“Aye.”
“I did not hurt you, did I?”
“Not at all.”
He was quiet after that. He didn’t need to give his adversaries a homing beacon with his voice. His biggest priority at the moment was to put Stephen and Kenneth on the move to scout the source of the arrows. As he turned his head to call to the knights, the dogs that had been following them since Forestburnsuddenly ripped past them on a dead run. All teeth and a blur of legs, the dogs disappeared into the mist and there was a chorus of snarls, growls and various other unidentifiable cries. Tate listened to the grunts of men being bitten by the dogs and singled out at least three different voices. The dogs’ snarling faded, the yipping rolling off into the distance. Then, it was eerily quiet.
Still, he didn’t move. He was a warm, protective cocoon over Toby and he wasn’t about to leave his position. Besides, he rather liked being this close to her in spite of the deadly circumstances. When one of the dogs suddenly emerged from the fog and went up to Toby, licking her forehead, Tate knew that all was well. He whispered a prayer of thanks for the dogs, sorry he had thrown the rock back at Forestburn. The animals had served a valuable purpose.
Still, he was cautious. Dogs or no, he wasn’t comfortable in an open field covered with mist. Standing up, he pulled Toby to her feet. She was soaking from having lain on the grass.
“You are wet,” he observed. “We should return you home immediately.”
Her face was pinched from the chill. “I need to see what has happened to our shepherds,” she said. “I only saw… Emmit.”
She wouldn’t look at the body, a few feet away. Tate muttered something to Stephen, who was the closest, and the knights disappeared into the gloom. The men at arms came to stand near Tate and Toby, crossbows drawn and cocked. The squire walked up, wiping the mud from his face.
“Did anyone see them?” he asked. “Were they Scots?”
Tate shook his head, resisting the urge to throw another rock at the dog sniffing at his leg. “I never saw them. They were clever to blend with the mist.”
“The sheep,” Toby said quietly.
“What about them?”
“I do not hear them.”
Tate cocked an ear, but there was nothing in the air. It was quiet but for an occasional bird. “We will not go look for them now,” he said. “Better to wait for the fog to lift.”
Toby didn’t argue. She followed Tate, the squire and the men at arms back to the road where the horses were tethered. Shortly, the knights returned and reported to Tate. The two other shepherds had been found, murdered. Deeply disturbed, Toby mounted her horse with Tate’s assistance. Tate, however, remained on the ground.
“John, I will leave it to you and Oscar to escort the lady back to Forestburn,” Tate indicated one of the men at arms, heavily armed with his crossbow. “Remain there. I shall come for you when I can.”
Toby was surprised, concerned. “You are not returning with us?”
“Nay, mistress.”
“Where do you go, then?”
Tate swung his big body aboard his charger. “To find whoever launched the attack.” He looked over his shoulder to his knights. “Stephen, ride to Harbottle Castle and collect thirty men to form a search party. Kenneth, Morley, you ride with me. We shall see if we can find a trail while it is still fresh.”
“My lord, if I may,” Toby interrupted. “The raiders are most likely border Scots. They shall disappear into the land as quickly as they sprang from it. You will not find them.”
His expression was dark. “Mistress,” he said quietly. “Stephen and Kenneth examined the arrows that killed your men. They are not the arrows of border Scots.”
A bolt of fear ran through her. “Then to whom do they belong?”
Tate’s response was to turn her horse around and bark orders to John and the man-at-arms to move with all due haste. Toby’slast sight of Tate was as he and his gray charger disappeared into the fog like phantoms.
*
It had beena long night. Morning dawned and still they had not returned. Toby sat by the hearth in the great hall well after the meal was finished, wondering if something terrible had befallen Tate and his men. She wasn’t feeling particularly well this morning perhaps as a result of the chill she had received yesterday; she was warm to the touch and generally exhausted. She could not even summon the strength to answer the cries from her mother. Not guilt or God could have motivated her to respond this day. She had sent Ailsa to see to the woman’s needs instead, instructing her to stay out of arm’s length.
The squire and the man-at-arms had remained in thegarçonnairesince their return yesterday. She had seen them only twice, for the evening and morning meal. At this late stage of the morning, it was quiet with Ailsa taking her usual nap and her mother at least silent for the moment. Her father had gone into the village to drink and discuss town affairs with the aldermen and Toby was weary of sitting about, wondering what had become of the lord of Harbottle. There were accounting matters waiting for her in her father’s solar that she had put off long enough.
Rising from the chair, she accidentally brushed her hand against the arm of the chair and winced painfully; the scratches her mother had given her were becoming angry red wounds. Examining it more closely, she saw that the entire area was swollen and painful. She knew she should have tended them yesterday when they were fresh but she had other things on her mind.
Arrowroot flowers grew wild in an open area near the village. Toby sent a servant out to gather some so that she could tend her wounds with them. By the time the servant returned with the flowers, Toby’s entire body was hot, tired and throbbing. Sitting at her father’s desk doing an accounting of their winter fruit supply was difficult; her eyes were hot and it was difficult to keep them open. In fact, she wanted very much to sleep. She gratefully set the quill down to turn her attention to the healing powers of the tender arrowroot. She promised herself a rest after tending the cuts.
