger Mortimer, Earl of March, entered from the west. One of them had been witness to the slaughter yesterday of seven colleagues and had unknowingly escaped from young King Edward’s men.
He’d gone in search of the other Mortimer men that he knew to be in the area and found them south of Cartingdon, searching the village of Warton.
Merchants in Cartingdon loved to gossip. It wasn’t difficult to discover that Tate de Lara was at Forestburn Manor, a guest of the mayor. With that information, they wasted no time.
It was a brazen daylight attack. They killed the dogs and made their way across the vast enclosure and gardens, five of them heading for the house and six of them moving to the garconnaire.
The two windows of the small house proved to be convenient points of entry, but also deadly ones.
The knight inside was as fast as he was large, and deftly killed two of their number in swift succession.
But others were able to break in, doing battle with the two men-at-arms that were also inside.
The young king managed to throw himself out of one of the broken windows and race for the manor at the far end of the enclosure.
Unbeknownst to the occupants of the manor, three of Mortimer’s men had made it inside the large house by way of the kitchen.
The cook was killed and two servants beat unconscious.
They were waiting for the king when he flew into the house, yelling for the man that Mortimer knew as Dragonblade.
The lad was in a panic and was nearly hit by a sword that came flying at his head.
He managed to avoid being decapitated and raced into the great hall, pulling a sword down from the hearth and defending himself admirably.
All of this happened in quick succession, but the fiercest battle was yet to come.
Two massive knights came hurling off the stairs, racing into the great hall to join the melee.
Tate and Stephen were without armor or weapons and at a distinct disadvantage; Stephen grabbed the long, slender iron pole that was used to stoke the hearth and drove the dirty end into one man’s neck.
Tate picked up the nearest stool, used it to block a strike against him, then swung about and used it as a weapon to disarm his adversary.
It was a smooth move, accomplished in a matter of seconds.
An additional move took his foe’s legs out from underneath him and he collected the man’s sword before it hit the ground.
In a deadly turn, he used it against him.
There was still another attacker in the room, going after young Edward. Stephen did away with the man, putting the fire pole between his ribs. As the man fell, the knight caught his sword. Now, at least they were armed. Their odds were increasing.
Edward was exhilarated and terrified. “In the garconnaire!” he yelled. “There are more!”
“Go help Kenneth,” Tate ordered Stephen. He looked at the young king. “Up the stairs, now.”
The tone of command left no room for debate. Stephen left for the garconnaire, but Edward had yet to move.
“I can fight,” he insisted.
“It was not a request,” Tate replied. “Get up the stairs to the mistress’ chamber and lock the door.”
Edward was about to argue further but he suddenly paused. “I smell smoke.”
Tate smelled it, too. He suspected what was happening and his plan of attack shifted.
Before he could say anything further, a body abruptly stepped from the shadows and hit him squarely across the back of the head.
Without his helm, Tate went down like a stone.
Edward’s eyes widened as the figure came into the weak light.
“De Roche,” he gasped. “What… what are you doing here?”
Hamlin de Roche was big, dark and ugly. His armor was of the finest grade and his demeanor gave him the ambience of the devil. He grinned at Edward, evil and death bleeding from every pore of his body. He stepped over Tate’s supine form.
“My king,” he greeted in a deep, raspy voice. “As Mortimer’s finest servant, the earl does not pay me for my good looks or pleasant nature. I have come for a reason.”
Edward was backing up as de Roche moved towards him. “Stay away from me, you bastard. You will not lay a hand on me.”
“I do not intend to lay a hand on you,” de Roche said calmly. “I intend to take you with me for Mortimer’s pleasure.”
Edward was to the stairs, backing his way up the steps and unaware that he was about to corner himself.
He had a sword in his hand but dared not strike out at de Roche; as deadly as Tate de Lara was, de Roche had nearly the same reputation.
He was a powerful warrior, Roger Mortimer’s most valuable knight.
Catching Tate unaware had been a first; Tate had gotten the better of de Roche many times.
“Stay away, de Roche,” Edward raised the sword in a weak threat. “I will kill you if you come any closer, I swear it.”
De Roche laughed low in his throat. “You are brave, sire. You have grown since last we spoke.”
Edward was nearly to the top of the stairs and increasingly fearful of his fate.
He was at a disadvantage and he knew it.
But unexpectedly, a wet figure pushed past him, a blur of hair and ashen flesh.
Toby suddenly wedged herself between Edward and the dark knight, causing Edward to trip and fall back on the steps.
Truthfully, he was so startled to see her that he had fallen over his own feet.
Toby was pale and shaken, her nightshift damp from the bath she had taken to save her life.
She had awoken on her bed, hearing urgent voices in the hall and wondering why she was all wet.
Ailsa was asleep beside her and she had not the strength to wake her sister and ask what had transpired.
When the voices drew closer, men she did not recognize, she was curious more than she sensed danger.
But a terrified young man’s voice told her something was amiss.
Rising from the bed, which was no easy feat, she had stumbled to the door in time to see Tate’s squire heading off with an enormous knight.