The Age of Knights and Highlanders: A Series Starter Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  It wasn’t long in coming. Isabella’s face darkened with fury and she clenched her little fists, pushing her way past Stephen and standing next to Toby. She stood for a moment, watching the woman’s lowered head as she sobbed. Her lips pressed into an angry, flat line.

  “Did he touch you while you were his guest at Wigmore?” she demanded.

  Toby bawled. “He touched my… my….”

  She appeared too distraught to continue. Even Tate was on edge. Isabella reached out and shook her.

  “Where did he touch you?”

  Toby took one hand away from her face and put it on her inner right thigh, very close to the junction where her legs joined. “Here!”

  The location could have been interpreted many ways. Isabella’s nostrils flared and the grip on Toby’s arms turned gentler. It was evident that the queen was struggling.

  “Did he do anything else?” she asked, quieter.

  Toby shook her head, still weeping. “He did not,” she sobbed. “But the fact that he would want to… after all, I am pregnant with my husband’s child but it made no difference to him. He wanted to bed me regardless. It is a disgusting and unholy desire.”

  Tate went from coolly observant to wildly shocked all in a split second. He leaned in Mortimer’s direction, or perhaps he swayed; in either case, Stephen was there to grab him. Or steady him. Together the two of them stared at Toby, stunned, as Isabella seemed to morph into something rarely seen. She became enraged, like an avenging angel, and swung on Mortimer viciously. Roger barely had time to draw a breath before she was plowing into him with the fury of a woman betrayed.

  “Is this true?” she roared.

  Roger was taken aback; he had never heard that tone from her. But the man stood his ground. “It is not true!”

  Isabella’s jaw flexed dangerously. “You… you foul beast,” she hissed. “I have known of your desires for other women all of these years but I have ignored your tastes because… because….”

  She growled, sweeping her arm across the table directly to her right and scattering the cups and utensils to the floor. Everything crashed with a clamoring noise but she wasn’t done yet; she clenched her fists and howled angrily. As the room stood in stunned silence, including Roger, Isabella turned to Tate.

  “Take your wife and go,” she commanded, whirling to Roger with an extended arm. “If you refute my order, I will take all you hold dear and destroy it. Do you understand? I will destroy you.”

  Tate didn’t wait to be told twice. He grabbed Toby, nodding quickly to Stephen and Wallace. The two knights fell in behind him, Stephen facing the crowd to challenge anyone who might try to stop them. Wallace leveled his broadsword against the room as they made their way to the exit. Suddenly, they had the upper hand. Trapped inside the Mortimer stronghold, they were now stronger than those who held them.

  Roger watched the group head towards the cavernous threshold, his attention split between furious Isabella and his captives. Isabella’s anger finally won out and he focused on her completely.

  “You are making a mistake,” he told her softly. “I did none of those things. I am ever faithful to you, my love. You know this.”

  Isabella raised a dark eyebrow. “You are faithful so long as my power holds true,” she said. “You are faithful so long as it means that England is under your control.”

  Roger stood before her but refrained from touching her; now was not the time. He had to wait until she cooled.

  “If you let de Lara go, you are continuing to fuel the rebellion,” he said gently. “It is not wise to let him leave.”

  Isabella’s jaw flexed. “You will not stop them,” her anger was rising again. “You have more important issues to deal with at the moment. For as I gave you power, Roger, I can easily take away. And you are very close to losing everything.”

  Roger did the only thing he could do; he smiled at her. “You would not do that,” he purred. “Not to the man who saved you from your husband. You would not destroy me.”

  Neither one of them noticed the lone queen’s guard that was suddenly standing very close to them. It was a solitary figure, covered with mail and draped in the queen’s colors. As Tate and Toby reached the giant doorway of Wigmore’s great hall, the tall, slender figure standing next to Mortimer leaned close to the earl and removed his soldier’s helm.

  “Perhaps she would not destroy you. But I will.”

  Startled, Mortimer turned to gaze into the eyes of young Edward. The lad was taller and stronger than he had remembered, a young man of considerable presence in just those few words. In fact, he looked very much like his grandsire, Longshanks. Roger’s eyes widened when he realized that Edward had been in the hall since the queen’s arrival; he had been there all along and no one had been the wiser. But there was nothing that Mortimer, or anyone, could do about it at the moment. He had no choice but to let the lad slip from his grasp, one more time in a world that had been full of a thousand such times.

  And Edward was well aware of it. His presence was a statement, a promise of things to come. With a lingering glare at the man who had usurped his power for the moment, Edward strolled away, snapping his fingers at the rest of the queen’s escort who immediately unsheathed their weapons to the room full of Mortimer supporters. As Roger watched with shock and Isabella with pride, Edward joined Tate, Toby, Stephen and Wallace at the door. There was no mistaking the triumphant grin on Tate’s face.

  With the queen’s escort as protection, the five of them made their way from Wigmore’s enormous keep and out into the snowy bailey. When they rode away, it was on Mortimer’s fine horses, disappearing into the wintery afternoon. As quickly as the king had appeared, he had vanished just as he always had for the past two years; without a trace and escaping Mortimer once again.

  On the wings, as they would say in later years, of the dragon.

  Epilogue

  December, 1330

  Forestburn Castle, Northumbria

  “Kill him, boy,” Wallace encouraged. “If you do not kill him first, he will kill you.”

  A young boy of four years stood with a wooden sword in his hand. He was dressed in a little suit of mail that Wallace had made for him, complete with a tiny helm. The old knight had even built the dummy from straw that the child was doing mock battle with. At the old man’s latest command, the child came to a halt and pulled off his little helm.

  Big hazel eyes gazed at the old man questioningly. “If I get good enough, can I fight with Papa?”

  Wallace’s ancient eyes glimmered warmly. “Your father will be proud to have you,” he told him, going to the child and putting an enormous hand on his shoulder. “In fact, with a little more practice, you can probably fight with him now.”

  Roman de Lara scratched his dark head. “Is he still fighting?”

  “More than likely, boy.”

  “But when will he come home?”

  Wallace’s warm expression faded, thinking of Tate leading the coup against Mortimer. It had been the culmination of the rebellion building to the final capture of the man who had ruled the country de facto for four years. Lady de Lara had received word three weeks ago that her husband and his forces had captured Mortimer at Nottingham. Mortimer was slated to be executed while Isabella had been banished to Castle Rising in Norfolk. Things were finally at an end.

  Tate had been gone since August, leaving his four children and pregnant wife. It had been a sad parting, for Lord and Lady de Lara were quite attached to each other. After four years of marriage, they were more in love than ever. Pembury and St. Héver had accompanied their liege while Wallace, too old to do any good, remained behind with Lady de Lara. As Wallace pondered the battles he had missed, a little hand tugging on his sleeve brought him back from his reflection. He looked down to see Roman pulling at him.

  “When will my father come home?” the child repeated.

  Wallace put a big hand on the boy’s dark hair. “I have no way of knowing, lad. As soon as he can, I am sure. He m
isses you a great deal.”

  Roman smiled happily; at four years old, he was a big boy with his father’s good looks and his mother’s almond-shaped eyes. As he turned back to his hay-stuffed opponent, the door to the new keep at Forestburn opened and a little girl emerged. The child was no more than three years of age and on her heels came two little boys, almost as tall as she was. The blond-headed twins were faster than their dark-haired sister and made their way down the wooden stairs more quickly than she did. The children gripped the banisters as they took the steps with their tiny feet; their mother was fanatical about the children being careful when they descended stairs. But when the twins came to the bottom of the steps, one boy tripped and the other one fell on top of him. As they began punching each other, the little girl slipped by untouched and headed in Wallace’s direction.

  Wallace smiled at the beautiful little girl with the curly dark hair and storm-cloud eyes. She looked exactly like her father. He held out a hand to her.

  “Come along, Cate,” he called to her. “Come sit with me and away from your boisterous brothers.”

  Catherine Ailsa de Lara would turn three years old in February. She had been called Cate since the day she had been born because it rhymed with her father’s name and her mother liked it very much. Moreover, it had been Toby’s idea to name her after Tate’s dead first wife, a gesture that touched Tate deeply with its graciousness and compassion. Little Cate toddled over to the old man she loved as a grandfather just as her mother emerged from the keep to find the twins rolling around in the mud.

  Toby sighed heavily at the sight of her youngest children. At fifteen months, they were big, strapping boys with a good deal of coordination and a vocabulary that grew by the day. They were particularly loud and physical, fighting with each other one moment and hugging each other the next. They also tried to engage their eldest brother, Roman, who barely held his own against them. Dylan and Alexander de Lara, she could already tell, were going to be trouble. Since Tate had been gone the last four months, he’d not yet had a chance to see how his twins had grown. The man was in for a surprise.

  “Dylan,” she snapped. “Alex, get out of the dirt this instant. Go on; get up.”

  The boys began wailing because one of them had jabbed the other one in the eye with a dirty finger. The one who did the jabbing knew he was in trouble, hence the dual wailing. Toby sighed again and made her way down the steps, carefully; at seven months pregnant, she wasn’t moving very swiftly these days.

  “Dylan,” she held out her hand to the whining child. “You are alright, sweetheart. Get up now.”

  With a pouting face, much like his mother displayed when she was upset, Dylan took his mother’s hand. Alexander rose shortly thereafter and took his mother’s other hand. Toby walked the boys over to where Roman was jabbing at his hay dummy with Wallace and Catherine looking on.

  Wallace was calling encouragement to Roman when Toby walked up with the twins. He eyed the youngest de Lara children sternly, but in truth, he loved them to death. They were incorrigible little hooligans already and he was taking great delight in their antics.

  “Soon I will make them their own swords,” he told Toby. “I can already tell they will be excellent knights. Dragonblade will have many fine progeny.”

  “Not too soon,” Toby let go of Dylan’s hand as he rushed to his eldest brother, clamoring to play with the toy sword. “They are already difficult to handle. I fear they will have us completely overwhelmed by the time they are five years old.”

  “Then you will send them away to foster,” Wallace told her firmly. “Better the knights of Kenilworth or Alnwick to temper their wild streak than you.”

  Toby frowned at him, rubbing at her aching back. “Why not me? I have done well enough with Roman.”

  Wallace looked at the eldest de Lara child, now bombarded by both younger brothers as each wanted to play with the sword. “Ah, Roman,” he said in a satisfied tone. “He will be the greatest knight of all. He is already showing his father’s skill and intelligence.”

  Raised voices caught Toby’s attention and she turned in time to see the twins attempting to tackle Roman and steal his sword. But Roman was cunning like his father and took off running. She watched as the boys ran a circle around Forestburn’s new bailey; Tate had kept good on his promise and set to rebuilding Forestburn from a fortified manor into a castle. The burned-out shell of the manor was now the great hall and a new stone keep had been built to the east of it. The garçonnaire and outbuildings were now incorporated into the massive structure, including a newly built chapel that, as of six months ago, contained the crypts of Balin, Judith and Ailsa. And with that, Toby was finally at peace. Forestburn was once again a prosperous place and she had her entire family with her.

  Except for the fact that Tate had been gone these long four months. She thought of him for the hundredth time that day as she watched her sons wrestle for the toy sword. She missed her husband so much that her heart hurt and she wait with every sunrise and sunset for news of his return. She knew that he had survived Mortimer’s capture but she had not heard anything from him in three weeks. It was three weeks of torture, waiting and wondering. Every night she slept with one of his tunics, unwashed, smelling of his scent. She would lay there and breathe its strength, praying that he would return to her whole.

  Catherine eventually grew tired of sitting with Wallace and went to her mother, who picked her up and kissed her. Toby brushed the stray hair from her daughter’s eyes, remembering the little sister she raised so long ago and wishing Ailsa was here to see the children. Dylan and Alexander reminded Toby a good deal of her baby sister; aggressive and bright and inquisitive. She had to grin when she thought of her sister arguing with her young nephews. She had a feeling it was one argument Ailsa would not win.

  Lost in thought, she did not hear the guards lift the creaking portcullis, nor did she hear the horses crossing the new drawbridge over the newly-dug moat. Her back was to the gatehouse. Only when her sons began shouting and Roman took off running did she turn around to see what had them all so excited.

  Knights bearing the blue and silver dragon pennant of the Earl of Carlisle were beginning to fill the bailey. Men on foot were spilling in, congregating near the entry. Wallace was already on his feet, calling for the boys who were now in danger of getting trampled by the war horses. But he was not fast enough; three of the knights that were intermingled in the crowd suddenly dismounted, each going for an errant boy.

  The Earl of Carlisle was the first one off his horse. The last time Tate had been home, the twins had not been walking. Now they were running. He tossed off his helm with a laugh of delight as Alexander ran within arm’s length. He grabbed the boy, swinging him up in the air and kissing his little face furiously. Alexander screamed as if he were being stabbed.

  It made Tate laugh all the more. He was thrilled to hear his children yell. Stephen, by this time, had Dylan and was holding the boy upside-down. Dylan was screaming, but mostly in delight. Kenneth was fortunate and had the calm child; his big hand was on Roman’s head as he and the boy made their way over to Tate.

  “My God,” Tate gasped as he set Alexander to his feet. “I cannot believe the babies are walking. I feel as if I have been gone one hundred years.”

  “As do I.” Toby was smiling broadly as she came upon her husband and children, her face rosy with joy as she drank in his handsome face. She looked to the faithful men at her husband’s side; she was glad to see that they were alive and well, too. She embraced Kenneth, the closest one to her. “Kenneth, welcome home. You also, Stephen.”

  Kenneth nodded his thanks as Stephen smiled his. Tate’s gaze softened as it fell upon his wife; everything around him ceased to exist for a moment as he beheld the woman that he loved. Although he had at least three more children clamoring for his attention, he gently pushed through them and went straight for Toby. Taking her in his arms, he hugged her, and Catherine, tightly.

  Toby held on to him fiercely
, struggling not to cry in front of her children. But her joy was on the surface. It was difficult to hold back. Tate kissed her cheeks, her lips, before pulling back to look at her.

  “You are more beautiful than I remembered,” he murmured, kissing her again. Then he turned to his daughter and kissed her sweetly on the cheek. “My God, you are a lovely creature, Cate. Look how beautiful you have grown.”

  Catherine grinned and chewed her fingers. With a hand still on his wife, Tate finally turned to Roman, who was standing patiently beside his father.

  “Roman, you have been growing behind my back,” he said seriously. “If your mother does not stop feeding you, you will be taller than me by next week.”

  Roman grinned and fell into his father’s embrace; Tate picked him up, cherishing the feel of his first born in his arms. He could not have been happier. But next to him, Dylan was still screaming in Stephen’s arms and Tate looked at the red, upside-down face.

  “Greetings, Dylan,” he said.

  Stephen grinned and then set the boy to his feet, at which time Dylan punched Stephen in the armored shin and ended up smacking his hand. He began to wail as the knights laughed. Tate put Roman down and picked up his injured son, rubbing his little hand.

  “Well,” he said casually, “I will commend him for his bravery. It is not every child who would take on a man four times his height.”

  “He will be a fearsome warrior,” Wallace announced.

  “He will be just like his mother,” Kenneth put in drolly.

  As the men snorted, Toby rolled her eyes, handing Catherine over to Stephen and taking Dylan from his father.

  “You will not rush these boys into battle yet,” she told them sternly, comforting her son. They were still snickering when she looked seriously at her husband. “And speaking of battle; am I to hopefully assume that yours are concluded? Are you finally home to stay?”