“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 keepher 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 shiftwas 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.
