In truth, Tate hadn’t anticipated seeing her the moment they arrived and he surely did not anticipate having her in his arms in the privacy of the stables. Now that he had her, he had absolutely no intention of letting her out of his sight. He had what he came for.
“Perhaps I can,” he smiled warmly at her. “Perhaps it is as easy as that.”
“If you are going to do it, you had better do it now,” Kenneth told him seriously. “Mortimer is quite fond of your wife. Queen or no, he will be looking for her eventually. You will need time to get clear of this place before he realizes she is gone.”
Tate’s smoky eyes glittered. “I will take her back to the army but then I plan to return,” he said. “I intend to have a serious discussion with Mortimer about his abduction of my wife.”
Toby tugged on him. “It does not matter.” She didn’t want Tate engaging Mortimer in any manner of conflict; not now when they were so close to freedom. “You do not need to confront him. I am whole and sound and he has not touched me. Please, Tate, let us leave this place and never look back.”
As he gazed into her frightened face, he realized that his vengeance, at the moment, was the most important thing on his mind. He realized that it had always been the most important thing on his mind save his wife’s reclamation. He wanted to punish Mortimer for taking Toby. He very much wanted to make the man pay for his sins. It wasn’t even about king or crown any longer; Mortimer had attacked him personally and Tate would not stand for it. His pride, his family, was at stake.
But as he held Toby in his arms, he realized that vengeance was futile. It was a waste of his strength and attention. He had his wife and that was all that truly mattered, but it was difficult to fight off the lingering need for justice. He struggled to refocus on the task of getting her out of Wigmore; his mind raced through the queen’s escort in the ward, the strength of the men he saw upon the battlements and the state of the main gates the last time he saw them. If they were closed, it would make his escape far more difficult. But the last he saw, they were open. Reaching behind him, he grabbed a horse blanket that was laying over one of the stall partitions.
Tate swung the blanket around Toby’s shoulders for both protection and a disguise. She stood out brilliantly in her pale gown and he needed to make her less conspicuous. He smiled at her when she looked puzzled by the action.
“Kenneth,” he said as he secured the blanket around her shoulders. “Return to the hall and locate Stephen and Wallace. Have them meet us in the bailey. We are taking Elizabetha home.”
Kenneth nodded shortly, feeling a tremendous sense of relief. He turned on his heel and quit the stable, his mind focused on finding Stephen and Wallace. But just as he exited the door, heading into the stable yard, a body was waiting for him. And that body drove a broadsword into Kenneth’s torso.
Kenneth fell to his knees as de Roche removed the blade, bringing it up for Tate, who was just emerging from the stable. Toby screamed as she saw the flash of the blade a split second before Tate pushed her out of the way. Tate jumped back as well but not far enough; the tip of the broadsword sliced him across the collarbone and down his chest. It was a nasty gash but not deadly. Giving Toby a shove back into the stables, Tate unsheathed the broadsword at his side and launched into a full offensive against de Roche.
“So you think…,” de Roche dodged a heavy blow and answered with one of his own, “to take your wife away unseen? I will give you credit for a clever disguise, Dragonblade. I would not have guessed you to come as the queen’s own guard.”
Tate thrust and chopped skillfully at de Roche, rewarded with nicking the man on the forearm enough to tear a good portion of the mail away. He was without his custom broadsword because it was too recognizable; he was using young Edward’s instead. It was a good blade, but it was not the fearsome dragon-hilted blade. He wished fervently that he had it against an opponent as strong as de Roche.
“That was always the trouble with you,” Tate said as he ducked a rather sloppy chop by de Roche. “You do not think for yourself. You only do as you are told and that is why you have never been able to outsmart me.”
De Roche was on the defensive, backing away from Tate and nearly tripped over a stone in the muddy earth. “That is where you are wrong,” he said, bringing his blade about. “I found you in the stable, did I not? How fortunate for me that Mortimer ordered me to saddle St. Héver’s charger. Had I not been occupied with the beast, I would have never seen St. Héver bring the lady to the stables. And I would have never seen you enter shortly after him. The right place at the right time, as it were.”
Tate understood a great deal in that halting sentence and he also understood that de Roche was more than likely alone. He and de Roche seemed to be quite alone as they battled in the stable yard, which was fortunate; Tate was terrified that someone, seeing the fight, was going to notify the entire castle. He had to do away with de Roche quickly or the element of an unnoticed escape would vanish.
“It matters not,” he grunted as he managed to shove de Roche back against the yard wall. “In a few moments I will rid myself of you forever. I should have done it a long time ago.”
De Roche tripped and fell back. When he came up, it was with a handful of mud, which he slung into Tate’s face. Mud filled Tate’s vision and he spun away, struggling to clear his eyes, knowing that de Roche would be upon him for the killing stroke. With Kenneth incapacitated, he could not expect any help. He wiped furiously at his eyes, only managing to clear one as he saw de Roche bearing down on him.
“It is over, my friend,” Hamlin hissed, sword in an offensive position preparing to strike. “Once and for all, this will be over.”
Tate lifted his blade to deflect the blow but the blow never came. He watched, through one muddy eye, as Hamlin suddenlylurched heavily and toppled over. The sword fell to the ground. Astonished, Tate looked up to see Toby standing where de Roche once stood with an enormous pitchfork in her hands.
She looked terrified and ill. The pitchfork prongs were dripping blood. De Roche was not dead but he was in a great deal of pain with three very deep puncture wounds in his back. One of them had gone into his spine. Though his head was moving, his legs lay completely still. When he realized that he could not feel or move his legs, he began to howl. It was an unearthly, harrowing sound that echoed against the cold stone of Wigmore.
Tate rushed to his wife, grabbing the pitchfork and tossing it away. Together, they raced to where Kenneth lay on his back, now struggling to sit up. They went down on their knees beside him.
“Ken,” Tate’s voice was full of concern. “How bad is it?”
Kenneth’s hand was covering the deep wound on the left side of his torso, below the rib cage. “Help me get to my feet,” his voice was weak and gritty. “Get me on a horse and I can ride.”
“You are bleeding all over the damn place.”
“Just get me on my feet.”
Tate lifted while Toby tried to pull; Tate ended up doing most of the work while Toby realized she could be more help if she found something to stop the bleeding with. He was oozing buckets. Ripping a portion of the long hem of her gown, she wadded up the wool and pressed it up against Kenneth’s torso.
“Hold this tightly,” she instructed him. “Press it against the wound.”
“Thank you,” Kenneth said weakly, eyeing her as he put a big arm around Tate’s shoulders for support. “I am sorry to have ruined your gown, my lady.”
She gave him an impatient look. “Are you mad? Stopping the bleeding is far more important.”
