For King and Country (Battle Scars Book 2)

by Charlene Newcomb

  “She does.” Henry glanced up as three men wandered into the room. They sat near the hearth. Henry tapped the table, watching them, but they paid no mind to the young couple. He met Elle’s sparkling brown eyes. “She also knows your brother will blackmail me if we do not marry.”

  Elle didn’t appear surprised by Edric’s threat. “He would tell of your liaison with Stephan. What are we to do?”

  “We shall bide our time. Delay the marriage until the king returns.”

  Elle pursed her lips, steeled herself straight in the chair. “What if King Richard does not return?”

  “Then Stephan and I will be traitors.” He’d tried not to think of that possibility. What if illness befell the king? Or an assassin’s sword took his life? They’d already witnessed Count John’s treachery, fought his mercenaries. Philip of France and dozens of others had their reasons to bring Richard down. And if he fell—if Henry ended up on the wrong side in this struggle—everything he knew could be gone. But he would still have Stephan.

  “I shall pray it will not come to that,” Elle said.

  Henry feared they’d need more than prayers. “Your brother appears to have spies everywhere. We must try hard to enjoy each other’s company.”

  Elle laughed, her nose crinkling. “That will be a most difficult thing.” She leaned forward. “But I told Edric I had no intention of marrying you.”

  Henry took her hand. “With that in mind, we might warm to each other slowly.” From the corner of his eye he noticed the barkeeper smiling, nodding at him approvingly.

  “You are a good, noble, and thoughtful gentleman.” Elle gently extricated her hand from his. Henry feigned disappointment as she said, “I might find myself warming to you.”

  They turned at the sound of boots on the stairs. Elle’s cheeks colored when she saw Little John. Henry had never seen her blush. There definitely was something brewing between the two younger folks and he was glad for them. Mayhap someone could be happy.

  “We must tell Little John of our plan.” Henry gestured for Little John to sit. “He is a man I would trust with my life. You would do well to have a friend like him, or more.”

  Elle blushed a deeper shade of red, smiling up at Little John as he swung his long legs over the bench. Henry repeated the tale of Edric’s threat. “I must warn both of you to be cautious,” he added. “Little John may be the chivalrous knight in public, but Bea would not have one of her ladies alone in the company of a man, even one so honorable as Stephan’s squire. And if Edric gets wind of it…”

  Elle drew a deep breath. “He would find a way to discredit John and might suspect our intentions towards this marriage.”

  “Trust no one but our small circle. We do not know how wide your brother’s influence and silver spreads. This will not be easy, but God willing, it will be done within a month or two.”

  “En sha-Allah,” Elle said.

  Henry looked between his two young friends, surprised. “Little John is teaching you Arabic?”

  A grin lit Elle’s face. “I can say please, thank you, and saddle my horse. It may not be useful in Lincolnshire, but mayhap one day John will be the knight on pilgrimage.” She gazed pointedly at Little John. “I will accompany you to the Holy Land.”

  Henry smiled, but had to repress a shudder. Memories of the war were as clear as if he’d stepped off the plains of Ramla only yesterday. Was it no wonder he could not put those thoughts behind him knowing what they might face here in England?

  A church bell pealed Vespers when Henry and Little John rendezvoused with Stephan. The three men scoured Boston’s windy streets to look for the war supplies bound for Nottingham Castle. Shutters rattled and swinging signs creaked under leaden gray skies. As evening fell, the roads emptied and the boisterous sounds of men drinking erupted from tavern after tavern.

  Emerging onto yet another side street, Henry peered right, and then left. Every road near the quay looked the same, every storehouse like the next.

  “It is strange.” In the shadows, Stephan tossed his hood back. “I left Greyton a happy man, found myself betrothed to allow your sister to stave off Weston’s attentions, and now I am jilted, when in truth, I was not attached to begin with.”

  Little John smiled, but Henry was nothing but grim. Thunder echoed in the distance to match his mood.

  “It’s a good thing Bea knows,” Stephan added. “She will rumble like a storm for a while.” He patted Henry’s arm. “Give her time.”

  Henry appreciated Stephan’s attempt to distract his thoughts of his family splintering like an old oak. He wasn’t certain time would make any difference, but on chance that it did, Bea would be someone he could trust and talk with, when no one else would know.

  Turning the next corner, Henry held the others back. A guard hovered at the end of the block. “Just one,” he whispered. The man paraded back and forth. Long dagger, but no sword, no mail. Wordlessly, Henry pointed to a narrow passage across the road, traced a line in the air to indicate Stephan and Little John could move in from the rear of the timber-framed building.

  Pretending to be lost and in his cups, Henry staggered towards the guard. Unexpectedly, the man paced around the corner. Henry slipped a dagger from his belt. He crept up behind him, paused. The guy was taking a piss. Henry let him tuck himself back into his hose and then moved quickly, pressing the blade against the thin brown cloth of the man’s clothes.

  “Only left you on duty, have they?” Henry asked, his voice low and harsh. There were times when he didn’t recognize himself. His hands were sweating, but where there could have been fear he felt a surge of confidence.

  The man started to turn. Henry shoved his face into the side of the building. He was big, with broad shoulders and muscles that rippled through his shabby, too-tight tunic. “Answer me.” Henry dug the tip of his blade into the man’s back to make a point.

  “No one else.” The man squirmed in Henry’s arms, spat a curse.

  Henry heard the threads of cloth splitting. The man’s heavy breaths grew ragged and he stopped struggling.

  “What is on the other side of these walls?” When the guard didn’t answer, Henry pressed his hand to the man’s neck. “I fought Saladin’s infidels in the Holy Land. I’ve cut many a throat and severed heads from more bodies than you have fingers and toes. Do not think I won’t leave you here bloodied and dying.”

  “The man who pays me does not expect me to ask questions about his business.”

  “Do you need any help?” Stephan called, coming up behind Henry.

  “This man was about to tell me what he’s guarding.” Henry’s breath brushed his captive’s ear. “Weren’t you?”

  “I swear I do not know what they keep here.”

  “Open the door and let’s check.”

  “I do not have a key.” The guard sounded desperate and uttered a strangled cry. “Honest, sir, I’ve only seen them bringing their goods here from the boats.”

  Henry frowned. They’d not brought anything to pick a lock. “Is there another way in?” he called to Little John as he rounded the side of the building.

  “A loft door in the back. Not locked. If you heft me up, I can have a look inside.”

  Henry wrenched the guard away from the wall. “I bet they do not pay you enough to have a blade at your back.”

  The man rubbed his neck. His hand drifted to the rip in his tunic and he fingered the hole. He studied Henry’s face. “A man must put food on the table. I work for a wool merchant, but the priest said we need to win the war against the infidels in the Holy Land and pay the Saladin tithe. It’s more pennies than I can spare so I took on this job at night. Didn’t think there’d be trouble.”

  Henry cringed. Damn the king’s taxes.

  Recognition lit the guard’s eyes. “You’re young Master Henry.” He lowered his head. “I am Drew, my lord. I work for Master Odo. I remember you visiting the shop before you’d left on pilgrimage.”

  Twice the guilt washed through Henry. “F
orgive me, Drew.” He turned the blade in his hand, relieved Drew hadn’t struggled. Damn Count John. Damn the king’s war. How easily friends might turn into foes. Mayhap he was too trusting, but he said, “Help me and there’s a coin in it for you.”

  At the back of the storehouse, Drew planted his feet and pressed his hands against the wall. Little John placed one muddied boot on his thigh and then climbed atop his shoulders. With a few inches on Henry, Stephan went next. Drew grunted beneath the extra weight and grew red with effort. “Steady,” Little John called as Stephan scaled their man-made ladder. He tugged at the loft door. It opened with a creak and he pulled himself inside. By the time Stephan found his breath, Henry was clawing at the wall. Stephan reached down to help him up.

  Within minutes their eyes adjusted to the darkness. Stacked barrels the color of a sandy beach filled one side of the room. Crates piled two to three high lined another wall. They scrambled downstairs and Stephan wasted no time prying off the lid of one barrel. It groaned under the pressure of his long blade, but gave way. He pushed the lid aside. Both knights flinched at the smell—sulfur and pitch. Stephan dipped the tip of his finger into the barrel. Sticky, thick, like honey. “Greek fire.”

  Henry crept towards the front of the building. He found three wagons packed, ready to take to the road. “This must be the cargo Edric’s messenger was sent to hold,” he said. “I think we have seen enough.”

  A tapping sounded on the wall. Little John’s signal. “Someone is coming,” Henry whispered.

  Stephan and Henry scrambled up the loft ladder. A key tussled with the lock. They heard a muffled curse and then a familiar voice. “Captain Fitz, might I help with the door?” It was Drew. Henry hoped he’d read the man right.

  Fitz muttered a reply and the lock jiggled again. Stephan jumped to the ground. Henry slid out on his stomach, legs over the side dangling until he released his grip. He hit the dirt hard, biting back the urge to curse when he felt his ankle buckle.

  Stephan pointed up. The door of the loft swung wide. Fitz would surely notice.

  Henry sighed, thinking Robin could loose an arrow with a rope attached, run it right through the loop of the door handle, pull it closed, quick and easy. Without Robin, they’d need to form their man-made ladder again. But being one man short, Henry wasn’t sure he could reach the bottom edge of door.

  Seeing no other option, Henry gestured to Little John. The young squire was grinning, twisting his quarterstaff in his hand. He tossed it to Henry as voices from the front of the building grew louder. Drunk, Fitz stubbornly tried to work the lock. Stephan climbed atop Little John’s shoulders. Henry passed him the staff and he closed the door with one smooth movement. The key in the lock turned at the same instant and they heard the main door creak open.

  Stephan tossed the staff to Henry and jumped down. Fitz was mumbling as Drew helped him to a pallet, his voice patient and parent-like. It almost made Henry forget the growing tightness of his boot. He could feel his ankle swelling beneath the leather.

  “What are you doing here?” a gravelly voice snarled from the corner of the building.

  Listening to Fitz’s gripes, none of them had heard the man approach. Had Drew lied about being the only one on duty?

  The guard unsheathed his sword and took a step towards Stephan.

  “It was open,” Stephan said, pointing at the loft door. “We closed it to keep others from prying.”

  “You did not climb in yourselves and steal anything?”

  Stephan patted himself down and spread his hands. “Do you see that we tossed anything down?”

  The guard shifted. Short and stocky, his chest was broad. He frowned, the dim light revealing a jagged scar stretching from lip to ear. “Who hired you?”

  “Fitz,” Stephan said, remembering the captain’s name.

  “Did he?”

  Henry cringed as the man’s voice grew louder. He watched him thinking. One of him, three of them.

  The guard glanced back at the sound of footsteps scuffling towards them. He raised his blade. “Didn’t know Fitz did the hiring around here,” he said and charged.

  Stephan whipped his sword from its scabbard. The guard sliced the air by his head, but Stephan blocked the blow and parried, meeting cut for cut.

  A helmeted, mail-clad man shot around the corner, blade drawn. Howling, Little John launched himself from the shadows. He brought his sword down in a wide arc, plowing his attacker into the ground.

  With Little John’s staff in his hands, Henry stepped forward to face a third attacker. Pain shot up his leg. His ankle gave way. Somehow, he caught the balding, bushy-bearded guard full on the face, but there was no power behind his swing and he knew it. The man grabbed the knobbed end of the staff and swung Henry round. Henry flew forward landing with a hard thud on his stomach. The air vanished from his lungs. A heavy boot pressed into his back. Fisting a handful of Henry’s hair, the would-be killer yanked Henry’s head back. Cannot breathe. Stars filled his eyes. The tip of a blade stung his neck. But suddenly, the clank of swords ceased, and the whoosh of a long dagger shattered the quiet. Gasping, Henry’s attacker loosed his grip and keeled over, the hilt of a blade protruding from his back.

  Choking on ragged breaths, Henry stared at the dead man and then pushed himself slowly to his feet. Leaving the bodies here was not an option. “The river?” he said.

  “They’ll wash up on the mud flats,” Stephan said. “We need them to disappear permanently.”

  Fitz’s snores punctured the air. Drew reappeared and Stephan collared him, shoving him up against the wall. His dagger bit into Drew’s neck. “I thought you said you were the only guard.”

  Trembling, Drew looked past Stephan’s shoulder at the dead men. “I am, my lord. I swear. They are from Fitz’s crew.”

  Henry shifted from one foot to the other, grimacing as pain shot through his ankle. “He shall be three short on the morrow.”

  “Won’t be any different from any other day,” Drew said. “Drunks, tavern fights, gambling mishaps—some hear of better wages and hire out. Someone always turns up missing.” Stephan lowered his blade and Drew sucked in a rattling breath. “There are empty barrels inside.”

  “Get them,” Henry said, gesturing to Little John to help.

  Within minutes, the dead men were stuffed into two barrels. “Help Drew hide these. Clean up the blood, then stay awhile,” Henry told Little John. “See what else you might learn. Stephan and I will explore the docks.”

  Henry dug into his pouch. He slapped a denier into Drew’s hand. “There will be more coin if you keep an eye on things here. Tell no one. And don’t flaunt the extra pennies in your pocket.”

  Starting back towards the riverfront Henry limped, favoring his right leg. He was glad when Stephan grabbed him at the waist and helped him along.

  Pungent smells of marsh, fish, and ripe vegetation had settled on the damp evening air. Boats listed on the mud flats as the tide came in.

  “Why don’t I take you back to the inn,” Stephan said.

  Henry realized he’d been gritting his teeth and holding his breath. His ankle twinged every time he set too much weight on it. “Are you saying I wouldn’t be much good to you in a fight?”

  “Would you like me to lie to you?” Stephan teased. “You must rest that foot. Good as new by morning. I shall visit a tavern or two, ply the locals with drink. My companions are more likely to loose their tongues if I am not sitting with the son of a king’s baron.”

  “One who wanted you out of his sight earlier in the day at that. Best we keep up that ruse.”

  “Besides, would Lord de Grey cavort with the riffraff at the docks?”

  “I am not my father. And I have been to the Holy Land cavorting with men of every class.”

  “But you are home again and there are rules of behavior for men like you.”

  “And you,” Henry insisted, knowing he was not winning this argument. In truth, he simply desired to be at Stephan’s side every moment
possible.

  “I am a hearth knight.” Stephan smiled, guiding Henry into the shadows. He turned him in his arms and pushed him against a wall. “Low paid. Easily dissatisfied.” His voice grew dark and seductive. His breath was hot on Henry’s cheek. “Especially when I must mind the likes of a lowly noble like you. If there is silver to be made, think of the opportunities for men like me.”

  Henry cupped Stephan’s face in his hands. “I’ve never kissed a mercenary.”

  A commotion at the corner made them step apart. A drunk stumbled, falling headlong into the street. “Up, you sodden oaf,” one of his two companions grunted. The other leaned down to shake his friend.

  The man groaned, struggling to rise. “The ground is spinnin’.”

  “Better tonight than come dawn,” his friend said. He ran his hand under the other’s arm and pulled him to his feet. “I have no mind to do your work when the boats come in.”

  When the men disappeared up the road Henry said, “Mayhap those two just gave us the information you seek. Don’t go to the tavern. Stay with me at the inn.”

  Stephan slid his hand behind Henry’s neck. “I thought you’d want to hear I’d been hired by a man working for Count John. Don’t you want to kiss a mercenary?”

  Henry licked his lips. “I had something more in mind.”

  “You tempt me, my lord.” Stephan quirked his brow.

  Henry leaned in. Their mouths collided. Stephan ran his hands through Henry’s hair, along his shoulder, down his arm. Henry moaned, tugging Stephan closer. His groin stirred. A pleasurable feeling raced from his toes to his head. “The taverns can wait.”

  In their room they coupled quietly. Touches sweet to rough, whispered words of love and longing. Time too short, always too short and filled with ragged breaths and drumming hearts that carried the first painful moments of joining to unimaginable pleasure. They suppressed urges to cry out when climax came and left them both spent. Holding each other, they let the silence engulf them until Stephan got up. He washed and dressed, planted one more kiss on Henry’s forehead, and wandered back into the night.