Kenneth, Stephen, Edward and Wallace were in the solar when he arrived. The room was lit by a bright fire, almost too hot in the small closeness of the room. Tate focused on Stephen.
“What is our status?” he asked.
“As I said, we have tracked movement about a half mile to the south,” Stephen responded. “I have sent out a small scout party. We should be receiving a report from them shortly.”
Tate nodded, raking his fingers through his dark hair and spying a pitcher and a few cups on a table near the door. He went to it, pouring himself a cup of strong ale.
“Then we wait,” he said as he lifted the cup to his lips. “I have no doubt who they are. The question is how long it will take Mortimer to raise a large enough army to lay siege to Harbottle.”
“Then we should leave,” Edward said firmly. “We must get out of here.”
Tate cocked an eyebrow at him. “And go where? I would suspect that there are far more of them than of us. I fear they are heavily onto our scent, enough so they have had time to gather reinforcements. I fear that if we leave the safety of Harbottle, it will leave us open and vulnerable on the road. We would do better to stay here where we are safe for the moment.”
“Then send to Alnwick for reinforcements,” Edward said with mounting irritation.
Tate’s gaze was steady. “What makes you think that I have not already?” When Edward looked surprised, Tate took another drink of ale and turned away, pacing casually towards the windows. “When Stephen returned to Harbottle three days ago to gather more troops, he sent additional dispatches to reinforce Harbottle. I requested four hundred men from Alnwick, but I also sent a request to John de Clavering of Warkworth Castle. We should be seeing either army any day now.”
The young king was embarrassed that he had challenged him. Tate was wise in all things and he should have trusted him. As Edward hung his young and agitated head, Stephen moved to take his own cup of ale. Kenneth moved up on the other side of him and the three of them began to make short work of the alcohol.
“I doubt the movement we saw to the south was Warkworth’s men,” Stephen said, cup in hand. “They would not be skulking just inside the tree line.”
Kenneth took a long drink and poured himself more. “I am concerned that it is an advance party for Mortimer. The man is heavily allied with the Howards of Cumbria and we could very well be facing an approach from Howard’s army from the west and Warkworth’s from the east. We would be caught in the crossfire.”
Tate looked at Kenneth, the quieter of his companions but definitely the more cunning. “What would you suggest?”
Kenneth looked at him with his ice-blue eyes. “Remove Edward from this place. Return him to London and put him under the protection of the Crown troops.”
“Mortimer is at Windsor.”
“But he is not at the Tower; the Tower is still held for the king. That was our original destination once we raised funds for the king’s cause, was it not?”
Tate nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “And I am not varying from our plans. But with Mortimer so close on our scent over the past two days, I am very concerned about moving Edward on the open road. If we are caught.…”
Kenneth lifted his hand in agreement, turning back to his ale. “I know,” he muttered, taking another drink. “They will take Edward and kill us. Although I do not particularly relish the thought of my own death, I do not relish the thought of Edward’s more.”
“He is safer here at Harbottle than anywhere else until Warkworth or troops from Alnwick arrive.”
“Agreed.”
Stephen had been listening to their conversation. “What if neither castle received our missive?” he asked quietly. “Mortimer’s men were closer than we realized when we sent messengers. What if they were captured?”
Tate’s gaze moved to the tall, thin youth who was now gazing into the fire. “We will know in a day or two if troops do not arrive,” he said quietly. “Then we will have to rethink our strategy.”
The knights stood silently a moment, drinking their ale, pondering the course of the next two days. Tate finally broke from the pack and went to Wallace, standing near a lancet window and watching the activity in the bailey. It was developing into a quiet dusk, the sounds of night birds singing in the distance.
“Given the men we currently hold, how long can the castle withstand a siege?” Tate asked the old man.
Wallace looked thoughtful. “It would depend on the size of the attacking force.”
“You know the size of the attacking force.”
The old man grunted. “A month at most.” He turned to Tate. “My lord, if you are going to remove the young king, then it must be now. You cannot delay.”
“I have no plans to remove him.”
Wallace shook his head in disagreement. “Give him to me,” he said with quiet urgency. “I can spirit him to Scotland. My cousin is a monk at Kelso Abbey. Mortimer could not get him there.”
Tate lifted an eyebrow. “If the Scots did not get you first,” he slapped the man on the shoulder. “A noble offering, but I believe his safety is best served here at Harbottle.”
Wallace’s gaze moved to the young king, standing near the flames, and then back to Tate. “Then what of the womenfolk?” he asked pointedly. “Would you imprison them at a castle under siege?”
Tate’s humor fled; the mere thought of Toby being separated from him made his blood surge. He knew that Wallace was correct in his suggestion but he was having difficulty with the rightness of it.
“They will be safer here than back at Cartingdon or worse, out on the open road,” he said tersely. “You have been trying to be rid of those women since they arrived. What is your aversion to them?”
Wallace shook his head. “No aversion, my lord. But Harbottle is a man’s fortress. Women do not belong here nor are they safe here.”
“Safe?” Tate’s eyebrows rose. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that soldiers sometimes lack control. Being that there are no women at Harbottle, their presence is something of an anomaly. They could easily make sport of one of them.”
Tate’s eyes turned stormy. “I will make this clear so that you, in turn, will make it clear to every man at Harbottle. If either of those ladies are touched, molested or otherwise annoyed in any way, my wrath upon the perpetrator shall be swift and deadly. Is that in any way incomprehensible?”
Wallace watched Tate’s expression as he spoke; the man meant every word he said. He shook his head slowly. “It is quite clear, my lord.”
“Good. Then I suggest you spread the word.”
“I will. But I still advocate that they be removed if there is to be a battle.”
“They will not be removed. Be on your way.”
Wallace left the solar without another word. Tate lingered on the doorway where the man had disappeared for a moment, lost to his thoughts. He knew Wallace was more than likely correct about Toby and Ailsa leaving Harbottle, but in truth, there was nowhere for them to go. It was his way of rationalizing the fact that he did not want Toby away from him. The more time passed, the more attached he was becoming to her and he still wasn’t quite sure how to feel about it. His emotions were muddy, like waters that had been stirred and had not yet settled. He had to wait for the silt to settle.
Night was upon them and the sky was brilliant with its blanket of stars sweeping across the heavens. It was a sharp contrast from the fog of the morning. Those in the solar had moved from war talk to small talk, imbibing more pitchers of ale as the fire burned and smoke huddled against the ceiling. Smells of roasting meat drifted in through the lancet windows and young Edward perpetually asserted how hungry he was. Tate finally sent a servant for bread and cheese to keep the boy happy as they ate and drank in comfortable conversation.
Kenneth had stopped drinking some time ago and sat with a pumice stone and his sword, wetting the stone and running it along the blade to sharpen it. He and Stephen were having a disagreement about the country
that produced the finest wines; Stephen was sure it was Italy while Kenneth was an advocate of France. Tate sat with ale in hand, grinning at their argument until Stephen rattled the hilt of Kenneth’s sword and almost caused the man to lose a finger. Kenneth lashed out a massive boot and kicked the chair legs out from underneath Stephen, sending the chair to the floor. But Stephen was quick and managed to leap out of the chair before it hit the ground.
Stephen and Tate roared with laughter; even Kenneth, who was not the laughing kind, snorted at the fun. When Stephen righted his chair, he managed to move it out of Kenneth’s range and resume the conversation. But by then, food was being served in the great hall and Wallace came to summon them.
Tate left Stephen, Kenneth and Edward in the great hall as he mounted the stairs for the upper chambers. It was his intention to wake the ladies and escort them down to the meal. Quietly, he opened the chamber door, fully expecting to see that they were both still in bed, and was surprised when he realized they were both very much awake.
Ailsa had a broom in her hands that was as tall as she was, carefully sweeping the debris on the floor into a pile. Toby was on her knees before the hearth, a flint stone in hand as she attempted to light some kindling. When they heard the door open, two sets of lovely eyes turned to look at Tate.
He stood in the doorway, his massive hands resting on narrow hips as he surveyed the room. “I left you two sleeping,” he said with mock sternness. “Whose bright idea was it to rise and go to work?”
He was looking directly at Toby. With a sheepish grin, she brushed the hair off her forehead and stood up.
“It would do no good to refute you so I must therefore confess,” she said as she moved towards him, flint still in her fingers. “I am the slave master. Ailsa is accustomed to it.”
Tate’s lips twitched as he focused on her lovely face; she appeared much better than she had earlier in the day. In fact, there was even a bit of color to her cheeks. She was starting to look like the woman he had first met at Forestburn, beautiful and composed and strong. He realized, as he looked at her, that his heart was doing strange things against his ribs.
“You have a brutal streak in you, mistress,” he winked at her as he looked at Ailsa. “And you, young woman; I suppose that you are hungry?”
Ailsa nodded eagerly. “I am famished.”
“And your cruel sister is working a starving girl?”
Ailsa grinned, looking at Toby as she spoke. “She does it all of the time.”
Tate cocked an eyebrow as Ailsa giggled and put the broom aside. “We will have no more of that,” he told Toby in a quiet growl, all the while his gaze raking over her lovely face. “Supper is served in the great hall and I insist you allow your sister to eat before you drive her into service.”
Toby coyly shrugged, moving back to the hearth to set the flint stone back where she found it. “If you insist,” she said, setting the stone aside and brushing her hands off on her surcoat. “Am I permitted to eat also?”
“Only if you swear to never again abuse your power.”
“I cannot swear it.”
Ailsa giggled again and went to take Tate’s hand. She held it tightly as Tate had eyes only for her sister.
“I can force you to swear it, you know,” he told Toby.
“You can try, my lord. But I do not surrender easily.”
Tate tried to hold back the smile but found he could not. Teeth flashing, he shook his head in submission. “I believe that. God help me, I believe it implicitly.” He held out his free arm to her. “Would you come with me, then, and we may discuss it further over supper?”
Toby took the offered elbow. “My surrender is non-negotiable.”
“We shall see about that.”
Ailsa was the first one through the door, still clutching Tate’s hand tightly, but Tate and Toby were sharing a private glance between them. It was an enchanted moment; the mood was lighter than it had been in days. With Ailsa still tugging on him, Tate leaned into Toby so he could speak softly and not be overheard by little ears.
“To be truthful, I do not wish to discuss your surrender,” he said quietly. “Could we not speak on more pleasant things?”
He was very near and Toby was having difficulty breathing. “Like what?” she asked breathlessly.
“Like Paris in the spring and our future trip to Rome.”
Toby smiled broadly, remembering those subjects from their very first in-depth conversation. “So you still intend to escort me to those places, I take it?” she asked.
“I told you that I would.”
“You said you would do it only if I did not find a husband to take me.”
“That is what we will discuss.”
Toby’s smile faded and she stared at him, her eyes wide with surprise. He gave her a bold wink, lifting the hand that gripped his elbow and kissing her fingers sweetly. Toby was so upswept in his last statement and subsequent kiss that she could hardly form a coherent thought. Was it possible he meant what she thought he meant? Or was she simply reading too much into his kindness?
As Toby and Tate lost themselves in each other’s eyes, Ailsa let go of Tate’s hand as they neared the narrow stairs. She skipped around, telling her sister to mind the stairs that were narrow and treacherous. But she apparently did not listen to her own advice; before Tate could grab her, Ailsa slipped on the top step and fell, screaming, down the entire shaft.
And then… silence.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Her skull was smashed by the fall, Tate,” Stephen said grimly. “There was nothing I could do. Even I cannot bring back the dead.”
“I know,” Tate raked his fingers through his dark hair. “I did not mean to question your skills. All I want to know is if there was ever a chance to save her.”
Stephen shook his head wearily. “Nay,” he said hoarsely. “She was dead by the time she reached the bottom of the stairs. There was never any hope.”
Tate’s expression was taut with grief as he stood with Stephen in the hall outside of the master’s chamber. Kenneth stood slightly behind him and Edward was near the chamber door, his brown eyes swimming with tears as he gazed into the dimly lit room.
The four of them were entrenched in the unexpected tragedy, the shock of a little life cut short. The three knights, having been trained to control their emotions, were nonetheless having a difficult time concealing what they felt. Young Edward was positively beside himself. They had all been fond of little Ailsa, like a breath of fresh air in the midst of their hellish mission, and her accidental death was a dark and cutting thing.
By the door, Edward wiped furiously at the tears in his eyes. “Mistress Toby is just sitting there, holding her and crying,” he said painfully. “Is there nothing to be done?”
The three knights looked at the young lad. “What would you have us do?” Stephen asked quietly. “Ailsa is dead. We cannot bring her back.”
“Can you at least give Mistress Toby something to make her feel better?”
Stephen sighed heavily, moving to peek inside the half-open door. Toby was where he had left her, holding her sister’s corpse fiercely and weeping her heart out. In fact, she’d not let go of the body since Tate had brought her sister up from where she had landed at the bottom of the stairs over an hour ago. Stephen could hardly examine the little girl; Toby refused to let go. But a full examination was not needed to know that she was quite dead.
“I have something to make her sleep,” he said, looking to Tate after a moment. “It is not going to be easy separating her from her sister’s body.”
Tate could see Toby and Ailsa from where he stood. His own eyes were stinging and he realized it was because tears were close to the surface. He hadn’t cried since that dark day four years ago when his wife had perished while giving birth. Then he’d turned into a stone. Now the stone was cracking. The emotions were starting to come forth once again. He didn’t like it, but he knew there was no way he could stop it.
“Give her
time,” he finally said, fighting off pangs of grief as he turned to Kenneth. “We will need a coffin for Ailsa. Will you see to that?”
Kenneth nodded slowly, his ice-blue eyes beholding the scene through the crack in the doorway. But he tore his eyes away as if he did not want to witness such pain. He was about to reply when a low voice came from the darkened stairwell.
“I told you that womenfolk did not belong at Harbottle.”
No one had seen Wallace come up the stairs. He stood several steps down from the landing, hidden by the shadows. Tate, Stephen, Kenneth and Edward turned to look at the man, looking dark and grim as he hovered just out of the light. Tate found that his patience with the man’s grumbling was vanished. Now he was brittle, poised to strike at a wrong word.
“The child’s fall down the stairs had nothing to do with whether or not she belonged here,” he growled. “If I hear another dark word come out of your mouth about this incident, I will cut your tongue out and throw it to the birds. I have had enough of your grumbling; go with Kenneth and help him find a suitable coffin for the girl. Stay out of my sight until my anger has cooled.”
Kenneth had never heard Tate issue such a threat; the man was perpetually calm in all things. He could only surmise it was the force of his emotion talking. The big blond knight moved to the stairs, grabbing Wallace by the arm and forcing him back down from whence he came.
Tate’s angry gaze lingered on the darkened stairs long after they had gone as he struggled to collect himself. He realized very quickly that his unchecked emotions were manifesting into sharp commands and zero tolerance. He should have been embarrassed but found that, in truth, he was not. He was feeling something for the death of Ailsa and was not ashamed about it. With a heavy sigh, he turned back to the half-open door.
“Get your potion prepared,” he said softly, pushing the door open slightly in preparation for entering. “I have a feeling we are in for a long and difficult night.”
Stephen nodded faintly, following Tate into the room where his medicament bag lay open near the hearth. As Stephen went for the bag, Tate went for the bed. The closer he drew, the more his heart ached for what he saw.