Chapter Eighteen #3
“So you think…,” de Roche dodged a heavy blow and answered with one of his own, “to take your wife away unseen? I will give you credit for a clever disguise, Dragonblade. I would not have guessed you to come as the queen’s own guard.”
Tate thrust and chopped skillfully at de Roche, rewarded with nicking the man on the forearm enough to tear a good portion of the mail away.
He was without his custom broadsword because it was too recognizable; he was using young Edward’s instead.
It was a good blade, but it was not the fearsome dragon-hilted blade.
He wished fervently that he had it against an opponent as strong as de Roche.
“That was always the trouble with you,” Tate said as he ducked a rather sloppy chop by de Roche. “You do not think for yourself. You only do as you are told and that is why you have never been able to outsmart me.”
De Roche was on the defensive, backing away from Tate and nearly tripped over a stone in the muddy earth.
“That is where you are wrong,” he said, bringing his blade about.
“I found you in the stable, did I not? How fortunate for me that Mortimer ordered me to saddle St. Héver’s charger.
Had I not been occupied with the beast, I would have never seen St. Héver bring the lady to the stables.
And I would have never seen you enter shortly after him.
The right place at the right time, as it were. ”
Tate understood a great deal in that halting sentence and he also understood that de Roche was more than likely alone.
He and de Roche seemed to be quite alone as they battled in the stable yard, which was fortunate; Tate was terrified that someone, seeing the fight, was going to notify the entire castle.
He had to do away with de Roche quickly or the element of an unnoticed escape would vanish.
“It matters not,” he grunted as he managed to shove de Roche back against the yard wall. “In a few moments I will rid myself of you forever. I should have done it a long time ago.”
De Roche tripped and fell back. When he came up, it was with a handful of mud, which he slung into Tate’s face.
Mud filled Tate’s vision and he spun away, struggling to clear his eyes, knowing that de Roche would be upon him for the killing stroke.
With Kenneth incapacitated, he could not expect any help.
He wiped furiously at his eyes, only managing to clear one as he saw de Roche bearing down on him.
“It is over, my friend,” Hamlin hissed, sword in an offensive position preparing to strike. “Once and for all, this will be over.”
Tate lifted his blade to deflect the blow but the blow never came. He watched, through one muddy eye, as Hamlin suddenly lurched heavily and toppled over. The sword fell to the ground. Astonished, Tate looked up to see Toby standing where de Roche once stood with an enormous pitchfork in her hands.
She looked terrified and ill. The pitchfork prongs were dripping blood.
De Roche was not dead but he was in a great deal of pain with three very deep puncture wounds in his back.
One of them had gone into his spine. Though his head was moving, his legs lay completely still.
When he realized that he could not feel or move his legs, he began to howl.
It was an unearthly, harrowing sound that echoed against the cold stone of Wigmore.
Tate rushed to his wife, grabbing the pitchfork and tossing it away. Together, they raced to where Kenneth lay on his back, now struggling to sit up. They went down on their knees beside him.
“Ken,” Tate’s voice was full of concern. “How bad is it?”
Kenneth’s hand was covering the deep wound on the left side of his torso, below the rib cage. “Help me get to my feet,” his voice was weak and gritty. “Get me on a horse and I can ride.”
“You are bleeding all over the damn place.”
“Just get me on my feet.”
Tate lifted while Toby tried to pull; Tate ended up doing most of the work while Toby realized she could be more help if she found something to stop the bleeding with.
He was oozing buckets. Ripping a portion of the long hem of her gown, she wadded up the wool and pressed it up against Kenneth’s torso.
“Hold this tightly,” she instructed him. “Press it against the wound.”
“Thank you,” Kenneth said weakly, eyeing her as he put a big arm around Tate’s shoulders for support. “I am sorry to have ruined your gown, my lady.”
She gave him an impatient look. “Are you mad? Stopping the bleeding is far more important.”
Tate began half-carrying him back towards the bailey. “You will get the bottom of your garment muddy,” Kenneth told her.
“It is of no consequence.”
“Do you want me to carry you?”
“Oh, shut up.”
Kenneth’s lips twitched while Tate just shook his head at the two of them.
“If this is any indication of how the two of you got on while you were incarcerated together, it is a wonder you did not kill each other.” They were clearing the kitchen yards; horses were directly ahead and Tate went in that direction.
“Can you make it back to camp?” he asked his knight.
Kenneth was supporting his own weight rather well for a man who had just been gored. He even removed his arm from Tate’s supporting shoulders as they made their way to the horses.
“I can make it,” he said, gathering the reins of the first horse they came to.
Tate helped him mount, but in truth, Kenneth remained relatively strong. Tate went to help Toby, lifting her up onto the very next horse. He was about to say something to her when a small man in dark robes emerged from the keep, waving his arms wildly. Toby recognized Timothy immediately.
“My God,” she gasped. “It is Timothy. What is wrong?”
Tate saw the young man as he descended the steps leading from the keep and almost tripped. “Who is that?” he asked.
“A physic,” Toby told him. “A friend. What is he doing?”
They both watched as Timothy raced towards them, still waving his arms crazily. He was shouting something they could not quite hear.
“What is he saying?” Toby wondered aloud.
Tate shook his head. “I do not know. It sounds like….”
He never got a chance to finish his sentence; Timothy came close enough so that they were able to hear him. “Run!”
Startled, Tate and Toby watched as the keep suddenly came alive with dozens of soldiers pouring through the open door.
Upon the walls, shouts could be heard and the portcullis, still in its raised position, began to crank closed.
Timothy was still waving his arms, still shouting, until a soldier caught him from behind and knocked him to the ground.
After that, they could no longer see him.
Toby shouted his name, fearful for the man.
He had come to warn them; she was terrified that he had paid the ultimate price for that kindness.
As for Tate, he was faced with a very harrowing reality; as he had feared, an alarm had been raised.
Somehow, some way, they had been alerted to his presence and Toby’s physic friend had been attempting to warn them off.
The element of secrecy was no longer on their side and he knew their time had run out.
He turned to Kenneth. “Get her out of here,” he told him. “I will do what I can to keep Mortimer from following. Go!”
It took Toby a moment to realize that he was not going to ride out with them. He was already unsheathing his borrowed blade, preparing to face the incoming enemy. Realizing that he intended to hold off the horde as they escaped, panic surged through her.
“Nay!” she cried, reaching for him even as Kenneth tried to turn her horse around. “Tate, I will not leave you, not again!”
He turned to look at her as the chaos around them increased. “I will find you,” he said calmly, though the pain in his eyes was powerful. “Go with Kenneth. You will need to tend him. I will catch up.”
She burst into tears, pulling her horse to a halt even as Kenneth tried to get the animal moving.
“Tate, please,” she wept. “Please come with me now. I cannot leave you here to die.”
“I will not die, sweetheart,” he said softly, noting with increased panic that the portcullis was about a third of the way down. “Go with Kenneth and do not argue with me. I need to see that you are safe. I will see you soon.”
“Nay!” she screamed.
Tate’s emotions were on the surface as he looked to Kenneth. He couldn’t bear to look at the agony in Toby’s eyes. “Take her home, Ken,” he pleaded quietly. “Just… take her home.”
Toby reached out for Tate, straining, even as Kenneth took hold of her horse’s reins.
Tate reached also, like a last desperate effort, and their fingertips brushed.
He could feel her warmth but he couldn’t quite touch her.
Kenneth was pulling her along and she was quickly out of his reach.
Heart aching with sorrow, with fear for them both, he managed to smack the horse’s rear with the broad side of the blade, like a swatter, and the beast took off.
The last Tate saw, Kenneth and Toby had barely cleared the portcullis. But it was enough. They had escaped.
Knowing his wife was now free, Tate turned to face his duty as the soldiers began to swarm. He could see Mortimer at the top of the stairs and smiled at the man. It was a smile of victory.
The last Toby saw of her husband was of him standing in a circle of well-armed men.
As she and Kenneth cleared the gatehouse, she lost sight of him altogether.
As she had once sacrificed herself to save him, he was now doing the same for her.
God help her; she realized he was now doing the same for her and the knowledge of it was as emotionally crippling as anything she had ever known.
All she could do was pray.