Stephen’s eyebrows lifted in response. “What about Lancaster?”
“He is encamped to the north by several miles. He has two thousand men with him.”
Stephen absorbed the information. “How many men would you estimate are prepared to march on Wigmore?”
The spy’s gaze moved out over the distant de Lara army before coming to rest on Stephen again. “With what you arebringing, there should be at least ten thousand. It is a mighty army, m’lord. You could raze Wigmore in a night.”
Stephen nodded slowly, digesting everything he had been told. “Get some food,” he finally told the man. “I will inform Lord Tate of the situation. Be prepared to answer more questions if he has any.”
“Aye, m’lord.”
Stephen and Edward raced off in Tate’s direction, skirting the massive army and coming upon Tate about a half mile down the road. He was at the front of the column, riding alone as he so often did these days. Stephen and Edward charged upon him, flanking him on either side as he rode.
“My lord,” Stephen reported smartly. “Our spies have returned from the vicinity of Wigmore. The aid you requested is already positioned and awaiting your command. Including the army we bring with us, it is estimated that ten thousand men await your orders.”
Tate nodded faintly, not at all impressed with the numbers. He could have more if needed. But he was nonetheless pleased with the show of support.
“Send missives to the commanders of my allies,” he instructed. “I will camp tonight to the east of Leominster. I will meet with my allies there.”
Stephen nodded sharply, racing off to fulfill the command. But Edward remained, riding silently beside Tate as they moved through the snowy, slushy ground. After several minutes of silence, Tate finally turned to Edward.
“Did you have something more to say about all of this?” he asked quietly.
The young king shook his head. “Nay,” he muttered. “Do you really plan to lay siege to Wigmore?”
“I plan to get my wife back.”
The lad was silent a moment. “But what if Mortimer wants to deal? What… what if he wants me in exchange for Toby?”
Tate eyed him. “Where did you hear something like that?”
Edward shrugged, looking at his gloved hands. “Everyone is saying it. Everyone says that Mortimer will want to exchange Toby for me.”
Tate’s gaze lingered on him. “He cannot have either of you.”
“But if you had to make a choice, what would you do?”
Tate had been wrestling with that thought for several weeks. There were two choices; the logical choice and the emotional choice. As much as it tore at him, he knew that only one choice was possible. He sighed heavily, looking away from the young king as he prepared his answer.
“Mortimer will not harm my wife, of that I am sure,” he said quietly, with gritty resolve. “But he would kill you. I have spent fourteen years of your life protecting you as one would protect his own child. In protecting you, I am protecting England and protecting the future for my own children. It would therefore stand to reason that if given the choice, I would have to choose you. But I would find some way to free Toby, have no doubt. I would never give up. Even to the death.”
Edward looked at him, surprise and sadness on his young face. “But…Toby…?”
“She would understand,” Tate cut him off; it was too painful for him to think on it. “She would support my reasons. But she also knows I would stop at nothing to get her back.”
Edward fell silent again as they rode along, the distant mountains of Wales beginning to come visible on the western horizon. They looked like great white mounds of flour. The more he thought about Tate’s dilemma, the sadder he became.
“I remember when your wife died,” he said softly, wondering if he should even say such a thing. “I remember seeing you cry. You didn’t know I saw you, but I did. It was right aftershe perished and you were sitting alone, holding your dead daughter. I was supposed to be in the great hall but I had gone upstairs because… because I guess I was curious. I saw you sitting with the baby, weeping over her.” His head suddenly came up and he focused on his uncle. “I will not see you cry again, Tate. I will not let you go through this again, not when you have found someone to love again.”
It was a passionate speech from the young man. Somewhere over the past few weeks, Edward had begun to grow up and sense that his responsibilities were not only to his country, but also to his family and friends in spite of the example his mother had set. Tate looked at the young man, his stormy eyes glittering.
“I appreciate your concern,” he reached out and gently cuffed the lad on the side of the head. “I do not believe it will come to that. But you are correct about one thing; I do love her. Very much.”
Edward smiled weakly, feeling somewhat embarrassed by his outburst. He didn’t know what else to say and nervously fiddled with the reins. Tate snickered softly at his sudden case of nerves.
“Have no fear,” he said. “I will do what needs to be done which means that, at this moment, I must speak with your mother.”
Edward watched Tate rein his charger about and move back through the column. He lost sight of him as he reached the queen’s escort, swallowed up by the banners and well-dressed soldiers. The young king focused his attention ahead, thinking on the battle that surely lay ahead. He knew he would fight it this time, not like at Harbottle when Tate had locked him away. And this time, Edward was sure, he had an arrow with Mortimer’s name on it.
