Kenneth could feel Toby tensing in his arms again and he gave her a quick squeeze, silently telling her to behave. She was close to exploding. Still, she managed to keep a civil tongue.
“As you wish, my lord.”
She said it through clenched teeth and Kenneth very quickly swept her towards the castle before she could say something more that would have them all in trouble. Just as they came to the muddy road leading into the big gatehouse, Toby pushed herself out of Kenneth’s arms with a growl.
“Ooooo,” she stomped her feet angrily. “I do not want to attend him at the nooning meal and I do not want to entertain his visitors. I hate him, I hate this place, and right now I hate you for stealing my candied pumpkin. I want to go home!”
She suddenly burst into tears, weeping angrily. Kenneth struggled to keep a straight face as he and Timothy moved forward to comfort her.
“You are simply exhausted, my lady,” Kenneth said evenly, taking her elbow. “Let us go inside where you may rest.”
“I do not want to rest!” she stomped her feet again, a full-blown tantrum quickly approaching. “I want to get out of here. I want my husband. Why has he not come for me yet?”
Kenneth had her by the arm as he led her under the gatehouse. She was pouting and weepy, angry one moment and sad the next. Timothy kept his head lowered lest she see his grin and Kenneth tried to focus on anything other than her comical ranting. He tried to think of battles, bloody wounds and ugly women. But he was losing the fight.
“Come along, Toby,” Kenneth pushed aside the formalities as he had many times during their captivity. “Go inside and rest. I will go find you more candied pumpkin if it will make you happy.”
She sobbed, stepping in a big mud puddle and wailing when she saw that she had completely mucked the bottom of the lovely surcoat. It was all Kenneth could do to keep a smile off his face; she was hysterically funny. With a patient sigh, he picked her up and carried her the rest of the way to the keep.
She sobbed and muttered as she made her way into the enormous keep of Wigmore. It was cloyingly warm as the result of several blazing fires; Mortimer did not like the cold and the keep was generally kept quite warm. It was also a vast and luxurious place as far as castles went; creature comforts were everywhere. Kenneth and Timothy escorted Toby to the third floor where her chamber was located. But she came to a halt just outside the elaborate bower door, yanking her arm from Kenneth’s grip.
“I am hungry,” she announced. “Go and get more pumpkin.”
Kenneth just looked at her, his ice-blue eyes glimmering with humor. Nodding his head wearily, he turned for the stairs. But he apparently wasn’t moving fast enough and Toby swatted him on the shoulder as he began to descend the stairs.
“’Tis your fault so you need not blame me,” she told him. “You ate my pumpkin so now you must find me more. And if you see anything else that looks good, I want that, too.”
“God give me strength,” Kenneth muttered.
Toby heard him mumble. “What did you say?”
He turned to look at her, his normally stony expression oddly animated. “I said, I am going right away,” he looked at the physic. “Take her inside and put her to bed. Sit on her if you have to. And give her something to improve her disposition, for God’s sake. I am not sure how much more of this tyranny I can take.”
Toby’s face screwed up angrily. “Come back here, St. Héver. Come back and say that to my face!”
She was holding up a balled fist. Kenneth opened his mouth to calmly retort but he ended up breaking down into laughter. He couldn’t help it; it was just too comical to believe. Toby was furious a moment longer before erupting into a grin; an angry grin, but a grin nonetheless.
“I hate you, Kenneth,” she told him sincerely as he continued down the stairs. “I truly do.”
“I know,” he replied, dead-pan. “You hate me and my mother, my grandmother, my father and every ancestor before him, my horse, my….”
He faded off as he went. Toby, softened by his reaction to her temper, realized she sounded like a complete shrew. She stood at the top of the stairs and called down to him.
“I love you as if you were my own brother, Kenneth,” she called after him.
“I know,” his reply was very faint.
“Now bring me my pumpkin!” she screeched.
She swore she heard him laughing again. Turning for her bower, she almost forgot about Timothy standing there, grinning at the exchange between her and the knight. She walked up to him, eyeing him critically.
“Are you really going to sit on me?”
Timothy shook his head. “I am afraid you might do me serious bodily damage if I did,” he said, taking her elbow as they passed through the open door. “But I will sit and talk to you.”
She let him escort her into the room, which was warm with a blazing fire. Thick furs covered the floor and her bed was piled with lush and warm materials. Mortimer had been, if nothing else, lavish with his attention on her. There was absolutely nothing she could want for. Toby went to the fire, carefully removing the cloak that had mud on it. Timothy took it from her and cast it into the corner for the servants to clean. She stood for a moment, dragging her hand across her softly rounded belly.
“Timothy,” she said after a moment. “There is something we can talk about.”
He was at the elaborate sideboard against the wall, pouring them both a measure of wine from a lovely glass decanter. “What is that?”
“You have been a physic a long time, have you not?”
“I have, my lady.”
Toby’s gaze lingered on the flames before turning to him, her cheeks rosy from the warmth of the fire. “You must know a great deal about babies.”
He nodded. “I believe so. What do you wish to know?”
Her hazel eyes twinkled as she told him.
*
For the duration of the trip to the Marches, Edward had kept a distance from his mother. Strange, considering he had very much wanted to see her. For two years, he had begged Tate to take him home to see his mother. But Tate had refused and had given clear explanations as to why he had refused. Edward was therefore well aware why Tate kept him from his mother. For two years, he had understood that the woman who gave birth to him would not protect him from her lover. Isabella and Mortimer had ruled during that time as Regents to Edward since he was so young. But the queen was clearly more loyal to her lover than her son. It was a devastating understanding.
Isabella had wept at the first sight of her son in two years and had tried to embrace him. But Edward had run from her and even now, five days later, would not warm to her. He rode with Stephen as company, astride the big blond charger that Tate had given him for his fourteenth birthday and morose in his thoughts. He was not much company. Stephen and Tate simply left him alone, knowing he would come to terms with his mother’s presence soon enough.
The snows had fallen heavy along the Marches this year. As the army plowed their way northwest through Gloucestershire, the snow became heavier and Edward felt his determination to stay away from his mother wavering. He missed her, in spite of everything that had happened. He just wished she loved him more than Mortimer. As he struggled to get up the nerve to speak with her, a messenger was sighted to the north. Distracted, he followed Stephen as the man spurred his charger out of formation to intercept the rider.
The man was a spy that had been sent out on many missions for de Lara. He was older, wily, and knew well his craft. He was also freezing, his horse thrashed, and he came to an unsteady halt as Stephen and Edward raced upon him. Stephen threw up the visor on his helm to gain a better look at the man. Snow flew off the visor when it snapped open.
“Well?” he demanded. “What do you have to report?”
The man wiped at his running nose, red with the cold. “Liam de Lara’s men are just south of Croft Castle, m’lord,” he said. “He has them hiding out in the woods, but it is difficult to hide so many. He awaits orders from hi
s brother.”
“How many would you estimate he has with him?”
“Several thousand.”
Stephen’s eyebrows lifted in response. “What about Lancaster?”
“He is encamped to the north by several miles. He has two thousand men with him.”
Stephen absorbed the information. “How many men would you estimate are prepared to march on Wigmore?”
The spy’s gaze moved out over the distant de Lara army before coming to rest on Stephen again. “With what you are bringing, there should be at least ten thousand. It is a mighty army, m’lord. You could raze Wigmore in a night.”
Stephen nodded slowly, digesting everything he had been told. “Get some food,” he finally told the man. “I will inform Lord Tate of the situation. Be prepared to answer more questions if he has any.”
“Aye, m’lord.”
Stephen and Edward raced off in Tate’s direction, skirting the massive army and coming upon Tate about a half mile down the road. He was at the front of the column, riding alone as he so often did these days. Stephen and Edward charged upon him, flanking him on either side as he rode.
“My lord,” Stephen reported smartly. “Our spies have returned from the vicinity of Wigmore. The aid you requested is already positioned and awaiting your command. Including the army we bring with us, it is estimated that ten thousand men await your orders.”
Tate nodded faintly, not at all impressed with the numbers. He could have more if needed. But he was nonetheless pleased with the show of support.
“Send missives to the commanders of my allies,” he instructed. “I will camp tonight to the east of Leominster. I will meet with my allies there.”
Stephen nodded sharply, racing off to fulfill the command. But Edward remained, riding silently beside Tate as they moved through the snowy, slushy ground. After several minutes of silence, Tate finally turned to Edward.
“Did you have something more to say about all of this?” he asked quietly.
The young king shook his head. “Nay,” he muttered. “Do you really plan to lay siege to Wigmore?”
“I plan to get my wife back.”
The lad was silent a moment. “But what if Mortimer wants to deal? What… what if he wants me in exchange for Toby?”
Tate eyed him. “Where did you hear something like that?”
Edward shrugged, looking at his gloved hands. “Everyone is saying it. Everyone says that Mortimer will want to exchange Toby for me.”
Tate’s gaze lingered on him. “He cannot have either of you.”
“But if you had to make a choice, what would you do?”
Tate had been wrestling with that thought for several weeks. There were two choices; the logical choice and the emotional choice. As much as it tore at him, he knew that only one choice was possible. He sighed heavily, looking away from the young king as he prepared his answer.
“Mortimer will not harm my wife, of that I am sure,” he said quietly, with gritty resolve. “But he would kill you. I have spent fourteen years of your life protecting you as one would protect his own child. In protecting you, I am protecting England and protecting the future for my own children. It would therefore stand to reason that if given the choice, I would have to choose you. But I would find some way to free Toby, have no doubt. I would never give up. Even to the death.”
Edward looked at him, surprise and sadness on his young face. “But…Toby…?”
“She would understand,” Tate cut him off; it was too painful for him to think on it. “She would support my reasons. But she also knows I would stop at nothing to get her back.”
Edward fell silent again as they rode along, the distant mountains of Wales beginning to come visible on the western horizon. They looked like great white mounds of flour. The more he thought about Tate’s dilemma, the sadder he became.
“I remember when your wife died,” he said softly, wondering if he should even say such a thing. “I remember seeing you cry. You didn’t know I saw you, but I did. It was right after she perished and you were sitting alone, holding your dead daughter. I was supposed to be in the great hall but I had gone upstairs because… because I guess I was curious. I saw you sitting with the baby, weeping over her.” His head suddenly came up and he focused on his uncle. “I will not see you cry again, Tate. I will not let you go through this again, not when you have found someone to love again.”
It was a passionate speech from the young man. Somewhere over the past few weeks, Edward had begun to grow up and sense that his responsibilities were not only to his country, but also to his family and friends in spite of the example his mother had set. Tate looked at the young man, his stormy eyes glittering.
“I appreciate your concern,” he reached out and gently cuffed the lad on the side of the head. “I do not believe it will come to that. But you are correct about one thing; I do love her. Very much.”
Edward smiled weakly, feeling somewhat embarrassed by his outburst. He didn’t know what else to say and nervously fiddled with the reins. Tate snickered softly at his sudden case of nerves.
“Have no fear,” he said. “I will do what needs to be done which means that, at this moment, I must speak with your mother.”
Edward watched Tate rein his charger about and move back through the column. He lost sight of him as he reached the queen’s escort, swallowed up by the banners and well-dressed soldiers. The young king focused his attention ahead, thinking on the battle that surely lay ahead. He knew he would fight it this time, not like at Harbottle when Tate had locked him away. And this time, Edward was sure, he had an arrow with Mortimer’s name on it.
Meanwhile, Tate had reached Isabella’s fine carriage. It was a smaller cab purely for the warmth it would provide and several ladies, including the queen, were stuffed into it. They were also covered by mounds of furs, doing their petit poi to pass the hours of travel. One of them was reciting her own poetry from memory. When Tate pulled up to the carriage, however, all movement stopped.
Isabella was wedged in between two of her women to keep warm, supported by layers of heavy furs. She smiled at Tate when he opened his visor to look at her.
“A que dois-je le plaisir de votre visite?” she asked sweetly.
He eyed the whores surrounding her and dismounted his charger. “Partir vos femmes et marcher avec moi,” he replied.
Leave those women and walk with me. It was rare when he spoke French but he wanted the ladies to understand that he wished to speak with the queen alone. They did not need followers. Isabella climbed out of the cab, no easy feat with the amount of furs and cloaks they had covering them, and took Tate’s offered hand as her small feet hit the slushy road. When he realized that it would be difficult for her to maneuver the muddy road bed in her fine slippers, he lifted her up to sit upon his horse. Leading the animal, he walked several feet away from the army, paralleling the column as it proceeded.
“What did you wish to speak of?” she asked him.
“We are nearing Wigmore,” he replied. “We should be upon it by this eve.”
Isabella’s smile faded. “I see,” she said quietly, eyeing him a moment before speaking again. “And you are wondering how I will convince him to release your wife.”
“It has crossed my mind.”
Her smile returned, knowingly this time. “I have been thinking very heavily on this, Tate. I have thought of little else. It is my belief that you should let me go alone to speak with Mortimer.”
He turned to look at her. “Alone?”
She nodded. “He should not know that an army is waiting to attack him if he does not turn your wife over; at least, not yet. It will be easier to deal with him if it is simply me. I am not a threat, you see; I have given him something he very much wants. I have given him power. I can take it away as well. I believe that will be a stronger influence over him than your army.”
Tate brought the horse to a halt and faced her. “I have almost ten thousand men waiting to lay siege to Wigmore,” he
said frankly. “You do not believe he will respond to that?”
“He will respond,” she said softly. “But it will only drive him to war. It will not drive him to negotiate.”
Tate cocked an eyebrow. “I want my wife back. I will have her back tomorrow one way or another.”
“I understand, bien-aimé,” she said soothingly. “But your method will have you kill Mortimer in order to regain her. I do not want him harmed. I believe I have another idea that will gain us all what we wish.”
Tate stared at her for a moment. “He cannot have Edward.”
She shushed him. “I did not mean that. I mean another way.”
“What other way?”
Tate found that he was willing to listen. Mid-way through her explanation, they both looked up to see Edward bearing down on them. Isabella stopped talking, looking at her son anxiously as the lad came to a halt. Tate watched him, waiting for him to say something to his mother, but the youth remained silent. He just stared at her. After pausing a few moments to see what would transpire, Tate finally motioned to him.
“Go and get Wallace,” he told him. “I think you both need to hear what your mother is suggesting. And be quick about it.”
With a lingering glance at Isabella, Edward galloped off in search of Wallace. He returned with the former priest in short order, whereupon Isabella resumed outlining her plans for Mortimer and Wigmore.
It was the first step towards a son opening communication with his mother and it was the first step in a mother perhaps redeeming herself to her son. Perhaps in helping Tate and Toby, they were helping each other as well.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The nooning meal commenced two hours after its normally scheduled time. Toby had pouted and raged in her chamber about the fact that she did not want to attend but she knew that she must. Even the candied pumpkin Kenneth had managed to locate did not improve her mood. So the knight was forced to give her a very stern talk about her behavior and the necessity for cooperation. Toby had thrown pumpkin at him. Kenneth had calmly picked it up off the floor and ate it.
Masters of Medieval Romance: Series Starters Volume 1 Page 197
