“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 Mortimerhad 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.”
Isabella stared at him. Then, her eyes bugged again and she staggered as if hit. Her hand flew to her chest.
“Roger,” she breathed. “What do you mean? What happened?”
Tate told her the entire story, from the time he visited Cartingdon until that very moment. He omitted the information about the armies of Henry of Lancaster and the Lords of de Lara for the moment, but for the most part, he told her the truth. He watched Isabella ride a wild sea of emotion; she was up, she was down, she was weeping, she was furious. She was also extremely insecure and extremely jealous. Tate knew this, which he was planning on using to his advantage. A jealous woman would be of tremendous help. He hoped it would be enough.
“My God,” she gasped with the story was concluded. “Do you know where he has taken her?”
