Masters of Medieval Romance: Series Starters Volume 1

by Kathryn Le Veque

  The squire had yet to learn the true virtue of patience. “But there are more pressing matters. There are assassins about. Does this not concern you?”

  Tate looked at the tall, fair-haired lad with the deep brown eyes. “Your Highness, it does indeed. But we are safer here at Forestburn than out on the open road. Furthermore, the thirty men-at-arms that Stephen brought from Harbottle are camped outside the walls of this place, so I am confident that you are well protected.”

  It was rare that Tate addressed the lad formally. In fact, there were times that young Edward forgot who he really was. Traveling with Tate de Lara as his squire was a perfect cover. In this capacity, he was able to see and experience things in his realm that he would not have normally tasted. Additionally, he was away from his mother’s court where Roger Mortimer was determined to see him dead. Tate had been mother, father, protector and savior to him in this very troubled time. He would have been dead without him.

  “Those assassins yesterday morning were not aiming for you or the lady with the sheep,” Edward said. “They were aiming for me.”

  “I am well aware of that.”

  “They followed us from Rothbury. But how did they find us? How did they know where we were going?”

  Tate glanced at Kenneth; the big blond knight was cleaning his blade with a soft cloth, removing the blood that had spilt on it earlier.

  “We did not get a chance to ask,” Tate replied, his gaze still on Kenneth as if the two shared more information than they were willing to divulge. “They decided that dying in a skirmish would be better than being captured.”

  “Perhaps there were spies at the church yesterday, hearing all that was said,” Kenneth suggested. “It would not have been difficult to get information from the locals to put them a step ahead of us.”

  Edward’s jaw ticked as he paced around, having not yet learned that worrying was a useless endeavor. “So you tracked them and followed them to the town of Burnfoot to the north.”

  “Aye,” Tate said.

  “How many were there?”

  “The group that we saw in Rothbury had split. We only found seven.”

  “Did you kill all seven?”

  “We had no choice. They drew the first sword.”

  Edward stopped pacing. “The rest will find us. If we do not leave this place, it is only a matter of time before they track us down.”

  Tate was used to Edward’s concerns. He was young and spirited, concerned for himself and his country. His passions ran deep, and sometimes, so did his foolishness.

  “As I said, we are safer here than almost anywhere at the moment,” he said steadily. “It is my suspicion that the rest of Mortimer’s assassins are in the vicinity of York, thinking we may be in that area. It will take them time to realize that we are not. By that time, we will be half way to London. They will not be able to catch us.”

  “But it is three hundred miles to London,” Edward pointed out. “It will take us weeks to get there at a hard ride.”

  “It will not matter if we leave tomorrow or the next day.”

  Edward cocked an eyebrow, the Plantagenet stubbornness apparent. “No offense to the Mistress of the house, but I would think you would put my priorities over hers. I frankly do not care if she is ill or not.”

  Tate had the Plantagenet stubbornness, too, with the added benefit of age to bolster it. “Your priorities are, and ever have been, my greatest concern. If you are questioning my loyalty, perhaps you should find someone else to lead your cause.”

  “Perhaps I should.”

  Tate snorted; it was a bluff and they all knew it. “No one else would put up with your constant whining. By virtue of the fact that I am your uncle, I must.”

  Edward quieted somewhat. He wandered over to where Tate sat, pulling up a stool from the hearth and appearing somewhat forlorn. “It should be you on the throne, not me,” he muttered. “Had things been different.…”

  “Had things been different, your grandfather would have married my mother and I would be the king. But things are not different. They are as they are. I accepted that long ago and so should you.”

  “I am afraid that I will not be an effective ruler, Tate.”

  Tate smiled at the youth, putting a big hand on his blond head. “You will be the best ruler England has yet to see. I see my father’s strength in you. Trust in yourself, Edward. We do.”

  “Sometimes I wonder. There is so much at stake.”

  Tate had heard these words before, many times. When Edward wasn’t doubting himself, he could be a responsible, decisive young man. But he was young and circumstances beyond his control had the tendency to frighten him.

  “There is much at stake; that is true,” Tate agreed. “But the rewards far outweigh the risks, do they not?”

  The lad gave his uncle a reluctant grin. Tate gave the boy’s hair one last shake and returned to the task of removing the last of his armor. He hadn’t realized how exhausted he was until he sat down. Now, he was thinking seriously about a few hours of much deserved sleep. Stephen was already snoring in the corner. Tate had barely laid his head down when there was a knock at the door.

  Morley, the man-at-arms, was the first to the door. He threw it open, sword in hand, to reveal Ailsa standing at the door. The sun was rising, giving her an unearthly glow as the rays filtered through the early morning fog.

  “I am sorry to come,” she stammered. “But my sister… she is worse.”

  Tate was up and so was Stephen. They crowded Morley away from the door, filling it with their bulk.

  “What is wrong?” Tate asked.

  Ailsa’s face was pale beneath her blue hood. The frail child looked like a porcelain doll, able to crack at any moment. “Her fever has worsened. She does not answer when I speak to her.”

  Stephen was already out of the door, heading for the manor. Tate was close behind him with Ailsa bringing up the rear.

  “Is she going to die?” Ailsa asked anyone who would answer her.

  “She is not going to die,” Tate replied.

  Ailsa ran until she was beside him as he walked and still, she had to run to keep pace. It was exhausting work.

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do.”

  Ailsa was losing speed, breathing heavily. In the midst of his concern, Tate could see that the child was unused to physical exertion. He paused long enough to pick her up and resumed his stride. The last thing he wanted was for the younger sister to catch her death running about in the dank air.

  Stephen was the first one up the stairs followed closely by Tate and Ailsa. It sounded like a thundering herd against the wooden steps. When they reached the top of the dimly lit stair hall, Tate could hear groaning coming from one of the rooms. He ignored the moans, trailing Stephen into the chamber that he had left Toby in. When they finally reached her, she was lying upon the sheets, her damp skin as pale as the linen.

  Her eyes were closed. Stephen put a large hand on her forehead and shook his head. “She is on fire,” he muttered. “We need to cool her down immediately. Have the servants bring a tub in here and fill it with tepid water.”

  Ailsa fled the room with all the grace of a headless chicken. The knights could hear the scuttling of feet as the servants were roused in the house. Stephen saw a rag and a bowl of water beside the bed; Ailsa had been using it in a vain attempt to keep her sister cool. He picked up the rag, dipped it in the water, and wrung it out.

  “Pull the bed covers off of her,” he told Tate. “We will have to cool her as best we can until the tub arrives.”

  Tate swung back the coverlet, exposing her to the chilly room. Stephen took her left arm, pushed up the sleeve of her shift, and swabbed water on her tender skin. “I need to get my bag.”

  Tate had felt helpless until this point. He took the rag from Stephen. “I will do this. Go get your medicaments and be quick about it.”

  Stephen quit the chamber. Tate looked down at Toby a moment, her pale sweating face, feeling
his heart lurch strangely. Taking her right arm, he exposed the flesh and was faced with the bandaged wrist. It abruptly occurred to him why she was so ill. With a muttered curse, he unwrapped it.

  The wounds were horribly red and swollen. Yellow pus seeped from two of them. Anger filled Tate; he knew with certainty that the source of her fever was not the chill from yesterday’s exposure. It was the poison racing through her veins from the cuts her mother had inflicted on her.

  He swabbed the cool water against her flesh, avoiding the cuts. When he ran the rag over her forehead and cheeks, she seemed to come around a bit and slapped at his hand. The gesture made him smile; even in her current state, the woman was a fighter. She would need all of her strength to battle this toxin. He swabbed her cheek again just to see her reaction and was rewarded when she slapped at him again.

  “So you do not like that, do you?” he whispered. “Good. Perhaps if I do it enough, you will wake from the unpleasant state.”

  He ran the cloth over her neck, unconsciously inspecting her as he did so. She had a beautiful neck and shoulders. The shift was relatively modest, so there was no glimpse of the swell of her bosom, but he could only imagine that it was as delicious as the rest of her.

  He put the cloth back into the water and squeezed it out. Sitting down carefully on the side of the bed, he gently lifted her head up with one hand and put the cloth on the back of her neck with the other. The cold sensation received more of a reaction than he had expected; her eyes flew open.

  “To the devil with you,” she gasped. “Why must you torment me so?”

  She wasn’t in her right mind; the words were coming out slurred, dreamlike, and her eyes closed once again. He removed the cloth and lay her head down on the pillow, all the while thinking how soft her hair had been. His thoughts were misplaced and he knew it, feeling rather caddish. The woman was gravely ill and all he could think of was how beautiful her hair was.

  Ailsa came running back into the room, sliding to an unsteady stop. “Is she dead yet?” she panted.

  Tate calmly swabbed Toby’s left arm. “Nay, she is not. I told you that she is not going to die.”

  Ailsa slowed down and approached the bed, her little face full of fear. “But she looks so ill.”

  “She is,” Tate said. “But Sir Stephen is great healer. He shall pull her through this.”

  Ailsa’s eyes were big as she watched Tate methodically bathe her sister’s face. Her gaze trailed to Tate, studying his strong features, wondering if she should believe him when he said that Toby was not going to die. As with all children, however, her attention span was finite and thoughts completely disassociated from her sister began to roll through her head.

  “Are you married?”

  Tate paused in his duties to look at her. She was innocent, and it was an innocent question. He’d long since gotten over the pain the question had once provoked.

  “I was once.”

  “What happened?”

  “She passed away giving birth to my daughter.”

  “Oh. Did your daughter die, too?”

  “Aye.”

  Ailsa began to toy with the bed linens, her sister’s limp hand. “My mother nearly died giving birth to me, too. I do not think I shall ever have any children.”

  He smiled faintly. “Why not?”

  “Because it will kill me.”

  “Not always. As with anything else, one’s fate is in the hands of God.”

  “Did God kill your wife and daughter, then?”

  He shook his head slowly. “He did not, little one.”

  “But why does He allow bad things to happen?”

  “I do not know. I have often asked myself that question. I would suppose that everything happens for a reason, though we do not know what that reason might be at the time.”

  Ailsa chewed her lip as she thought about it. He made sense and little made sense in her life; a distant father, an invalid mother, and a sister who was haunted by enormous responsibility. Tate seemed strong and certain.

  “May I ask another question?”

  He lifted an eyebrow at her. “I suspect you will no matter what I say.”

  “Is it wrong to ask why you are called Dragonblade?”

  His eyes twinkled. “I suppose not.”

  “Then why?”

  He lay down the arm he had been swabbing and picked up the other. “Your question will be answered when you see the hilt of my sword.”

  She tried to picture what he meant. “Is there a dragon on it?”

  “When you see it, you shall know.”

  The thoughts were whirling in Ailsa’s mind. Tate could almost see them. She was a lovely child and seemed sweet. He didn’t mind talking to her.

  A pair of men ushered through the door with a large copper tub between them. A female servant, an old woman with white hair piled atop her head, directed them to set it down. She had the voice of a crow, screeching at the horse dung that one of the men had tracked on the floor. Behind her, several house servants followed with great buckets of water and began emptying them in the tub with great splashes.

  Tate continued to swab Toby’s arms as Ailsa stood out of the way while the tub was filled. Stephen returned after a short time, leather satchel in hand, and ordered the fire in the hearth stoked. When he began to pull out his medicines, Ailsa could not resist standing next to him and watching curiously. It would seem she was intensely curious about everything.

  Stephen ignored her for the most part but inevitably she began asking questions and he was obliged to respond. She wanted to know about everything and he patiently explained the willow bark, the crushed poppy, the foxglove extract and so forth. Soon, there was a fine brew rising in the small iron pot hanging deep in the hearth. With his ingredients cooking, Stephen went over to his patient.

  “She is still burning,” Tate murmured so that Ailsa would not hear.

  Stephen ran his hands across her forehead and opened each eye in turn. “She will not survive much longer at this temperature,” he said quietly. “We must get her into the water now.”

  The tub was half-full with water that was barely warm. Tate put the rag aside and took Toby into his arms, picking her limp body off the bed. She was hot, sweating and overwhelmingly delicious. He silently cursed himself for his perverse thoughts as he took her over to the tub. The servants were filling it furiously.

  “Get her into the water,” Stephen directed. “Hold on to her so that she does not slide under.”

  “We will lose our grip on her in the water,” Tate didn’t want to have to hold her by her hair as she slipped around in the tub. “Like so much dead weight.”

  “Have a better idea?”

  Tate’s solution was to step into the tub, fully clothed, and sit down in the water. Stephen helped him adjust Toby so that she was lying on top of him and he had a good grip around her waist. The servants continued to pour water and with the next cold dousing, Toby went rigid and a hoarse cry escaped her lips.

  “My God,” she rasped. “They are trying to kill me.”

  Tate’s mouth was against her right ear. “Nay, mistress,” he said softly. “We are trying to help you. Your fever is out of control and we must get you cool.”

  She was semi-lucid, unsure of what was happening to her. She looked at Stephen, unrecognizing, and began to panic.

  “Let me out,” she struggled against Tate’s iron grip. “Let me out!”

  Stephen gently but firmly pushed her back. Getting a good grip around her waist, Tate put a hand over her forehead and held her back against his shoulder.

  “Calm, Elizabetha,” he murmured against her ear. “No one is going to harm you, I swear it.”

  Ailsa ran up to the tub, putting her little hands on her sister’s shoulders. “Be quiet, Toby. You must not be upset!”

  Toby focused on Ailsa, the only face she recognized. “Wha… what devilry is this?” she panted.

  Ailsa shook her head. “You are ill. The knights are trying to help you
.”

  Toby grasped the front of Ailsa’s gown with one hand as if the little girl would save her, but her struggles eventually eased and her grip relaxed. Breathing quickly, like a dog panting on a hot summer day, she closed her eyes and surrendered against Tate’s powerful body. The strength to fight was leaving her.

  Tate felt her go limp. He and Stephen passed concerned glances as the servants continued to fill the tub. Stephen had a grip on her wrist, feeling her fast, weak pulse. He didn’t like it. As the tub filled and her blood continued to race, he shook his head.

  “This is not a good sign,” he murmured. “She is not calming.”

  “What about your brew?” Tate was genuinely concerned. Stephen did not raise an alarm for no reason.

  “Another minute or so for full potency.”

  Tate fell silent but it was apparent that he was searching quickly for a solution. His mind was never idle nor was he familiar with surrender.

  It was deathly quiet in the room but for the pouring of water. Then, Ailsa thought she was hearing things. There was a low hum in the air that would rise and fall in rhythm. She was so concerned with her sister that it took her a few moments to realize that Tate was singing. His lips were pressed against Toby’s right ear, his soft baritone filtering through her fever-hazed mind. It was a miraculous sound and Ailsa was entranced; her sweet little face lit with a smile as the air was filled with the gentle sound of Tate’s voice.

  To the sky, my sweet babe;

  The night is alive, my sweet babe.

  Your dreams are filled with raindrops from heaven;

  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;