“I must go after the father and mother,” Tate deposited Toby into Stephen’s big arms. “Ask me later how she stood up against de Roche.”
“I already heard,” Stephen replied. “Edward told us. Where is de Roche?”
“Lying unconscious at the top of the stairs.” Tate motioned to Kenneth to follow him but he gave Stephen a pointed look. “Take care of her.”
“With all that I possess, I swear it.”
By the time they returned to the manor, the majority of the structure was completely engulfed. The troops from Harbottle had given up trying to douse the flames and were simply standing around, watching it burn.
Tate was about to enter the front door when the roof collapsed, crushing everything beneath it in a horror of ash and flame. The force of the collapse blew out the doors and windows, nearly scalding Tate and Kenneth as they attempted to gain access.
Sparks and smoke flew into the late morning sky until all that was left of Forestburn Manor was cinders and sorrow.
Chapter Five
Riding at night wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but Tate felt that they had been given little choice. The sooner they reach Harbottle, the better for them all. Mortimer’s men were after them and Tate was anxious to put young Edward behind the massive walls of his castle.
Tate was in full armor, something he’d sorely missed earlier in the day with Mortimer’s men running about. The tempered steel breastplate had been forged in Rouen, as had the sword at his side. His gloved hand stroked the dragonhead of the hilt, a carved masterpiece of metalwork. Though the road was quiet, still, he was preparing to draw it at any moment. He and his knights were silent, their senses attuned to their surroundings.
“Mortimer’s days are numbered,” Edward said quietly, attempting to fortify his courage. “He killed my father and he is trying to kill me.”
“He has been trying to kill you since you were a small child,” Tate replied evenly. “He is simply being more obvious about it now.”
The youth hung his head. Edward was still very sensitive. Tate knew what he was thinking without the lad speaking his mind.
“As I have always told you, I am sure your mother knows nothing,” he spoke with quiet assurance. “Mortimer is clever. There is much he can hide from her.”
“But you told her what he was doing,” Edward said. “She did not believe you.”
“She refused to believe ill of him. He freed her from the tyranny of your father and she is blinded by that.”
Edward sighed heavily, tightening the reins on his blond steed. “She will believe when I take my rightful place and throw Mortimer to the executioner.”
Tate didn’t reply. Like so many conversations with the lad, they had traversed this one before, too. He glanced at Stephen, astride his big black stallion, and at Kenneth, who was watching the surrounding trees like a hawk. It had been a long night for all of them and they were all exhausted, yet their exhaustion would have to wait. They were in the open and vulnerable and had to reach safety.
“It is my suggestion that we stay vigilant until we reach Harbottle,” Tate said. “We will all be thinking more clearly once we are within the safety of her walls.”
“What about Mistress Toby?” Edward wanted to know. “We must still go to London; our stay at Harbottle is not permanent. Do we leave the women at Harbottle to fend for themselves?”
Tate thought about the sisters, asleep in the wagon that they had taken from the stables of Forestburn. Toby had been too ill to react to her father and mother’s gruesome death, but Ailsa had been inconsolable. He felt a good deal of guilt at the thought of heading off to London and leaving them behind in a strange castle. Like a vicious storm he had moved in, destroying everything in his path, and then left those caught in the maelstrom to deal with the aftermath.
“Only the manor burned,” Kenneth cut into Tate’s thoughts. “The farm is still functional. ’Tis not as if they have lost everything. They can rebuild.”
Kenneth made it sounds as if the women were not destitute but they all knew it was more than that. Edward sighed heavily; after Toby had defended him, he, too, was feeling guilty about everything. She had risked her life to protect him and, because of him, men had burned down her home and killed her parents. All of that aside, however, he was anxious to return to Harbottle and, subsequently, London.
“Can we leave for London as soon as the women are settled, then?” he asked.
“We can.”
“But what are you going to do with them?”
“They will enjoy the hospitality of Harbottle until such time as it is no longer necessary.”
Edward didn’t push. He could tell by the tone of Tate’s voice that now was not the time. There were other things on his mind.
The night seemed to drag on forever. A fog had settled, collecting from the moist grass and rising as a thick mist. It was very damp and the chill was evident. Not even the moon could break through the fog, although there was a small amount of light from the shrouded full moon. Tate rode at the head of the group, his attention moving back to Stephen now and again. The Hospitaller was riding beside the wagon.
They had been on the road for a few hours when Tate put Kenneth at point and reined his charger back beside Stephen. He could see two figures resting in the wagon, covered by blankets they had managed to collect from the garçonnaire. In fact, everything the Cartingdon sisters owned that had not been burned now lay piled in the wagon. Tate peered at the still forms in the wagon bed.
“How is Mistress Toby faring?” he asked Stephen.
Stephen’s cornflower blue eyes drifted to his patient. “She is sleeping heavily. She has had quite a night of it.”
Tate lifted an ironic eyebrow. “No doubt. We should see Harbottle by dawn; a warm bed should do her wonders.”
Stephen nodded his head though his focus remained on the lady. “So tell me how she stood against de Roche. We heard Edward’s version in which she rose out of her deathbed and wielded the poker like the sword of Archangel Michael. What was the truth of it?”
Tate gave him a half-grin. “He was not far wrong,” his smile faded as his gaze fell on her again. “She may be aggressive and outspoken but she has courage that men would envy. She is a brave and noble woman.”
There was something in his tone that caused Stephen to look closely at him. He had suspected that Tate felt something more than polite interest since yesterday but couldn’t honestly believe it until this moment. The Tate de Lara he knew was focused on young Edward’s cause singularly. Stephen was frankly astonished to hear a tone comprised of awe and appreciation. He was also strangely jealous.
“Noble indeed,” he agreed quietly.
Tate didn’t notice the knight’s soft tone or the distant look to his eye. He was focused on the bundles sleeping in the wagon bed. Then his gaze moved to their surroundings; it was a soft, damp and eerie blanket that covered the land. Even with thirty men from Harbottle, he was vastly uncomfortable traveling on the open road in the dead of night. It was as quiet as a tomb as they plodded along, hoping to make it to safety in relative peace.
Until Ailsa’s cry suddenly pierced the air. The little girl sat bolt upright, wailing and rubbing her eyes. Startled, both Tate and Stephen reined their chargers near the wagon.
“Ailsa?” Tate was closer to her. “What is wrong?”
Ailsa sobbed and wiped the tears from her eyes. “My belly aches,” she sobbed. “I want to go home!”
Tate pulled one of the blankets from the wagon onto his lap. He held out his hand to the girl. “Come here, sweetheart,” he said. “Ride with me. You will feel better.”
She sobbed and sputtered, waking Toby in the process. The older sister was very groggy as she struggled to sit up against the bumping of the wagon.
“Ailsa,” she murmured hoarsely. “What is wrong?”
Ailsa sobbed and coughed. Suddenly, she vomited all over the front of her garment as Toby tried to catch the liquid with a section of the blank
et. It turned into a mess. When she was finished gagging, Ailsa cried harder.
“I want to go home!” she wailed.
With a curt command from Tate, the wagon lurched to a halt and Stephen bailed from his charger, going in search of his medicament bag. Toby tried to clean up her sister.
“There, there,” she whispered softly. “You will be all right now.”
Tate had come to a halt next to the wagon, his storm cloud eyes watching Toby as she gently tended her sister. He hadn’t sufficient experience in matters of the heart to realize that he was seeing the woman through entirely different eyes; now, everything about her was completely different. He almost couldn’t remember that curt, aggressive woman he had first met at the church in Cartingdon. All he could see was the brave, compassionate soul.
Stephen approached with water and some manner of powder from his mysterious bag and together he and Toby managed to both calm and clean Ailsa. Stephen’s potion did wonders to soothe her stomach and her sister’s tender embrace soothed her tears.
With her sister calming, Toby looked up at Tate, still seated astride his charger and watching them closely. She smiled weakly.
“I fear we have caused you some delay,” she said quietly. “She has never been a good traveler.”
Tate waved her off. “We are nearly to Harbottle. ’Tis just over the hill and we shall have both you and your sister into a warm bed in little time.”
Toby’s smile faded, her eyes turning as if she could see the distant castle. “That would be welcome,” she murmured.
Tate watched her intently as she returned to comforting her sister. “How are you feeling?” he asked softly.
It took Toby a moment to realize he was asking the question of her. She lifted her shoulders. “Exhausted,” she admitted. “But well enough to.…”
She trailed off. Tate peered more closely at her.
“Well enough to what?” he encouraged.
She looked at her sister, her hands, anywhere but Tate’s probing eyes. “Nothing, my lord.”
“My lord, is it?” Tate grunted. “You have not called me ‘my lord’ for two days.”
“I have not been conscious for two days.”
He grunted again, a smile playing on his lips. “You will call me by my name. Now tell me what you were going to say.”
She looked up at him and he could see embers of the old fire within her brilliant hazel eyes, the Toby he had first met in Cartingdon. He knew that illness and devastation could not erase this woman’s spirit. She was too strong.
“I was going to say that I am well enough to return to Forestburn,” she said with more conviction. “I must see to the state of affairs if we are going to have any hope of regrouping.”
He had known all along that it would have been her desire; he just didn’t think she would voice it so soon. “Forestburn is ashes,” he said quietly. “Give yourself time to recover before entertaining a return home.”
Toby’s lovely features tightened; he could see it even in the dark of the fog. “Forestburn may be ashes but my father’s farm still exists. There are still sheep to be shorn and harvests to be brought in. Simply because the manor burned does not mean the empire no longer exists. Too many people depend on us. They must know that all is not lost, that they have not been deserted.”
He expected nothing less from her but was not prepared to enter into what would undoubtedly be something of an argument. “Well,” he said after a moment, scratching beneath his hauberk where it chaffed. “Nothing will be settled this night. We are nearly to Harbottle and from there you can plot your next move. But for now, I would strongly suggest we make all due haste to reach my fortress and see what the morrow brings.”
“I am returning home.”
“I know.”
She eyed him as if daring him to challenge her. When she realized he had no intention of contradicting her, she backed down somewhat and refocused on her sister. Above her head, Tate and Stephen exchanged knowing glances; trying to keep her still long enough to recover her strength was going to be something of a chore.
Truth be told, Tate knew he did not have the heart to deny her. After what he had witnessed at the top of the stairs at Forestburn, he realized he would never be able to deny her anything ever again. Any woman that brave, that strong, deserved his undying support and loyalty. But it was more than that; beyond admiration and respect, he felt something more. He wasn’t sure what it was yet, but it was lingering in the recesses of his mind just waiting for the moment to be unleashed. Every time he looked at her, he could feel himself drawing closer and closer to unhinging it.
Ailsa fell back into a fitful sleep. As exhausted as she was, Toby was holding her limp sister protectively to ensure the child’s comfort. Tate ordered the wagon to move forward and it did, as carefully as it could manage. Stephen, still beside the wagon, rolled up a blanket and propped it behind Toby’s back. She was able to lean back on it and she smiled her thanks at Stephen. He dipped his head gallantly and remounted his charger.
The party traveled deep into the night, eventually to come upon Harbottle Castle just as dawn began to break. As the sun rose and the fog turned from dark mist to puffy silver clouds, the pale gray stones of Harbottle Castle took on a cold and harsh countenance.
Toby was still awake, still with the sleeping Ailsa in her arms, as her gaze beheld the seat of the Harbottle Common lordship. In all of her years at Forestburn, she’d never once traveled far enough to see the castle. She’d never had any reason to. Now, as they passed through the small village and the castle loomed into view, she thought it looked very uninviting. It was a massive place with at least three stone towers that she could count, probably more, and a keep that stretched into the fog. She couldn’t even see the top. It occurred to her that it would now be her residence until such time as she returned to Forestburn.
She did not get a good feeling from the place.
Wallace Worthington Magnusson had been a priest many years ago. But he had committed the unspeakable sin of falling in love with a woman and the Jesuits exiled him. Before he had been a priest, however, he had been a knight, and a very good one. So he had returned to the knighthood only to realize that he did not have the stomach for killing any longer. Then, whilst drowning his sorrows one night at a tavern, he managed to save the life of a young knight named Tate de Lara and from that moment on, the two had been unquestionably linked.
So the dishonored priest was given the job of majordomo at young de Lara’s Harbottle holding and it was this hairy bear of a man who greeted the party from Cartingdon Parrish. Standing on the steps of the keep, he looked like a wild-man who lived in the forest and ate bark and berries to survive. His mass of shocking white hair was the first thing Toby noticed. It was hard to miss. As the party drew into the bailey and the massive portcullis was slammed shut behind them, she was coming to feel uneasy and disoriented.
Tate bailed from his charger as they neared the keep and made his way back to the wagon. Kenneth and young John were barking orders to disburse the men and Stephen was already at the wagon by the time Tate arrived. The Hospitaller had his arms around Ailsa, lifting her out of the wagon as Toby weakly fussed with the blanket her sister was wrapped in. She wanted to make sure her sister was warm enough and Stephen assured her that the child was indeed quite warm.
Toby looked a little lost as the tall knight walked off with Ailsa, watching as the two of them mounted the stairs to the towering keep. She wasn’t sure she wanted her sister out of her sight in this foreign place, not even for a moment. The big man with the wild hair greeted Stephen at the top of the stairs and said something to Ailsa, to which the little girl began crying. Startled, Toby was about to climb from the wagon herself to see what the matter was when a soft voice distracted her.
“Elizabetha,” Tate was standing at the end of the wagon bed, patting the boards with a mailed hand. “Slide down here, sweetheart. I will take you inside.”
“Why is Ailsa crying?” she deman
ded weakly. “And who is that man? What did he say to her?”
Tate gave her a lopsided grin and motioned her in his direction. Dutifully, and slowly, she slid to the edge of the wagon bed. Tate already had a heavy woolen traveling blanket in hand and he tossed it over her shoulders, wrapping her up tightly. When he was satisfied that she was properly covered, he scooped her into his massive arms and walked towards the keep.
“That man is Wallace,” he said, eyeing the bulk of a man as he began to descend the steps towards them. “He has run Harbottle quite ably for many years. However, he is not used to being around women and, I am sure, unused to tact or pleasant conversation. He simply does not know any better so you should not be upset by anything he says.”
He turned to look at Toby as he finished, his storm cloud-colored eyes meeting with her brilliant hazel. There was a strange pull to the moment and a strange feeling of warmth that settled in his veins. He remembered feeling such a thing once, years ago, but not nearly with this intensity. The heat was so strong that it made his palms sweat, although it was not unpleasant. In fact, he rather liked it.
“I will not tolerate him causing my sister tears,” Toby told him with quiet firmness. “If he lacks manners, then I shall be happy to teach him for the duration of my stay.”
Tate grinned, studying her face, thinking he’d never in his life seen such a lovely creature. “I have no doubt that you will,” he snorted softly. “I fear Wallace is in for a harsh lesson.”
Before Toby could reply, the hairy beast of a man was upon them. He bowed swiftly to Tate and a horrendous smell of sweat and smoke billowed up from the layers of dirty robes he wore. Toby had to repress the urge to pinch her nose shut as his head came up and small brown eyes focused on her. There was something intense in the deep depths. Then he looked at Tate.
“My lord,” Wallace greeted in a very deep, very gravelly voice. “We are honored with your arrival.”
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