As Tate knew, there was no waiting ambush for him. But he could see hundreds of men on the battlements, watching him approach. But he rode onward until he reached the great gates, coming to rest just shy of the drawbridge. He shouted up to the sentries on the wall.
“You will tell the Queen that the Earl of Carlisle has come seeking audience,” he called. “Tell her I wait for her at the gates.”
A great commotion followed; he could hear the soldiers shouting to each other; men were on the wall, off the wall, and yelling abound in the lower bailey. Tate wondered how long he would be forced to wait as word reached Isabella.
He remained in place for at least a half an hour. Snow was beginning to fall again, a light dusting blanketing his armor. His charger snorted nervously, dancing around impatiently. The clouds above his head darkened and birds scattered about seeking shelter. Still, Tate continued to wait patiently. But as the snow fell heavier and his patience began to wane, the great gates of Windsor began to slowly crank open.
Tate could see her just inside the gates. She was busily chatting with her ladies, who apparently wanted to accompany her. But he could see Isabella ordering them away, the gossipy and whorish French women that attended her. Tate had never liked them, although all of them, at least once, had tried to seduce him. He had to laugh at their boldness and ingenuity in doing so, although they were not the type of stories he could ever tell his wife. Maybe someday when they were old and gray and needed a good laugh, but not now. He didn’t think she would appreciate the humor.
Isabella eventually headed towards him. Under the great gatehouse and across the drawbridge she came. She had been quite a beauty in her time, with dark hair and hazel eyes, but time and her trials had seen that beauty fade. She was only thirty-one years old but looked older.
Dressed resplendently in white fur and golden brocade, Isabella smiled at him as she made her way across the drawbridge. In spite of the reputation the woman had, Tate had always found her to be kind and honest. She was, however, extremely pliable to the will of men, which is how Mortimer had managed to enslave her. All the woman had ever wanted was the love of a man and would do anything to get it. It was unfortunate.
“Dragonblade,” she greeted fondly in her heavy French accent. “My God, let me look at you. It has been far too long.”
Tate dismounted his charger and went to her, taking her gloved hands to kiss them. “My Queen,” he was as pleasant as he could be given the circumstances. “Time has been kind to you.”
She rolled her eyes at him as if to disbelieve him. “You are very sweet,” she said, her hazel eyes moving over his handsome, stubbled face. “I am so happy you have come to visit me.”
“I wish it was a social call.”
She cocked a dark eyebrow. “And it is not?” she clucked softly. “Whatever do you mean?”
Tate’s gaze was steady on her; in his peripheral, he could see dozens of soldiers just inside the gates, knowing they were watching him like a cat watches a mouse. They were Mortimer’s men. Tate took Isabella’s hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm.
“Walk with me, Iz,” he said softly.
Isabella immediately complied, like an eager puppy. She was bundled tightly against the weather and felt no cold as they began to walk down the slope from the main gates. In fact, she felt rather giddy in the company of a man she had once been wildly in love with.
“So you call me Iz, do you?” she snorted softly. “That cannot be a good sign.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “How would you know?”
“Because you only call me that when you are cross with me.”
He did laugh, then. “You are imagining things.”
She laid her cheek on his arm affectionately. “Nay, I am not,” she said as they continued down the road. “Now, would you care to tell me why you have come if it is not a social visit?”
He nodded, putting his thoughts together. Although he had been over and over this conversation in his mind, still, he did not want to come across as too harsh at first. Yet it was difficult, especially with the subject matter.
“I have come with a problem that you can help me solve,” he said softly.
“Problem? What problem?”
Tate paused as they came to a crossroads in the avenue that led from the castle; it was right at the edge of the village. He faced her as the snow fell between them.
“I was married a few weeks ago,” he told her.
Isabella’s eyes opened wide. “Married?” she gasped. Then she threw her arms around him. “Oh, Tate, that is marvelous. I am so happy to hear this.”
“Thank you,” he replied as he hugged her and then let her go. “I am also very happy. Happier than I have ever been in my life. But my happiness came to a brutal halt when Mortimer abducted my bride.”
Isabella stared at him. Then, her eyes bugged again and she staggered as if hit. Her hand flew to her chest.
“Roger,” she breathed. “What do you mean? What happened?”
Tate told her the entire story, from the time he visited Cartingdon until that very moment. He omitted the information about the armies of Henry of Lancaster and the Lords of de Lara for the moment, but for the most part, he told her the truth. He watched Isabella ride a wild sea of emotion; she was up, she was down, she was weeping, she was furious. She was also extremely insecure and extremely jealous. Tate knew this, which he was planning on using to his advantage. A jealous woman would be of tremendous help. He hoped it would be enough.
“My God,” she gasped with the story was concluded. “Do you know where he has taken her?”
“In the missive he sent me, he told me to go to Wigmore Castle,” Tate replied. “I would assume he has taken her there.”
Isabella was pale with shock, her mind focused on her lover and the fact that he had Tate’s wife in his company. It did not sit well with her. She rubbed her chin in thought, her gloved hand drifting over her cheeks as she pondered the situation. Then her hazel eyes fixed on him.
“So why have you come to me?” she asked, somewhat suspiciously. “What do you want me to do?”
Tate cocked an eyebrow at her. “You will do everything in your power to have my wife returned to me immediately,” he told her in a tone she had rarely heard from him. “I will not tell you how you must achieve this. I believe you can figure it out.”
Isabella looked uncomfortable, fiddling with her gloves. “He may not listen to me,” she said softly. “He has a very strong will.”
Tate would not be put off by a weak woman. He gazed steadily at her. “I have eight thousand men converging on Wigmore Castle as we speak,” he told her in no uncertain terms. “If you do not convince Roger to release my wife, then I will lay siege to the castle and destroy it. And when it is breached, I will destroy Roger. Have no doubt that I can do this. And if my wife is harmed in any way, I will make sure that Roger’s family suffers the consequences because my vengeance will know no limits. Is this in any way unclear? I am giving you the chance to save the man who saved you from your husband. If you fail, I will destroy him.”
She looked at Tate with naked fear. “Please do not harm him. He may be foolish at times but he is not evil.”
God, the woman is blind, Tate thought. “He is inherently evil, Iz,” he said, more gently. “This man has been trying to kill your son for two years and you have done nothing to stop him. Why do you think I took the king with me? To protect him. We have been running from Roger for two long years but I will not run any longer. Roger has crossed the line and I will kill him if he does not release my wife unharmed.”
Isabella’s eyes were filling with tears. “Where is my son?”
Tate would not be shifted of the subject. “He is still with me, strong and healthy and alive,” he put his hands on her upper arms, gripping her tightly. “Listen to me and listen well; when I leave here, I ride for Wigmore. You may ride with me to talk some sense into Mortimer when we arrive. If you do not ride with me, then know that
I ride to kill him. The choice is yours.”
She sniffled delicately into a lace handkerchief. “Is that why you have come? To threaten me?”
“I have come to seek your help in the release of my wife. That is all I care about.”
She wept quietly into her hand for a few moments. Tate stood there and watched her, not at all sorry he had made her cry. The situation with her son was a perfect example of the fact that she lived in her own world of denial and he was not going to allow her to do it this time. He wanted her help and he was going to get it. More than the might of an army, Isabella would be the one to sway Mortimer. He would listen to her.
“Will you help me, Iz?” he asked softly, adding leadingly: “My wife is very beautiful. There is no telling how she has caught Mortimer’s eye.”
Isabella looked at him with her watery eyes, shocked. “Why do you say such things?”
“Because you know him as well as I do. He cannot control himself around a beautiful woman and neither you nor I would want to deal with the consequences of that.”
She sobbed louder, muffled in her hand. “He would not do that to me.”
“Aye, he would,” Tate shook her gently. “Please help me, Iz. I want my wife back. I love her. Please help me.”
She sniffled and sobbed a few moments longer before looking at him again with her red-rimmed eyes.
“All right, Tate,” she whispered. “You win. But I want something as well.”
“What is it?
“You must allow me to see my son.”
Tate sighed heavily; she was shrewd when she wanted to be. Tate had kept Edward from her for two years because he was afraid any contact with his mother would lead to Mortimer getting ahold of the boy. This time, however, Tate would have to relent. At least for now.
“Agreed,” he granted softly. “Get your women together and your escort. We leave for the Marches by noon.”
He took Isabella back to the castle, handed her off to her women, and collected his charger. As he rode back to his base camp through the softly falling snow, all he could feel was a tremendous sense of anxiety. He wanted Toby back more desperately with each passing moment and was having a difficult time controlling his impatience. He knew that Roger would not harm her but he also knew the man was an opportunist and had an eye for beautiful women. And Toby was certainly beautiful. As he thought of Mortimer trying to seduce Toby, he began to grind his jaw. He trusted his wife but he also protected what was his. The more he thought of it, the more tightly he clenched his teeth. Eventually, he bit his tongue.
When he reached base camp, Stephen thought he had been in a fight for all of the blood that was coming out of his mouth.
Wigmore Castle, Herefordshire
It was a shockingly clear day in February. The snow was heavy on the ground, several feet deep in some places, but the sky was blue and the sun shone weakly. The fair weather was all Roger needed to force everyone outside for some sport. He had selected archery as the game of choice and had the field north of Wigmore transformed into an archery range. Half the castle had turned outside to watch.
Toby had been forced outside as well; having been given access to Roger’s wife’s wardrobe upon her arrival to Wigmore, she was glorious this day in a heavy blue brocade with gray fox lining that was a little too snug for her. Roger’s wife, Joan, was a tiny woman and Toby was a bit taller and a bit heavier, which made the gowns and shifts strain against her. Adding to this situation was the fact that all Toby had done for weeks was continuously eat, giving her a deliciously curvy figure. The woman was mouthwatering to look at with curvy hips and full breasts. Roger went into a pant every time he was around her.
It had been almost four weeks since her abduction and Toby had been at Wigmore a little over a week, during which time she had tried to behave herself to keep Kenneth out of harm’s way and, so far, the only time he had been punished for her bad behavior was that day on the road. He’d recovered quickly and she had maintained her cooperative attitude. But she was suffering from increasingly unstable mood swings that, although not enough to warrant punishment, had Roger unsteady. It was safer to keep Kenneth at her side to absorb her mercurial moods and stoic, emotionless Kenneth had been on the receiving end of some serious disposition highs and lows. The only other man that could tolerate Toby’s unpredictable behavior was Timothy. The small physic had developed quite an attachment to the lady and she to him. He was animated at times and he amused her. Kenneth, the stone-faced knight, seemed to tolerate the physic moderately well although he did not trust him completely. The man served Mortimer, after all. Kenneth was fairly sure that the man was a plant but said nothing to his mistress. She would not have taken it well.
On this freezing, bright day, Kenneth had escorted Toby out into the snowy field north of Wigmore to watch Roger and some of his retainers compete against each other in the sport of arrow slinging. Kenneth carried a chair out to the field for Toby and she planted herself in it, accepting the candied pumpkin that Kenneth had brought along. She chewed with boredom as Roger let fly arrow after arrow, watching with distaste as he applauded himself and made sure no one bested him. Kenneth stood silently beside Toby, declining the candied pumpkin she offered him until she grew insulted and he was forced to eat it. Then, deciding he liked it, he took the bag from her and ate all of it.
“I cannot see anything in this snow,” Mortimer announced as he finished a volley of shooting. “And someone has moved the targets. They are further away than they used to be.”
“They are exactly where they have always been, my lord,” de Roche said as he loaded his bow. “Perhaps the snow is blinding you.”
Hamlin sailed the arrow at the hay target and hit it dead on. Others congratulated him, including the generals who had served with him during the siege of Harbottle, as Roger scowled. While the men laughed and offered praise to de Roche, Roger suddenly launched an arrow that ended up very closely embedded to Hamlin’s arrow. Roger threw his hands up in victory.
“You see?” he crowed. “Not even de Roche can best me.”
Hamlin scratched his cheek, eyeing the distant target. “I believe mine is still closer, my lord.”
Roger was back to scowling. “We will solve this issue once and for all,” he turned to Toby, sitting several feet away with Kenneth and Timothy in attendance. He marched over to her, speaking as he moved. “Lady de Lara, it will be up to you to decide who is closer to the target. Will you be so gracious to judge?”
Toby had been trying to coerce Kenneth into finding her more candied pumpkin and was startled by the attention suddenly focused on her. Not wanting to play Mortimer’s game, she also did not want to see Kenneth beat because of her refusal, so she rose to her feet obediently.
“Of course, my lord,” she said.
It was clear that she was unhappy as she stomped off towards the targets with Kenneth and Timothy in tow. Mortimer and his retainers followed. Timothy caught up to walk beside her.
“He cannot see, you know,” he muttered. “The man is as blind as a bat.”
Toby looked at him in surprise. “Mortimer?”
Timothy nodded, making sure Mortimer was not close by. “Once, he thought his wife’s gray cat was a cowl and tried to put it around his neck. Was he surprised!”
Toby burst out in giggles, slapping a hand over her mouth to stifle them. Mortimer, several feet away, heard her laughing.
“You seem to be in good humor today, Lady de Lara,” he said loudly. “Would you care to share the source of your laughter?”
Toby tried to look innocent, her mind whirling as she tried to think of a plausible lie. She did not want to get Timothy in trouble with his liege.
“I am sure you would not find it so humorous, my lord,” she said, refocusing on the targets that were looming a few feet ahead. “It looks to me as if….”
Mortimer cut her off. “What was so funny? Is it a secret?”
It was apparent he would not let the subject go. The group of them came t
o the targets and she turned to face Mortimer with some irritation.
“Nay, my lord, it is not a secret,” she said with veiled impatience. “We were discussing cats. I had a cat that used to jump on unsuspecting people. Once it grabbed me around the neck and almost bit my ear off. That is all we were discussing – cats.”
Mortimer lifted an eyebrow at her as if he did not believe her but he let it go. He returned to the targets.
“Look and see, Lady de Lara,” he pointed to the giant bale of hay with arrows sticking out of it. “Is my arrow not closer than de Roche’s?”
Toby was tired of the game, exhausted in general. Most of all, she hated being around Mortimer and his men. They were pompous, overbearing, conceited and powerful. She found it a stifling combination. All she wanted was to go home, wherever that may, be so long as Tate was there. She missed him more with every breath and the fact that he’d not yet made it to Wigmore to rescue her was beginning to weigh quite heavily on her. It was part of the reason for her severe moods.
“Aye, it is,” she said shortly, turning to Kenneth. “My feet are wet. Carry me back to the castle, please. I am cold.”
Kenneth didn’t say a word as he bent over and scooped her into his enormous arms. Bundled against the cold as she was, she made an armful. As he walked away with Timothy beside him, Mortimer called after them.
“You will attend the nooning meal, Lady de Lara,” he said in a tone that suggested she had no choice. “I have visitors I should like for you to entertain.”
Kenneth glanced down and could see the storm brewing on her face. “Pleasantly, my lady,” he whispered. “Pleasantly.”
The Age of Knights and Highlanders: A Series Starter Collection Page 26
