“Nowhere,” she lied. “Go back to sleep. I am simply going to stand by the door. I… I just want to observe the morning.”
Kenneth was weakened and exhausted and took her for her word. He could never have imagined what she really had in mind; if he had, he would have latched on to her leg and never let go. But he drifted off to sleep again, unaware that Lady de Lara was about to take her life into her hands again. In hindsight, he should have guessed it knowing her as he did.
Toby stood by the tent flap, watching Kenneth and waiting for him to drift off again. She wanted to make sure he was asleep before planning her next move. She was about to steal a horse again and try to leave the camp unseen, both of which would be tricky. But she was determined.
Tate and Kenneth had once called her brave; she had never thought on herself as being brave until this very moment. With what she had in mind, she was about to find out just how brave she truly was.
*
Thank God forIsabella.
That was the thought foremost on Tate’s mind as he sat in the great hall of Wigmore, watching Isabella and Mortimer interact. It had been Isabella who had saved him from a quick death in the bailey and Isabella who insisted he be given the respect of the royal family. When Toby and Kenneth had fled the gates, no one had touched him. There had been enough noise and saber rattling to believe he had been taken apart limb by limb, but noone actually came close enough to do it. Several angry soldiers had brought him into the great hall and planted him in a chair while a good deal of arguing went on around him. That had been several hours ago.
So he sat in the great hall all night and well into the morning. He was also thankful that Stephen and Wallace had not yet been discovered. They maintained their disguises as guards of the queen’s household although Stephen had managed to position himself very close to Tate. The two of them were able to speak briefly. So far, none of the other guards had given Stephen or Wallace away. Tate did not expect them to; they were the king’s troops and loyal to the monarchy. It was Tate, in fact, who commanded them, so in a sense he had his own contingent of troops in the room. But they were insignificant compared to Mortimer’s hundreds.
De Roche had been brought back into the keep, moaning and groaning from the injuries that Toby had inflicted on him. As Tate had learned, it was their epic battle that had roused attention in the keep, leading to his capture. The physic had been killed trying to warn them. Even though de Roche was in another room, they could still hear him in the great hall, bellowing his agony. The man was paralyzed and doomed. Every time de Roche screamed, Tate was reminded just how brave Toby was. He was incredibly proud of her. He was also incredibly grateful that she had escaped.
But there was another lady on his mind at the moment; Isabella had not let him out of her sight since his capture. She had remained in the great hall all night, arguing with Roger, and her stress showed. At first, the argument had been about Tate. Hours later, it wasn’t even about him any longer; they were arguing over a lordship in Yorkshire. The entire night and into the morning had been a mass argument about almost everything other than Tate. Oddly, Edward’s name had never even come up.Tate wasn’t even concerned for his own life any longer; it was clear that he was not to be killed. Now, he was just bored.
It was close to the nooning meal when the keep began to stir once again; Isabella and Roger were still in the hall, now at separate ends of the room in their mutual exhaustion. The Earl of Suffolk had joined them at some point and stood with Roger in the corner, quietly conversing. Tate wondered why the man had two black eyes and a swollen nose. It never occurred to him that the injuries had anything to do with Toby, but had he known, he surely would have laughed about it.
As he pondered the stark tedium his life had become over the past few hours, servants began dashing into the hall, scattering like chickens in the wake of several soldiers entering from the bailey. There was much activity that had Tate curious. Whispers seemed to be floating about the hall but he could not discern what they were about. It was apparent that something big was happening, big enough that it had everyone’s attention, and he was soon to find out what it was. His curiosity fled the moment he saw a familiar figure emerge into the stale warmth of the great hall.
Toby strolled into the room as if nothing was amiss. She walked in as easily as if she would have walked into her own home. Soldiers skirted her and servants fled from her; in their distant corners, Isabella and Mortimer suddenly emerged from their exhaustion. All eyes were on the lovely lady as she lit up the room like a thousand candles. They were so focused on her beautiful golden-brown head that no one thought to look at Tate. It was their undoing.
At this point unguarded, Tate shot to his feet, vaulted over the table, and made it to his wife before several soldiers tackled him. He grabbed Toby, the soldiers grabbed him, Stephen and Wallace grabbed the soldiers, and everyone went down in a pile.
Screaming erupted from various women in the hall, including Isabella, as chaos ensued. Suddenly, the queen was scampering to the struggling mound of men. Somewhere at the bottom was a small woman who was surely, by this time, crushed.
“Se lever!”Isabella hollered, smacking the soldiers on the top of the heap. “Get up and release them!”
There were at least a dozen soldiers she had to weed through, slapping and yanking at them. Roger was on the opposite side of the pile, his dark eyes wide with surprise. As Isabella commanded the men to release Tate, Roger was far more interested in Toby’s arrival. He was strangely thrilled by it. But he suspected, as he watched the uproar, that her reappearance could not be a good thing. In fact, he had a deeply unsettling feeling about it. But he waited, apprehensively, to see what would transpire.
It wasn’t long in coming. As the soldiers removed themselves from the mound, including Stephen and Wallace, Tate finally appeared at the bottom with his arms around his wife. She hadn’t been hurt in the crush, thanks to Tate’s strength, but she was furious at having been shoved to the ground. Tate stood up and pulled her to her feet, his arms around her protectively.
“Back away,” he bellowed at Mortimer’s men. “Touch her and you die.”
It was not a threat; it was a promise. Tate’s tone was full of power and hazard. Toby, in fact, had never heard that inflection in his voice and it was frightening. Stephen and Wallace had placed themselves close to him, unfortunately revealing their loyalties as they did so. Stephen even pulled off his soldier’s helm, revealing his face to Mortimer and his men. He heard the namePemburywhispered through the room but, at this point, he didn’t care that he had revealed himself. As Mortimer’s menknew Dragonblade, they knew his ally Pembury also. And his duty was to protect Tate and Toby.
“You heard him,” Stephen growled as he unsheathed his sword. “Back away or feel my wrath.”
The men backed off. Isabella was still slapping soldiers away, widening the circle of wolves that were surrounding Tate and Toby. Tate, however, was not paying much attention to the ring of doom all around him; his focus was on his wife as he took her by the arms and shook her gently, beseechingly.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded quietly.
Toby’s reply was to throw her arms around his neck and squeeze tightly. He held her close, inhaling her scent, his shock fading and being replaced by a fierce sense of protectiveness. She had returned to the lion’s den and he would know why.
“I do not understand,” he rasped into her hair. “Why are you here? What has happened?”
Her mouth was on his ear. “I had to come,” she murmured. “I had to save you.”
Tate felt as if he had been hit in the stomach. “Save me?” he repeated, incredulous. “Sweetheart, you were safe. You were free. What are you…?”
She cut him off abruptly by releasing him. Tate gazed into her beloved hazel eyes, never more in love with her nor more terrified for her. His control, so carefully held when it was only himself to worry about, was in danger of shattering.
“Whatever I say, do not fight me,” she whispered. “You must let me do this.”
“Do what?” he was becoming increasingly agitated. “What are you doing?”
