The Age of Knights and Highlanders: A Series Starter Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  A servant helped Toby strip off her clothes. While Ailsa lay upon the bed and continued her musings about their alleged royal relations, Toby went to the smaller adjoining room and stood inside the great iron tub as the servant poured buckets of warm water over her body to rinse off the sweat. Scraping off the excess water, she then doused herself in rosewater before drying off and dressing in a surcoat of emerald damask, set with a scoop-necked collar of white satin and embroidered in gold thread. Her luscious hair was braided, left to drape over one shoulder. Ailsa got off the bed and danced around her as the servant put the finishing touches on her hair.

  “Do you suppose Dragonblade will marry?” she asked.

  Toby sighed heavily. “Ailsa, if you call him that one more time….”

  Ailsa kissed her cheek and hugged her neck, careful not to ruin the hair. “Sir Tate, I mean. Would it not be fancy if he married you? You could live at Harbottle Castle.”

  “He will not marry me. He was married, once, so I was told.”

  “Where is his wife?”

  “I heard that she died.”

  Ailsa looked sad as only a child can. “He must miss her, do you suppose?” From downstairs, they heard the front door bang open, a signal that their father had returned home. Multiple voices indicated guests and Ailsa began to jump up and down. “They are here, they are here!”

  “I shall greet them,” Toby leapt off the stool with the servant still fussing with her hair. “Go and see to Mother, Ailsa. Make sure she is tended to before you join our guests.”

  Ailsa protested. Toby took her by the hand and led her to the door of her mother’s bower. The old woman, hearing their voices, called out.

  “Toby!”

  It was a bellow, a barely recognizable word. Toby, knowing by the tone that her mother’s mood was not good, bade Ailsa to stay outside. It would not have been healthy for the child to go in. With a breath for courage, she ventured into the dark, musty bower.

  It was like a chamber of horrors, a dusty, smelly, cluttered mess. Rats hid beneath the bed, waiting for the scraps of food that the invalid woman would drop. Judith Cartingdon had been a lovely woman once. But ten years of bad health, the inability to walk and the near-inability to speak, had turned her into a caricature of her former self. When Toby came near the bed, Judith picked up her good arm and hit her daughter in the shoulder.

  “Where have you been?” she slurred. “I have been calling for you. Why did you not answer me?”

  “We have guests for dinner, mother,” Toby didn’t rub her shoulder; she would not let her mother see that she had hurt her. “I had to see to supper.”

  Judith slapped her hand on the bed, drool running down the left side her face. “Supper for me, do you hear? Bring it to me now!”

  Toby didn’t argue with her; she didn’t want to be near her mother, much less engaged in a futile conversation with her. She turned around to leave the room when Judith picked up a small pewter bowl and threw it at her, striking her on the top of her left shoulder. It stung deeply, but still, Toby didn’t let on. She continued out of the room.

  Ailsa was standing by the door, wide-eyed. “Bring her supper,” Toby finally took the time, out of her mother’s sight, to rub her back. “Make sure all of the plates are removed this time. And do not get too close. Her mood is foul this eve.”

  “She hit you again?”

  Toby didn’t answer her; the back-rubbing was enough. Smoothing her dress and saying a silent prayer that the meal downstairs progressed without incident, she descended the stairs into the hall below.

  Sparks from the hearth had caught some of the rushes in the hall on fire; consequently, the hall was smokier than usual. Toby entered the room, curtsying to the men whose attention turned to her.

  “Good eve, Father,” she said. Then she looked at Tate. “My lord.”

  “Ah, Toby,” her father greeted her, his normal chalice of wine in hand. “I was showing Sir Tate our humble farm.”

  Tate stood near the fire; there had been a slight mist outside and he raked his fingers through his hair to dry it in the heat. His eyes lingered on Toby in her emerald surcoat.

  “This farm is anything but humble,” he said. “The size and structure is impressive.”

  “You may thank me for the size and my daughter for the structure,” Balin said. “Were it not for Toby, this would still be but a mediocre working farm, struggling to support a village.”

  More wine and ale were brought to the table. Tate had been accompanied by his entourage of men; the knights stood and drank their ale while the men at arms stood on either side of the front door in a defensive position. The squire sat on a small stool near the hearth, drying his thin body out.

  “It is good to see a community that can support itself,” Tate said. “There is so much poverty in the north that the peasants resort to stealing and begging to live. I have had a good deal of trouble with it on my lands.”

  Toby moved to pour herself some mulled wine. “Do you also not think, my lord, that the wars of the crown have created such poverty?”

  “They do.”

  “Yet still you support another uprising.”

  Tate knew this moment would come; he just did not think it would come so soon. He turned fully to Toby, a radiant vision in the ambient light of the fire. The sight of her caused the harsh response on his tongue to ease. It was difficult to become angry with such beauty.

  “I would not consider Edward’s right an uprising, mistress,” his voice was steady. “Do you deny the rightful king his entitlement?”

  “Of course not. But is there not a more peaceful way?”

  “If you have any suggestions, you have my full attention.”

  Toby wasn’t a military expert by any means. Her gaze trailed to the two enormous knights standing near the hearth; their expressions were harsh and she did not like the feeling radiating from them. The men at arms were far enough away that they probably had not heard the conversation, but the squire was looking at her as if he had something to say to all of it. She almost wished she hadn’t spoken out; too many times she would speak before thinking. This was one of those times.

  “It would seem to me that the Queen would willingly relinquish the right to rule to her son,” she said. “He is the king, after all. Unless the Earl of March has poisoned her against her own son, what mother would not want to see her child achieve his claim?”

  “Power has a strange way of blinding those it serves,” Tate said. “The king has attempted negotiating with the Queen. She does not believe him ready to assume the full mantle.”

  “And you believe that he is, my lord?”

  Tate’s dark eyes were intense. “I would stake my life on it.”

  There was something in his sincerity that Toby dare not question. Thankfully, the meal was brought at that moment, precluding the discussion from burgeoning into something uncomfortable. Her father, however, made sure to corner her privately as the guests took their seats.

  “If I have ever asked one thing of you, now is the time. Behave tonight, if not for yourself, then for me. Please.”

  There was heavy alcohol on his breath. That was a usual occurrence, but Toby would have none of it tonight. “If you promise not to get drunk and fly out of control as you do, I shall promise to behave.”

  Balin’s expression turned cold. “Mind yourself, daughter. And do as I ask.”

  With reluctance, Toby silently agreed and went to take her seat. She ended up seated at Tate’s right hand; the knights were across from her, the squire on her right, and her father at the end of the table.

  She was mildly uncomfortable seated so close to Tate. His hand was near hers and she put her hand in her lap. He lapsed into a quiet discussion with his knights while Toby silently attended her meal. When the knights laughed at something and she looked up to see what the joke was about, Tate apologized.

  “I do not believe I have made formal introductions to you, my lady.” He indicated the two armored men acro
ss the table. “These are my trusted friends, Sir Stephen of Pembury and Sir Kenneth St. Héver. They have informed me that I have been most rude by way of presentation.”

  Toby looked at the men, suspecting they said nothing to Tate about his rudeness. More than likely, the laugh had been at her expense. She simply nodded at them as Tate indicated the young man sitting at her right.

  “And this is my squire, John of Hainault.” The lad looked mortified as all eyes turned to him. His mouth was full of food and it was a struggle for him to chew and not choke. “Careful not to get close to him, else he might bite. He eats everything within arm’s length these days.”

  “He is a growing boy,” Balin said. “Though I have no sons, I was a lad once. ’Tis a pleasure to see a young man with a healthy appetite.”

  Ailsa made her grand entrance at that moment. Not strangely, she singled out the squire and planted herself firmly between the young lad and her father. She had a tendency to like older boys. Her big green eyes were fixed on him, his clothing, his hair, even the way he held his spoon.

  “Gentlemen, my youngest child, Mistress Ailsa Cartingdon,” Balin said. “I hope you do not mind that I have allowed her to join us.”

  Tate passed a cursory glance at the child, who had eyes only for his squire. The knights barely looked up from their meal. The squire, however, seemed clearly uncomfortable.

  “Hello,” Ailsa said to him.

  The young man swallowed hard. He cast the girl a quick glance. “Hello.”

  Ailsa watched with interest as he practically buried his face in his food in an attempt to avoid talking to her. “What is your name?” she asked.

  “J-John,” the boy replied.

  “How old are you, John?”

  “Fourteen years.”

  “Are you a knight yet?”

  John glanced at the men seated around him, silently begging for help. Tate took pity on him. “He is not yet, mistress.”

  Ailsa fixed her attention on Tate. “Are you Sir Tate?”

  “Ailsa,” Balin hissed at her, shaking his head.

  Tate responded. “A natural question to a strange man sitting at her table. Yes, mistress, I am.”

  “Why do they call you Dragonblade?”

  Toby nearly choked; in fact, only a large gulp of wine helped the clot of mutton slide down her throat. “Ailsa, behave yourself.”

  “But I just want to know.”

  “Now is not the time.” Toby turned to Tate. “Forgive her, my lord. She is young and without tact.”

  “That seems to be a family trait.”

  Her cheeks burned at his dig as she remembered her vow to behave. “As you say, my lord.”

  From what he had seen that afternoon, it was not like her to submit so easily. He found himself alternately pleased and strangely disappointed that she had not reacted. He cast both sisters a final look before returning to his food. “Bad manners aside, I will also say that beauty must be a family trait. It is too bad that one characteristic negates the other.”

  Ailsa’s attention had returned to the squire by this time and Toby merely continued to eat. Balin, fearful that Tate would push his daughter to forget her promise to behave, poured himself more wine and changed the focus altogether with talk of the pear orchard he had planted two years ago on the southern edge of town.

  Tate listened to the old man talk, largely saying nothing in return. The more Balin drank, the more he talked. Tate eventually discovered that Balin had nothing more vital to say other than discussing agriculture and that his political knowledge was limited to very basic elements. His argumentative daughter seemed far more intelligent, at least enough to keep Tate’s interest. All the while as Balin spoke and drank, Tate was acutely aware of Toby seated next to him, silently eating her pudding. In fact, he was hardly aware of what Balin was saying at all. He kept hearing the soft music of Toby’s voice instead, echoes from their earlier conversation.

  Dinner was over, but not before Tate was nearly bored out of his mind by Balin’s drunken chatter. The knights had eaten their fill and were given a room in the garçonnaire, a small two-room house next to the main house. Its sole purpose was to house traveling guests, usually male. With Tate’s approval, they retired for the eve and took the stuffed, dozing squire with them. The men-at-arms, who had remained by the door for the duration of the meal, were given some food and moved into the warm kitchens.

  Balin, sensing that perhaps their liege wished some time to himself in front of the fire, excused himself and the girls. A word from Tate stopped him.

  “I would have a word with Mistress Elizabetha, if I may.”

  Balin wasn’t sure if he should allow his daughter to be alone with him. She had restrained herself admirably throughout the meal, but there was no knowing how long the restraint would last. Balin would hate to wake up in the morning and discover that his liege had confiscated his lands in a fit of anger. Taking the jug of wine still left upon the table and convincing himself he needed it to sustain his courage, he left Toby alone with the great Lord of Harbottle.

  Tate was still seated, watching Toby as her gaze moved to everything else in the room but him. He studied her profile, the way her cheeks curved, the soft pout of her lips. He thought perhaps that he should gouge his eyes out because he was growing more enchanted with the woman by the moment. It was purely based on her appearance and he had no time to waste with such foolishness. Thank God they would be leaving on the morrow and he would be done with this stupidity.

  “I will only take a moment of your time, mistress,” his voice was quiet. “Will you please sit?”

  Toby sat down on the bench opposite him. There was something in her manner that suggested she had something better to do than sit with him. He eyed her, sensing her displeasure. An entirely different subject suddenly came to mind. “How old are you?” he asked.

  She looked at him, surprised. “I have seen twenty-one years, my lord.”

  His dark eyebrows lifted. “And you are not yet married?”

  She gave him such a look that he nearly burst out laughing. “My father needs me.”

  “One has nothing to do with the other.”

  “You will forgive me, but I do not see how that is any of your affair.”

  “It is not. It was simply a question.”

  “Is that what you wanted to speak to me about?”

  Tate scratched his chin; the more agitated she became, the more humorous he found it. “Not really, but now you have peaked my interest. You are a beautiful woman and your father is wealthy. I cannot imagine that you have not had men falling over themselves to vie for your hand.”

  She sighed harshly. “I suspect you will not stop asking these questions until you have had a satisfactory answer.”

  “That is possibly correct.”

  “Then I will tell you, succinctly. I have not married because there is not a man in England who would want to marry me.”

  “That is an extremely broad reason. Why would you say that?”

  She lifted a well-shaped eyebrow. “Do you find me agreeable? Compliant? Following you about like a stupid sheep?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Nor shall you. Men do not like a woman who knows her own mind.”

  He couldn’t help the smile on the corner of his lips. She saw it and it inflamed her.

  “If you are done laughing at me, I shall bid you a good evening and go about my business.”

  She bolted up, but Tate was quicker and grasped her arms before she could get away. He yanked her harder than he had intended and nearly pulled her across the table. As it was, she ended up inches from his face.

  “You are not leaving until I am finished,” he found his face strangely warm to have her so near. “And I was not laughing at you, not in the least. I simply find your manner intriguing and your answer honest.”

  If Tate was warm, Toby was on fire. Her breath was coming in strange little gasps. “You find my manner horrid,” she breathed. “You have said so.”


  “I never said horrid. I believe what I said is that you have an appalling lack of manners.”

  “Then you have answered your own question as to why I have never married.”

  “You realize that you have condemned yourself.”

  “I would rather be myself than pretend to be someone I am not. Woe to any man who cannot accept me as I am.”

  He stared into her eyes with that strange hypnotic sensation that Toby had experienced once before. She could feel his warm breath on her face. Just as quickly as he grabbed her, he released her. Toby caught herself before she fell, like a fool, on the table. Shaken, she resumed her seat.

  Tate collected his own seat. He took a long drink of wine because he needed it. There were too many strange thoughts floating about in his mind regarding the woman across the table. Angry with himself, he focused on his reason for speaking with her.

  “I will expect you to show us the herd at dawn,” he said. “I have much to do tomorrow and do not want to be held up at Cartingdon.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  “Can you give me an estimate of the worth of the sheep?”

  Her brow furrowed as she struggled to focus on his question, not the heat from his stare. “The top of the market would be six silver florens a head. The wool will sell for twice that for a bale. In all, I would estimate you could gain a thousand gold marks for the entire herd when everything is sold. Leeds would be the best market. They have a huge export industry.”

  It was a pleasing number. Tate gazed at her a few moments longer before nodding his head. “I thank you, mistress. I know you are anxious to get about your duties so that you may retire.”

  “I will make sure a meal is prepared and sent with you on your journey tomorrow.”

  “That is kind of you.”

  She cocked an eyebrow. “Contrary to what you apparently believe of me, I do have moments of kindness and obedience, my lord.”

  He gave her no indication of what he thought of her comment. Toby begged his leave and stood up, feeling his eyes on her, wondering why it disturbed her so. She was to the door when she heard his voice again, soft yet commanding.