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 arewe to remain here?” the squire asked. “I thought we were leaving for London immediately.”
Tate and Stephen had entered thegarçonnairefor 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 campedoutside 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 somewhatforlorn. “It should be you on the throne, not me,” he muttered. “Had things been different.…”
