Masters of Medieval Romance: Series Starters Volume 1

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Pushing the limits, Toby waited until the last minute to dress for the meal in another Joan Mortimer gown. Toby had fleetingly wondered about a woman who would allow her husband to so openly cavort with another woman, even if it was the queen. She didn’t imagine the woman had a lot of self-respect or, more likely, a lot of choice in the matter. Not that she particularly cared, but it was a curious situation.

  Toby dressed in a cream-colored lamb’s wool with white ermine lining. It was an exquisite gown that was both very soft and very warm. The sleeves were long and belled, the neckline rounded and flattering. A gold belt draped around her waist, giving her a very angelic appearance. She brushed her golden brown hair vigorously, securing it at the nape of her neck in a delicately wrapped bun pattern. Mortimer’s wife had left a variety of hair ornaments and she secured her bun with an ornate golden butterfly comb. It was extremely flattering.

  Gazing back at her reflection in the polished bronze mirror, she found herself thinking on the whirlwind that had been her life for the past month. At the turn of the New Year, she had been Toby Cartingdon, the same as she had always been. Her days had been filled with managing her father’s estate, tending to her invalid mother, and tending to her younger sister. While she had not been particularly happy, she had been moderately content. She had been resigned to her existence. Never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined the life she now led. To have married Tate de Lara had given her more joy than she could have imagined, but everything else that had happened during those few weeks still had her disoriented. She still expected to wake up and realize that it had all been a dream.

  She smoothed the skirt of the surcoat, fingering the neckline and noticing how the cut emphasized her round breasts. They had filled out quite a bit over the past two weeks. Her waist was still slim but her breasts were lusciously full. It didn’t look like her usual figure; she was delicious and round. But Timothy told her that the filling out of the body was normal in early pregnancy.

  Toby grinned as she ran her hand across her belly, slightly rounded beneath the belt. A baby. She remembered when her mother had been pregnant with Ailsa and how ill the woman had been. Other than being ravenously hungry constantly, Toby felt fine. And, of course, the mood swings, but she wasn’t particularly concerned about that. At the moment, her most predominant thought was the baby and somehow reuniting with Tate. She missed him so much that her heart literally ached and with each passing day that he did not appear, her anxiety was growing. Kenneth had told her to have faith but it was becoming increasingly difficult.

  A knock on her chamber door roused her from her thoughts. She stepped away from the mirror, inviting the knocker to enter.

  Kenneth entered the chamber, closing the door softly behind him. Mortimer had forbid him to wear his armor inside the keep so he was dressed in a dark tunic and leather breeches. He stood politely by the door, his big hands clasped behind his back. He was actually shaved and combed and looked rather gentlemanly. Toby had seen him that way many a time since their arrival to Wigmore and Kenneth always looked extremely uncomfortable. The man missed his armor as one would miss a lover.

  “Are you ready, Lady de Lara?” he asked. “Mortimer has sent me to retrieve you.”

  She pursed her lips irritably, keeping her retort to herself when he lifted a rebuking eyebrow at her. Turning away from him, she went over to the vanity table with its vast array of powders and perfumes. Sitting down, she picked up a delicate cotton powder puff and began to powder her shoulders and décolletage with a very fine talc powder fragranced with rose oil.

  “Why do you suppose Tate has not come yet?” she asked him quietly.

  He watched her dust off her lovely shoulders. “He will be here, my lady.”

  She stopped dusting and looked at him. “As you have said many times, yet he has not appeared.” She stared at him a long moment. “You… you do not suppose that de Roche was being truthful and he drown in the frozen river?”

  Kenneth shook his head. “If he had, we would be hearing it from other sources by now. Yet de Roche is the only one who has mentioned it. Not even Mortimer has mentioned it.” He watched her absorb the information, ripples of doubt and hope spreading across her face. “Are you ready to go?”

  She put the puff down, giving a little sigh as she did so. “I do not suppose we could tell Mortimer that I am ill, could we?”

  “Not a chance.”

  She made a face. “Who is his visitor, then?”

  Kenneth shifted on his big legs. “The Earl of Suffolk, Robert de Ufford. He is a major supporter to Mortimer’s cause.”

  “Why is he here?”

  “I would like to know that myself.”

  Toby stared at herself in the mirror, seeing Kenneth’s reflection also as he looked at her. Feelings of helplessness and restlessness swept her. She closed her eyes tightly and clenched her fists.

  “I do not want to be here any longer,” she hissed. “I want to go back to Harbottle or Forestburn or wherever Tate wants to live.” She suddenly looked up, gazing at him in the reflection of the mirror. Her hazel eyes welled. “I just want to go home.”

  Kenneth nodded. “I know,” he said gently. “But we cannot at the moment.”

  She turned to look at him beseeching. “When, Kenneth? When will he come for me?”

  “I do not know, Toby. You must be patient. He will come.”

  Toby opened her mouth to reply but was interrupted by Timothy blowing into the room. He hadn’t even knocked. Both Kenneth and Toby watched him as he went straight for Toby with a pewter chalice in his hand.

  “Here, my lady,” he thrust the cup at her. “Drink this. It will be very good for the baby.”

  Toby’s eyes widened. So did perpetually stone-faced Kenneth’s; his expression gradually morphed until he looked as if he was about to explode.

  “What baby?” he demanded in an uncharacteristic burst.

  Timothy looked at him with surprise. “She did not tell you?” he clucked softly. “Our lovely lady is pregnant, knight. You do not think that her outbursts and tantrums have been the mark of her normal disposition, do you? Lady de Lara is expecting. We must take great care of her now.”

  Kenneth looked at Toby, who gazed back at him somewhat fearfully. He just stared at her, a million thoughts rolling through his head. He began to look unsteady.

  “Does Mortimer know?” he asked, his tone oddly tight.

  Toby shook her head, wary of his reaction. “Of course not.”

  Kenneth did a very strange thing then; he exhaled loudly and sought the nearest chair as if all of his strength had suddenly left him. As he sat heavily, his ice-blue eyes fixed on her in shock.

  “Toby, you have no idea…,” he trailed off, regrouping his thoughts. He was, frankly, reeling. “God’s Blood, are you sure?”

  She sensed that he wasn’t entirely happy to hear her news. If he wasn’t happy, then perhaps Tate would not be happy. She suddenly felt awful about it and began to blink rapidly as her eyes started to well again.

  “Fairly sure,” she was beginning to sniffle, a prelude to bursting into tears. “Why? What’s wrong? Why do you look so?”

  Kenneth didn’t want to frighten her but he was, in fact, frightened himself. Tate’s legacy. Of course, he was thrilled for Tate but he was also terrified. If Mortimer knew of Lady de Lara’s pregnancy, then he feared the dynamics of the situation would change dramatically. Not only would de Lara’s wife be captive, but she could quite possibly have the child in captivity. Then Mortimer would have Tate’s entire family to bargain with. Tate had already lost one wife and child; Kenneth knew, as he lived and breathed, that Tate would not lose another.

  “I am sorry,” he struggled to compose himself. “I did not mean to frighten you. But you must understand the seriousness of this situation. Mortimer must not know that you carry Tate’s child.”

  She sniffled. “I did not plan to tell him.”

  He was glad she had not asked for more of an explanation
; it would have frightened her further and he was trying very hard not to upset her. “Good,” he sighed. “You must adhere to that vow. It is important.”

  “I will,” she was giving him a pouting face. “But why?”

  So much for not having to explain his reasons to her. “Because Mortimer will use the child against Tate just as he is using you,” he tried not to sound too intense. “What man would not risk everything for his wife and child?”

  Her face darkened, somewhere between guilt and anger. “He would not harm the baby, would he?”

  “Nay. But Tate would risk his life for you both. The harm, if any, would come to Tate.”

  She looked as if she was about to cry again but steeled herself. Naïve as she was about war and politics, she was getting a very quick lesson on the brutality of warfare. Fortunately, she was a good student. She understood the seriousness of the situation.

  “We must keep this secret very safe, then,” she looked at Timothy, the earl’s physic. “You will not tell him, of course.”

  Kenneth looked at Timothy, too; he was the only uncertain element in all of this and Kenneth still did not trust him. But at the moment, he had little choice.

  Timothy, seeing that all eyes were upon him, nodded quickly. “He will not hear it from my lips, I swear it,” he said, indicating the cup in Toby’s hand. “Drink up, my lady. It is a nourishing brew.”

  Toby put the cup to her lips and drank. Kenneth watched her, softening, understanding now why she had been so volatile. Over his initial terror, he realized that he was quite happy for Tate. He knew that the man would be thrilled. Standing up, he went over to Toby and took her free hand.

  “Let me be the first to offer my congratulations to you and Tate,” he said sincerely. “I know he will be very pleased.”

  She licked her lips of the slightly sweet brew. “Do you really think so?”

  Kenneth nodded fervently and released her hand. “I do.”

  A timid smile spread across her face. “I cannot wait to tell him.”

  Kenneth met her smile and, taking the cup from her grasp, set it upon the vanity. He held out an elbow to her. “Unfortunately, you will have to,” he said. “But for now, Mortimer is waiting and we do not need to agitate the man. Come along.”

  She took his arm and he led her to the door. Kenneth opened the panel and allowed her to pass through first. Timothy was right behind them. Before the little physic left the room, however, Kenneth growled at him.

  “Be sure you honor your word,” he rumbled. “If you mention anything to Mortimer about this, they will never find your body, I swear it.”

  Timothy blanched, looking at Kenneth as if the Devil himself had just threatened him. But before he could reply, Kenneth quit the room and resumed his escort of Lady de Lara. Timothy stood there a moment, struggling to compose himself; he didn’t doubt that the knight was sincere. The man had not liked nor trusted him from the onset of his association with Lady de Lara. But Timothy was becoming quite attached to the lady, far more attached than he was to Mortimer. Still, he was sworn to the Earl of March. It was where his loyalty was. But his friendship was rooted sentimentally to the lady.

  Taking a deep breath for courage, Timothy followed.

  *

  The Earl of Suffolk was a tall, thin man with a receding hairline and a beak-like nose. The moment Toby entered the room on Kenneth’s arm, the earl and Roger vied for her attention like two smitten schoolboys. It infuriated the normally-calm Kenneth so much that Toby sent him to the opposite side of the room so he would not throttle them both. Kenneth did as he was told, lingering in the shadows and shooting daggers with his ice-blue gaze. Toby could feel his fury from the dais, hoping that Mortimer didn’t feel it also.

  She sat between Suffolk and Mortimer, feeling their hot, smelly breath on her cheek as they talked non-stop. Most of the chatter was pointless and boring and between themselves as they spoke over her, but several times they tried to engage her in conversation. Her answers were short and disinterested, much to Mortimer’s displeasure. She seemed preoccupied with everything in the room but the two of them. The more she ignored him, the angrier Mortimer became.

  When the meal was finished and the dogs were fighting over the bones, Toby continued to sit at the large dais, boxed in between Roger and de Ufford. She stared straight ahead as they chatted over the swell of her bosom; she could only imagine the heated stares she was getting from both men but she refused to acknowledge them. She could see Kenneth over near the hearth, lingering in the shadows, while Timothy sat at another table directly in front of her. He kept wriggling his eyebrows at her and Toby struggled not to smile at him.

  De Roche entered the hall at one point and stood several feet away from Kenneth, watching the man as Kenneth watched the dais. It was the normal dynamics of their existence; being so close to each other had the seasoned knights highly attuned, ready to defend or attack at a moment’s notice. De Roche wanted nothing more than to slip a dirk between Kenneth’s ribs and Kenneth wanted nothing more than to murder Mortimer and de Roche, in that order. But they maintained their posts in silence until the relatively calm atmosphere of the room abruptly changed when Toby slapped de Ufford across the face.

  It was the suggestive caress on her right thigh that set her off. Toby’s instinctive reaction was to slap the man on her right as hard as she could and de Ufford was the recipient of a vicious whack to the face. As he fell back, Toby leapt to her feet and grabbed her half-eaten trencher, smashing it over his head. The man completely lost his balance and ended up sprawled on the floor. Before Toby could further attack him, Mortimer had her by the arms.

  “Lady de Lara,” he exclaimed. “You will behave yourself!”

  She whirled on him furiously. “And you will control your associates, my lord,” she yanked her arms out of his grip. “Teach them not to touch another man’s wife and I will not have to teach them for you.”

  Mortimer was so angry that he was white. He grabbed her by both wrists and yanked her up against him. “Enough of this,” he growled. “I told you what would happen if you did not cooperate.”

  “I will not allow any man to take liberties with me, including your lascivious friends.”

  “You will do whatever I wish. And it seems I must again teach you that lesson.”

  By this time, Kenneth was on the move. He was already at the dais by the time Mortimer issued his threat and Toby saw him from the corner of her eye. She knew that any backlash against her would fall on him and she was unwilling for the man to take the punishment for her outburst. She held out a hand to stop Kenneth’s advance and labored to calm herself as she faced Roger.

  “No further lessons are necessary, my lord,” she said with more control than she felt. “But I will not permit another man to touch me. I do not consider that being uncooperative.”

  Suffolk was off the floor by this time and reached out, grabbing Toby by the hair. She screamed and swung around to strike him but Kenneth was already on the dais, grabbing Suffolk around the neck and driving his fist into his face. The earl went sprawling and Kenneth grabbed Toby from Mortimer’s grasp, whisking her several feet away before Mortimer’s guards were upon him. De Roche was suddenly in his path, blocking his exit, and he could advance no further. With Toby in his protective embrace, Kenneth was trapped. But he was fully prepared to fight to the death.

  “Take St. Héver to the vault,” Mortimer hollered at de Roche. “Remove the man from my sight.”

  Toby held on to Kenneth, terrified that if she let him go she would never see him again.

  “Nay, my lord, please,” she gasped at Mortimer. “He was only protecting me. You cannot punish the man for doing his duty.”

  “He struck the earl,” Mortimer pointed out succinctly. “He must pay the price.”

  “I will pay the price,” Toby let go of Kenneth and went to Mortimer, her hands clasped in front of her as if praying to the man. “I struck the earl first. Please, my lord; you must not punish Sir Ke
nneth. I beg that you punish me instead. I was the one who started it; he was only doing his duty.”

  Mortimer almost shouted at de Roche again to take St. Héver away, but a better thought occurred to him. When Suffolk staggered to his feet again and tried to take another charge at Kenneth, Roger motioned to a couple of his men to see the earl from the hall. As de Ufford was half-carried, half-escorted away, Mortimer turned back to Toby. His anger was beginning to cool as he saw a way to turn the situation to his advantage. He was, if nothing else, an opportunist.

  “Very well, my lady,” he said calmly, after some deliberation. “I will, in fact, take you up on your offer. Your compliance will buy St. Héver’s life.”

  Toby wasn’t stupid; she knew that Mortimer would extract a high price from her though she was not sure, exactly, what it would be. She was a little too unworldly to imagine how high the price could soar. In her mind, perhaps it would be supping with him nightly or entertaining him all day, every day. Perhaps it would be something distasteful but not horrific. She could not have been more wrong.

  “I will comply,” she agreed. “What are your terms?”

  Mortimer took a step closer until he was literally breathing in her face. His dark eyes were deep and intense as he gazed into her almond-shaped eyes.

  “One night with you,” he growled seductively. “One night with you and I will release St. Héver. He will be free to go.”

  Toby stared at him, her eyes widening as she realized what he meant. She could hardly believe her ears and horror such as she had never known filled her breast. The mere thought made her want to vomit. She took a step back from him, her eyes bulging with disgust.

  “Are you mad?” she hissed. “I am a married woman.”

  Mortimer cocked an eyebrow before turning to de Roche again. “Take St. Héver to the vault,” he commanded. “He meets his death on the morrow.”

  “Death?” Toby shrieked. “You cannot kill him!”

  “He struck the Earl of Suffolk.”

  “So did I. You must kill me also if that is your justice.”

  Mortimer’s jaw flexed, grabbing her by the arm and whipping her against him. “One night and your knight goes free,” he snarled. “Refuse and he dies. Those are the terms.”