For King and Country (Battle Scars Book 2)

by Charlene Newcomb

  “Why was this man hanged?” Stephan asked.

  “He stole grain.” The man’s voice was coarse, but trembling.

  A heavy feeling settled in Henry’s chest. “Enough to justify a hanging?”

  The man’s dark eyes darted nervously to the manor house up the road. “That is for my lord Weston to decide. You best speak with him.”

  “I intend to.” Henry would have asked the peasant’s name, but imagined he’d find trouble should Edric Weston discover his participation in the burial. “Help us bury this poor man.”

  Stephan gestured to the man. “Find something that we might wrap his body.” He signaled Little John to follow should their helper decide to run. Turning to Henry, he said, “Take Bea to the manor. Little John and I will manage this gruesome task.”

  Henry agreed reluctantly and swung onto his horse. Bea crossed herself as they passed the dead man, but Henry urged her on and kicked his mount to a canter.

  The manor at Westorby had changed little since Henry’s last visit. The timbered hall was as long as Greyton’s, with whitewashed walls and narrow window slits. A stone-built upper chamber block which housed bedchambers above the kitchen was attached on the west side of the hall. Henry remembered a larger window in the solar where he’d spent many hours visiting Alys and playing dice with her father.

  A groomsman trotted across the lush green sward towards Henry and Bea as they reined in. The ornate manor door opened and an older servant stepped out and bowed. “Sir Henry. My lady.”

  “Warin,” Henry said, and then dismounted remembering how fond Alys had been of the man. He had aged these last three years. Silvery hair pulled back neatly revealed deep creases in his face and a web of lines creeping round his eyes and mouth.

  “Welcome to Westorby. I shall let Master Edric know you have arrived,” Warin said.

  The beading on Bea’s rose-colored gown shimmered in the sunlight as Henry lifted her from the saddle. She laid her hand on his arm and they followed Warin inside.

  “Lady Cartholme.” The young woman greeting them tipped her head, though it looked like that simple gesture took every bit of strength she had. Her maid had a tight grip on her arm. Her deep set blue eyes met Henry’s. “We have never met, yet I have heard much about you and know your sorrow. I am Amicia, wife to my lord Weston.”

  Henry bowed, kissed Amicia’s hand. She was heavy with child. Dark circles lined her eyes. She laid her arm protectively across her swollen belly and glanced nervously through an open door on the east side of the hall. “Please join my lord husband in the solar,” she told Henry. “Bea, come sit with me. I’ve not seen you since David’s birth, so you must tell me all. We shall leave the men to their talk of war and business.”

  Sunlight streaming through the southern windows illuminated the annoyance on Bea’s face. Henry recognized the look. Bea had no intention of being shunted off to the ladies’ corner.

  “Thank you, Amicia, but this talk of business is my sister’s concern as well as mine,” Henry said hastily. “She must stay.”

  “I see.” Amicia fidgeted. “It is not usual for my lord husband but—”

  “I am certain he will be fine with it,” Henry said. “Though Bea might first prefer to wipe the dust away after our ride from Greyton.”

  “I should have been more thoughtful. Dear Bea, we’ve soap cakes scented with dried roses. It may not be so nice as fresh flowers, but you will find it refreshing. Alys loved roses.” She looked at Henry, a hint of sadness in her voice, but then turned to the servant. “Show Lady Cartholme upstairs. And have our guests’ bags brought in.”

  “You knew Alys?” Henry asked as Bea padded up the stairs. “It must have been hard to see her suffer. I am glad you were here for her.”

  “I became her father’s ward that winter before Alys passed. She was a good friend, like a sister to me. And you, Henry? The news must have been difficult. So far from home, you had no chance to comfort her.”

  Henry wondered if he might ever forget that day he’d received the news. Alys was better off without him. But what could he say? He may not have loved Alys, but he would have been at her side if he’d not taken the Cross.

  He swallowed hard. “God bless and keep Alys,” he said, praying Amicia would ask nothing more.

  The door to the solar opened. “Lord Weston will see you now,” Warin announced.

  Amicia, still on the arm of the maid, led Henry into the well-appointed room. Desk, game table, several high-backed oaken chairs and on one wall, a large tapestry sewn with majestic falcons. Falcon heads matching the one on the Weston crest over the hearth were carved into the posts of each chair. Thick pillows of fine woven greenish-gold linen padded each seat.

  The young lord of Westorby stood at the large east-facing window and was speaking in a hushed tone to his steward.

  “My lord husband?” Amicia called meekly.

  Edric turned dramatically. “Henry.”

  Edric was three years younger and stood half-a-head shorter than Henry. His ankle-length saffron tunic fit perfectly across broad shoulders. He wore his beard neatly-trimmed and had dull brown hair that hung limp to his shoulders beneath a coif the color of beetroot. He looked nothing like Alys, his face long and narrow. And hard.

  “My lord.” Henry bowed stiffly.

  “Please, sit.” Edric gestured to an empty chair, and then waved Amicia and his steward away. “Drinks,” he called to the gangly servant by the sideboard. Beside him, a younger boy held a gilded tray laden with silver goblets.

  Henry did not remember Alys’ father having so many servants in his household. Edric appeared to be squandering coin, as Stephan had said. But Henry did not want to dwell on Edric’s management of Westorby. He wanted to get past the reason for this visit.

  The wine the servant offered warmed Henry’s throat. “Alys’ death…I am sorry.” He thought of his own mother and his heart clenched. “When Father told me your parents—”

  “Yes, yes.” Edric pressed his lips into a line so thin, they almost disappeared on his face. “I imagine your father was disappointed, seeing Alys’ dowry slip through his fingers.”

  Henry looked at him sharply. “What?”

  “Come, Henry. Let’s not mince words. Your marriage to my sister would have been of benefit to de Grey and Weston, no?” Henry started to respond, but Edric raised his hand. “Do not worry. My younger sister will make you a good match.”

  “I came to offer my sympathies, not to arrange another marriage.”

  Edric studied him with a calculating eye, but Henry didn’t flinch. Henry knew very little about the young lord who’d spent his youth training in Normandy while Henry remained in England, but his antipathy for the man had taken root.

  “The Lady Beatrice of Cartholme,” Warin announced from the door.

  Edric rose, and with a bow, smiled broadly. “Lady Cartholme. Bea. Welcome to my home.” He strode briskly across the room and took Bea’s hand, pressed it to his lips, and then embraced her boldly. “My dear lady, I’ve not seen you in near two years. You are more lovely than I remember.” His voice grew low. “It is a pity I am a married man. You and I would have made—”

  “Lord Weston, you dishonor your lady wife, and must watch your tongue,” Bea said, pulling her hand from his. Henry jumped to his feet, prepared to defend his sister against Edric’s familiarity. “Besides,” she added coldly, “you would never have my hand. My betrothed might take offense.”

  Henry managed not to look surprised. What plot was Bea working?

  Edric frowned. “I had not heard you intended to remarry.”

  “Do you hear everything, my lord?” Bea looked at him pointedly.

  “I have my ways.” He played with the ruby on his finger, making a point to meet Henry’s eyes.

  Henry cringed inwardly, but Bea seemed unperturbed. “Then you will know my betrothed Stephan and his squire are burying the man hung from your gallows.”

  Henry nearly choked. Stephan? With an effort he
stopped his hands from shaking and kept his face unreadable. Surely Bea only meant to protect herself from Weston.

  “That petty thief does not deserve a Christian burial.” Edric scoffed. “I tire of men who break God’s laws and mine. I left him as warning to others who would sin. Do not let it concern you. My land, my business. The king’s taxes drive so many to crime. We can hardly feel safe on our own lands. Surely your father has spoken of this.”

  “We have had no need to hang anyone at Greyton,” Henry said.

  “Nor at Cartholme,” Bea said.

  The disgust in Bea’s voice caught Henry off-guard, but reinforced his dislike for Edric. The man was trouble.

  Edric dismissed their comments, and just as quickly, became the gracious host. “Please, I have forgotten my manners.” He led Bea to a seat, and then snapped his fingers at the servant holding the wine flagon. “Boy, pour a drink for Lady Cartholme.”

  Henry joined Bea by the window where the early afternoon light struck chess pieces on the game table. He picked up a knight and pressed it into Bea’s hand. “Your white knight Stephan is always up for a game.”

  Bea looked at him with innocent blue eyes.

  “And you, Henry?” Edric asked. “Or Bea? A game while we wait? And then, my lady, I shall challenge your betrothed.”

  Voices in the hall signaled Stephan’s arrival, but he was directed upstairs where he could change into a clean tunic. Warin appeared at the solar door a moment later and approached Edric. He bent to Edric’s ear and whispered a message.

  “My lady,” Edric said, the muscles in his jaw tight, his eyes dark, “might you enjoy a game with your brother? My steward and I have unfinished business. Please, I should not be long.”

  Little John released his horse into the pasture and wiped the sweat from his brow. The peasant thief had been buried and Stephan had gone to the manor house. Little John wasn’t certain he wanted to eat at Edric Weston’s table, let alone sleep in his hall. Better to stay in the stable with the horses than with a man who hung people for petty thievery.

  Carting the tack to the stable, Little John spied a rider approaching on a black stallion. He didn’t rein in, but disappeared around the side of the building. Curious, Little John set down the tack. He hugged the wall of the stable and peered around the corner. The grounds were empty but for a shed, its doors open wide revealing ploughs, harnesses, axes, and spades. But there, behind the shed—a swish of a tail. Why would a rider tether his horse there?

  Footsteps scuffed the hard-packed dirt. A man dressed in an exquisite yellow tunic approached from the direction of the house. Lord Weston? Focused on the shed, Weston never noticed Little John. Little John heard the exchange of voices, but couldn’t make out the words. He crept closer, peering at the two men through the sparse branches of a juniper bush. The visitor was tall and dark and wore a cloak the color of a stormy sea. He pulled a scroll from his pouch and handed it to Weston.

  Frowning, Weston unrolled the message and read its contents. He crumpled the parchment in his fist. “I cannot abide deadlines being changed at a moment’s notice. I have waited four days without a word. What am I to think? You tell him—”

  “He cannot control storms at sea that delay shipments, my lord. Be reasonable.”

  Edric punched the wall of the shed, loosing dust into the air. “Perhaps he’d like to know that two of the king’s men are on the road to Boston?”

  The messenger rubbed his temple, more annoyed than concerned. “King’s men?”

  “Yes, and you can lay bets they will be exploring the waterfront in Boston.”

  “We have dealt with them before. It is not your concern, my lord.”

  “But it is. It is one thing to explain why a dozen wagons are encamped in my courtyard, quite another to keep our future plans from prying eyes. I’d suggest you make haste. Warn Maes to keep his men off the road until the knights’ business in Boston is underway. Under no circumstances should the wagons show up here until the day after next.”

  “I will tell him,” the messenger said.

  “You’d better. And from now on, if the ships do not arrive into Boston at the designated time, send word to me. My life does not revolve around Maes’ schedules. I have business to attend to and must arrange to work around that. Henry de Grey’s return from the Holy Land has just made this more complicated. Now get out of my sight.”

  Little John ducked behind the building as Weston stormed away. A moment later, he heard the drum of hoofbeats and saw the messenger ride off.

  Anger flared in Little John. There was no question in his mind. Lord Edric Weston was up to no good.

  “It’s Little John, right?”

  Startled, Little John turned to the feminine voice, his tongue freezing in his mouth. Elle Weston. Saints in heaven, she was beautiful.

  “I saw you eavesdropping,” she said.

  “I was not…” His lie sounded false to his own ears. “I…I’d just walked this way from the stable and wanted to see the other buildings before I went back to the manor house.”

  “Do not worry. I shall not say a word.”

  Little John liked her. “How did you know my name?” He smacked his head and drew to his knees. “Oh God, forgive me, Lady Elle,” he said, lowering his gaze.

  She laughed, her voice like the sound of angels singing. He looked up to the loveliest of smiles.

  “Please, you must call me Elle. May I walk with you? You will join us for the midday meal, won’t you?”

  He rose, clearing his throat. “Of course. Sir Stephan will wonder where I have been.”

  “As will my brother…wonder about me, that is.” She huffed her irritation and started towards the house.

  Little John froze. Weston could be just around the corner. Elle seemed unconcerned, but Little John grew more alert. Sir Henry and Sir Stephan were lucky they’d not be distracted by a pretty girl.

  Elle looked back at him curiously. “Coming?” she asked, and in two strides he was beside her. “I saw you ride in. It’s a blessing you buried that man. Others will see there still are good people in England. My father…he was…”

  As much as he wanted to bring her into his arms, he knew that wasn’t proper. “I am sorry you lost your sister and parents.”

  “Thank you.” Her mouth tightened, the only sign he’d seen of any vulnerability.

  He struggled to find something else to say as they walked past the stable. He needed to learn more about whatever Weston was plotting. Mayhap Elle would feel free to speak about him. “Who was your brother talking to?”

  She took a breath, her gaze flicking to the house and then back to Little John. “I do not know his name, but he is no stranger here. Edric meets him privately and they speak in low whispers. It is no coincidence guarded wagons arrive by day’s end by way of Boston. When they depart, they travel west on the Salter’s Way.”

  If she hadn’t overheard her brother’s conversations with the rider on the black stallion, she would only know that if she’d followed the wagons. It made sense. Heavily-laden wagons might not travel more than fifteen miles a day, so they’d lay up for the night and move on. Little John was certain these would be the same wagons stopping at Greyton.

  Drawing closer to her, he said, “And you accuse me of spying?”

  He saw a mischievous grin on her face, but his gaze switched to the figure striding towards them across the lush green on the side of the house. Edric Weston did not look happy.

  “Just one more question,” Little John said before Edric came too close. “Did you look at the cargo?”

  In one fluid movement, Elle waved to acknowledge her brother, but swept round to point to the stallions in the pasture. She leaned close to Little John. “The wagons are well guarded.”

  Whether it was the smell of Elle’s hair or the shipment of weapons Lord Weston wanted to keep away from prying eyes, Little John wasn’t sure, but his heart pounded so loud he was certain she might hear.

  “Might we speak later?”
he asked.

  Elle smiled. “I would like that.” She held her hand out.

  Little John brought it to his lips. “My lady.”

  *

  Elle admired Little John for not deserting her as Edric drew up to them.

  “Brother.” She made a point of emphasizing how much taller Little John was as she looked between the two men. “Have you met Sir Stephan’s squire?”

  “I have not,” Edric said coldly.

  Little John bowed. “My lord.”

  Edric barely tipped his head, focusing on Elle. “What are you doing with this squire?”

  Elle rolled her eyes at the tone of his voice. “We were comparing the temperament of bays and black stallions. John is quite the horseman.”

  “You should be in the house with our guests.” Edric grunted, shook his head, sending a disapproving look at her clothing. “You are not even properly dressed to meet Sir Henry. And I do hope you find something more interesting to talk of with Greyton’s heir. You must be nice to him. Impress him.”

  “I shall be nice to whomever I choose.”

  “You will be nice to Henry or I will throw you out of this house.”

  Little John stepped forward, his shadow engulfing Edric. “My lord, is this how you speak to—”

  Elle held her hand up, hoping Little John would say nothing more to raise Edric’s ire. She returned her brother’s glare. “I can be nice to Sir Henry, but I do not have to like him.”

  “True.” Edric chuckled. “Many men and women marry without that caveat.”

  “Marry— What? He was betrothed to Alys. I will not marry him.”

  “You will do as I say.” Edric turned on his heels and strode into the house.

  *

  Henry sat back, gulped down some wine, and stared at the chess board.

  “You are done for,” Amicia said from her seat on the window splay.

  Bea clapped her hands. “Another win for me.”

  “Well done,” Edric said.

  The voice startled Henry. He’d been intent on the game and had not heard Edric return.