Henry rubbed his brow, felt a tightness in his chest. “Is it provisions for Count John?” His accusation rippled in the air.
“The king sits in a German prison. We do what we must.”
“You bow to King Richard’s brother?” Henry’s voice rose, tinged with anger. “The man would seize the rightful king’s crown.”
“Henry!” Bea’s voice.
He looked up, startled. How long had Bea been standing there? He forced a smile. Why had she chosen this moment to come downstairs? He dreaded what she might hear…and what he might learn.
Bea held herself confidently, blue eyes intense as Henry remembered. Her dark hair fell to her waist, loose in the style she’d worn as a young girl. But her figure was womanly now, her kirtle accentuating the curves of her waist.
Edward’s words brought Henry back. “John is Richard’s heir.”
“He’s not been named to succeed King Richard,” Henry said vehemently.
“In the minds of many, yes, he has,” Bea said. “People will rally to John over that child in Brittany.” She embraced Henry, brushing his cheek with a kiss.
Henry’s joy at seeing Bea was buried beneath a widening chasm. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Of course he knew of Arthur, the son of Richard’s older brother Geoffrey who had died before the boy was born. There was little love between Geoffrey’s wife and the king, but the six-year-old had a legitimate claim to the throne.
Edward pounded his desk, rattling the wine flagon. “You have not been here trying to hold on to what we have, to ensure our people have food to eat. You did not see what the king’s justiciars requisitioned when Lincoln was besieged two years past.” Edward blew out a breath. “By the saints, Henry, we live in times that are complicated and harsh, times full of contradictions.”
“I know that!” Henry shouted. Pacing the room, his eyes flicked to Bea and back to Edward. He swallowed the sour taste in his mouth. “I spent three years at Richard’s side on crusade, only to return home to fight other Englishmen. To fight mercenaries hired by the king’s own brother. It is madness. And not just in England.” Staring past Edward’s shoulder to the wooded hillside outside, Henry couldn’t keep back the memories. “Allies turned on us in Messina. In the Holy Land, thousands of bound, weaponless prisoners were executed. I know contradictions!” He held his hands out to Edward. “Blood. I see it. Hate it.” His speech faltered. “Blood shed in His name. For my God. For my king. Your king.”
Edward lost hold of his goblet. Wine spilled across the ledger and into his lap. “Dear God,” he cried. He leapt up and flung the desk aside. The flagon smashed against the wall, spraying the room with wine. The candle landed on the floor and papers fluttered through the air.
“Father!” Bea rushed to Edward’s side. She glared at Henry. “Find Sarah.”
The young servant, mayhap fifteen summers, had heard the disturbance from the kitchen. “I am here, my lady.”
The floor rushes began to smoke. Henry stomped on them before a fire could start in earnest. Bea tugged a linen cloth from her sleeve and dabbed at the spill on Edward’s tunic.
“The ledger,” he snarled, pushing her hand away.
Bea retrieved the ledger and patted the damp pages dry. Hugh had appeared at Sarah’s heels. Seeing the mess, he rushed back to the kitchen and returned with a larger cloth to soak up spills on the floor. Sarah righted the desk and started to clean up the spilt wine.
Henry watched, helpless, ashamed that he’d provoked his father to such a state. He’d never seen him so upset, even when they’d argued over Henry taking the Cross.
“Sarah, bring more wine,” Edward said.
Sarah started to pour Edward another drink, but Henry grabbed the jug. He stared at his father, exasperated. “Can you think of nothing but drink?” Wine sloshed over the rim as he pressed the pitcher back into Sarah’s hands. “Get it out of here.”
“Face the truth, Henry,” Edward said. “John has declared his brother dead.”
“Of course he would claim that,” Henry said sharply. “John has everything to gain.”
Bea scowled, but Henry did not let up. “Word has come from the abbots sent to Germany. Queen Eleanor’s envoys have seen the king. There is a letter in the king’s own hand.”
Edward sat down hard. He fumbled with the ledger, looked about absentmindedly. He spotted his quill on the floor. Reaching to pick it up, he planted his fingers in a dark puddle. “Ink…” The black liquid had splattered at his feet and on his boots. He pounded the desk. “Hugh!”
Henry looked from his father to Bea. Who is this man? He pulled up a stool, sat, and laid his hand on Edward’s. “Father, did you hear me?”
Edward’s shoulders sagged. His eyes looked dull. “Whether true or false, we have no choice. John will seize my lands—our lands—if we fail to help him. Will the queen send an army to defend Greyton? I think not. She is too busy besieging John’s castles, defending the coast against the French—”
“Who are in league with John,” Henry shouted, unable to hide his frustration.
“Stop—” Bea started.
“Stay out of this, Bea,” Henry said.
“I will not.” Bea’s face flushed with anger. “You speak of my future, my son’s life, when talk of civil war spews from your mouths.”
“I will stand with King Richard,” Henry said quietly. “Father, do you understand?”
Edward shrugged. “John is, or soon will be, your king.” His lips twitched. “I am not a fool.”
“Of course not, Father,” Bea said, laying her hand on his shoulder.
Henry cleared his throat. “When the king returns, John will come in line. He must to secure his right to the throne. He is not a warrior, Father.” He forced his tone to be steady and reasoned. “He knows he cannot defeat King Richard on the field of battle. But if I am wrong and John insists on a fight, there will be bloodshed.”
“God forbid.” Bea crossed herself.
“It is one thing to allow John’s men at Greyton, quite another to take up arms in his name,” Henry said.
An uneasy quiet settled on the room. Henry did not know the extent of his father’s complicity. Was there more that Edward was not saying? His head ached.
The rumble of wagons outside broke his reverie. The door opened and Stephan stepped in, his wide shoulders blocking the light. He tipped his head to Edward and Bea, and then met Henry’s gaze. “They are here,” he said grimly.
Edward rose. “If Richard does not return, then supporting him may lead to our ruin.” He straightened his tunic, looked hard into Henry’s eyes. “I must deal with the more immediate threat. I cannot turn John’s men away.” He pointed his finger at Stephan. “I am relieved to see you have the good sense not to wear the king’s colors.”
“There are times we must hide our loyalties, my lord. But our hearts know the truth.”
*
Henry followed his father outside to greet the captain and his men. The soldiers had already begun to set up tents by the wagons, which were left in plain sight in the middle of the yard.
“Wouldn’t your men be more comfortable in the barn, captain?” Henry asked.
Captain Burford glanced towards the clear skies. “The lads prefer the tents on a nice day such as this.”
Henry nodded with a smile. Prefer the hard ground to a shelter with soft, fresh hay beneath your head? No, they were protecting their cargo, and he and Stephan would need to find a way for a closer look.
Henry circled the wagons. Under the guards’ watchful eyes, he poked at the tarps and tugged at the ropes tying each one down. “It looks secure.” He approached his father and the captain. “But I am concerned, my lord father.”
The captain’s brow rose. “Lord de Grey, there shall be no problems on my watch.”
Henry’s heart raced. Plying the guards with ale to loose their tongues seemed less likely to work. Too many of them, too close to the wagons. He dreaded the thought of a nighttime raid right here in the yard.
That would be risky.
He rested his hand on the hilt of his sword and turned to his father. “If we are entrusted to see to the safety of this cargo, it would be appropriate for us to know what—and how much—is in our care. Let us do an accounting, both tonight and on the morrow.”
Edward hesitated.
“Father,” Henry said, “if some of these supplies were to disappear on their way to Nottingham, who would be to blame?”
Edward straightened, suddenly appearing more stern and confident, like the man Henry knew from years past. “My son is right.”
Henry heard respect in that strong voice and nodded assuredly.
The captain frowned. “This is highly unusual.”
“Get the manifest,” Edward barked. “Have your men untie these ropes.”
Henry was the last to return to the hall after the inspection. Stephan took up a watch by the front window as Henry closed the door. He wanted to beat his head against the rough splintered oak, but that might draw the guards’ attention. He could feel his father’s glare at his back. He might as well have been on a boat during a ferocious storm the way his gut churned.
From the corner of his eye he saw that the servants had set the trestle. The smell of fresh-baked bread and roasted meat wafted from the kitchen, but food was the last thing on his mind. He whipped round to face his father. “God’s blood!”
“Watch your tongue,” Edward ordered.
Henry heard Bea’s sharp intake of breath. She had been seated at Edward’s desk and was studying his ledgers when they’d come inside. Henry immediately regretted taking the Savior’s name in vain in her presence.
The shock on Bea’s face turned to apprehension. “What is wrong?” she asked, anticipating another fight.
Henry grimaced. “A wagon with six barrels of Greek fire? Others crammed with ropes, iron, hides, dried meats.”
“And silver,” Stephan added, his attention focused on the wagons outside.
“Silver needed to ransom the king.” Henry rubbed his brow.
Bea looked at him sharply. “What are you saying? What is Greek fire?” she asked as Hugh set wine on the table and Edward acknowledged it with a gruff nod.
“It is a cursed weapon,” Stephan said. “A stone-thrower flings it over a wall, onto roofs, or it can be dropped on to troops from the battlements. The flames spread. Water will not smother it. We saw it used to great effect during the siege of Acre.”
“Father, did you know this?” Bea asked.
Edward looked defiant, but he didn’t respond. He settled at the trestle, shouted for food, and picked up a brimming cup of wine. Avoiding Bea’s gaze, he gulped down the drink.
Henry paced to the hearth, and then turned on his father again. “When did the wagons begin stopping here?”
“After you’d left for Outremer.” Edward spoke almost matter-of-factly, but his defiance began to sound like defeat. He locked his fingers on the mug. “It had been a trickle of goods, at least until late last year.”
After the truce with Saladin, Henry thought, when John knew the king was returning home. Henry fought back rising fear. His father was in this far too deeply for his liking.
Mary, the cook and housekeeper, bustled into the room. The woman was Edward’s age. Her own mother had served the de Grey’s before Mary. Henry remembered that broad smile. She looked ready to give him a hug, but she was savvy enough to recognize the mood of the men. As she set a steaming platter of chicken on the trestle, Sarah carried in a basket overflowing with bread. Henry and his father stared at the food, and then at each other.
Mary planted her hands on her hips. “Eat, then, will you please, before the bird gets up and struts away.”
“We’ll not solve this now. And those weapons are not going anywhere,” Stephan said and looked at Mary. “Thank you. It smells wonderful.” He strode to the desk and bowed to Bea, who studied him beneath her dark brows. “Your brother has forgotten his manners. I am Stephan l’Aigle of Yorkshire.” He offered his hand to help her to the table.
*
Standing outside the stables, Allan had observed the inspection of the wagons with a neutral face that mirrored Sir Henry’s. Most of the villeins had come out, curious, but Lord de Grey ordered them back to work. When Henry was satisfied and the tarps were tied back down, Edward stomped to the house, the knights following. Allan had seen Henry grasping his wooden cross and knew he was worried.
As Robin du Louviers’ squire, Allan had been privy to Sir Henry’s stories about his father. He was nothing like he’d pictured. It wasn’t that he didn’t seem lordly. He looked to be Henry’s height. But age had gotten the better of him. His weathered face spoke of troubles; his hair was thinning and white. The manor wasn’t what Allan had expected either. The whole village of Greyton would sit inside the castle at Winchester, which was amongst the grandest of places he’d seen in his lifetime.
“Are you coming?” Little John called.
Allan strode into the stable, watching the stable boy Robert who was gathering brushes and a pick from the wall. Though relieved of their duties for the day, the squires weren’t accustomed to someone else doing their work and wanted to ensure the knights’ stallions were well tended. Allan suspected Little John knew he also had other motives.
Robert tossed Allan an apple. Leaning over the stall Allan bit into the fruit. He scrutinized Robert’s round face. The eyes and hair color reminded him of Sir Robin. The boy had mischief in those blue eyes. Robin’s son through and through. He wondered if others suspected the boy’s parentage. Allan chomped on the apple again.
Robert stopped brushing Lord de Grey’s bay and stared at Allan, dumbfounded. “That was for the master’s horse.”
Little John’s deep brown eyes lit when he laughed. “Don’t mind him, Robert. He is always hungry.”
“Me?” Allan scoffed and tossed the apple to his big friend.
“Why do they call you little?” Robert asked. “You’re taller than Master Henry.”
Little John fed the fruit to Stephan’s horse. He grabbed a comb and brushed the animal’s mane. “I was thirteen summers when I met Sir Henry. Stood near a head shorter than you back then.”
“He was skinny and like a runt in a litter of pigs,” Allan added, reaching over the stall to stroke Henry’s black bay.
Robert straightened and the sleeves of his tunic tightened showing the muscles in his arms. “Ma says I shall grow tall. Mayhap I’ll be a squire like you one day. I can read, too. Lady Bea taught me some Latin and French.” Pride—so like Robin’s—filled his voice, but Robert sighed. He stared at his hands, and suddenly looked more grateful than boastful. “She’s always been kind to me. And Lord de Grey has been good to us.”
“And your da?” Allan asked, wondering what Marian Fitzwalter might have told her son about Sir Robin.
Little John glared at Allan, but Robert didn’t notice. “He died when I was a babe.”
“That’s what my ma told me about my da too. I don’t remember him.” Soleil nipped at Allan’s hand, demanding attention. Stroking the horse’s neck soothed Allan’s painful memories. His mother had taken a second husband. She and Allan pleaded with God to be rid of the cur. Mayhap it was blasphemy to think such a thing, but he did not care. He’d been to Hell with that bastard. The man got his due, but not until Allan was six summers, twenty days. The man was dead. Hung for thieving. Good riddance to him.
Soleil stirred again, tossing his head. Allan looked towards the stable door wondering at the horse’s disquiet. Mayhap the bay sensed his own dark thoughts. He shook them off, cocked his head towards his large friend. “Little John lost his folks when he was little. We watched out for each other until Sir Stephan and Sir Robin took us in. You shall meet him soon and—”
Little John cleared his throat. “Allan, we must see if Sir Henry and Sir Stephan have need of us. Now.” He grabbed Allan and herded him out of the barn.
“Ouch!” Allan jerked his arm away.
When they were
beyond Robert’s hearing, Little John said, “It is not our place to tell the boy that his father is alive and well.”
Allan shook his head. “I did not say a thing.”
“‘That’s what my ma told me, too,’” Little John mimicked. “What do you think that sounds like?” He threw his arms up. “Robert’s ma doesn’t even know Robin is alive.”
“She will know soon enough.”
A figure in a deep brown cloak retreating around the side of the stable caught Allan’s eye. By the length of the man’s gait and the way he held himself he recognized his master Robin. Marian may learn the truth tonight, he thought. Allan patted the pouch dangling from his belt. “You go ahead,” he told Little John. “I left my dice in the saddle bag.”
Little John snorted. “That’s our Allan. Always prepared for a game.”
*
Robin crept unnoticed to the stable. It was old and the wood had rotted in places. He’d peeked through a broken slat, the sharp smell of hay and horses filling his nostrils. He thought of bursting in, but as much as he cared for Allan and Little John, he wanted his first meeting with Robert to be just the two of them.
Robin closed his eyes. Listening. That voice. It cracked a bit, just on the edge of manhood. He wants to be a squire. Robin grinned broadly. He dismissed the thought. Marian will banish me forever. When Robert turned and he got a clear look, he drew in a breath. The boy’s face—so like Marian. My son.
On his journey north from Winchester, his memories were of Marian. Twelve years had passed. I never stopped loving you. Would she believe him?
When Allan and Little John stepped outside, Robin slipped farther round the stable. He looked towards the manor and frowned. Was this the time to tell Marian, or even let her know that he lived? He’d a lot of ground to cover in the coming months. Civil war had been averted, but the trail of devastation he’d seen between Kingston and Windsor and the sieges there and at Tickhill and Nottingham were a constant reminder that the truce with Count John was tenuous.
“Where’s my pack?” Allan’s voice. He’d gone back into the barn.
“With the others in the tack room,” Robert said. “Let me get it for you.”
For King and Country (Battle Scars Book 2) Page 2