But the danger would also be more than any man could ever face.
Frustrated at a future that had been foisted on him, Rory simply shook his head.
“Then if you insist I do this, I will return to my property from here,” he said. “Henry and Ansel can return you to a nearby loyalist castle if you would prefer a larger escort back to London, or you can simply travel as you are and make swift journey of it. It is your choice. But I must return home and tell my wife of your expectations and then I will return to the nunnery with a wetnurse so I can safely bring the child back to Trelystan Castle.”
Edward was feeling great relief that Rory hadn’t taken more of a stand. “That would be appreciated,” he said. “Return to me when you have finished this most important task. And, Rory?”
“Aye, Sire?”
“You cannot know what this means to me,” Edward said, his voice growing soft. “I did love Dera. I know she would be grateful that you will take good care of her son.”
Rory simply nodded. He wasn’t over his aner yet, but there was nothing he could do. Edward had asked it of him and, as an obedient vassal, he had agreed.
He hoped he wouldn’t live to regret it.
As it so happened, Lady de Lara was more than willing to take on the care and feeding of another child a little younger than her own son. Grace was a kind woman, and a generous one,and when her husband finally delivered the black-haired infant to her, she fell in love with him immediately.
Lady Grace had a very strong maternal instinct.
She named him Tate Crewys, after her own father, a landed lord in Somerset, and the child grew up with a brother of the same age in Liam and a host of younger siblings as the years went on. The boys were told that they were simply born close together, as they were almost exactly ten months apart, but when Tate turned eighteen years of age, Rory finally told him about his true heritage. Considering Tate had been visited by Edward a few times during his life, and the visits always seemed to focus on him, he truly wasn’t surprised when Rory told him the truth.
You are the son of a king.
Perhaps he was, but Tate never viewed himself as one. He was a knight, and an excellent one, and as he grew into manhood and assumed more duties from the royal household, one thing was certain—he was a legend in the making.
And the myth of Dragonblade was born.
CHAPTER ONE
The Month of January
Year of our Lord 1326
Cartingdon Parrish; Northumbria, England
The time ofyear dictated that the landscape would be an eternal shade of twilight, no matter what the time of day. Gray colored the sky, the earth and the mood of the people.
The town of Cartingdon was no exception. The people were pale with the limited nutrition of winter, their woolen clothes barely adequate for the freezing temperatures that the north winds brought. More than the grayness of the air and people, there was something else this day that darkened the land. Everyone could feel it and they were edgy.
There were whispers floating about like the many snow crystals in the air. Word had spread through the markets that morning after Matins, moving to the avenue of the Smiths and finally to the street of the Jews, telling everyone of the meeting that would be held at Vespers. The purpose was to discuss the most recent rumor regarding England’s king. These were turbulent times in a turbulent land.
The sun hovered on the horizon and the church-bells chimed the onset of Vespers, calling the masses to the meeting. Thetownsfolk flocked to the stone church that they had built with their own hands. Fanged gargoyles imported from France hung on the eaves, lending ambience to the disquiet. Once the people filled the church, they stood in angry, hissing clusters.
The priests had lit a few large tapers, giving the sanctuary a haunting glow as they prepared for the meeting and subsequent mass. Several aldermen were having an intense discussion near the great altar; their deliberation raged for some time until the tall man in the center of the discussion silenced the group and called forth the crowds that had gathered. What they had to say would affect them all.
The mayor of the town was Balin Cartingdon. He was a farmer of noble descent who had flourished, turning a small sharecropping plot into a vast agricultural plantation. He had been a very young man when he sank his first barley seed into the ground, when the settlement of Cartingdon had been an assembly of huts called Snitter Crag. Twenty-two years later, his barley production was the largest in Northumbria and he had added wool and sheep to his empire. The tiny town had exploded due to his farming and was renamed Cartingdon in his honor.
“Good people,” Balin’s voice rang above the fickle buzz. “Thank you for coming. We have called this meeting to discuss the needs of our king and country.”
“You mean the needs of Mortimer!” someone from the crowd shouted.
As the others agreed angrily, Balin shook his head. “Roger Mortimer is not our king. I speak of young Edward.”
The grumbling grew louder. At the rear of the church, a small figure suddenly entered. It was apparent that the form was a woman from the drape of the cloak she wore, a soft green-blue garment that clung to her shapely body. A few of the village folk recognized her, moving out of her way as she pushed through the crowd. By the time she reached the front of the church, shehad removed her hood, revealing cascades of golden-brown hair and almond-shaped eyes that were a brilliant shade of hazel. She had the face of an angel, but beneath the sweet façade lay an iron will. In the township of Cartingdon, the first daughter of Mayor Balin was more feared and respected than her father.
“Mortimer rules the country with Queen Isabella.” The woman spoke loudly, addressing both her father and the assembly. “If rebellion is in the air and we support it, his hammer will fall on all of us. Everything we have built, and all that we have, will be confiscated. I personally do not want to see everything that my father has worked so hard for taken away in the blink of an eye.”
“It is doubtful it will be taken away,” Balin said patiently, displeased that his daughter had chosen not to remain silent. He had gone so far as to ask Toby not to attend the meeting, but alas, that was too much to hope for. If there was an opinion to be had, she was usually in the middle of it. “Our liege, Tate Crewys de Lara, also supports the rightful king. We have no choice but to support the crown if those who hold our fate have such loyalties.”
