Dragonblade Trilogy - 01 - Dragonblade (36 page)

Stephen sat next to
the boy, pushing his booted feet closer and closer to the fire.  When his feet
grew hot enough to start smoking, Edward would awaken, sleepily wonder why his
feet were in the fire, pull them out and then swiftly fall back asleep. 
Stephen did this three times before Edward realized what was going on and
grumpily moved away from the snickering knight. Wallace and Stephen had a good
laugh at Edward’s expense.

But not Tate; he had
remained relatively silent and emotionless, watching the comedy but not feeling
light enough to laugh at Stephen’s jokes. Normally Kenneth and Stephen would
play the jokes together, but the absence of Kenneth was painfully obvious. If
Stephen felt it, he did not let on. Still, there were times when a trained
observer could tell that he missed his comrade. He missed the man’s quiet
reserve, his strength, his solid wisdom. He missed his friend.

But Tate was glad
Kenneth was not there. He thanked God every day that the man had surrendered
himself to Mortimer in order to play protector to Lady de Lara. A greater
sacrifice Tate had never seen and as he prayed for his wife’s safety, he also
prayed for Kenneth. He was sure that Toby would be relatively safe in
Mortimer’s custody but Kenneth was another matter. As a knight sworn to the
king, Mortimer would not look upon him kindly. For that, and so many other
reasons, they were on the outskirts of London. Tate had a mission and even as
Mortimer seemed to be holding all of the power, Tate would not let the man gain
the upper hand. He would do all he could to undermine him.

“Will there be
anything else tonight, my lord?” Wallace asked as he rose from the fire; the
old priest was fatigued by the weeks of travel and it showed.

Tate shook his head.
“Nay,” he replied. “Be ready to ride before dawn.”

“Aye, my lord.”

Wallace moved to rouse
young Edward but the king would not be stirred. After much shaking and a couple
of gentle kicks, Wallace reached down and picked the lad up. When Edward
realized he was being carried like an infant, pride alone woke him from his food
coma and he irritably chastised Wallace for man-handling him. Tate and Stephen
could hear Wallace laughing as the two disappeared into the night.

The fire crackled and
spit, filling the silence in their wake. Stephen drained the last of his wine
and set the cup down.

“I suppose I should
get some sleep also,” he said, looking at Tate. “Do you have any orders for me,
my lord?”

Tate was staring at
the fire as if hypnotized; the man that Stephen had known for fifteen years had
not been himself since that fateful day at Harbottle. He was darker somehow,
meaner even. Mortimer’s actions had brought out the Devil in him and Tate was
growing more ruthless by the second. It was in his words, his actions, the very
air he breathed. But Stephen understood why.

“Make sure the men are
ready to move before dawn,” he told Stephen.

Stephen nodded,
pausing as if waiting for more orders. When none were forthcoming, he spoke.

“Shall I send word
ahead of our arrival?” he asked.

Tate drained his wine;
it was the fifth cup he’d had that night. “I sent her one missive already,” he
replied. “She already knows that I am coming and God help her if she is not
prepared.”

Stephen still didn’t
leave; he was watching Tate’s manner, the way his jaw ticked when he spoke. The
man was tightly coiled.

“Mortimer has troops
at Windsor,” Stephen said quietly. “Do you have reason to believe that they are
not lying in wait for us in the wake of your announcement that you are coming
to visit the queen?”

Tate turned to look at
him. “Isabella would not dare order them against me,” he said. “She does not
want to incur my wrath.”

“What about Edward?”

“He stays with you
while I speak with her. He is not allowed near his mother for any reason. Not
even if he begs.”

It was a hard
statement but a necessary one. Stephen cleared his throat softly, his gaze
moving to the clear sky above.

“Just so I am clear,
my lord,” he ventured. “We are to march on Windsor tomorrow and lay at her
base. You have requested audience with Queen Isabella under a flag of truce.”

Tate nodded slowly;
the tick in his jaw was increasing. “She will understand that I am no longer
tolerant of her lover’s tactics.  It is one thing to attempt to kill the king
but it is purely another to hold my wife hostage.” He turned to Stephen, the dark
eyes wild with storm. “Even now, I have a thousand men from Henry of Lancaster
bearing down on Wigmore Castle. From the Trinity Castles of Hyssington, Caradoc
and Trelystan, all holdings of my brother, Liam, I have five thousand men also
moving for Wigmore.  I have even asked my brother for aid from his Welsh
allies. Another two thousand Welsh should be marching upon Mortimer at Wigmore,
awaiting my word to unleash hell.  If Isabella wants her lover to live to see
another day, she will use her influence on him to release Toby.”

Stephen had known he
had sent word to the Earl of Lancaster and his de Lara kin for assistance but
he had not known the extent. At the thought of eight thousand troops bearing
down on Wigmore Castle, he lifted his eyebrows.

“What of the troops we
sent to Warkworth?”

“They are Harbottle
troops and already weary from a brutal siege,” Tate answered. “I will leave
them at Warkworth, as I will not call upon Alnwick at this time.  They are too
far to the north and Henry of Lancaster is a great supporter of our king. He is
much closer to the Marches and more than willing to commit men to the cause.”

Stephen nodded in
agreement, finally emitting a pent-up sigh. “Dragonblade commands and men will
follow,” he breathed, trying not to sound too stunned. “Eight thousand men is
quite a force. Are you not concerned that Mortimer might somehow hurt Toby if
he feels threatened?”

Tate shook his head
confidently. “The man has twelve children he must be concerned for. If he harms
my wife, I cannot guarantee where my vengeance would stop.”

“You would harm his
children?”

“I would make it so he
never saw them again.”

Stephen believed every
word. It was all part of the ruthlessness that had emerged in Tate over the
past several days. There was no use in speaking to him about it because he was
blinded by his fear for Toby and his determination to retrieve her.  Nothing
else mattered. Stephen scratched his head and stood up.

“Then I will beg your
leave,” he said. “I will make sure the army is ready to move out by dawn.”

Tate didn’t
acknowledge the man as he disappeared into the darkness. He was staring into
the fire, seeing Toby’s face with every flicker of the flame and wondering what
she was doing that night. He wondered if she was thinking of him every second
of every day just as he was thinking of her. His desire to get her back moved
beyond normal determination; it was in a state of desperation.

Woe to Isabella should
she deny him his wants. He was finished being the hunted in this battle between
Edward and Roger Mortimer. He had now become the hunter.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Windsor Castle

There was no structure
in all of England as enormous as Windsor Castle. Towers were several stories
tall, the blond and sometimes gray stones glistening starkly against the snow
upon the ground.  From its perch on a hill, the bastion could be seen for
miles.

Tate and his army lay
just outside the village that surrounded the castle.  From a clear night to a
cloudy day, it was bitterly cold. Astride his great bay charger, he left
Stephen and his men in their base camp and made his way through the village
towards the castle. Villiens and storekeepers came out to watch him pass, the
great Tate de Lara with his blue, gold and silver crest of a great dragon on
his tunic. Everyone knew the dragon emblem and the man associated with it. As
the charger clopped up the incline that lead to the main entrance of the
castle, the town was oddly silent.

As Tate knew, there
was no waiting ambush for him. But he could see hundreds of men on the
battlements, watching him approach. But he rode onward until he reached the
great gates, coming to rest just shy of the drawbridge. He shouted up to the
sentries on the wall.

“You will tell the
Queen that the Earl of Carlisle has come seeking audience,” he called. “Tell
her I wait for her at the gates.”

A great commotion
followed; he could hear the soldiers shouting to each other; men were on the
wall, off the wall, and yelling abound in the lower bailey. Tate wondered how
long he would be forced to wait as word reached Isabella.

He remained in place
for at least a half an hour. Snow was beginning to fall again, a light dusting
blanketing his armor. His charger snorted nervously, dancing around
impatiently. The clouds above his head darkened and birds scattered about
seeking shelter. Still, Tate continued to wait patiently. But as the snow fell
heavier and his patience began to wane, the great gates of Windsor began to
slowly crank open.

Tate could see her
just inside the gates. She was busily chatting with her ladies, who apparently
wanted to accompany her. But he could see Isabella ordering them away, the
gossipy and whorish French women that attended her. Tate had never liked them,
although all of them, at least once, had tried to seduce him. He had to laugh
at their boldness and ingenuity in doing so, although they were not the type of
stories he could ever tell his wife. Maybe someday when they were old and gray
and needed a good laugh, but not now.  He didn’t think she would appreciate the
humor.

Isabella eventually
headed towards him. Under the great gatehouse and across the drawbridge she
came. She had been quite a beauty in her time, with dark hair and hazel eyes,
but time and her trials had seen that beauty fade. She was only thirty-one
years old but looked older. 

Dressed resplendently
in white fur and golden brocade, Isabella smiled at him as she made her way
across the drawbridge. In spite of the reputation the woman had, Tate had
always found her to be kind and honest.  She was, however, extremely pliable to
the will of men, which is how Mortimer had managed to enslave her. All the
woman had ever wanted was the love of a man and would do anything to get it. 
It was unfortunate.

“Dragonblade,” she
greeted fondly in her heavy French accent. “My God, let me look at you. It has
been far too long.”

Tate dismounted his
charger and went to her, taking her gloved hands to kiss them. “My Queen,” he
was as pleasant as he could be given the circumstances. “Time has been kind to
you.”

She rolled her eyes at
him as if to disbelieve him. “You are very sweet,” she said, her hazel eyes
moving over his handsome, stubbled face. “I am so happy you have come to visit
me.”

“I wish it was a
social call.”

She cocked a dark
eyebrow. “And it is not?” she clucked softly. “Whatever do you mean?”

Tate’s gaze was steady
on her; in his peripheral, he could see dozens of soldiers just inside the
gates, knowing they were watching him like a cat watches a mouse.  They were
Mortimer’s men. Tate took Isabella’s hand and tucked it into the crook of his
arm.

“Walk with me, Iz,” he
said softly.

Isabella immediately
complied, like an eager puppy. She was bundled tightly against the weather and
felt no cold as they began to walk down the slope from the main gates. In fact,
she felt rather giddy in the company of a man she had once been wildly in love
with.

“So you call me Iz, do
you?” she snorted softly. “That cannot be a good sign.”

The corner of his
mouth twitched. “How would you know?”

“Because you only call
me that when you are cross with me.”

He did laugh, then.
“You are imagining things.”

She laid her cheek on
his arm affectionately. “Nay, I am not,” she said as they continued down the
road. “Now, would you care to tell me why you have come if it is not a social
visit?”

He nodded, putting his
thoughts together. Although he had been over and over this conversation in his
mind, still, he did not want to come across as too harsh at first.  Yet it was
difficult, especially with the subject matter.

“I have come with a
problem that you can help me solve,” he said softly.

“Problem? What
problem?”

Tate paused as they
came to a crossroads in the avenue that led from the castle; it was right at
the edge of the village. He faced her as the snow fell between them.

“I was married a few
weeks ago,” he told her.

Isabella’s eyes opened
wide. “Married?” she gasped. Then she threw her arms around him. “Oh, Tate,
that is marvelous. I am so happy to hear this.”

“Thank you,” he
replied as he hugged her and then let her go. “I am also very happy. Happier than
I have ever been in my life.  But my happiness came to a brutal halt when
Mortimer abducted my bride.”