Masters of Medieval Romance: Series Starters Volume 1

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “But what of the nobles?” Toby asked.

  Tate’s gaze fixed on her again; he seemed incapable of staying away for long. “There are many in support of the king.”

  “Who?”

  “Alnwick, Warkworth and York in the north. Arundel in the south.”

  He had named some of the most powerful nobles in England. Their armed support collectively was staggering. Toby felt her questions had been answered and was reluctant to press him further, although she was still opposed to the general idea of war. Still, any more questions would have made her appear belligerent, which normally would not have concerned her, but she did not want to shame her father. Balin, sensing she had come to the end of her queries, thank the Lord, stepped in.

  “I am sure that each man can find it within his conscience to lend what support he can, my lord,” he said. “All men interested in committing themselves to the young king’s army will assemble at the church tomorrow at noon for further instructions. For my part, I will supply a herd of my finest sheep to sell at market and donate the proceeds.”

  Toby’s jaw dropped. “Father.…”

  Balin cast his daughter a withering glare. “My daughter, as she is most knowledgeable in the accounting of my livestock, will be glad to show you the prize herd north at Lorbottle.”

  Toby was speechless. It was the largest herd of sheep they had, nearly ready to be sheared. The money they would bring would be enormous. Astounded, she grappled with the concept as her father called an end to the gathering and the townspeople began to disband. She was so stupefied that she didn’t realize when Tate came and stood next to her.

  “If it would not take you away from any pressing duties, I would see the sheep this day,” he said. “I would also like a full accounting.”

  Jolted from her thoughts, Toby looked up at him. From the corner of her eye, she could see that her father was about to make a hasty retreat from the church. “Excuse me a moment, my lord.”

  She raced to her father, cutting off his exit. Balin held up his hands.

  “Not a word,” he hissed at her. “You have my orders. Follow them.”

  “Father, do you realize what you have done?” she hissed in return. “To donate five hundred head of sheep, with the price of wool today, will cost us a fortune in lost money. We still have to pay the wages of our farm, our taxes, and eat on top of everything else. We need that money.”

  “It will not do us any good if England goes to the dogs under Isabella and Mortimer,” he said flatly. “We have suffered so much under Edward’s rule. Can you not understand that the young king is our best, brightest hope?”

  “I understand that you have apparently lost your mind.”

  “There are many things in this world that I will tolerate and many things that I learn to accept,” Tate was standing behind Toby, listening to everything that had been said. “But the one thing I refuse to accept is a daughter’s disrespect to her father. You, Mistress Toby, have an appalling lack of manners. I have seen such display from the moment I first entered this church.”

  Toby was ashamed and defensive at the same time. “If honesty is a sin, then I am indeed guilty, my lord.”

  “It is not a sin. But your lack of control is.”

  Toby wisely refrained from an opinionated retort. She wasn’t a fool and calmed herself with effort. “May I speak frankly, my lord?”

  The corner of Tate’s mouth twitched. It was difficult for him not to smile at what was surely to come. “By all means.”

  Toby took a deep breath, hoping he wasn’t about to slap her for her insolence. “My father became prosperous by hard work and good luck, but only by harder work and even more good fortune have we maintained it. My mother used to maintain the business when I was very small, but that duty passed to me several years ago after she became ill. Since that time, we have seen our prosperity grow many times over. Were it not for me, however, my father would have given everything away and we would be living in poverty. He is generous beyond compare and does not know when to stop.”

  “And you believe that donating to the king’s cause is an example of how your father does not know when to stop?”

  “Not necessarily. But we were counting on that harvest of wool to pay wages to our farmhands for the next year. Many people depend on us for their livelihood.”

  Tate cocked his head thoughtfully. “Then your opposition is not against the king himself.”

  “Of course not.” For the first time, Toby’s tone softened. “I simply cannot believe that the king would want aid for his cause at the expense of starving out many of his loyal subjects.”

  “It is that serious?”

  “It could be. Winter is not yet over and harvest will not come again until next fall. Our people must have something to live on, my lord.”

  Tate was quiet a moment; he glanced at the two massive knights who had accompanied him. One man was a giant, with short brown hair and cornflower blue eyes. The second man wasn’t as tall but he was enormously wide with white-blond eyebrows. The pair of them gazed back at Tate and he knew either one of them would have gladly taken the lady over their knee at that moment. His focus moved to the squire, the skinny lad who accompanied him everywhere. The boy had a somewhat submissive expression. So far, none of those expressions helped Tate sort through the situation.

  After a moment’s deliberation, he turned back to Toby. “What would you suggest, mistress? I will leave it to your good judgment.”

  Toby was surprised at the question. She had expected far more of a battle, ending in her defeat. She thought quickly, hoping to come up with a solution that would placate him and not send her family to the poor house.

  “There is a herd of older sheep that we were considering sending to the slaughter simply because their wool has become so tough,” she said. “It is only around two hundred head, but the wool could be sheared one last time and sold for market value, and then the herd could be slaughtered for meat. It would bring you nearly as much given the proper market and negotiations.”

  “Of which you would so kindly provide me.”

  Toby nodded, feeling a good deal of relief. “It would be my pleasure, my lord.”

  “I would see the herd.”

  “You will dine with us first, my lord,” Balin insisted. “Toby can take you to the herd at first light.”

  He wondered what adventures in indigestion he would discover during the course of dining with the opinionated Mistress Toby Cartingdon. If the woman was formidable in the public arena, he could only imagine her stance in a private setting. He was loathe to admit it to himself, but he was more than curious to find out.

  *

  “An interesting meeting,” the blond knight said as they made their way to their chargers, tethered at the livery near the church. Sir Kenneth St. Héver had served under Tate de Lara for many years and had, consequently, experienced many things with him. But the latest experience in the church was a curious one. “An interesting town.”

  His counterpart, Sir Stephen of Pembury, was the larger, darker knight. He was the more congenial of the two. “What kind of town can it possibly be that allows itself to be run by a female?” he said what they were all thinking. “A strong man could do wonders here.”

  Tate had noticed an inn across the street and, collecting his destrier, began moving in that direction. “It seems to me that she has done wonders without the aid of a man. No matter how distasteful her manner, we are nonetheless fortunate to have received a sizable donation from her father.”

  Pembury snorted. “She is a beautiful woman. Too bad she has the disposition of a wild boar.”

  St. Héver glanced at him. “Do you have aspirations for her, then?”

  “Me? Never.”

  “You could marry her and run the town.”

  “Somehow, I doubt it. She is accustomed to being in charge. Could you not see that?”

  St. Héver merely lifted his white-blond eyebrows in agreement. The very thought was appalling, b
ut Tate wasn’t paying any attention to their chagrin. He was focused on the tavern and obtaining some much needed food and drink. Leaving the horses, they made their way inside the smelly hovel and found a table in the corner where a round woman brought them ale, bread and cheese. The young squire with them shoved half a loaf in his mouth before the knights had finished pouring their drink.

  “Slow down, lad,” Tate admonished lightly. “There is more bread to be had. No need to choke yourself.”

  The youth grinned and slowed to chew. The two men at arms that constantly shadowed the group of four took position against the wall opposite the table. They were the first line of defense against any potential happening, which was a fairly normal occurrence. England, and the world in general, was a dangerous place.

  With the squire no longer in danger of choking and the knights settled with their ale, Stephen put his thoughts into focus.

  “Did anyone notice if we were followed?”

  Tate shook his head. “I do not think so. I’ve not seen evidence in a couple of days.”

  Kenneth took a deep drag of his ale. “We lost them in Rothbury,” he said. “If nothing else, Mortimer’s men are easy to spot. They follow us out in the open.”

  “He doesn’t have to keep them to the shadows because he governs the entire country,” Stephen snorted. “What does he have to fear?”

  Tate regarded the ale in his cup. “He has to fear a young man on the cusp of adulthood who holds the throne he so dearly wants,” he muttered, more to himself than to the others. He glanced up at the knights. “She asked valid questions, you know.”

  Pembury looked up from his bread. “Who?”

  “Mistress Elizabetha.”

  “What questions do you mean?”

  “About the opposition.”

  “You were truthful in your answer.”

  Tate lifted a resigned eyebrow. “Aye, but minimally; I did not mention that Isabella and Mortimer hold all of Windsor Castle and her wealth. That is the heart of the kingdom. And if we are to oust them, we must strike at the heart.”

  “I thought that was what we were doing.”

  The squire’s soft voice entered the conversation. Tate looked at the youth, breadcrumbs on his fuzzy face.

  “The more I go to these little towns, the more I realize that a rebellion must encompass far less than armies and knights intent on destroying each other,” he explained to the lad. “We must take control of Mortimer and Isabella on a much smaller scale. Balin Cartingdon’s outspoken daughter was correct in some aspects.”

  “Which ones?”

  A distant look crossed Tate’s face. “By feeding the beast of rebellion, we could destroy everything. Sometimes a larger operation is not the better tactic than a small, precisely planned one.”

  “Will we go back to London and re-think our strategy?”

  The squire’s question was posed with curiosity more than anxiety. Tate passed a glance at the knights before answering. “What would you suggest?”

  “We still need support. And we need money.”

  “True enough; which is why my inclination is to stay the eve in Cartingdon, negotiate for the sale of the sheep with Balin’s daughter, and then make our way back to London. I worry being gone overlong. Much can change in a short amount of time.”

  “That is a wise decision,” Pembury said. “Without you in London, Mortimer lulls himself into a false sense of security. I never thought it was particularly prudent for us to have left the city in the first place.”

  Tate looked at his squire, reading the boy’s concerned expression. He downplayed his knight’s comment. “It was necessary,” he said simply. “But for now, let us eat and enjoy this moment of peace.”

  The squire went back to eating only when the knights did. A group of minstrels struck up a lively song and soon the entire tavern was bouncing. It was a good moment of relaxation for them to remember; the future, Tate suspected, would hold few.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “They call him Dragonblade,” Ailsa Catherine Cartingdon danced around the table in the large hall of Forestburn Manor, the Cartingdon home. “Have you heard, Toby? Dragonblade!”

  Ailsa was ten years of age, a frail girl with golden curls. She had an energetic mind, sharp and inquisitive, but a weak body that kept her in bed a good deal of the time. She was always ill with something. It had started at her birth when her mother suffered a stroke whilst in labor; Ailsa was born blue and Judith Cartingdon had nearly died. Only by God’s grace did either of them live through it.

  “Aye, you little devil, I have heard it,” Toby said. “But you must not say anything to him. Perhaps he does not like the name.”

  Ailsa stopped her excited dance. “Why not?”

  Toby shrugged, putting the last touch on the mulled wine. “It does not sound very flattering.”

  Ailsa resumed her dance, ending up lying on top of the table. “And do you know what else I have heard?”

  “I am afraid to know.”

  “I have heard that Tate de Lara is the son of King Edward the First. They say that he was saved from his savage Welsh mother by the Marcher lords of de Lara, who then raised him as their own. He is the half-brother of King Edward the Second and was there when the king was murdered. And some say that Queen Isabella asked him to marry her, but he refused, so she took Roger Mortimer as her lover instead.”

  “Where do you hear such nonsense?” Toby lifted her sister off the table.

  “From Rachel Comstock’s mother. She knows everything.”

  Toby made a face. “Rachel Comstock’s mother thinks that she is God’s blessing to all of Mankind and constantly reminds us of how she was a lady in waiting for King Edward’s mother’s sister’s cousin by marriage. Truth be told, she was probably just the privy attendant.”

  Ailsa giggled. “She says that Tate should be king, not young Edward.”

  Toby paused long enough to ponder that. It seemed like such an immense prospect although she had heard the same thing from her father, once, a long time ago. The fact that Tate de Lara was Edward Longshanks’ bastard son was generally accepted. He had the height and strength of the Plantagenets but the dark features of the Welsh princes. The more she thought on his royal lineage, the more unsettled she became. The man she would soon be supping with had a royal heritage on both sides that was centuries old.

  “Not a word of this at supper, do you hear?” she said to her sister. “You have no idea the seriousness of your words.”

  Ailsa pouted. Her sister shoved some rushes into her hand, indicating she spread them, to keep her busy.

  “But why must I keep silent? I want to know what it is like to live in London and I want to know of King Edward. Do you suppose he will marry some day?”

  “I suppose so. He must, as the king.”

  “Could he marry me?”

  Toby put her hands on her hips, smiling at her sister in spite of herself. “No, little chicken, he could not. He needs a woman of royal blood, not a farmer’s daughter.”

  Ailsa was back to pouting. “But father says we have noble blood in us.”

  Toby spread the last of the fresh rushes before the hearth. “The best we can do is claim relation to the barons of Northumberland. The last baron, Ives de Vesci, was our father’s grandsire.”

  “And mother is descended from a Viking king named Red Thor.”

  “So Grandsire Toby has told us.”

  “Do you not believe him?”

  Toby just smiled. She had a beautiful smile; it changed her face dramatically. She could get her father to agree to anything when she smiled.

  “Help me see to supper, little chicken.”

  Ailsa forgot about Northumberland and the Viking king. She skipped after her sister, who was more a mother to her than her real one. Judith Cartingdon had been bedridden since Ailsa’s birth, unable to walk, barely able to speak. The care of the infant girl had fallen upon twelve-year-old Toby. As a result, the girls were inordinately close.

  S
upper was mutton, boiled and sauced, marrow pie, a pudding of currants and nuts, and bread made from precious white flour. Ailsa kept trying to steal pieces of bread and Toby would shoo her away. The cook was an elderly woman who had been Toby’s wet-nurse years ago. The kitchen of Forestburn was low-ceilinged to keep in the heat and mostly constructed of stone; therefore, on a cold day, it was the very best place to be. But on a day like today, with the added stress of an important visitor, Toby was sweating rivers.

  “Suppertime is near,” Ailsa could always judge by the rising of the bread. It happened at the same time, every day, without fail. “Do you suppose Dragonblade will be here soon?”

  Toby put the last touch on the finished marrow pie and wiped the beads of perspiration on her forehead. “I told you not to call him that,” she told her sister. “And, aye, he will be here soon. I must go and change my clothes.”

  Ailsa followed her to the second floor of the manor. Her father had received license several years ago from the barons of Northumberland to build a fortified house to protect his family and farm. It was a stone structure with battlements, but no protecting walls other than the heavy wooden hedge fence that surrounded the immediate area of the home. There was a great hall, a solar, and the kitchen on the ground floor, while the upper floor held three large rooms and another smaller room used for bathing and dressing. Ailsa and Toby shared a room, their mother had one room, and their father another.

  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.