Tate thrust and chopped skillfully at de Roche, rewarded with nicking the man on the forearm enough to tear a good portion of the mail away. He was without his custom broadsword because it was too recognizable; he was using young Edward’s instead. It was a good blade, but it was not the fearsome dragon-hilted blade. He wished fervently that he had it against an opponent as strong as de Roche.
“That was always the trouble with you,” Tate said as he ducked a rather sloppy chop by de Roche. “You do not think for yourself. You only do as you are told and that is why you have never been able to outsmart me.”
De Roche was on the defensive, backing away from Tate and nearly tripped over a stone in the muddy earth. “That is where you are wrong,” he said, bringing his blade about. “I found you in the stable, did I not? How fortunate for me that Mortimer ordered me to saddle St. Héver’s charger. Had I not been occupied with the beast, I would have never seen St. Héver bring the lady to the stables. And I would have never seen you enter shortly after him. The right place at the right time, as it were.”
Tate understood a great deal in that halting sentence and he also understood that de Roche was more than likely alone. He and de Roche seemed to be quite alone as they battled in the stable yard, which was fortunate; Tate was terrified that someone, seeing the fight, was going to notify the entire castle. He had to do away with de Roche quickly or the element of an unnoticed escape would vanish.
“It matters not,” he grunted as he managed to shove de Roche back against the yard wall. “In a few moments I will rid myself of you forever. I should have done it a long time ago.”
De Roche tripped and fell back. When he came up, it was with a handful of mud, which he slung into Tate’s face. Mud filled Tate’s vision and he spun away, struggling to clear his eyes, knowing that de Roche would be upon him for the killing stroke. With Kenneth incapacitated, he could not expect any help. He wiped furiously at his eyes, only managing to clear one as he saw de Roche bearing down on him.
“It is over, my friend,” Hamlin hissed, sword in an offensive position preparing to strike. “Once and for all, this will be over.”
Tate lifted his blade to deflect the blow but the blow never came. He watched, through one muddy eye, as Hamlin suddenlylurched heavily and toppled over. The sword fell to the ground. Astonished, Tate looked up to see Toby standing where de Roche once stood with an enormous pitchfork in her hands.
She looked terrified and ill. The pitchfork prongs were dripping blood. De Roche was not dead but he was in a great deal of pain with three very deep puncture wounds in his back. One of them had gone into his spine. Though his head was moving, his legs lay completely still. When he realized that he could not feel or move his legs, he began to howl. It was an unearthly, harrowing sound that echoed against the cold stone of Wigmore.
Tate rushed to his wife, grabbing the pitchfork and tossing it away. Together, they raced to where Kenneth lay on his back, now struggling to sit up. They went down on their knees beside him.
“Ken,” Tate’s voice was full of concern. “How bad is it?”
Kenneth’s hand was covering the deep wound on the left side of his torso, below the rib cage. “Help me get to my feet,” his voice was weak and gritty. “Get me on a horse and I can ride.”
“You are bleeding all over the damn place.”
“Just get me on my feet.”
Tate lifted while Toby tried to pull; Tate ended up doing most of the work while Toby realized she could be more help if she found something to stop the bleeding with. He was oozing buckets. Ripping a portion of the long hem of her gown, she wadded up the wool and pressed it up against Kenneth’s torso.
“Hold this tightly,” she instructed him. “Press it against the wound.”
“Thank you,” Kenneth said weakly, eyeing her as he put a big arm around Tate’s shoulders for support. “I am sorry to have ruined your gown, my lady.”
She gave him an impatient look. “Are you mad? Stopping the bleeding is far more important.”
Tate began half-carrying him back towards the bailey. “You will get the bottom of your garment muddy,” Kenneth told her.
“It is of no consequence.”
“Do you want me to carry you?”
“Oh, shut up.”
Kenneth’s lips twitched while Tate just shook his head at the two of them. “If this is any indication of how the two of you got on while you were incarcerated together, it is a wonder you did not kill each other.” They were clearing the kitchen yards; horses were directly ahead and Tate went in that direction. “Can you make it back to camp?” he asked his knight.
Kenneth was supporting his own weight rather well for a man who had just been gored. He even removed his arm from Tate’s supporting shoulders as they made their way to the horses.
“I can make it,” he said, gathering the reins of the first horse they came to.
Tate helped him mount, but in truth, Kenneth remained relatively strong. Tate went to help Toby, lifting her up onto the very next horse. He was about to say something to her when a small man in dark robes emerged from the keep, waving his arms wildly. Toby recognized Timothy immediately.
“My God,” she gasped. “It is Timothy. What is wrong?”
Tate saw the young man as he descended the steps leading from the keep and almost tripped. “Who is that?” he asked.
“A physic,” Toby told him. “A friend. What is he doing?”
They both watched as Timothy raced towards them, still waving his arms crazily. He was shouting something they could not quite hear.
