Dragonblade Trilogy - 01 - Dragonblade (17 page)

Toby was bordering on
temporary insanity as she babbled; Stephen’s brow was furrowed as he and Tate
passed concerned glances. “It was not your fault,” Stephen said with more
firmness. “It was an accident. Please let me take Ailsa while you rest; I
promise I shall give her back.”

Toby shook her head,
recoiling from Stephen, realizing that Tate was behind her and trying to recoil
from him, too. She ended up struggling to her feet, holding her limp sister and
trying to get away from the knights. But she wasn’t strong enough to lift Ailsa
entirely and she ended up dragging her sister several feet across the floor. It
was pathetic and harrowing. Tate rose slowly from the bed, watching Toby
struggle to get away from them. There was tremendous pain in his eyes, knowing
very well what she was feeling. He had felt it once, too.

But Toby was too weak
with grief and recent illness and ended up falling before she could get too far
away. Huddled on the floor, she held her sister’s torso and head tightly while
Ailsa’s legs lay splayed across the floor. It was clear that she was not
balanced. Tate didn’t look at Stephen as he spoke to the knight; his eyes were
riveted to Toby.

“I will take Toby,” he
whispered. “Be prepared to grab Ailsa and take her out of here.”

Stephen nodded,
heading off to his right while Tate moved to his left. They were stalking Toby,
like predators, only these were predators of mercy. Toby would never gain her
wits so long as she held a death-grip on her sister’s body. Tate walked up
behind her, crouching down and putting his big hands on her upper arms.

“Elizabetha,
sweetheart,” he tightened his grip as he spoke, his hands moving down her arms
to her wrists. “Please let us have Ailsa. I promise we will be very careful
with her.”

Toby wept and
sputtered. “Nay,” she gasped. “She is all that I have left. She cannot… she
cannot be dead.”

“She is, sweet,” Tate
crooned softly, his cheek against the right side of her head. “I am so sorry
for your loss. Believe me; I know what you are feeling. I have been there. But
you must let us take Ailsa to prepare her for burial.”

Toby howled. “Nay!” she
cried. “You cannot bury her!”

Tate’s grip around her
was getting tighter as he prepared to pull her arms away from her sister’s
body. “We must, love,” he had a good grasp on her wrists, making sure Stephen
was prepared to strike from his position next to Ailsa. “Let Stephen take
Ailsa. He will be kind to her.”

Toby shook her head
and Tate decided it was time to act. Grabbing her wrists, he pulled her arms
away from Ailsa’s corpse. Stephen was swift and grabbed the little girl, moving
for the door in one keen motion. Realizing she had been tricked, Toby turned
into a wildcat; she kicked and screamed and beat at Tate even as he lifted her
off the floor and carried her to the bed. As Stephen slipped from the room,
Tate and Toby fell onto the bed in a writhing, howling mass of grief. 

Toby was screaming at
the top of her lungs. Tate had both arms wrapped firmly around her so she could
not get away from him; he was afraid that if she was able to get a hand free,
he would find himself missing an eye. So he held her tightly, riding out the
storm, knowing eventually she would exhaust herself. There was nothing more he
could do. Toby twisted and cursed, showing surprising strength in her slender
body, but eventually her energy left her and she ended up a quivering mass of
warmth and hair in his arms.  

Toby didn’t have the
strength to cry any longer. She simply lay in his arms, gasping for every
breath. Tate took a chance on loosening his grip and he stroked her hair, her
face, whispering soothingly in her ear and telling her that all would be well. 
But Toby didn’t hear him; at some point, she gave a heaving gasp and suddenly
lay still.  Concerned, Tate felt for her pulse; it was fast but strong.  And
she was still breathing regularly. Realizing she had fainted, he welcomed the
peace from her pain.

“Sleep well,
sweetheart,” he whispered, kissing her on the temple. “You have earned it.”

Propped up on an
elbow, he gazed at her for a very long time, feeling such sorrow for the woman
as he could not begin to describe.  She had been through so much in her life; a
drunk father, an invalid mother, but she had not only survived, she had
thrived. Then he came along and within days destroyed everything she had worked
so hard to achieve. He had destroyed her world. Now her sister was dead. If
he’d never come to Cartingdon, none of this would have happened. But, then
again, he would have never met Toby.

He stroked her hair
again, soft strands beneath his calloused hand. He kissed her baby-soft cheek,
allowing his lips to linger on the flesh.  Her lips were near and he was drawn
to them, gently kissing her mouth for the first time and realizing she was as
sweet as he had known she would be. He kissed her lips again, once more, before
very slowly rising from the bed.  Although she was unconscious, he did not want
to disturb her. Taking the dusty old blanket, he tucked her in carefully.

“Sleep well,” he
touched her face one last time.

The room was growing
dark and cold so he moved to the hearth and deftly started a small fire with
the flint and kindling that was still there.  Looking around, he realized there
wasn’t much fuel for the fire so he put what he could on the blaze. He stood up
as the flames fired up, watching Toby’s still form, fighting off a myriad of
emotions swirling through his chest.  

Leaving Toby to sleep,
he shut the door softly behind him.

***

The full moon was
creating a brilliant gray landscape just after midnight. Night birds sang and
nocturnal creatures foraged in the fields below the great bastion of Harbottle.
All was peaceful and still, a world away from the turmoil that had gripped them
over the past few days.

Kenneth was on the
battlements of Harbottle, his ice-blue eyes watching the landscape for a hint
of threat. He had taken charge of the defenses with Tate and Stephen distracted
with Mistress Toby and her dead sister, removing himself from emotion that was
difficult for him to digest. Moreover, it was distracting them from the king’s
mission. One of them had to remain focused and Kenneth decided it would be
him.  With Edward asleep inside the keep, Kenneth maintained vigilance for them
all.

As he gazed out over
the landscape, he heard footfalls down below in the bailey.  A ladder that was
ten feet away began to move slightly; he could see the wood shifting back and
forth.  As he watched, Tate mounted the last rung of the ladder and climbed
onto the wall walk.  He was in without his armor, clearly not prepared for
sentry duty.  Kenneth remained silent as Tate walked up next to him and began
scanning the silver landscape.

“No movement?” he
asked quietly.

Kenneth shook his
head. “Nothing, my lord. All is quiet.”

Tate nodded faintly,
his storm cloud eyes still moving across the scenery.  “Were you able to locate
a suitable coffin for Ailsa?”

Kenneth crossed his
big arms, his gaze scanning the landscape just as Tate was. It was a habit with
them, always vigilant and aware of their surroundings.  “Nothing that I would
consider suitable so Wallace is building one,” he replied.

Tate lifted an eyebrow
and looked at him. “He’s building one?”

“Aye.  The man can do
anything, you know. Even build a coffin. Perhaps he is doing it because he
feels badly about the girl’s death.”

Tate pursed his lips.
“Perhaps he is doing it to get back into my good graces.  When will this receptacle
be ready?”

“He said that he would
work on it all night.  It may not be the nicest coffin you have ever seen, but
it will be well-made.”

Tate was silent a
moment, pondering how in the world they were going to bury Ailsa without her
sister going mad. “We’ll have to put her in Harbottle’s chapel for now,” he
said quietly. “It is a tiny place. I have not surveyed it yet to determine if
there is space.”

“I have,” Kenneth
replied. “There is a length of ground in the corner near the altar. It should
be suitable.”

“Very well,” Tate
looked at Kenneth. “Thank you for your foresight in planning this arrangement. 
I have been else occupied.”

Kenneth nodded slowly,
his ice-blue eyes fixed on Tate; he was the most stoic of the knights, rarely
smiling and rarely voicing his opinion unless asked. He had a stronger sense of
duty than most and had known Tate for many years. He had been present when
Tate’s wife had passed away and remembered how the event nearly toppled the
man. Although Kenneth made a habit of not forming friendships, his relationship
with Tate was a rare exception. He greatly respected de Lara, the man who
should have been king.

“It has been my
pleasure, my lord,” Kenneth finally said after a moment. “And if I have not yet
expressed my sympathies on the passing of Mistress Ailsa, then allow me to do
so.  Her death is a sorrowful thing.”

Tate nodded pensively.
“I feel as if we have brought great doom upon Mistress Elizabetha’s head. I
feel responsible for all of this somehow.”

Kenneth was used to
Tate expressing his emotions; the man was in touch, and usually in control,
with them.  It was not an outlandish occurrence for Tate to speak what was in
his heart or mind.

“It is not your
fault,” Kenneth said frankly. “We could not have known what tragedies our
association with Mistress Toby and her family would have brought.”

Tate drew in a long
breath, pondering his words, knowing he was correct in theory. But it did not
stop him from feeling the guilt. After a moment, he scratched his head and
turned back for the ladder.

“I am going to check
on Mistress Toby and then I am going to sleep for a couple of hours.  Wake me
before dawn; sooner if you need me.”

“I would not worry
about Mistress Toby,” Kenneth told him. “Stephen is with her.”

Tate paused on the first
rung of the ladder. “How do you know?”

“He was here a little
while ago. As he left, he told me that he was going to check on her.”

“He is supposed to be
with Ailsa.”

“There is nothing he
can do for Ailsa.”

Tate took the first
two rungs of the ladder before pausing.  He looked up at Kenneth. “Tell me
something, St. Héver, and be truthful.”

“I have never lied to
you, my lord.”

“I did not mean that.
I meant be truthful in your opinion.”

“Opinion of what?”

“Why would Stephen be
so solicitous of Mistress Toby?”

Kenneth shrugged, not
sure what Tate was driving at. “Because she is stricken with grief, I am sure.
He is a healer and she, at the moment, is in need of help. Why else?”

“It could not be because he is interested in
her, could it?”
“Interested in her in what way?”

“As a man is interested in a woman.”
Kenneth understood then. For the first time, he seemed to lose some of his
stoic demeanor. “Why would you ask?”

Tate shrugged. “I am
not sure. Something in his expression at times. I have never known the man to
show interest in any woman. What do you know of it?”

Kenneth shook his
head.  “You will have to ask him.”

“I am asking you. He
is close to you. Has he said anything?”

 “Said anything? Nay,
he has not.”

“But you believe there
is something more to it.”

Kenneth sighed
reluctantly. It was clear that he did not want to say what was on his mind but
he knew that Tate would pester him until he did.  So he confessed.

“His manner suggests
that perhaps he shows more concern than normal towards her.” He lifted an
eyebrow at Tate. “Then again, so does yours.”

Tate digested the
statement and descended the ladder without another word.   Leaving Kenneth on
the wall walk, he was half way across the bailey when a shout suddenly went up
from the sentries on the eastern wall.  Jolted into action, Tate barreled up
the ladder to the battlements, thundering along the stone walkway just behind
Kenneth as they made their way to the eastern wall. And there they saw it.

There was a line of
torches and men that stretched a quarter of a mile in length.  It was ominous
in the silver moon glow, like a black tide of ants on the march. Tate knew
without a word spoken that it could not be a good sign; any army that would
approach by torchlight in a massive front was not there on a social call. He
felt the familiar fire of battle fill his veins, rousing the warrior
instincts. 

“Rouse the men,” he
growled at Kenneth.  “Everyone to battle.”

Kenneth was gone to do
his bidding. Tate remained on the wall, watching the army approach, knowing they
were in for a siege. He could only pray that Harbottle’s old walls held and
Warkworth had indeed received his call for reinforcements.

Mortimer was upon
them.

CHAPTER EIGHT