Dragonblade Trilogy - 01 - Dragonblade (8 page)

“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.”

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.