The Age of Knights and Highlanders: A Series Starter Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  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 hadn’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.

  Unbeknownst to the occupants of the manor, three of Mortimer’s men had made it inside the large house by way of the kitchen. The cook was killed and two servants beat unconscious. They were waiting for the king when he flew into the house, yelling for the man that Mortimer knew as Dragonblade. The lad was in a panic and was nearly hit by a sword that came flying at his head. He managed to avoid being decapitated and raced into the great hall, pulling a sword down from the hearth and defending himself admirably. All of this happened in quick succession, but the fiercest battle was yet to come.

  Two massive knights came hurling off the stairs, racing into the great hall to join the melee. Tate and Stephen were without armor or weapons and at a distinct disadvantage; Stephen grabbed the long, slender iron pole that was used to stoke the hearth and drove the dirty end into one man’s neck. Tate picked up the nearest stool, used it to block a strike against him, then swung about and used it as a weapon to disarm his adversary. It was a smooth move, accomplished in a matter of seconds. An additional move took his foe’s legs out from underneath him and he collected the man’s sword before it hit the ground. In a deadly turn, he used it against him.

  There was still another attacker in the room, going after young Edward. Stephen did away with the man, putting the fire pole between his ribs. As the man fell, the knight caught his sword. Now, at least they were armed. Their odds were increasing.

  Edward was exhilarated and terrified. “In the garçonnaire!” he yelled. “There are more!”

  “Go help Kenneth,” Tate ordered Stephen. He looked at the young king. “Up the stairs, now.”

  The tone of command left no room for debate. Stephen left for the garçonnaire, but Edward had yet to move.

  “I can fight,” he insisted.

  “It was not a request,” Tate replied. “Get up the stairs to the mistress’ chamber and lock the door.”

  Edward was about to argue further but he suddenly paused. “I smell smoke.”

  Tate smelled it, too. He suspected what was happening and his plan of attack shifted. Before he could say anything further, a body abruptly stepped f
rom the shadows and hit him squarely across the back of the head. Without his helm, Tate went down like a stone. Edward’s eyes widened as the figure came into the weak light.

  “De Roche,” he gasped. “What… what are you doing here?”

  Hamlin de Roche was big, dark and ugly. His armor was of the finest grade and his demeanor gave him the ambience of the devil. He grinned at Edward, evil and death bleeding from every pore of his body. He stepped over Tate’s supine form.

  “My king,” he greeted in a deep, raspy voice. “As Mortimer’s finest servant, the earl does not pay me for my good looks or pleasant nature. I have come for a reason.”

  Edward was backing up as de Roche moved towards him. “Stay away from me, you bastard. You will not lay a hand on me.”

  “I do not intend to lay a hand on you,” de Roche said calmly. “I intend to take you with me for Mortimer’s pleasure.”

  Edward was to the stairs, backing his way up the steps and unaware that he was about to corner himself. He had a sword in his hand but dared not strike out at de Roche; as deadly as Tate de Lara was, de Roche had nearly the same reputation. He was a powerful warrior, Roger Mortimer’s most valuable knight. Catching Tate unaware had been a first; Tate had gotten the better of de Roche many times.

  “Stay away, de Roche,” Edward raised the sword in a weak threat. “I will kill you if you come any closer, I swear it.”

  De Roche laughed low in his throat. “You are brave, sire. You have grown since last we spoke.”

  Edward was nearly to the top of the stairs and increasingly fearful of his fate. He was at a disadvantage and he knew it. But unexpectedly, a wet figure pushed past him, a blur of hair and ashen flesh. Toby suddenly wedged herself between Edward and the dark knight, causing Edward to trip and fall back on the steps. Truthfully, he was so startled to see her that he had fallen over his own feet.

  Toby was pale and shaken, her nightshift damp from the bath she had taken to save her life. She had awoken on her bed, hearing urgent voices in the hall and wondering why she was all wet. Ailsa was asleep beside her and she had not the strength to wake her sister and ask what had transpired. When the voices drew closer, men she did not recognize, she was curious more than she sensed danger. But a terrified young man’s voice told her something was amiss. Rising from the bed, which was no easy feat, she had stumbled to the door in time to see Tate’s squire heading off with an enormous knight.

  The lad was frightened, that much was evident. The big knight looked as if he was about to do the youth serious harm. Having no idea who the man was, she instinctively took a defensive stance. She was enraged that someone would violate the sanctity of her home, no matter what the circumstances. Staggering over to the hearth, she grabbed the fire poker, the only weapon-like instrument in the room.

  De Roche was soon aware of a poker staring him in the face.

  “How dare you enter my home without permission,” Toby hissed. “Leave this boy alone. Get out of here.”

  De Roche’s gaze drifted over her in a way that made Toby feel dirty and exposed. “Lady, this matter does not concern you. I shall leave your home gladly as soon as young Edward lets go his sword and comes with me.”

  Toby’s mind was fogged with illness and she did not comprehend that the man had called the squire by a different name. She lowered the poker as if she meant to attack him.

  “Get out. I will not tell you again.”

  “And I will not tell you again that I am not ready to.”

  She swung the poker at his head. He easily sidestepped the blow, grabbed the poker from her, and tossed it over the side of the stairs. Toby heard it clatter on the floor below. Keeping Edward behind her, she made sure to stay between the boy and the knight as they slowly backed away.

  “You would make this far easier for yourself if you would simply move out of the way,” de Roche told her.

  “I am not moving,” Toby replied, firm but frightened. “Why would you want to harm this boy?”

  “I already told you: I do not want to harm him. I have simply been sent to retrieve him.”

  “He does not want to go with you; can you not see that?”

  They had reached the top of the steps. De Roche was finished debating with her and reached out to move her aside. He truthfully had no intention of hurting her. But the moment he laid his hands on her, Toby turned into a wildcat and began kicking and biting. She nipped de Roche on the hand and he grunted, shifting his grip so she could not reach him with her sharp teeth.

  He was about to toss her aside when he suddenly lurched forward. It was a violent move that pitched him onto the floor. He let go of Toby somewhere in the process and she stumbled back. Only the terrified king had saved her from falling completely. The two of them looked at the knight on the ground, dumbfounded. But the large body standing where de Roche had once been ended their confusion.

  Tate stood on the top of the steps holding the poker he had picked up off the floor down below. His expression was grave as he inspected the man on the floor. Unlike de Roche’s handiwork, Tate knew Hamlin would not be regaining lucidity any time soon. The whack to his head had been for damage. For his part, Tate had a slight headache but was none the worse for wear. He rubbed the back of his skull as he looked at Toby.

  “Are you all right?”

  She nodded, though in truth, she wasn’t. She was horribly weak and still very ill. When she tried to speak, she suddenly felt very faint and would have collapsed but for Edward. He broke her fall and Tate picked her up.

  “Edward, rouse the family,” he ordered. “The manor is afire and there is little time to waste. Tell them to gather what they can and get out.”

  “My mother,” Toby breathed, struggling weakly to remove herself from Tate’s hold. “She cannot move by herself. She will need help.”

  “Then I will send a man up for her,” Tate said. “We need to get you out of here.”

  While Edward disappeared into one of the rooms, Tate carried Toby back into her chamber. Ailsa, awoken by the commotion, sat up on the bed and rubbed her eyes.

  “What is happening?” she asked. She saw Toby as her vision cleared. “Toby! What is wrong with her?”

  Tate sat Toby very gently on the end of the bed. “Bravery is exhausting,” he said simply, but there was no time for idle chatter. “Ailsa, we need to leave right away. Where are your traveling cases?”

  Ailsa blinked as if she did not understand the question. Then she pointed to the wardrobe against the wall. Tate went to the bureau and quickly pulled out two large leather trunks. He started throwing clothes in them at random.

  Ailsa ran over to him. “Why do we have to leave? What is the matter?”

  She was verging on tears. Tate paused, putting his hands on her slender shoulders. “You must be brave, little one. I need your help.”

  Her lip was trembling. “Aye?”

  “Help me pack. Quickly.”

  “Why are we hurrying?”

  He threw the green damask gown that Toby had worn the eve they supped together into the trunk. “Because some men have come. They have set fire to the manor. We must get out of here. Do you understand?”

  Her eyes were full of fear but, to his surprise, she did not panic. She began flying around the room, collecting items and throwing them into the second trunk. With the next gown he grabbed, Tate went over to Toby, still sitting on the bed.

  “Put this on,” he said gently. “Do you need my help to do so?”

  Toby shook her head and, with quivering hands, began to pull at her night shift. Tate turned away, back to the packing. It seemed as if any doubt he had ever had about her had fled the moment he saw her standing at the top of the steps, defending Edward against a man three times her size. He had no idea how she had managed it, but her courage and strength astonished him.

  The trunks were full in short order and he sealed them both. Then he turned to see how Toby was faring. She was still sitting on the bed, pale and sickly, but had managed to somehow pull
her wet shift off and put on a linen shift and heavy brown broadcloth garment. Ailsa had found a pair of woolen hose and was trying to pull them on her sister’s feet. Edward and Balin came into the chamber, both wide-eyed at what was happening around them, and Tate put them to work.

  “Take these trunks out of here,” he directed the king. “Balin, take Ailsa out. Do not let her out of your sight.”

  “But… my home,” Balin gasped. “These men… dead in my hall. What is happening?”

  Tate took the hose from Ailsa and threw propriety to the wind; he deftly rolled a stocking on to one of Toby’s legs. “I fear that my visit has brought you bad fortune,” he said quietly. “Get your wife and get out of this place. Be quick about it.”

  “This place is all that I have!” Balin wailed. “I will not go, I tell you!”

  “You must or it will burn down over your head.”

  “Then let it burn. I will not leave!”

  He ran off and they heard a door slam. Ailsa, confused and frightened, began crying. Tate rolled the other stocking onto Toby’s leg, trying not to think of how soft and shapely it was. “Ailsa, sweetheart, find your sister’s shoes,” he commanded softly. “We must hurry.”

  She did as she was asked, sobbing. In little time, they had Toby dressed and Tate collected her in his arms once more. The three of them moved down the smoky stairs; de Roche still lay upon the landing and they stepped over him. On the first floor, the great hall was filled with heavy smoke and some flame. The fire was gaining. Tate carried Toby out into the yard.

  The Harbottle troops that had been encamped on the eastern side of the manor house were trying to douse the fire that had consumed most of the northern section of the house; the kitchens and solar were completely engulfed. Toby, only semi-conscious, nonetheless realized what was happening.

  “My father,” she whispered. “Where are my father and mother?”

  Stephen and Kenneth met Tate in the yard. All of Mortimer’s men had been either subdued or killed and were no longer a threat. The men-at-arms had taken young Edward back to the garçonnaire, which was still standing. Mortimer’s men hadn’t tried to burn it. With all of the men running about trying to put out the fire, the environment was chaotic.