Chapter Five
Riding at night wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but Tate felt that they had been given little choice. The sooner they reached Harbottle, the better for them all. Mortimer’s men were after them and Tate was anxious to put young Edward behind the massive walls of his castle.
Tate was in full armor, something he’d sorely missed earlier in the day with Mortimer’s men running about.
The tempered steel breastplate had been forged in Rouen, as had the sword at his side.
His gloved hand stroked the dragonhead of the hilt, a carved masterpiece of metalwork.
Though the road was quiet, still, he was preparing to draw it at any moment.
He and his knights were silent, their senses attuned to their surroundings.
“Mortimer’s days are numbered,” Edward said quietly, attempting to fortify his courage. “He killed my father and he is trying to kill me.”
“He has been trying to kill you since you were a small child,” Tate replied evenly. “He is simply being more obvious about it now.”
The youth hung his head. Edward was still very sensitive. Tate knew what he was thinking without the lad speaking his mind.
“As I have always told you, I am sure your mother knows nothing,” he spoke with quiet assurance. “Mortimer is clever. There is much he can hide from her.”
“But you told her what he was doing,” Edward said. “She did not believe you.”
“She refused to believe ill of him. He freed her from the tyranny of your father and she is blinded by that.”
Edward sighed heavily, tightening the reins on his blond steed. “She will believe when I take my rightful place and throw Mortimer to the executioner.”
Tate didn’t reply. Like so many conversations with the lad, they had traversed this one before, too.
He glanced at Stephen, astride his big black stallion, and at Kenneth, who was watching the surrounding trees like a hawk.
It had been a long night for all of them and they were all exhausted, yet their exhaustion would have to wait.
They were in the open and vulnerable and had to reach safety.
“It is my suggestion that we stay vigilant until we reach Harbottle,” Tate said. “We will all be thinking more clearly once we are within the safety of her walls.”
“What about Mistress Toby?” Edward wanted to know. “We must still go to London; our stay at Harbottle is not permanent. Do we leave the women at Harbottle to fend for themselves?”
Tate thought about the sisters, asleep in the wagon that they had taken from the stables of Forestburn.
Toby had been too ill to react to her father and mother’s gruesome death, but Ailsa had been inconsolable.
He felt a good deal of guilt at the thought of heading off to London and leaving them behind in a strange castle.
Like a vicious storm he had moved in, destroying everything in his path, and then left those caught in the maelstrom to deal with the aftermath.
“Only the manor burned,” Kenneth cut into Tate’s thoughts. “The farm is still functional. ’Tis not as if they have lost everything. They can rebuild.”
Kenneth made it sound as if the women were not destitute but they all knew it was more than that.
Edward sighed heavily; after Toby had defended him, he, too, was feeling guilty about everything.
She had risked her life to protect him and, because of him, men had burned down her home and killed her parents.
All of that aside, however, he was anxious to return to Harbottle and, subsequently, London.
“Can we leave for London as soon as the women are settled, then?” he asked.
“We can.”
“But what are you going to do with them?”
“They will enjoy the hospitality of Harbottle until such time as it is no longer necessary.”
Edward didn’t push. He could tell by the tone of Tate’s voice that now was not the time. There were other things on his mind.
The night seemed to drag on forever. A fog had settled, collecting from the moist grass and rising as a thick mist. It was very damp and the chill was evident.
Not even the moon could break through the fog, although there was a small amount of light from the shrouded full moon.
Tate rode at the head of the group, his attention moving back to Stephen now and again.
The Hospitaller was riding beside the wagon.
They had been on the road for a few hours when Tate put Kenneth at point and reined his charger back beside Stephen.
He could see two figures resting in the wagon, covered by blankets they had managed to collect from the garconnaire.
In fact, everything the Cartingdon sisters owned that had not been burned now lay piled in the wagon.
Tate peered at the still forms in the wagon bed.
“How is Mistress Toby faring?” he asked Stephen.
Stephen’s cornflower blue eyes drifted to his patient. “She is sleeping heavily. She has had quite a night of it.”
Tate lifted an ironic eyebrow. “No doubt. We should see Harbottle by dawn; a warm bed should do her wonders.”
Stephen nodded his head though his focus remained on the lady. “So tell me how she stood against de Roche. We heard Edward’s version in which she rose out of her deathbed and wielded the poker like the sword of Archangel Michael. What was the truth of it?”
Tate gave him a half-grin. “He was not far wrong,” his smile faded as his gaze fell on her again. “She may be aggressive and outspoken but she has courage that men would envy. She is a brave and noble woman.”
There was something in his tone that caused Stephen to look closely at him.
He had suspected that Tate felt something more than polite interest since yesterday but couldn’t honestly believe it until this moment.
The Tate de Lara he knew was focused on young Edward’s cause singularly.
Stephen was frankly astonished to hear a tone comprised of awe and appreciation. He was also strangely jealous.
“Noble indeed,” he agreed quietly.
Tate didn’t notice the knight’s soft tone or the distant look to his eye.
He was focused on the bundles sleeping in the wagon bed.
Then his gaze moved to their surroundings; it was a soft, damp and eerie blanket that covered the land.
Even with thirty men from Harbottle, he was vastly uncomfortable traveling on the open road in the dead of night.
It was as quiet as a tomb as they plodded along, hoping to make it to safety in relative peace.
Until Ailsa’s cry suddenly pierced the air. The little girl sat bolt upright, wailing and rubbing her eyes. Startled, both Tate and Stephen reined their chargers near the wagon.
“Ailsa?” Tate was closer to her. “What is wrong?”
Ailsa sobbed and wiped the tears from her eyes. “My belly aches,” she sobbed. “I want to go home!”
Tate pulled one of the blankets from the wagon onto his lap. He held out his hand to the girl. “Come here, sweetheart,” he said. “Ride with me. You will feel better.”
She sobbed and sputtered, waking Toby in the process. The older sister was very groggy as she struggled to sit up against the bumping of the wagon.
“Ailsa,” she murmured hoarsely. “What is wrong?”
Ailsa sobbed and coughed. Suddenly, she vomited all over the front of her garment as Toby tried to catch the liquid with a section of the blanket. It turned into a mess. When she was finished gagging, Ailsa cried harder.
“I want to go home!” she wailed.
With a curt command from Tate, the wagon lurched to a halt and Stephen bailed from his charger, going in search of his medicament bag. Toby tried to clean up her sister.
“There, there,” she whispered softly. “You will be all right now.”
Tate had come to a halt next to the wagon, his storm cloud eyes watching Toby as she gently tended her sister.
He hadn’t sufficient experience in matters of the heart to realize that he was seeing the woman through entirely different eyes; now, everything about her was completely different.
He almost couldn’t remember that curt, aggressive woman he had first met at the church in Cartingdon.
All he could see was the brave, compassionate soul.
Stephen approached with water and some manner of powder from his mysterious bag and together he and Toby managed to both calm and clean Ailsa. Stephen’s potion did wonders to soothe her stomach and her sister’s tender embrace soothed her tears.
With her sister calming, Toby looked up at Tate, still seated astride his charger and watching them closely. She smiled weakly.
“I fear we have caused you some delay,” she said quietly. “She has never been a good traveler.”
Tate waved her off. “We are nearly to Harbottle. ’Tis just over the hill and we shall have both you and your sister into a warm bed in little time.”
Toby’s smile faded, her eyes turning as if she could see the distant castle. “That would be welcome,” she murmured.
Tate watched her intently as she returned to comforting her sister. “How are you feeling?” he asked softly.
It took Toby a moment to realize he was asking the question of her. She lifted her shoulders. “Exhausted,” she admitted. “But well enough to.…”
She trailed off. Tate peered more closely at her.
“Well enough to what?” he encouraged.
She looked at her sister, her hands, anywhere but Tate’s probing eyes. “Nothing, my lord.”
“My lord, is it?” Tate grunted. “You have not called me ‘my lord’ for two days.”
“I have not been conscious for two days.”
He grunted again, a smile playing on his lips. “You will call me by my name. Now tell me what you were going to say.”
She looked up at him and he could see embers of the old fire within her brilliant hazel eyes, the Toby he had first met in Cartingdon. He knew that illness and devastation could not erase this woman’s spirit. She was too strong.
“I was going to say that I am well enough to return to Forestburn,” she said with more conviction. “I must see to the state of affairs if we are going to have any hope of regrouping.”