Dragonblade Trilogy - 01 - Dragonblade (38 page)

Kenneth glanced down
and could see the storm brewing on her face. “Pleasantly, my lady,” he
whispered. “Pleasantly.”

She looked up at him,
scowling, but knew he was correct.  By the time Kenneth came to a halt and
turned around, Toby’s scowl was gone.

“As you wish, my
lord,” she said.

“And wear something delicious.
I should like to show you off.”

“I am not yours to
show off.”

Mortimer cocked an
eyebrow. “You are indeed my guest to display as I please.”

Kenneth could feel
Toby tensing in his arms again and he gave her a quick squeeze, silently
telling her to behave. She was close to exploding. Still, she managed to keep a
civil tongue.

“As you wish, my
lord.”

She said it through
clenched teeth and Kenneth very quickly swept her towards the castle before she
could say something more that would have them all in trouble.   Just as they
came to the muddy road leading into the big gatehouse, Toby pushed herself out
of Kenneth’s arms with a growl.

“Ooooo,” she stomped
her feet angrily. “I do not want to attend him at the nooning meal and I do not
want to entertain his visitors. I hate him, I hate this place, and right now I
hate you for stealing my candied pumpkin. I want to go home!”

She suddenly burst
into tears, weeping angrily. Kenneth struggled to keep a straight face as he
and Timothy moved forward to comfort her.

“You are simply
exhausted, my lady,” Kenneth said evenly, taking her elbow. “Let us go inside
where you may rest.”

“I do not want to
rest!” she stomped her feet again, a full-blown tantrum quickly approaching. “I
want to get out of here. I want my husband. Why has he not come for me yet?”

Kenneth had her by the
arm as he led her under the gatehouse. She was pouting and weepy, angry one
moment and sad the next. Timothy kept his head lowered lest she see his grin
and Kenneth tried to focus on anything other than her comical ranting.  He
tried to think of battles, bloody wounds and ugly women. But he was losing the
fight.

“Come along, Toby,”
Kenneth pushed aside the formalities as he had many times during their
captivity. “Go inside and rest. I will go find you more candied pumpkin if it
will make you happy.”

She sobbed, stepping
in a big mud puddle and wailing when she saw that she had completely mucked the
bottom of the lovely surcoat. It was all Kenneth could do to keep a smile off
his face; she was hysterically funny. With a patient sigh, he picked her up and
carried her the rest of the way to the keep. 

She sobbed and
muttered as she made her way into the enormous keep of Wigmore. It was
cloyingly warm as the result of several blazing fires; Mortimer did not like
the cold and the keep was generally kept quite warm. It was also a vast and
luxurious place as far as castles went; creature comforts were everywhere.
Kenneth and Timothy escorted Toby to the third floor where her chamber was
located. But she came to a halt just outside the elaborate bower door, yanking
her arm from Kenneth’s grip.

“I am hungry,” she
announced. “Go and get more pumpkin.”

Kenneth just looked at
her, his ice-blue eyes glimmering with humor. Nodding his head wearily, he
turned for the stairs. But he apparently wasn’t moving fast enough and Toby
swatted him on the shoulder as he began to descend the stairs.

“’Tis your fault so
you need not blame me,” she told him. “You ate my pumpkin so now you must find
me more.  And if you see anything else that looks good, I want that, too.”

“God give me
strength,” Kenneth muttered.

Toby heard him
mumble.  “What did you say?”

He turned to look at
her, his normally stony expression oddly animated. “I said, I am going right
away,” he looked at the physic. “Take her inside and put her to bed. Sit on her
if you have to. And give her something to improve her disposition, for God’s
sake. I am not sure how much more of this tyranny I can take.”

Toby’s face screwed up
angrily. “Come back here, St. Héver. Come back and say that to my face!”

She was holding up a
balled fist. Kenneth opened his mouth to calmly retort but he ended up breaking
down into laughter. He couldn’t help it; it was just too comical to believe.
Toby was furious a moment longer before erupting into a grin; an angry grin,
but a grin nonetheless.

“I hate you, Kenneth,”
she told him sincerely as he continued down the stairs. “I truly do.”

“I know,” he replied,
dead-pan. “You hate me and my mother, my grandmother, my father and every
ancestor before him, my horse, my….”

He faded off as he
went. Toby, softened by his reaction to her temper, realized she sounded like a
complete shrew. She stood at the top of the stairs and called down to him.

“I love you as if you
were my own brother, Kenneth,” she called after him.

“I know,” his reply
was very faint.

“Now bring me my pumpkin!” she screeched.
       She swore she heard him laughing again. Turning for her bower, she
almost forgot about Timothy standing there, grinning at the exchange between
her and the knight. She walked up to him, eyeing him critically.

“Are you really going
to sit on me?”

Timothy shook his
head. “I am afraid you might do me serious bodily damage if I did,” he said,
taking her elbow as they passed through the open door. “But I will sit and talk
to you.”

She let him escort her
into the room, which was warm with a blazing fire. Thick furs covered the floor
and her bed was piled with lush and warm materials. Mortimer had been, if
nothing else, lavish with his attention on her. There was absolutely nothing
she could want for. Toby went to the fire, carefully removing the cloak that
had mud on it. Timothy took it from her and cast it into the corner for the
servants to clean. She stood for a moment, dragging her hand across her softly
rounded belly.

“Timothy,” she said
after a moment. “There is something we can talk about.”

He was at the
elaborate sideboard against the wall, pouring them both a measure of wine from
a lovely glass decanter. “What is that?”

“You have been a
physic a long time, have you not?”

“I have, my lady.”

Toby’s gaze lingered
on the flames before turning to him, her cheeks rosy from the warmth of the
fire. “You must know a great deal about babies.”

He nodded. “I believe
so. What do you wish to know?”

Her hazel eyes twinkled
as she told him.

***

For the duration of
the trip to the Marches, Edward had kept a distance from his mother. Strange,
considering he had very much wanted to see her.  For two years, he had begged
Tate to take him home to see his mother. But Tate had refused and had given
clear explanation as to why he had refused. Edward was therefore well aware why
Tate kept him from his mother. For two years, he had understood that the woman
who gave birth to him would not protect him from her lover. Isabella and
Mortimer had ruled during that time as Regents to Edward since he was so young.
But the queen was clearly more loyal to her lover than her son. It was a
devastating understanding.

Isabella had wept at
the first sight of her son in two years and had tried to embrace him. But
Edward had run from her and even now, five days later, would not warm to her.
He rode with Stephen as company, astride the big blond charger that Tate had
given him for his fourteenth birthday and morose in his thoughts. He was not much
company. Stephen and Tate simply left him alone, knowing he would come to terms
with his mother’s presence soon enough.

The snows had fallen
heavy along the Marches this year. As the army plowed their way northwest
through Gloucestershire, the snow became heavier and Edward felt his
determination to stay away from his mother wavering. He missed her, in spite of
everything that had happened. He just wished she loved him more than Mortimer.
As he struggled to get up the nerve to speak with her, a messenger was sighted
to the north. Distracted, he followed Stephen as the man spurred his charger
out of formation to intercept the rider.

The man was a spy that
had been sent out on many missions for de Lara. He was older, wily, and knew
well his craft. He was also freezing, his horse thrashed, and he came to an
unsteady halt as Stephen and Edward raced upon him. Stephen threw up the visor
on his helm to gain a better look at the man. Snow flew off the visor when it
snapped open.

“Well?” he demanded.
“What do you have to report?”

The man wiped at his
running nose, red with the cold. “Liam de Lara’s men are just south of Croft
Castle, m’lord,” he said. “He has them hiding out in the woods, but it is
difficult to hide so many. He awaits orders from his brother.”

“How many would you
estimate he has with him?”

“Several thousand.”

Stephen’s eyebrows
lifted in response.  “What about Lancaster?”

“He is encamped to the
north by several miles. He has two thousand men with him.”

Stephen absorbed the
information. “How many men would you estimate are prepared to march on
Wigmore?”

The spy’s gaze moved
out over the distant de Lara army before coming to rest on Stephen again. “With
what you are bringing, there should be at least ten thousand. It is a mighty
army, m’lord. You could raze Wigmore in a night.”

Stephen nodded slowly,
digesting everything he had been told.  “Get some food,” he finally told the
man. “I will inform Lord Tate of the situation. Be prepared to answer more
questions if he has any.”

“Aye, m’lord.”

Stephen and Edward
raced off in Tate’s direction, skirting the massive army and coming upon Tate
about a half mile down the road. He was at the front of the column, riding
alone as he so often did these days. Stephen and Edward charged upon him,
flanking him on either side as he rode.

“My lord,” Stephen
reported smartly. “Our spies have returned from the vicinity of Wigmore. The
aid you requested is already positioned and awaiting your command. Including
the army we bring with us, it is estimated that ten thousand men await your
orders.”

Tate nodded faintly,
not at all impressed with the numbers. He could have more if needed. But he was
nonetheless pleased with the show of support.

“Send missives to the
commanders of my allies,” he instructed.  “I will camp tonight to the east of
Leominster. I will meet with my allies there.”

Stephen nodded
sharply, racing off to fulfill the command. But Edward remained, riding
silently beside Tate as they moved through the snowy, slushy ground. After
several minutes of silence, Tate finally turned to Edward.

“Did you have
something more to say about all of this?” he asked quietly.

The young king shook
his head. “Nay,” he muttered. “Do you really plan to lay siege to Wigmore?”

“I plan to get my wife
back.”

The lad was silent a
moment. “But what if Mortimer wants to deal? What… what if he wants me in
exchange for Toby?”

Tate eyed him. “Where
did you hear something like that?”

Edward shrugged,
looking at his gloved hands. “Everyone is saying it. Everyone says that
Mortimer will want to exchange Toby for me.”

Tate’s gaze lingered
on him. “He cannot have either of you.”

“But if you had to
make a choice, what would you do?”

Tate had been
wrestling with that thought for several weeks. There were two choices; the
logical choice and the emotional choice. As much as it tore at him, he knew
that only one choice was possible. He sighed heavily, looking away from the
young king as he prepared his answer.

“Mortimer will not
harm my wife, of that I am sure,” he said quietly, with gritty resolve. “But he
would kill you. I have spent fourteen years of your life protecting you as one
would protect his own child. In protecting you, I am protecting England and
protecting the future for my own children.  It would therefore stand to reason
that if given the choice, I would have to choose you. But I would find some way
to free Toby, have no doubt. I would never give up. Even to the death.”

Edward looked at him,
surprise and sadness on his young face. “But…Toby…?”

“She would
understand,” Tate cut him off; it was too painful for him to think on it. “She
would support my reasons.  But she also knows I would stop at nothing to get
her back.”

Edward fell silent
again as they rode along, the distant mountains of Wales beginning to come
visible on the western horizon. They looked like great white mounds of flour.
The more he thought about Tate’s dilemma, the sadder he became.

“I remember when your
wife died,” he said softly, wondering if he should even say such a thing. “I
remember seeing you cry. You didn’t know I saw you, but I did.  It was right
after she perished and you were sitting alone, holding your dead daughter.  I
was supposed to be in the great hall but I had gone upstairs because… because I
guess I was curious. I saw you sitting with the baby, weeping over her.” His
head suddenly came up and he focused on his uncle. “I will not see you cry
again, Tate. I will not let you go through this again, not when you have found
someone to love again.”