Dragonblade Trilogy - 01 - Dragonblade (9 page)

“Are you married?”

Tate paused in his
duties to look at her. She was innocent, and it was an innocent question. He’d
long since gotten over the pain the question had once provoked.

“I was once.”

“What happened?”

“She passed away
giving birth to my daughter.”

“Oh. Did your daughter
die, too?”

“Aye.”

Ailsa began to toy
with the bed linens, her sister’s limp hand. “My mother nearly died giving
birth to me, too. I do not think I shall ever have any children.”

He smiled faintly.
“Why not?”

“Because it will kill
me.”

“Not always. As with
anything else, one’s fate is in the hands of God.”

“Did God kill your
wife and daughter, then?”

He shook his head
slowly. “He did not, little one.”

“But why does He allow
bad things to happen?”

“I do not know. I have
often asked myself that question. I would suppose that everything happens for a
reason, though we do not know what that reason might be at the time.”

Ailsa chewed her lip
as she thought about it. He made sense and little made sense in her life; a
distant father, an invalid mother, and a sister who was haunted by enormous
responsibility. Tate seemed strong and certain.

“May I ask another
question?”

He lifted an eyebrow
at her. “I suspect you will no matter what I say.”

“Is it wrong to ask
why you are called Dragonblade?”

His eyes twinkled. “I
suppose not.”

“Then why?”

He lay down the arm he
had been swabbing and picked up the other. “Your question will be answered when
you see the hilt of my sword.”

She tried to picture
what he meant. “Is there a dragon on it?”

“When you see it, you
shall know.”

The thoughts were
whirling in Ailsa’s mind. Tate could almost see them. She was a lovely child
and seemed sweet. He didn’t mind talking to her.

A pair of men ushered
through the door with a large copper tub between them. A female servant, an old
woman with white hair piled atop her head, directed them to set it down. She
had the voice of a crow, screeching at the horse dung that one of the men had
tracked on the floor. Behind her, several house servants followed with great
buckets of water and began emptying them in the tub with great splashes.

Tate continued to swab
Toby’s arms as Ailsa stood out of the way while the tub was filled. Stephen
returned after a short time, leather satchel in hand, and ordered the fire in
the hearth stoked. When he began to pull out his medicines, Ailsa could not
resist standing next to him and watching curiously. It would seem she was
intensely curious about everything.

Stephen ignored her
for the most part but inevitably she began asking questions and he was obliged
to respond. She wanted to know about everything and he patiently explained the
willow bark, the crushed poppy, the foxglove extract and so forth. Soon, there
was a fine brew rising in the small iron pot hanging deep in the hearth. With
his ingredients cooking, Stephen went over to his patient.

“She is still
burning,” Tate murmured so that Ailsa would not hear.

Stephen ran his hands
across her forehead and opened each eye in turn. “She will not survive much
longer at this temperature,” he said quietly. “We must get her into the water
now.”

The tub was half-full
with water that was barely warm. Tate put the rag aside and took Toby into his
arms, picking her limp body off the bed. She was hot, sweating and
overwhelmingly delicious. He silently cursed himself for his perverse thoughts
as he took her over to the tub. The servants were filling it furiously.

“Get her into the
water,” Stephen directed. “Hold on to her so that she does not slide under.”

“We will lose our grip
on her in the water,” Tate didn’t want to have to hold her by her hair as she
slipped around in the tub. “Like so much dead weight.”

“Have a better idea?”

Tate’s solution was to
step into the tub, fully clothed, and sit down in the water. Stephen helped him
adjust Toby so that she was lying on top of him and he had a good grip around
her waist. The servants continued to pour water and with the next cold dousing,
Toby went rigid and a hoarse cry escaped her lips.

“My God,” she rasped.
“They are trying to kill me.”

Tate’s mouth was
against her right ear. “Nay, mistress,” he said softly. “We are trying to help
you. Your fever is out of control and we must get you cool.”

She was semi-lucid,
unsure of what was happening to her. She looked at Stephen, unrecognizing, and
began to panic.

“Let me out,” she
struggled against Tate’s iron grip. “Let me out!”

Stephen gently but
firmly pushed her back. Getting a good grip around her waist, Tate put a hand
over her forehead and held her back against his shoulder.

“Calm, Elizabetha,” he
murmured against her ear. “No one is going to harm you, I swear it.”

Ailsa ran up to the
tub, putting her little hands on her sister’s shoulders. “Be quiet, Toby. You
must not be upset!”

Toby focused on Ailsa,
the only face she recognized. “Wha… what devilry is this?” she panted.

Ailsa shook her head.
“You are ill. The knights are trying to help you.”

Toby grasped the front
of Ailsa’s gown with one hand as if the little girl would save her, but her
struggles eventually eased and her grip relaxed. Breathing quickly, like a dog
panting on a hot summer day, she closed her eyes and surrendered against Tate’s
powerful body. The strength to fight was leaving her.

Tate felt her go limp.
He and Stephen passed concerned glances as the servants continued to fill the
tub. Stephen had a grip on her wrist, feeling her fast, weak pulse. He didn’t
like it. As the tub filled and her blood continued to race, he shook his head.

“This is not a good
sign,” he murmured. “She is not calming.”

“What about your
brew?” Tate was genuinely concerned. Stephen did not raise an alarm for no
reason.

“Another minute or so
for full potency.”

Tate fell silent but
it was apparent that he was searching quickly for a solution. His mind was
never idle nor was he familiar with surrender. 

It was deathly quiet
in the room but for the pouring of water. Then, Ailsa thought she was hearing
things. There was a low hum in the air that would rise and fall in rhythm. She
was so concerned with her sister that it took her a few moments to realize that
Tate was singing. His lips were pressed against Toby’s right ear, his soft
baritone filtering through her fever-hazed mind. It was a miraculous sound and
Ailsa was entranced; her sweet little face lit with a smile as the air was
filled with the gentle sound of Tate’s voice.

To the sky, my sweet
babe,

          The night is
alive, my sweet babe.

Your dreams are filled
with raindrops from heaven;

          Sleep, my
sweet babe, and cry no more.

It was a lullaby, sung
from mother to child. Ailsa had heard Toby sing it before, though it hasn’t
sounded nearly as beautiful as when Tate sang it. Tate glanced up at Ailsa when
he had finished the verse and, seeing her smile, gave forth the second stanza.

Your heart is light,
my sweet babe;

          Your slumber
is divine, my sweet babe.

The angels hold you,
my arms enfold you;

          Be at rest,
my love, for you are ever mine.

A peaceful hush had
settled over the room. Like an attempt to quiet a fussy baby, there was a
fragile spell in the air. Ailsa’s voice shattered it.

“Sing the fairy song!”
she cried.

Startled, the knights
shushed her in unison. Justifiably contrite, it did not deter her enthusiasm.
She whispered loudly this time. “Sing the fairy song!”

Tate gave her a
reproving look. The singing excited Ailsa and thankfully seemed to soothe Toby.
He launched into the old folk ballad, normally a lively dance. He wasn’t surprised
when Ailsa dropped her sister’s hand and began to leap around the floor.

Dilly, dilly, lady
fairy, how shall you fly? Long to the day as slumber grows nigh;

On gossamer wings, you
touch the stars.

On the wings of
angels, you steal our hearts.

Come touch my heart, O
fairy dove,

And take me from the
world above.

Ailsa stopped her jig
and clapped happily. The knights quieted her in unison again.
“Hush
!”

Ailsa’s mouth formed
an “O” and she put her hand to her lips in a silence gesture. She looked at Toby,
fearful that she had disturbed her, but Toby was sleeping as peacefully as she
could be given the circumstances. Tate began to sing another song, a calming
lullaby, as Stephen went to take his brew off of the fire. He poured a good
amount in a pewter cup and came back over to the tub.

“It should cool so she
does not scald herself trying to drink it,” he said quietly. “But your singing
has accomplished wonders; she is calm now.”

“Calm, aye, but she is
still as hot as the sun,” Tate said. “I can feel it through my clothes.”

The last bucket of
water went in to the tub. It was nearly to the brim with tepid water that would
help stabilize Toby’s temperature. But it also made her shift transparent,
something Tate could not see and Stephen tried not to notice. When Toby started
to shiver and her nipples hardened, Tate’s attention was drawn to the
tantalizing peaks shrouded in wet linen. So was Ailsa’s; noticing her sister’s
state, she flew into a frenzy and ripped the coverlet off the bed. She tried to
tuck it in around her sister, causing water to splash all over the floor.

The knights would have
scolded her had they not realized what she was doing. Stephen went so far as to
help her. The drink was cooled sufficiently at that point and the former
Hospitaller knight held Toby’s head up with one hand, administering the cup
with the other. 

The first spill of the
warm brew into her mouth was a jolt. Toby sputtered and coughed, but Stephen
managed to get an adequate amount of the foul-smelling liquid into her stomach.
When he finally set the cup aside, Tate reached under the wet linens and lifted
Toby’s wounded wrist above the water.

“Now,” his voice was a
growl. “Tend this. I believe this is the source of her fever.”

Stephen inspected the
wounds closely. “What manner of demon did this?”

Tate was reluctant to
say with Ailsa present. He simply shook his head and Stephen saw that he either
did not know or would not answer. He drew some powder from his satchel and
mixed it with water, making a paste. Applying the paste to the wounds, he
wrapped it with a strip of dry cloth.

“This should draw the
poison out,” he said. “Keep it out of the water as best you can.”

Tate nodded silently.
Toby was quivering against him in reaction to her prolonged submersion in the
water, but she didn’t seem as hot as she had been. He put a hand on her
forehead again, feeling the warmth but confirming that his suspicions were
correct; her fever was lessened. Feeling somewhat reassured that she would
survive, he settled back in the tub, his big hand holding her head against his
shoulder and the other arm wrapped around her waist, and began to sing again.
It was soft and gentle, like a father singing to a sick child. Somewhere in the
singing, he tightened his grip, certain he could out-wrestle Death if it came
to claim her. The last time he had held a dying woman in his arms, Death had
won. Now it was the principle of the matter. Death would not best him again.

Eventually, they moved
Toby out of the tub and onto the bed. She was calm and the fever seemed to be
abating. There was nothing left to do but wait.

***

Arrows did away with
the some of the dogs that had attacked them the day before. The troops from
Harbottle were settled on the eastern side of the enclosure and the party of
eleven men bearing the seal of Roger Mortimer, Earl of March, entered from the
west. One of them had been witness to the slaughter yesterday of seven
colleagues and had unknowingly escaped from young King Edward’s men. He’d gone
in search of the other Mortimer men that he knew to be in the area and found
them south of Cartingdon, searching the village of Warton. 

Merchants in
Cartingdon loved to gossip. It wasn’t difficult to discover that Tate de Lara
was at Forestburn Manor, a guest of the mayor. With that information, they
wasted no time.

It was a brazen
daylight attack. They killed the dogs and made their way across the vast
enclosure and gardens, five of them heading for the house and six of them
moving to the
garçonnaire.
The two windows of the small house proved to
be convenient points of entry, but also deadly ones. The knight inside was as
fast as he was large, and deftly killed two of their number in swift
succession. But others were able to break in, doing battle with the two
men-at-arms that were also inside. The young king managed to throw himself out
of one of the broken windows and race for the manor at the far end of the
enclosure.