Chapter Seven #2
But Toby was too weak with grief and recent illness and ended up falling before she could get too far away.
Huddled on the floor, she held her sister’s torso and head tightly while Ailsa’s legs lay splayed across the floor.
It was clear that she was not balanced. Tate didn’t look at Stephen as he spoke to the knight; his eyes were riveted to Toby.
“I will take Toby,” he whispered. “Be prepared to grab Ailsa and take her out of here.”
Stephen nodded, heading off to his right while Tate moved to his left.
They were stalking Toby, like predators, only these were predators of mercy.
Toby would never gain her wits so long as she held a death-grip on her sister’s body.
Tate walked up behind her, crouching down and putting his big hands on her upper arms.
“Elizabetha, sweetheart,” he tightened his grip as he spoke, his hands moving down her arms to her wrists. “Please let us have Ailsa. I promise we will be very careful with her.”
Toby wept and sputtered. “Nay,” she gasped. “She is all that I have left. She cannot… she cannot be dead.”
“She is, sweet,” Tate crooned softly, his cheek against the right side of her head. “I am so sorry for your loss. Believe me; I know what you are feeling. I have been there. But you must let us take Ailsa to prepare her for burial.”
Toby howled. “Nay!” she cried. “You cannot bury her!”
Tate’s grip around her was getting tighter as he prepared to pull her arms away from her sister’s body. “We must, love,” he had a good grasp on her wrists, making sure Stephen was prepared to strike from his position next to Ailsa. “Let Stephen take Ailsa. He will be kind to her.”
Toby shook her head and Tate decided it was time to act.
Grabbing her wrists, he pulled her arms away from Ailsa’s corpse.
Stephen was swift and grabbed the little girl, moving for the door in one keen motion.
Realizing she had been tricked, Toby turned into a wildcat; she kicked and screamed and beat at Tate even as he lifted her off the floor and carried her to the bed.
As Stephen slipped from the room, Tate and Toby fell onto the bed in a writhing, howling mass of grief.
Toby was screaming at the top of her lungs.
Tate had both arms wrapped firmly around her so she could not get away from him; he was afraid that if she was able to get a hand free, he would find himself missing an eye.
So he held her tightly, riding out the storm, knowing eventually she would exhaust herself.
There was nothing more he could do. Toby twisted and cursed, showing surprising strength in her slender body, but eventually her energy left her and she ended up a quivering mass of warmth and hair in his arms.
Toby didn’t have the strength to cry any longer.
She simply lay in his arms, gasping for every breath.
Tate took a chance on loosening his grip and he stroked her hair, her face, whispering soothingly in her ear and telling her that all would be well.
But Toby didn’t hear him; at some point, she gave a heaving gasp and suddenly lay still.
Concerned, Tate felt for her pulse; it was fast but strong.
And she was still breathing regularly. Realizing she had fainted, he welcomed the peace from her pain.
“Sleep well, sweetheart,” he whispered, kissing her on the temple. “You have earned it.”
Propped up on an elbow, he gazed at her for a very long time, feeling such sorrow for the woman as he could not begin to describe.
She had been through so much in her life; a drunk father, an invalid mother, but she had not only survived, she had thrived.
Then he came along and within days destroyed everything she had worked so hard to achieve.
He had destroyed her world. Now her sister was dead.
If he’d never come to Cartingdon, none of this would have happened.
But, then again, he would have never met Toby.
He stroked her hair again, soft strands beneath his calloused hand.
He kissed her baby-soft cheek, allowing his lips to linger on the flesh.
Her lips were near and he was drawn to them, gently kissing her mouth for the first time and realizing she was as sweet as he had known she would be.
He kissed her lips again, once more, before very slowly rising from the bed.
Although she was unconscious, he did not want to disturb her.
Taking the dusty old blanket, he tucked her in carefully.
“Sleep well,” he touched her face one last time.
The room was growing dark and cold so he moved to the hearth and deftly started a small fire with the flint and kindling that was still there.
Looking around, he realized there wasn’t much fuel for the fire so he put what he could on the blaze.
He stood up as the flames fired up, watching Toby’s still form, fighting off a myriad of emotions swirling through his chest.
Leaving Toby to sleep, he shut the door softly behind him.
*
The full moon was creating a brilliant gray landscape just after midnight. Night birds sang and nocturnal creatures foraged in the fields below the great bastion of Harbottle. All was peaceful and still, a world away from the turmoil that had gripped them over the past few days.
Kenneth was on the battlements of Harbottle, his ice-blue eyes watching the landscape for a hint of threat.
He had taken charge of the defenses with Tate and Stephen distracted with Mistress Toby and her dead sister, removing himself from emotion that was difficult for him to digest. Moreover, it was distracting them from the king’s mission.
One of them had to remain focused and Kenneth decided it would be him.
With Edward asleep inside the keep, Kenneth maintained vigilance for them all.
As he gazed out over the landscape, he heard footfalls down below in the bailey.
A ladder that was ten feet away began to move slightly; he could see the wood shifting back and forth.
As he watched, Tate mounted the last rung of the ladder and climbed onto the wall walk.
He was without his armor, clearly not prepared for sentry duty.
Kenneth remained silent as Tate walked up next to him and began scanning the silver landscape.
“No movement?” he asked quietly.
Kenneth shook his head. “Nothing, my lord. All is quiet.”
Tate nodded faintly, his storm cloud eyes still moving across the scenery. “Were you able to locate a suitable coffin for Ailsa?”
Kenneth crossed his big arms, his gaze scanning the landscape just as Tate was. It was a habit with them, always vigilant and aware of their surroundings. “Nothing that I would consider suitable so Wallace is building one,” he replied.
Tate lifted an eyebrow and looked at him. “He’s building one?”
“Aye. The man can do anything, you know. Even build a coffin. Perhaps he is doing it because he feels badly about the girl’s death.”
Tate pursed his lips. “Perhaps he is doing it to get back into my good graces. When will this receptacle be ready?”
“He said that he would work on it all night. It may not be the nicest coffin you have ever seen, but it will be well-made.”
Tate was silent a moment, pondering how in the world they were going to bury Ailsa without her sister going mad. “We’ll have to put her in Harbottle’s chapel for now,” he said quietly. “It is a tiny place. I have not surveyed it yet to determine if there is space.”
“I have,” Kenneth replied. “There is a length of ground in the corner near the altar. It should be suitable.”
“Very well,” Tate looked at Kenneth. “Thank you for your foresight in planning this arrangement. I have been else occupied.”
Kenneth nodded slowly, his ice-blue eyes fixed on Tate; he was the most stoic of the knights, rarely smiling and rarely voicing his opinion unless asked.
He had a stronger sense of duty than most and had known Tate for many years.
He had been present when Tate’s wife had passed away and remembered how the event nearly toppled the man.
Although Kenneth made a habit of not forming friendships, his relationship with Tate was a rare exception.
He greatly respected de Lara, the man who should have been king.
“It has been my pleasure, my lord,” Kenneth finally said after a moment. “And if I have not yet expressed my sympathies on the passing of Mistress Ailsa, then allow me to do so. Her death is a sorrowful thing.”
Tate nodded pensively. “I feel as if we have brought great doom upon Mistress Elizabetha’s head. I feel responsible for all of this somehow.”
Kenneth was used to Tate expressing his emotions; the man was in touch, and usually in control, with them. It was not an outlandish occurrence for Tate to speak what was in his heart or mind.
“It is not your fault,” Kenneth said frankly. “We could not have known what tragedies our association with Mistress Toby and her family would have brought.”
Tate drew in a long breath, pondering his words, knowing he was correct in theory. But it did not stop him from feeling the guilt. After a moment, he scratched his head and turned back for the ladder.
“I am going to check on Mistress Toby and then I am going to sleep for a couple of hours. Wake me before dawn; sooner if you need me.”
“I would not worry about Mistress Toby,” Kenneth told him. “Stephen is with her.”
Tate paused on the first rung of the ladder. “How do you know?”
“He was here a little while ago. As he left, he told me that he was going to check on her.”
“He is supposed to be with Ailsa.”
“There is nothing he can do for Ailsa.”
Tate took the first two rungs of the ladder before pausing. He looked up at Kenneth. “Tell me something, St. Héver, and be truthful.”
“I have never lied to you, my lord.”
“I did not mean that. I meant be truthful in your opinion.”
“Opinion of what?”
“Why would Stephen be so solicitous of Mistress Toby?”
Kenneth shrugged, not sure what Tate was driving at. “Because she is stricken with grief, I am sure. He is a healer and she, at the moment, is in need of help. Why else?”
“It could not be because he is interested in her, could it?”
“Interested in her in what way?”
“As a man is interested in a woman.”
Kenneth understood then. For the first time, he seemed to lose some of his stoic demeanor. “Why would you ask?”
Tate shrugged. “I am not sure. Something in his expression at times. I have never known the man to show interest in any woman. What do you know of it?”
Kenneth shook his head. “You will have to ask him.”
“I am asking you. He is close to you. Has he said anything?”
“Said anything? Nay, he has not.”
“But you believe there is something more to it.”
Kenneth sighed reluctantly. It was clear that he did not want to say what was on his mind but he knew that Tate would pester him until he did. So he confessed.
“His manner suggests that perhaps he shows more concern than normal towards her.” He lifted an eyebrow at Tate. “Then again, so does yours.”
Tate digested the statement and descended the ladder without another word.
Leaving Kenneth on the wall walk, he was halfway across the bailey when a shout suddenly went up from the sentries on the eastern wall.
Jolted into action, Tate barreled up the ladder to the battlements, thundering along the stone walkway just behind Kenneth as they made their way to the eastern wall. And there they saw it.
There was a line of torches and men that stretched a quarter of a mile in length.
It was ominous in the silver moon glow, like a black tide of ants on the march.
Tate knew without a word spoken that it could not be a good sign; any army that would approach by torchlight in a massive front was not there on a social call.
He felt the familiar fire of battle fill his veins, rousing the warrior instincts.
“Rouse the men,” he growled at Kenneth. “Everyone to battle.”
Kenneth was gone to do his bidding. Tate remained on the wall, watching the army approach, knowing they were in for a siege. He could only pray that Harbottle’s old walls held and Warkworth had indeed received his call for reinforcements.
Mortimer was upon them.