Dragonblade Trilogy - 01 - Dragonblade (19 page)

Toby nodded, her gaze
roaming the room, trying to think if there was anything she had left out. For
the moment, they had weapons, fire and food. She knew they could survive for a
little while at any rate.

“Then let us get about
helping these men,” she said quietly, turning to look at the crowd in the room.
“The rest is up to Sir Tate.”

Althel nodded as he
and Toby parted company; she went to start on the men near the entry door while
Althel went to the group positioned near the hearth. The smell of smoke was
growing heavier in the hall as the wooden stairs outside the entry door were
fully engulfed, but inside the hall, Toby felt relatively safe. She tried not
to worry for Tate, doing battle in the bailey. She’d already lost so much in
the past few days; to lose him, too, would only diminish her more. She wasn’t
sure if she could take another death. She couldn’t even think about it.

All they could do now
was wait.

***

The battle went on
well into the day. Dusk approached and still, the battle raged on.  Toby knew
that because she could still hear the fighting outside the solar windows.  So
far, no one had made a move to breach the keep but she was terrified to look
outside, terrified to see what was going on. Terrified that she would see dead
knights and terrified that one of them would be Tate.

Eventually, all of the
men in the hall were tended. Some of them had died along the way. The dead had
been grouped into a bunch tucked into a corner, far from the hearth and its
radiant heat. Toby wasn’t sure how long they would be shut up with the bodies
and she didn’t want the heat hastening the rotting process.

It had been dirty,
hard work. Toby was exhausted but strangely, feeling stronger than she had in
days. Her body seemed to be recovering from her bout with illness and the
crescent shaped wounds on her wrist that her mother had given her were healing
nicely. When she looked at the scabs, it seemed as if they had happened years
ago. So much had taken place since then. 

Since there were no
women at Harbottle, the male servants had learned to do the cooking long ago.
Althel had prepared a thin soup of boiled rabbit bones, some beans and dried
carrots that he and Toby had been feeding to the men who were conscious. Toby noticed,
as she moved from man to man, how young many of them were. All were vassals of
Tate, most having been born on his lands. A few of the older men were retainers
sworn to Tate from other parts of England, seasoned men that trained the
younger. Toby finished feeding Tate’s men, her mind lingering increasingly on
Tate and his progress outside.  

When dusk finally
settled into night and the hall grew dark except for the fire in the hearth,
Toby moved to the darkened solar and listened to the sounds of the battle
outside. It was an eerie sensation listening to the sounds of fighting
intermingled with the cries of the wounded. She had never even been remotely
close to a battle, living a simple and uncomplicated life at Forestburn. This
had been a swift education in the realities of life. Toby huddled on the floor
against the wall, her legs drawn up against her chest and her arms wrapped
around her knees for warmth as she listened to the sounds of the struggle.

As time passed and she
continued to sit, it seemed as if the sounds of battle were drawing nearer. She
could hear shouts, cries, and clangs as metal met metal.   The sounds drew
closer still. Afraid that somehow the enemy had found a way to breach the keep,
she moved quickly from the solar and up the treacherous stairs, finding the
smaller chamber that Althel had told her was used for weapons storage. A pile
of staffs lay upon the ground, some with broken tips and some with very sharp
tips.  Two large swords sat propped against a wall. As she fingered through the
pile of staffs, she suddenly heard a loud crash on the floor below.

Startled, she grabbed
a staff with a very sharp point and hastened down the stairs. By the time she
reached the bottom, she could see a man in mail climbing through a solar
window. The shutters lay in pieces on the ground, having been shattered by the
morning star that the soldier was carrying in one hand. Without delay, Toby
leveled the staff and charged at the man with all her might.

The soldier wasn’t
quite through the window and unable to defend himself as she rammed the spear
tip into his shoulder. He screamed and lost his grip on the windowsill,
tumbling two stories to the bailey below. Terrified, Toby jammed the staff at
the next man on the ladder and stabbed him in the eye. He fell back on his
comrades and the entire line of soldiers climbing the ladder tumbled to the
ground.

Toby was in survival
mode; nothing mattered but preserving her life and the lives of the men inside
the keep. She grabbed the edge of the ladder and struggled to push it away,
only to notice that below her, Tate had a hold of the ladder and yanked so hard
that he almost pulled her from the window. The ladder crashed and splintered.
Toby looked down at Tate just as he looked up at her. Their eyes met and Toby
felt a strong sense of joy at seeing him alive.

“Are you all right?”
she yelled down at him.

He gazed up at her,
the visor of his helm lifted, and smiled wearily. “Now that I have seen you, I
can move mountains,” he called up to her. “Are you well?”

Exhausted but elated,
she met his smile. Her cheeks were flushed with fear, giving her a delightfully
rosy appearance. “I am fine,” she replied. “Are we winning this battle, then?”

He gestured towards
the gates, now breached and burning. “Warkworth has been sighted on the
horizon. We should be done with this in short time.”

Toby felt a distinct
sense of relief at the news. “Where is your squire?” she wanted to know.

“Safe,” was all he
said. Then he blew a kiss at her. “Go back inside. It should not be long now.”

She nodded, but not
before saying what was foremost on her mind. “Please take care.”

He winked at her and
trudged off, slugging a man in the face that came at him.  Toby watched him
slog off across the bailey, now muddy with blood from all of the wounded men.
It was a grim and horrible sight. She watched him until he disappeared behind a
group of fighting men before pulling herself inside and settling, once more,
against the solar wall. But the staff was in her hand, waiting for the next
fool to try and breach her sanctuary. She wasn’t going to let it go without a
fight.

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 it 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.”