Ailsa giggled. “She says that Tate should be king, not young Edward.”
Toby paused long enough to ponder that. It seemed like such an immense prospect although she had heard the same thing from her father, once, a long time ago. The fact that Tate de Lara was Edward Longshanks’ bastard son was generally accepted. He had the height and strength of the Plantagenets but the dark features of the Welsh princes. The more she thought on his royal lineage, the more unsettled she became. The man she would soon be supping with had a royal heritage on both sides that was centuries old.
“Not a word of this at supper, do you hear?” she said to her sister. “You have no idea the seriousness of your words.”
Ailsa pouted. Her sister shoved some rushes into her hand, indicating she spread them, to keep her busy.
“But why must I keep silent? I want to know what it is like to live in London and I want to know of King Edward. Do you suppose he will marry some day?”
“I suppose so. He must, as the king.”
“Could he marry me?”
Toby put her hands on her hips, smiling at her sister in spite of herself. “No, little chicken, he could not. He needs a woman of royal blood, not a farmer’s daughter.”
Ailsa was back to pouting. “But father says we have noble blood in us.”
Toby spread the last of the fresh rushes before the hearth. “The best we can do is claim relation to the barons of Northumberland. The last baron, Ives de Vesci, was our father’s grandsire.”
“And mother is descended from a Viking king named Red Thor.”
“So Grandsire Toby has told us.”
“Do you not believe him?”
Toby just smiled. She had a beautiful smile; it changed her face dramatically. She could get her father to agree to anything when she smiled.
“Help me see to supper, little chicken.”
Ailsa forgot about Northumberland and the Viking king. She skipped after her sister, who was more a mother to her than her real one. Judith Cartingdon had been bedridden since Ailsa’s birth, unable to walk, barely able to speak. The care of the infant girl had fallen upon twelve-year-old Toby. As a result, the girls were inordinately close.
Supper was mutton, boiled and sauced, marrow pie, a pudding of currants and nuts, and bread made from precious white flour. Ailsa kept trying to steal pieces of bread and Toby would shoo her away. The cook was an elderly woman who had been Toby’s wet-nurse years ago. The kitchen of Forestburn was low-ceilinged to keep in the heat and mostly constructed of stone; therefore, on a cold day, it was the very best place to be. But on a day like today, with the added stress of an important visitor, Toby was sweating rivers.
“Suppertime is near,” Ailsa could always judge by the rising of the bread. It happened at the same time, every day, without fail. “Do you suppose Dragonblade will be here soon?”
Toby put the last touch on the finished marrow pie and wiped the beads of perspiration on her forehead. “I told you not to call him that,” she told her sister. “And, aye, he will be here soon. I must go and change my clothes.”
Ailsa followed her to the second floor of the manor. Her father had received license several years ago from the barons of Northumberland to build a fortified house to protect his family and farm. It was a stone structure with battlements, but no protecting walls other than the heavy wooden hedge fence that surrounded the immediate area of the home. There was a great hall, a solar, and the kitchen on the ground floor, while the upper floor held three large rooms and another smaller room used for bathing and dressing. Ailsa and Toby shared a room, their mother had one room, and their father another.
A servant helped Toby strip off her clothes. While Ailsa lay upon the bed and continued her musings about their alleged royal relations, Toby went to the smaller adjoining room and stood inside the great iron tub as the servant poured buckets of warm water over her body to rinse off the sweat. Scraping off the excess water, she then doused herself in rosewater before drying off and dressing in a surcoat of emerald damask, set with a scoop-necked collar of white satin and embroidered in gold thread. Her luscious hair was braided, left to drape over one shoulder. Ailsa got off the bed and danced around her as the servant put the finishing touches on her hair.
“Do you suppose Dragonblade will marry?” she asked.
Toby sighed heavily. “Ailsa, if you call him that one more time….”
Ailsa kissed her cheek and hugged her neck, careful not to ruin the hair. “Sir Tate, I mean. Would it not be fancy if he married you? You could live at Harbottle Castle.”
“He will not marry me. He was married, once, so I was told.”
“Where is his wife?”
“I heard that she died.”
Ailsa looked sad as only a child can. “He must miss her, do you suppose?” From downstairs, they heard the front door bang open, a signal that their father had returned home. Multiple voices indicated guests and Ailsa began to jump up and down. “They are here, they are here!”
“I shall greet them,” Toby leapt off the stool with the servant still fussing with her hair. “Go and see to Mother, Ailsa. Make sure she is tended to before you join our guests.”
Ailsa protested. Toby took her by the hand and led her to the door of her mother’s bower. The old woman, hearing their voices, called out.
