Toby heard him mumble. “What did you say?”
He turned to look at her, his normally stony expression oddly animated. “I said, I am going right away,” he looked at the physic. “Take her inside and put her to bed. Sit on her if you have to. And give her something to improve her disposition, for God’s sake. I am not sure how much more of this tyranny I can take.”
Toby’s face screwed up angrily. “Come back here, St. Héver. Come back and say that to my face!”
She was holding up a balled fist. Kenneth opened his mouth to calmly retort but he ended up breaking down into laughter. He couldn’t help it; it was just too comical to believe. Toby was furious a moment longer before erupting into a grin; an angry grin, but a grin nonetheless.
“I hate you, Kenneth,” she told him sincerely as he continued down the stairs. “I truly do.”
“I know,” he replied, dead-pan. “You hate me and my mother, my grandmother, my father and every ancestor before him, my horse, my….”
He faded off as he went. Toby, softened by his reaction to her temper, realized she sounded like a complete shrew. She stood at the top of the stairs and called down to him.
“I love you as if you were my own brother, Kenneth,” she called after him.
“I know,” his reply was very faint.
“Now bring me my pumpkin!” she screeched.
She swore she heard him laughing again. Turning for her bower, she almost forgot about Timothy standing there, grinning at the exchange between her and the knight. She walked up to him, eyeing him critically.
“Are you really going to sit on me?”
Timothy shook his head. “I am afraid you might do me serious bodily damage if I did,” he said, taking her elbow as they passed through the open door. “But I will sit and talk to you.”
She let him escort her into the room, which was warm with a blazing fire. Thick furs covered the floor and her bed was piled with lush and warm materials. Mortimer had been, if nothing else, lavish with his attention on her. There was absolutely nothing she could want for. Toby went to the fire, carefully removing the cloak that had mud on it. Timothy took it from her and cast it into the corner for the servants to clean. She stood for a moment, dragging her hand across her softly rounded belly.
“Timothy,” she said after a moment. “There is something we can talk about.”
He was at the elaborate sideboard against the wall, pouring them both a measure of wine from a lovely glass decanter. “What is that?”
“You have been a physic a long time, have you not?”
“I have, my lady.”
Toby’s gaze lingered on the flames before turning to him, her cheeks rosy from the warmth of the fire. “You must know a great deal about babies.”
He nodded. “I believe so. What do you wish to know?”
Her hazel eyes twinkled as she told him.
*
For the durationof the trip to the Marches, Edward had kept a distance from his mother. Strange, considering he had very much wanted to see her. For two years, he had begged Tate to take him home to see his mother. But Tate had refused and had given clear explanations as to why he had refused. Edward was therefore well aware why Tate kept him from his mother. For two years, he had understood that the woman who gave birth to him would not protect him from her lover. Isabella and Mortimer had ruled during that time as Regents to Edward since he was so young. But the queen was clearly more loyal to her lover than her son. It was a devastating understanding.
Isabella had wept at the first sight of her son in two years and had tried to embrace him. But Edward had run from her and even now, five days later, would not warm to her. He rode with Stephen as company, astride the big blond charger that Tate had given him for his fourteenth birthday and morose in his thoughts. He was not much company. Stephen and Tatesimply left him alone, knowing he would come to terms with his mother’s presence soon enough.
The snows had fallen heavy along the Marches this year. As the army plowed their way northwest through Gloucestershire, the snow became heavier and Edward felt his determination to stay away from his mother wavering. He missed her, in spite of everything that had happened. He just wished she loved him more than Mortimer. As he struggled to get up the nerve to speak with her, a messenger was sighted to the north. Distracted, he followed Stephen as the man spurred his charger out of formation to intercept the rider.
The man was a spy that had been sent out on many missions for de Lara. He was older, wily, and knew well his craft. He was also freezing, his horse thrashed, and he came to an unsteady halt as Stephen and Edward raced upon him. Stephen threw up the visor on his helm to gain a better look at the man. Snow flew off the visor when it snapped open.
“Well?” he demanded. “What do you have to report?”
The man wiped at his running nose, red with the cold. “Liam de Lara’s men are just south of Croft Castle, m’lord,” he said. “He has them hiding out in the woods, but it is difficult to hide so many. He awaits orders from his brother.”
“How many would you estimate he has with him?”
“Several thousand.”