Tate shook his head confidently. “The man has twelve children he must be concerned for. If he harms my wife, I cannot guarantee where my vengeance would stop.”
“You would harm his children?”
“I would make it so he never saw them again.”
Stephen believed every word. It was all part of the ruthlessness that had emerged in Tate over the past several days. There was no use in speaking to him about it because he was blinded by his fear for Toby and his determination to retrieveher. Nothing else mattered. Stephen scratched his head and stood up.
“Then I will beg your leave,” he said. “I will make sure the army is ready to move out by dawn.”
Tate didn’t acknowledge the man as he disappeared into the darkness. He was staring into the fire, seeing Toby’s face with every flicker of the flame and wondering what she was doing that night. He wondered if she was thinking of him every second of every day just as he was thinking of her. His desire to get her back moved beyond normal determination; it was in a state of desperation.
Woe to Isabella should she deny him his wants. He was finished being the hunted in this battle between Edward and Roger Mortimer. He had now become the hunter.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Windsor Castle
There was nostructure in all of England as enormous as Windsor Castle. Towers were several stories tall, the blond and sometimes gray stones glistening starkly against the snow upon the ground. From its perch on a hill, the bastion could be seen for miles.
Tate and his army lay just outside the village that surrounded the castle. From a clear night to a cloudy day, it was bitterly cold. Astride his great bay charger, he left Stephen and his men in their base camp and made his way through the village towards the castle. Villeins and storekeepers came out to watch him pass, the great Tate de Lara with his blue, gold and silver crest of a great dragon on his tunic. Everyone knew the dragon emblem and the man associated with it. As the charger clopped up the incline that lead to the main entrance of the castle, the town was oddly silent.
As Tate knew, there was no waiting ambush for him. But he could see hundreds of men on the battlements, watching him approach. But he rode onward until he reached the great gates, coming to rest just shy of the drawbridge. He shouted up to the sentries on the wall.
“You will tell the Queen that the Earl of Carlisle has come seeking audience,” he called. “Tell her I wait for her at the gates.”
A great commotion followed; he could hear the soldiers shouting to each other; men were on the wall, off the wall, and yelling abound in the lower bailey. Tate wondered how long he would be forced to wait as word reached Isabella.
He remained in place for at least a half an hour. Snow was beginning to fall again, a light dusting blanketing his armor. His charger snorted nervously, dancing around impatiently. The clouds above his head darkened and birds scattered about seeking shelter. Still, Tate continued to wait patiently. But as the snow fell heavier and his patience began to wane, the great gates of Windsor began to slowly crank open.
Tate could see her just inside the gates. She was busily chatting with her ladies, who apparently wanted to accompany her. But he could see Isabella ordering them away, the gossipy and whorish French women that attended her. Tate had never liked them, although all of them, at least once, had tried to seduce him. He had to laugh at their boldness and ingenuity in doing so, although they were not the type of stories he could ever tell his wife. Maybe someday when they were old and gray and needed a good laugh, but not now. He didn’t think she would appreciate the humor.
Isabella eventually headed towards him. Under the great gatehouse and across the drawbridge she came. She had been quite a beauty in her time, with dark hair and hazel eyes, but time and her trials had seen that beauty fade. She was only thirty-one years old but looked older.
Dressed resplendently in white fur and golden brocade, Isabella smiled at him as she made her way across the drawbridge. In spite of the reputation the woman had, Tate had always found her to be kind and honest. She was, however, extremely pliable to the will of men, which is how Mortimerhad managed to enslave her. All the woman had ever wanted was the love of a man and would do anything to get it. It was unfortunate.
“Dragonblade,” she greeted fondly in her heavy French accent. “My God, let me look at you. It has been far too long.”
Tate dismounted his charger and went to her, taking her gloved hands to kiss them. “My Queen,” he was as pleasant as he could be given the circumstances. “Time has been kind to you.”
She rolled her eyes at him as if to disbelieve him. “You are very sweet,” she said, her hazel eyes moving over his handsome, stubbled face. “I am so happy you have come to visit me.”
“I wish it was a social call.”
She cocked a dark eyebrow. “And it is not?” she clucked softly. “Whatever do you mean?”
Tate’s gaze was steady on her; in his peripheral, he could see dozens of soldiers just inside the gates, knowing they were watching him like a cat watches a mouse. They were Mortimer’s men. Tate took Isabella’s hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm.
“Walk with me, Iz,” he said softly.
Isabella immediately complied, like an eager puppy. She was bundled tightly against the weather and felt no cold as they began to walk down the slope from the main gates. In fact, she felt rather giddy in the company of a man she had once been wildly in love with.
“So you call me Iz, do you?” she snorted softly. “That cannot be a good sign.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “How would you know?”
“Because you only call me that when you are cross with me.”
He did laugh, then. “You are imagining things.”
