“But what of the Queen?” the crowd spoke again. “She has the support of the King of France. He is her brother. What if she calls on him to quell the rebellion? What if the French overrun Northumbria and destroy our town?”
“They will kill us all!” another shouted.
The crowd surged unsteadily and Balin held up his hands. “You forget that young Edward has the Scottish king’s support,” he replied calmly, hoping to soothe the mob. “He will protect us. But we must help our king and that is why we are here today. It is our duty. Every man must decide for himself if he is willing to sacrifice for a greater cause.”
“The king is a child,” Toby pointed out. “His mother and Roger Mortimer rule on his behalf. Never forget that they didEngland a tremendous service by deposing young Edward’s father, King Edward the Second. He was a vile infection that drained this country of all that was good and righteous. They subsequently rid England of the Despencers, the father and son who vied for the throne, thereby eliminating the last links of Edward’s contemptible reign. For the past three years under Isabella and Mortimer, England has known a measure of peace. Do we truly want to feed the beast of rebellion again and perhaps create a tempest that will destroy us all?”
It was a brilliant summation of the recent past of England’s monarchy, given by a woman who should have, respectably, known nothing of the matter. The crowd roared as she finished; some in approval, some in disapproval. Toby looked at her father, sorry she had not completely supported his stance, but in the same breath, hoping it would cause him to deliberate the potential consequences. She didn’t want to see her people die for a futile cause. There had been too many of them over the past several years.
“Toby,” her father had to raise his voice over the commotion of the crowd. “Please go home. You do not help this situation.”
Toby was genuinely contrite. “I am sorry to appear as if I oppose you, but I do not believe you have clearly considered this subject. It is greater than you think.”
“I am well aware of how critical it is. But these are simple folk; I cannot outline the detailed politics of England’s situation. I should not have even outlined them to you, but I did for reasons that no longer seem valid. I should have known you would find a way to contradict me.”
“I did not mean to. I simply meant to give you my opinion.”
“I know well enough your opinion. I know it, I think, even before you do.”
“I am simply asking that you think about what you are saying.”
Balin rolled his eyes. “With you around, I can do nothingbutthink. Now be still before the crowd turns against us.”
As Toby and her father exchanged opinions, back against the wall something was stirring. Several men stood in a unit, draped in dark cloaks as they listened to the spirited debate. The first man tossed back his hood; he had a face of classic male beauty, a granite jaw and full lips. His hair was dark like a raven’s wing, shorn up the back yet long enough in the front so that it swept across eyes the color of storm clouds. He was a striking example of perfection, completely out of place among the worn, colorless peasants. He watched everything around him like a hawk, not missing a movement or a word. It was apparent that he was absorbing everything in his element until he had enough information to make a reasonable judgment.
The man moved forward through the crowd, taking his entourage of five with him. People moved out of his way instinctively, not wanting to be trampled by the man who was a head taller than even the tallest man in the church. He approached Balin and Toby and softly cleared his throat.
“Forgive me, my lord,” the man’s voice was deep and rich. “I realize this is a town meeting exclusively for the residents of Cartingdon but I wonder if I may speak to the throng.”
Balin and Toby looked at the man. Balin’s reaction was far less than Toby’s; the moment their eyes met, she felt a strange buzzing sensation in her head. It was enough to cause her to pull her gaze away, looking to her father to see if he was having the same odd reaction. He seemed unaffected.
“Who would you be, my lord?” Balin asked.
“I am Tate Crewys de Lara.”
As if on cue, the group escorting Tate threw back their hoods and cloaks, exposing enough armor and weapons to handle a small battle quite efficiently. Two of the men were enormous; they were knights of the highest order, clad in expensive metalprotection. Two shorter, stockier men-at-arms supported them, dressed in leather protection and sporting fine Welsh crossbows. The last member of the entourage was the squire, a lad of fourteen or fifteen years. He was tall, thin, and fair-haired.
“My… my lord de Lara,” Balin was clearly shocked. “Although we have corresponded on the occasion of taxation and audits for your lands, this is the first we have met. I am indeed honored, my lord.”
Tate heard his words, but his focus was on Toby. Now that he was closer and could see her more clearly, she was indeed worth a second look. “I have spent the majority of my life in London or in France, with the wars, and have hardly spent time in this land for which I hold title,” his gaze lingered on Toby. “Harbottle Castle is a garrison I have seen three times in my life.”
Balin could see where Tate’s focus was and indicated his child. “May I present my eldest daughter, Mistress Elizabetha Aleanora de Tobins Cartingdon. She is the one who has seen to your requests with regard to revenue from the parish.”
“Mistress, I thank you for your service.”
“My pleasure, my lord.”
Tate’s gaze was like an immovable object. He tried not to be obvious about it, but the lady was quite lovely. Such beauty was very rare. He did not, however, like the bold nature he had seen come forth from her since their arrival. Were it not for that flaw, he might have considered speaking further with her.
“Please, my lord,” Balin put his hands up to quiet the crowd. “Speak to our people. Tell them of England’s need.”
When Tate looked away from her, Toby felt as if she had been jolted. He had held her in such an odd trance that his sudden departure startled her. Still, she retained enough of her wits to remain attuned to the subject at hand.
“My lord, if I may,” she said carefully. “These are simple people with simple lives. Things like war frighten them, notinspire them. I am afraid a thunderous address will only further alarm them.”
Tate looked at her. “Mistress… Elizabetha, was it?”
His tone bordered on contempt. Toby struggled to retain her courage. “I have not gone by Elizabetha since my birth. I am known as Toby, my lord.”
