Chapter Nine
Hamlin de Roche’s forces had been forced to regroup when reinforcements from Warkworth arrived.
De Roche recognized the colors and knew that they were outnumbered by the fresh army.
His men had been fighting almost a full day and night.
He may have been a ruthless man, but he was not stupid.
He knew when to quit. As soon as Warkworth drew near, he gave the order to retreat and his men fled to the south.
Warkworth gave chase for several miles, managing to kill a good many of them as they fled. The fresh army simply overwhelmed them. But soon enough, they drew back as de Roche’s army continued on. After several more miles of running, they finally regrouped near the small town of Hesleyside.
Baron Keilder from Keilder Castle had been the one to supply troops to de Roche so he could move on Harbottle.
Many of Keilder’s men trickled back home, but about one hundred remained encamped with de Roche and his generals.
Fires had been lit and tents pitched. Hamlin and his men took rest and food in a larger tent, reviewing the battle and plotting their next move.
As the wind blew and a rain storm moved through the area, the men around the crackling fire conspired.
“Now that we know where the king is, we can assemble an even larger force and attack,” an old general who had served Warwick was resolute. “Harbottle was greatly compromised during the siege.”
Hamlin chewed on his bread wearily, gazing into the flicker of the fire. “They will move him,” he replied. “Dragonblade is no fool. If we return to Harbottle, Edward will not be there. They will take him someplace far more fortified.”
“Then we must strike again,” the general asserted, “before they can move the boy.”
“With Warkworth’s troops occupying the place?” Hamlin shook his head. “It would be foolish. We do not have the strength of numbers now. But we will.”
The men around the fire looked curiously at Hamlin; they were all seasoned men, having served kings and kingmakers in their time. Many of them had served Longshanks and viewed his grandson with the same fear that they had felt for Edward the Second. Like father, like son.
“Be plain,” one man, a balding advisor, demanded softly. “What do you mean?”
Hamlin swallowed his bread. “Mortimer is on the march,” he said quietly.
He looked to the men, noting their confusion, and proceeded to explain.
“When it was clear we were on young Edward’s trail, I sent word to him.
He has known our every move for quite some time.
We used Keilder’s men to attempt to breach Harbottle because it was the fastest solution at the time.
I did not want to lose the opportunity. Even as we speak, Mortimer himself rides from Wigmore.
He is determined to capture the king once and for all. ”
“But de Lara has other plans,” the old general spoke again. “The man is cunning and powerful. I do not take opposition to him lightly.”
De Roche nodded slowly. “He is his father’s son,” he muttered. “And, no doubt, he has more reinforcements arriving to Harbottle. Antony Bec’s thousands from Alnwick Castle cannot be far behind Baron Warkworth’s troops.”
“So what do we do?” the old general demanded.
Hamlin was staring into the flames, thinking of how close he had come to young Edward at the manse back in Cartingdon.
All that had stood between him and victory was a lovely lady.
He cursed the woman for her bravery, furious and admiring it at the same time.
He vowed not to make the same mistake twice; next time he had Edward in his grasp, he was going to snatch him.
“We will continue to watch de Lara,” he said. “We wait and we watch. There will be another opportunity to capture Edward. But brute force is not the answer right now. Until Mortimer arrives, we will plan something more… cunning.”
“Against de Lara?” the general snorted. “Best of luck, my friend.”
Hamlin lifted an eyebrow at the man, seeing his humor. “We may call him Dragonblade, but the truth is that de Lara is human with human weaknesses,” Hamlin looked back to the fire. “All we need do is exploit his weakness and Edward will be ours.”
“How do we find de Lara’s weakness?”
Hamlin wasn’t sure at the moment. But he was determined to find out.
*
Warkworth’s army made short work of the forces that Mortimer managed to assemble.
They had given chase for several miles, finally allowing whatever remained of the force to continue running, before returning to the castle.
Harbottle was burning and disheveled, but the keep had held.
Now it would be a matter of shoring up the main gates to re-secure the bailey.
Tate had decided that the men should rest the night before beginning reconstruction.
Mortimer’s forces had been decimated and he rightly assumed that they would not regroup for a second attack too soon.
So Warkworth’s army pitched camp in and around the walls of Harbottle while several of the men went to work rebuilding the stairs that had burned.
Until they had the stairs reconstructed, the keep was cut off from the ward and Tate was anxious to get inside; visions of Toby filled him until he could hardly stand the thought of being kept from her.
He had to get to her, to touch her, and make sure that she was indeed all right.
Kenneth and Wallace were among the men working on rebuilding the stairs.
They were going for the simplest design at the moment, something that wouldn’t take too long to build but would be sturdy enough.
Tate could hear Wallace yelling at the soldiers building the steps, telling them that they weren’t doing good enough work.
Then he would jump in and hammer out the iron nails himself.
In the meantime, Tate stood below the keep entry, watching the activity and pondering future plans.
He was in the process of determining the best course of action when young Edward marched up to him.
The lad was furious, that much was clear. He stomped up to Tate and practically threw a ring of heavy iron keys at him. Tate caught it deftly, eyeing Edward and knowing why the lad was so angry. But he didn’t particularly care.
“There,” Edward snapped as he tossed the keys to Tate. “Keep your stupid keys. And next time, do not think I will surrender to you so easily.”
Tate remained patient. “I told you many times that the safest place for you was to lock yourself up in the vault and keep the key,” he said steadily.
“I was correct, was I not? They made it into the vault but were unable to reach you because you held the key. There was no way for them to take down the iron bars.”
The boy was livid. “I could have fought them.”
“And you could have died.”
He pursed his lips, unable to think of a reply that would be stronger than Tate’s argument. Still, he wasn’t finished with him. “I looked like a coward, hiding in the vault.”
“It saved your life. What are you complaining about? I’m sure there will be other opportunities to prove your worth with a sword, Edward. But right now, you are going to have to trust me to keep you safe.”
Edward huffed and fidgeted and made faces, indicative of his anger.
But he knew, deep down, that his uncle was correct.
Locking himself in the vault had saved his life.
Whether by hook or by crook, that was what Tate had been attempting to do for the better part of two years.
So far, he’d done a good job. Still, at fourteen, Edward thought himself quite the grown man and silently vowed that the next time he would determine what was best for himself. Not Tate. Well… maybe.
Attention was taken away from his temper tantrum when the door to the keep overhead shifted and creaked open. Tate and Edward looked up to see the panel opening wide to reveal Toby and Althel.
It had taken them a while to get the door open because the old iron pin locking the bolt had been jammed.
With some grease, they had finally managed to get it off.
Toby stood for a moment in the doorway, surveying the destruction below with some awe; everything was in ruins, shattered or burnt.
The healthy men were moving the dead into a pile near the gate house while the wounded were being put near the kitchens.
Stephen, no longer obligated to fight, had his hands full with all of the wounded.
As she looked about, her gaze came to rest directly below and she saw Tate gazing up at her.
Their eyes locked and she couldn’t help the smile that spread across her lips.
It was relief, joy and comfort all rolled into one.
As the night wind blew her hair across her face, she knelt down, her gaze riveted to Tate.
“I see that you are still in one piece,” she said. “I had my doubts.”
Tate just took a moment to drink in the sight of her. “Never doubt me,” he told her. “You would be wrong.”
She laughed softly, noticing that Edward was looking up at her as well. “I see that you survived, sire,” she said. “I am pleased.”
It was far different from the woman who had wept and ranted two days before. She looked composed and strong. Edward wasn’t quite sure how to respond.
“Thank you,” he replied hesitantly. “I… are… are you all right in there? I can come up to help if you need…?”
Toby shook her head. “We have made do,” she said, then she looked over her shoulder briefly before turning back to the men below. “Althel has made some soup. He is trying to find some rope so that we can lower the pot down.”
Tate was still looking at her as if unable to move his eyes off of her. “That was generous of you,” he said. “Have you fed the wounded?”
“We have.”
“What is the tally?”
Her smile faded somewhat. “Twenty nine injured and eleven dead. I should like to remove the dead as quickly as possible. They are beginning to smell.”