“It takes years of training before a man is knighted.” Robin nodded toward Allan. “Being a squire. Serving a knight and his lord. Proving you are worthy.”
“This lord you served must not have known of your troublemaking here,” Ailric teased.
Robin laughed. “It would not surprise him to learn I was no saint.”
“How did you meet the king?” David asked.
“I must thank God for that. He led me to one kind person, someone who had faith in me.” Everyone leaned closer not wanting to miss a word. “I saved a lady and her maid from outlaws. She was so impressed, she brought me to her castle, fed and clothed me. She bade me stay a while and gave me a magnificent stallion.”
Allan leaned back, grinning, palms planted on the floor. He remembered Robin mentioning the story, but he’d never heard the details.
“You cannot imagine the people I have met, the places I have seen.”
“And the men you have killed.” William studied Robin over the rim of his mug.
“That is war.” Robin stared into his drink picturing fallen bodies from England to Outremer. “Do you think I do not remember the sounds of steel piercing flesh? The blood. Friends I have lost?” He gulped down his ale. His audience was wide-eyed and the room had grown quiet. Robin laid a hand on Thomas’ shoulder. “But when you believe in something, whether as best carpenter in the shire—”
“—or a knight?” William asked.
Robin nodded. “You do what you must. I have a passion to serve my king and my country.”
“Men far and wide respect Sir Robin. The king listens to his counsel,” Allan said. “He is a great swordsman, and no English knight is as skilled with bow.”
William eyed the weapon leaning against the wall. “Looks smaller than ones I make.”
“In the Holy Land, the Saracen cavalry used a smaller recurve bow to some effect against us in the charge. Now let me tell you, a thousand arrows whistling past, punching shields, striking armor—that sight sent many of us to our knees every night.”
“But the bow?” someone shouted from the doorway.
“I had one specially made to be like the Saracen’s. The bowyer thought I was mad. But if you can take down an enemy at a hundred yards, that is one less to face ere he’s upon you.”
Intrigued, mayhap fearful, the listeners were dumbstruck until Linota broke the quiet. “Tell us about the lady you rescued.”
Allan grinned. “It was Queen Eleanor.”
“Wasn’t she locked away by the old king?” William asked.
“At Sarum,” Robin said, “but King Henry had loosed his grip on her. He’d let the queen ride out with guards. And that day, they were set upon by six outlaws. One of the queen’s men went down. I nocked my bow. Her second guard died as I charged towards them—”
“So like you to find trouble,” William said.
“—loosing one arrow, then a second,” Robin continued, ignoring his father’s interruption. “Killed two of them outright. The others galloped hard away leading Queen Eleanor and her maid’s horses. I’d ridden twenty miles that day. My horse was spent. I knew I’d not catch them, so I leaped onto one of the dead men’s horses and went after them.”
David’s jaw dropped to his chest. “You killed them all?”
“‘Let them go,’ I shouted. ‘Save my lady!’ the queen’s maid cried. You will not believe what happened next,” Robin said.
His audience looked awed, intrigued. “What?”
“Tell us!”
Robin bent low, his voice barely a whisper. “Queen Eleanor had a dagger hidden up her sleeve.”
“She did not!” Ailric said.
“She did,” Robin said, jerking upright. “She’s a good aim. Cantering down the road, she flung that blade. Struck one outlaw straight in the back. Pitched right off his horse he did. I loosed another arrow and downed a fourth man. Those bastards knew they’d lost their prize. They let go of the horses’ reins and we never saw them again.”
The villagers clapped loud and long. Linota poured Robin another mug of ale.
“A few weeks later, I crossed the Narrow Sea with a letter from the queen insisting her son place me in his mesnie.”
“King Richard’s squire,” Thomas gushed.
“I fought at his side against old King Henry. Fought the French and the rebel barons. He knighted me two years later. When he took the Cross, I knew I must follow.”
William asked, “And now that he is dead?”
The villagers fell quiet at this. Anger and fear filled their faces.
“Do not believe these rumors,” Robin said. “Queen Eleanor’s envoys have seen King Richard.”
William remained skeptical. “So they say.”
“Why would the justiciars spout untruths?” Robin wanted to claim Count John’s supporters twisted the minds of the people, but words like that could be dangerous. “I tell you now, Richard is alive. He will return to England soon.”
William scoffed. “You mean he shall go back to his precious lands across the sea.”
Ailric added, “We all know King Richard spent more time on his holy crusade than he has spent here amongst his people.”
“Count John knows us better,” William said to nods all around.
Incensed, Robin jumped to his feet. “Count John is not your king.” His friends’ words might have some truths, but he could not let them pass. “You owe your allegiance to Richard. And best you remember that.”
Linota touched his sleeve. “Calm, Robin.”
“I wish you could know the king as I do,” he said calmly, though the veins in his neck felt hot, ready to burst. He wanted to call the king’s brother a traitor, but that would be foolhardy, even among these people he’d known as friends. But did he truly know them now? “King Richard is a good man. A great warrior. There is no one I respect more. He can be arrogant. And cruel. But he has a passion for his men and for his people that knows no bounds.”
“Then why is it said he would sell London to the highest bidder to raise silver for his wars?” William asked.
Robin looked stunned. “Have you been to London?” He slapped his knee. “Most would pay good coin just to get away from the town.”
Dead quiet blanketed the room. William leaned forward in his chair and planted his face in his hands. A muffled snicker escaped from his lips and his shoulders shook. With a jerk, he threw back his head and laughed.
Smiles spilled across the others’ faces. They joined in the laughter and toasted to King Richard’s health. Later, after everyone had departed and Thomas and David were trundled off to their beds, Robin sat in Linota’s chair. “Father,” he asked, “what can you tell me about that locked storehouse?”
“I work under orders from a man named Murdac in Nottingham.”
Robin rubbed his brow. Ralf Murdac. A constable at the castle there. “What is Murdac storing here? Can you unlock the door for me?”
William took a swig from his ale. “I do not have a key. But come to my shop in the morning. I will show you what I make for him.” He looked up at the loft where the young boys lay. “I have no choice.”
Robin placed a hand on his father’s knee. “I understand. But tell me, do you know who has the key?”
“The constables in Nottingham. The men who come by to inspect now and again,” William said. “And Lord Edward de Grey.”
In the barn loft next to the carpenter’s house, Robin opened his eyes and stretched in the soft, sweet-smelling hay. Allan still slept soundly near him. The barn door creaked. Footsteps crunched on the gravel and dirt beneath him, and the ladder groaned as someone scrambled up the rungs.
A head of light brown hair peeked over the edge. A broad smile lit the young face. “Good morning, Robin.”
Robin tossed the boy a salute. “Thomas.”
“Did you intend to marry my mama?” Thomas asked.
Sitting up, Robin said, “A gentleman does not discuss such things. I shall leave it up to your ma to tell you that
story when you are old enough to understand.”
“I am near nine summers,” Thomas said. When Robin shrugged, he added, “Mama is putting food on the table.”
Allan rolled over. A cock crowed out in the yard and a barn owl hooted. “It’s barely light,” he complained.
“There’s a storm coming in. Clouds as black as your stallion, squire Allan,” Thomas said.
“Just call me Allan.”
“Yes, sir.”
Robin smiled.
“I am not a ‘sir.’ Allan. That’s all.”
“Not a ‘sir’ yet.” Robin poked Allan in the ribs. A huge rush of wind blew through the barn, catching the door and slamming it shut. “Let’s get to the house before the sky opens.”
Linota had set out honey and bread warm from the village bakehouse. Robin greeted his father and breathed in the fragrance as Linota came in carrying a basket of eggs. “Stay for the midday meal and I shall have you taste the best poached eggs from here to Lincoln.”
Robin’s stomach growled. “I bet they’d be as good as what Queen Eleanor’s cooks serve at Winchester.”
“Only as good as?” Linota chuckled.
“Better,” Allan said with a mouth stuffed with a chunk of bread.
“See what you missed?” William quipped. Linota bent down and kissed his cheek. William’s hand slid around her broad middle and he held her close. She thwacked her husband playfully and pulled away.
Robin remained quiet as he ate. He was glad to see life had been good to Linota. She and his father had a genuine affection for each other. He watched them with envy in his eyes. That was all he’d ever wanted with Marian. He imagined the life he might have had, the father he could have been to Robert. He still wanted that. But how could he reconcile that with his loyalty to the king?
When they’d finished every crumb and washed them down with ale, he and Allan followed his father to the workshop. William set the younger boys to task, but Robin wasn’t about to be left out. He helped them carry in wood for William to cut and plane.
“What are you building?” Robin asked.
William pointed at a stack the boys were hauling to a pile outside. “Eight of these, six of the long beams, two fat shorter cross-pieces. Wheels too.” His tone suggested his suspicions. He might not have the option to decline the work, but this was a job like any other and he showed off his work proudly. “We pile them up until the constable’s man with the key comes by. Then we move them to the storehouse.”
A feeling of dread struck Robin. “You’ve never seen how the pieces are put together?”
William shook his head. “And I don’t ask.”
“Stone throwers,” Allan said.
“I think you’re right, Allan,” Robin said. His brothers stopped their work to listen. “These are siege weapons, also called mangonels. In the Holy Land we saw them built, used, taken apart, and moved to rebuild again.” He grabbed a scrap of wood the size of his finger from William’s pile and smoothed the dirt at his feet. Drawing a rough picture, he explained how a crew would load boulders in the cup of a sling, stretch it back, and then loose it at a castle wall. He chose not to mention the damage at Windsor and Wallingford he had seen a few weeks earlier.
“In Acre,” Allan added, “there were more stone throwers than you have fingers. They’d pound day and night, boulders crashing into the city walls. The noise weren’t like anything I had ever heard. Dirt and rock flying into the air. When the walls cracked…it was a sound you’d never forget, right, Master Robin? The stone would slide into the ditch with a roar. And the dust—a huge cloud. Had to wait ’til it settled to see how much of the wall had come down.”
The boys looked in awe at Allan. His story sounded incredible, but Robin could see they believed every word. And William knew it to be true. His parents had survived the years when King Stephen and the Empress Matilda fought for the crown. William had been no more than David and Thomas’ age during that time known as the Anarchy, but he’d heard the stories.
William cleared his throat. He stared at Robin’s crude drawing. “No castles walls to bring down at Greyton.”
Thomas and David looked disappointed they’d not see the stone throwers in action. Robin hesitated. His father might discourage his talk, but it was always better to know the truth and be prepared for what might come. Robin stared past William’s shoulder at cottages, fields of beans and corn, the widow’s overgrown rose garden. His throat tightened. “But John’s army may ravage the land. Destroy everything to fortify their castles. I have seen it near Windsor.”
William scowled. “Was king’s men who took our grain when they set siege against Lincoln just two years back. John’s men or Richard’s. Won’t matter. Let’s hear no more of that talk now.” He scuffed his boot in the dirt, erasing Robin’s sketch. Looking pointedly at Thomas and David, he said, “You don’t go drawing that or talking about these stone throwers with your friends, do you hear? And do not tell your mother. I do not want to frighten her.”
It had only been since his return to England that Robin had learned about the actions against Lincoln Castle by the king’s former chancellor William Longchamp. Robin knew warfare, and knew that siege would have have affected villages thirty miles in every direction, but his mind had been too much on Count John’s current activities, and on Marian. It sickened him to think of what might come. “Father, I—” He clenched his fist, scrubbed it through his hair. “You must be ready as best you can.”
“Go. I shall take care of my own.”
Robin tried not to look too glum for the boys’ sake. Grain confiscated. People left to starve. What would happen if Count John defied the king and a full-scale war broke out? “I worry for you and Linota. Just tell me you’ve hidden stores to draw on should the need arise.”
William’s eyes flicked to the boys, and then he gave Robin a subtle nod.
“Do you know when the weapons will be moved from the storehouse?” Robin asked, digging for more information to share with the queen.
“I’ve no idea. Mayhap Lord de Grey will know.”
The other man with the key. God’s blood, Robin thought. It appeared Henry’s father might be closely aligned with Count John’s supporters.
“Everyone from Grantham to Lincoln must know you are here,” William said. “If Count John’s men discover I have been talking to a king’s man…” He swallowed hard, shook his head. “You and your stories.”
Robin looked from his father to his brothers and then back again. “Exactly. If they ask, tell them I am a boastful son, one who will follow the silver and the ale. But you know my true loyalty.”
Robin unsheathed his sword. “My men and I pledge ourselves to each other, to the king, and to God. Are we together?” Gripping the hilt, he pointed the tip of the blade towards the ground. Allan immediately laid his hand atop Robin’s. Robin nodded to his brothers. With unswerving resolve and a strength that surprised Robin, they firmly grasped Allan’s hands.
William met Robin’s eyes. There was a hint of worry in them, but his fingers curled around the boys’ hands. “God keep us all.”
Henry woke from a deep sleep, surprised the usual sounds of a busy manor house had not disturbed him. It was near midmorning when he wandered downstairs and through the deserted hall. His father’s ledgers sat untouched and neatly stacked on the desk, quill and ink ready. The windows were shuttered. Neither fire nor candles had been lit and the room looked gloomy, though a whiff of dried roses indicated the servants had placed fresh rushes on the floor.
When he walked into the kitchen Mary turned from the fire where herb-scented broth bubbled in a kettle. “Good morrow, Master Henry.” Lines of concern webbed the skin around her brown eyes. Food on a tray on her worktable had been picked over, but barely. A goblet there stood empty. “Mayhap you’ll get your father to eat more, pardon me speaking my mind. The Lady Bea and I have tried…tried so hard.”
Henry nodded grimly. “He’s still abed?” he asked, remembering the door to hi
s father’s bedchamber had been closed when he’d passed it on the landing.
“Aye. Hugh said he was not well.”
Edward had consumed far too much wine the evening before. No wonder he could not rise.
“Lady Bea has taken young Master David outside to enjoy the morning air and to keep the house quiet so your father might sleep,” Mary added. “It is a fine day, but we may have rain later. Hugh said his bones are achin’.”
Henry thought of asking Stephan’s whereabouts, for Mary would surely know, but she also might think his interest too keen. He grabbed some dried fruit and a piece of cheese from the table to break his fast. Chewing on a chunk of apple, he said, “I shall look in on Father before we leave for Ringsthorpe.”
“He’ll dispense orders from the bed, flat on his back.” Mary grinned.
“He would,” Henry agreed with a smile. But would he have another outburst about Count John, or God forbid, bring up marriage again?
Henry took the stairs slowly. What would his father say when he refused to marry? A hundred, no, a thousand times, he’d had this conversation with himself and with Stephan. Still, he felt his tongue grow thick and his mind go numb when he saw himself facing his father, trying to explain without revealing his devotion to Stephan. Short of becoming a priest or joining the Knights Templar or Hospitallers, he could think of no other logical reason for his stance. Both were out of the question—taking a vow of chastity certainly had no appeal. And he didn’t want to lie outright, only withhold the truth. He worried for his father’s health. The drinking, politics, and Mother’s death had taken their toll. Edward had suffered such heartache. Discovering Henry loved Stephan might break him. Kill him. Father must not know.
*
Stephan watched the groom and Robert exercise Lord de Grey’s horse, but noted Bea’s approach from the corner of his eye and felt his muscles tense. Heart pounding, he concentrated on Robert’s commands. He had not purposefully avoided her company since Henry’s nightmare, but what had Bea seen when she walked in while he was calming Henry?
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