“Stephen?” he hissed. “Kenneth?”
They answered affirmative in rapid succession. “Where is John?” Tate asked.
“I am here,” the squire was several feet away, on the ground.
“Are you well?”
“Well enough,” the lad sounded frightened. “Where are the arrows coming from?”
Tate could not have guessed at the moment. They seemed to be coming from every direction. “Stay down,” he commanded. “Do not move until I can see something in this soup.”
Tate would have reconnoitered himself, but he couldn’t. He didn’t want to move and possibly draw their attention to himself and, consequently, to Toby. That last thing he wanted was for the arrows to come flying at her unprotected body. He shifted his weight slightly, more closely against her, and heard her grunt beneath him.
“Sorry,” he whispered, knowing he must be quashing her.
“’Tis all right,” she grunted. “But your knee.…”
He shifted again, removing his right knee from what was surely the back of her thigh. When he had come down on her, much of his weight had come down on the right side of her body. He hoped he hadn’t broken any bones.
“Better?” he muttered.
“Aye.”
“I did not hurt you, did I?”
“Not at all.”
He was quiet after that. He didn’t need to give his adversaries a homing beacon with his voice. His biggest priority at the moment was to put Stephen and Kenneth on the move to scout the source of the arrows. As he turned his head to call to the knights, the dogs that had been following them since Forestburn suddenly ripped past them on a dead run. All teeth and a blur of legs, the dogs disappeared into the mist and there was a chorus of snarls, growls and various other unidentifiable cries. Tate listened to the grunts of men being bitten by the dogs and singled out at least three different voices. The dogs’ snarling faded, the yipping rolling off into the distance. Then, it was eerily quiet.
Still, he didn’t move. He was a warm, protective cocoon over Toby and he wasn’t about to leave his position. Besides, he rather liked being this close to her in spite of the deadly circumstances. When one of the dogs suddenly emerged from the fog and went up to Toby, licking her forehead, Tate knew that all was well. He whispered a prayer of thanks for the dogs, sorry he had thrown the rock back at Forestburn. The animals had served a valuable purpose.
Still, he was cautious. Dogs or no, he wasn’t comfortable in an open field covered with mist. Standing up, he pulled Toby to her feet. She was soaking from having lain on the grass.
“You are wet,” he observed. “We should return you home immediately.”
Her face was pinched from the chill. “I need to see what has happened to our shepherds,” she said. “I only saw… Emmit.”
She wouldn’t look at the body, a few feet away. Tate muttered something to Stephen, who was the closest, and the knights disappeared into the gloom. The men at arms came to stand near Tate and Toby, crossbows drawn and cocked. The squire walked up, wiping the mud from his face.
“Did anyone see them?” he asked. “Were they Scots?”
Tate shook his head, resisting the urge to throw another rock at the dog sniffing at his leg. “I never saw them. They were clever to blend with the mist.”
“The sheep,” Toby said quietly.
“What about them?”
“I do not hear them.”
Tate cocked an ear, but there was nothing in the air. It was quiet but for an occasional bird. “We will not go look for them now,” he said. “Better to wait for the fog to lift.”
Toby didn’t argue. She followed Tate, the squire and the men at arms back to the road where the horses were tethered. Shortly, the knights returned and reported to Tate. The two other shepherds had been found, murdered. Deeply disturbed, Toby mounted her horse with Tate’s assistance. Tate, however, remained on the ground.
“John, I will leave it to you and Oscar to escort the lady back to Forestburn,” Tate indicated one of the men at arms, heavily armed with his crossbow. “Remain there. I shall come for you when I can.”
Toby was surprised, concerned. “You are not returning with us?”
“Nay, mistress.”
“Where do you go, then?”
Tate swung his big body aboard his charger. “To find whoever launched the attack.” He looked over his shoulder to his knights. “Stephen, ride to Harbottle Castle and collect thirty men to form a search party. Kenneth, Morley, you ride with me. We shall see if we can find a trail while it is still fresh.”
“My lord, if I may,” Toby interrupted. “The raiders are most likely border Scots. They shall disappear into the land as quickly as they sprang from it. You will not find them.”
His expression was dark. “Mistress,” he said quietly. “Stephen and Kenneth examined the arrows that killed your men. They are not the arrows of border Scots.”
A bolt of fear ran through her. “Then to whom do they belong?”
Tate’s response was to turn her horse around and bark orders to John and the man-at-arms to move with all due haste. Toby’s last sight of Tate was as he and his gray charger disappeared into the fog like phantoms.
*
It had been a long night. Morning dawned and still they had not returned. Toby sat by the hearth in the great hall well after the meal was finished, wondering if something terrible had befallen Tate and his men. She wasn’t feeling particularly well this morning perhaps as a result of the chill she had received yesterday; she was warm to the touch and generally exhausted. She could not even summon the strength to answer the cries from her mother. Not guilt or God could have motivated her to respond this day. She had sent Ailsa to see to the woman’s needs instead, instructing her to stay out of arm’s length.
The squire and the man-at-arms had remained in the garçonnaire since their return yesterday. She had seen them only twice, for the evening and morning meal. At this late stage of the morning, it was quiet with Ailsa taking her usual nap and her mother at least silent for the moment. Her father had gone into the village to drink and discuss town affairs with the aldermen and Toby was weary of sitting about, wondering what had become of the lord of Harbottle. There were accounting matters waiting for her in her father’s solar that she had put off long enough.
Rising from the chair, she accidentally brushed her hand against the arm of the chair and winced painfully; the scratches her mother had given her were becoming angry red wounds. Examining it more closely, she saw that the entire area was swollen and painful. She knew she should have tended them yesterday when they were fresh but she had other things on her mind.
Arrowroot flowers grew wild in an open area near the village. Toby sent a servant out to gather some so that she could tend her wounds with them. By the time the servant returned with the flowers, Toby’s entire body was hot, tired and throbbing. Sitting at her father’s desk doing an accounting of their winter fruit supply was difficult; her eyes were hot and it was difficult to keep them open. In fact, she wanted very much to sleep. She gratefully set the quill down to turn her attention to the healing powers of the tender arrowroot. She promised herself a rest after tending the cuts.
The flowers were mashed into a paste against softened linen, allowing the juices from the petals to seep into the material. Toby packed some of the mashed petals against the red gashes and then wrapped the remaining petals and linen tightly around them. She was securing the edges of the linen so that the bandage would stay firm when she heard horses at a distance. Her weariness fled for the moment as she bolted to the window.
Tate had returned and he had a horde of men with him. Toby tried to play ignorant to the fact that her heart had leapt at the sounds of him returning. She almost ran for the door but stopped herself. In fact, it was best if she went back to her accounting and pretended she hadn’t heard the horses at all. Moving for the desk, she sat calmly and resumed her bookkeeping with the exception of not truly looking at the count before
her. She looked at the parchment but saw nothing. Her mind, vision and hearing were attuned to the entry door in the hall.
Her wait was a long, excruciating one. It took forever for the door to finally creak open. She had almost broken her quill with nervous fingers. She struggled to concentrate on her count as bootfalls crossed the hall, paused, and then moved for the solar. Only then did she very casually look up.
Tate was dressed to the hilt in armor and weapons. He looked every inch the feared warrior of the Dragonblade epithet. But he also looked weary, as if he had been up all night. His storm cloud eyes fixed on her.
“Mistress,” he sounded weary, too.
She rose from her chair, feeling strangely light-headed. “My lord,” she returned his salutation. “I hope all went well.”
“It did not, but that should not concern you. Suffice it to say that your father is released from his pledge of the herd for young Edward’s cause.”
“I do not understand. Is something wrong?”
“I am returning to London and do not have time to wait for the collection.”
His manner was clipped. Toby took a step in his direction, concerned that something was gravely amiss. “My lord, if we have done something to offend you, then I….”
He shook his head, forcing himself to soften. Having spent the past day and night in warfare mode, it was difficult to separate the man from the professional warrior.
“You have done nothing, mistress, I assure you,” he said, his tone more settled. “I did not mean to suggest that you had. It is simply that business has arisen that requires my presence elsewhere. I have not time to wait for the money from the herd your father has pledged to me.”
“Did you not find the sheep?”
“I did not look for them.”
“Did you at least find the men you were searching for?”
“I found them.”
He didn’t say more than that and Toby didn’t press him. He obviously did not wish to speak of it and it truthfully wasn’t any of her concern. She didn’t know why she suddenly felt so awful. Disappointment filled her and she struggled to graciously bid him farewell. It was horrible to realize that she did not want him to go.
“I would wish you a good journey, then, and good fortune wherever you may go,” she said as sincerely as she could. “Should you ever go to Rome, perhaps you will honor me with the tale of your adventure someday.”
He just looked at her, his expression softening, the dark eyes full of something she did not understand. Much to her surprise, he reached out and took her hand and led her over to the chair near the window. He indicated for her to sit and she did so, her heart thumping loudly against her ribs. There was no way with his bulk that he could sit, so he took a knee beside her to bring himself to her level. Toby could not help but notice that he never let go of her hand the entire time. The thrill of it caused her cheeks to flush warm and warmer still until she could hardly breathe.
“There is much I wish I could tell you, mistress, but alas I cannot,” he said after a moment’s deliberation. “Suffice it to say that I do not want to go but I must. It is safer for you and your family if I do.”
“Safer?” she repeated. “What do you mean?”
“Just that. You need not be involved in matters that do not concern you.”
She gazed at him, long and hard. The more she looked upon him, the more handsome he seemed to become. His face was so perfectly formed that it was difficult to find any flaw with it. She became so upswept in his male beauty that she nearly forgot her train of thought.
“May I ask you something?” she asked.
“You may.”
“Are you running from someone?”
He almost looked amused. “Why would you ask that?”
“Because when you first came to the church in Cartingdon, you were wearing heavy cloaks to conceal your identity. You did not want anyone to notice you.”
His gaze gave her a hint of what he might be thinking. “You are correct in that assumption, but that is merely prudence. Knights that go about announcing themselves are inviting trouble. I would rather not invite it. I have enough.”
“Then you are not running?”
“Nay, mistress. I do not run from anything.”
“I did not mean to suggest that you do.”
He smiled at her, releasing her hand so that he could remove his gauntlets. “I know you did not.” He ran his fingers through his hair, a gesture of fatigue, before reclaiming her fingers, this time flesh against flesh. Instantly, his brow furrowed. “Good Christ, your hand is searing.”
Before Toby could reply, he put a hand to her forehead. “You are burning with fever. Did you not realize this?”
She hadn’t, really. All she knew was that she hadn’t felt very well. “I have not felt my best this morning,” she admitted.
Tate put a hand on her cheek for good measure. It was soft, like baby’s skin, and was quite warm. Inadvertently, he touched the bandage on her wrist and his focus was drawn to it.
“What is this?” he demanded.
He was unwrapping it before she could answer. “It… it was an accident,” she stammered.
He ripped away the linen and was faced with the four festering crescent-shaped incisions. He stared at them a moment, and his manner cooled dramatically.
“Who did this to you?”
His voice was a growl. Toby looked at him, her eyes full of fear. “It was an accident,” she repeated.
His jaw ticked. He reached to her neckline, pulling back the garment to expose a portion of the bruise he had seen the day before. “And this? Was this an accident, too?”
She tried to move away from him. “It was.”
He grabbed both of her hands, refusing to let her leave the chair. “You will tell me who did this to you. Was it your father?”
She shook her head. “Nay, of course not. He would never lay a hand on me.”
“Then who?”
“It was an accident, I tell you. You need not concern yourself. Moreover, I do not see how it is any of your affair.”
He stared at her. Then he dropped her hands and stood up. “You are right, of course,” he said coldly. “Forgive my impudence for asking.”
He stood up and turned on his heel. He was nearly to the door when she called out to him.
“My lord?”
He paused, not saying a word, but turned to face her. Ill, uncomfortable, Toby stood up and fought to swallow her pride. She didn’t want to tell him and wasn’t even sure where to start, but he was the first person in her entire life that had ever shown any concern for her. She felt that she should explain so he didn’t think her unkind.
“This has gone on so long that I do not think of it anymore,” her voice was a whisper. “It is simply something that happens now and again. Please understand that my father, no matter how much he drinks, has never laid a hand upon me. Nor has my baby sister. What happens… what you have seen… cannot be helped.”
He came back into the room. “What do you mean it cannot be helped?”
“Simply that.”
“You do not do this to yourself, do you?”
She looked as if he had just asked her something deeply painful. “Of course not,” she breathed. “It is just that my mother….”
“Your mother does this to you?”
He raised his voice and she put her hands up to quiet him. “She cannot help it, my lord. She is ill and confined and does not know what she is doing. After suffering an attack during the birth of Ailsa, she has never been the same. The lovely woman I once knew as my mother has become something wicked and frightful. She is out of her mind with disease and does not realize the pain she inflicts.”
“On you.”
She hesitated. “Aye.”
He didn’t know what to say but his expression eventually softened to one of sorrow. Reaching out, he gently took her swollen hand and re-examined the wounds. “What she does is wrong, mistress. You endure too much.”
Still holding her hand, he took his other hand and felt her forehead once again. It was a gentle gesture, something she was unused to. Much to her horror, tears sprang to her eyes and spilled onto her cheeks. No one had ever shown her such compassion. Before she could turn away to wipe her face, he swept away her tears with his thumbs.
“No tears, Elizabetha,” he murmured, a gentle smile on his face.
“I am called Toby,” she sniffled.
His smile grew. “To me, you are Elizabetha. I am the only one permitted to use that name.”
She did not understand what he meant but she instinctively knew that it could not be bad. Moreover, she liked the way he said her Christian name; Elizabay-tha. He rolled it off his tongue in a marvelous way she’d never heard before.
He gently moved her back towards the chair. “Come and sit. Stephen was a Hospitaller knight and has knowledge of healing. He will give you a brew to abate the fever.”
She allowed him to sit her down. “You are most kind, my lord.”
“You deserve nothing less.”
Stephen of Pembury seemed far more congenial with their second official meeting. He concocted a brew of willow bark for the fever and added something to make her sleep. Exhausted, ill, she fell asleep in the chair in her father’s solar with Tate and Stephen standing vigilant guard beside her.
CHAPTER FOUR
“How long are we to remain here?” the squire asked. “I thought we were leaving for London immediately.”
Tate and Stephen had entered the garçonnaire for a much-needed break. It was dark and foggy outside, the air filled with smoke from the early-morning fires. They had been with Toby all night, finally moving her to the chamber she shared with Ailsa towards dawn so that she could sleep more comfortably. Having fallen asleep in the chair was not the best place for her to rest, but she had resisted every time they had tried to move her.
“Mistress Toby is ill with fever,” Tate said, removing portions of his armor and letting them fall to the floor. “Feeling somewhat responsible for her health since it was at my behest that she showed us the donated herd yesterday morning, I feel compelled to see to her well-being. There is no better healer in all of England than Stephen.”
Masters of Medieval Romance: Series Starters Volume 1 Page 175
