For King and Country (Battle Scars Book 2)

by Charlene Newcomb

  Henry tried to sleep. He needed a clear head when he spoke to Odo in a few hours. But thoughts of civil war, of sending Stephan back to Queen Eleanor and then into the enemy camp overwhelmed him. It had begun to rain; a steady patter struck the shutters. Just like the drums pounding in his ears. Sitting up, he drew his knees to his chest. Trust no one. Who knew how deep the conspiracies ran?

  Little John crept into the room, surprised to find Henry awake. “Sir Stephan has attracted a crowd at the tavern with his war stories.”

  That had been the plan, but it did not set Henry’s mind at ease. “Did you learn anything more from Drew?”

  Little John shed his clothes and climbed into the other bed in the cramped room. “His wife expects their fourth child any day.”

  Another mouth to feed. Had it been a bad idea to ask Drew to spy for him? If anything happened to the man… Dear God. Bea and Elle. Henry planted his face in his hands. Were they safe here?

  “Get some sleep,” he told Little John. “In the morn, pack your bags and saddle the ladies’ horses and your own. Say nothing to my sister except that she should not leave the inn until I return. After I’ve spoken to Bea, you will be off with them to Cartholme. Bea may not be good company, but you will have more time to speak with Elle.”

  Little John blushed. He cleared his throat. “If the Lady Bea allows it.”

  “She will. I’ll make sure of that.”

  Henry let his eyes close when Little John began to snore. It wasn’t long before the door creaked open. Stephan came in and hung his swordbelt. He stripped off boots, tunic, and hose and crawled into the bed. Henry’s skin heated at his touch.

  “Are you asleep?” Stephan asked.

  Henry twisted and straddled Stephan. He caught Stephan’s wrists, pressing them to either side of his head. He smelled the ale on Stephan’s breath, but it was his lover’s kisses that made his head swim. Rolling Stephan onto his side, Henry spooned his body and drifted off to sleep, the fire in his heart brushing every dark thought away.

  Before Bea rose, Henry met with Odo to arrange for his sons to accompany the ladies and Little John to Cartholme. Bea and Elle were breaking the fast at the long dining trestle when he returned to the inn. The room was empty save for one man dressed in black and sitting closer than Henry would have preferred.

  “Where have you been?” Bea asked. Her cheeks flushed with anger, the red in them matching the ruby beads sewn into her dress. “Half the morning is gone and Odo will be waiting for us.”

  “I tried to calm Bea knowing you would be along. She has been telling me about the shop,” Elle said.

  Henry suspected the morning delay had little to do with Bea’s temperament, but she would be even more disgruntled when he told her she would not be meeting with Odo. Besides, there was little he could do or say at this moment about Stephan. He pulled a stool up to the trestle and grimaced, his ankle still tender.

  “Have you injured yourself?” Bea asked with a sincerity that surprised him.

  “It is nothing.” He glanced at the man across the room and lowered his voice. “I have already spoken to Odo.”

  Bea folded her arms across her chest. “If this is about Stephan—”

  “I want you to leave for Cartholme now. Little John is bringing the horses around. Odo’s sons will accompany you. Please, I do not want to argue. Just do as I say.” Henry turned to Elle. “Would you pack the bags?”

  Bea stiffened in her chair, anger holding her like wind fanning a flame. She didn’t look at Elle, but dismissed her with a wave of her hand. Elle took some fruit from her trencher and hastened towards the stairs.

  “You have no right to send me away,” Bea said. “I have as much interest in the shop as you do.”

  “This is not about the shop.”

  “Is it Edric?”

  Henry took her hand. She tried to jerk it away, but he held fast. “Listen to me. Boston is not safe. Stephan and I discovered where the king’s enemies store their cargo. Men are willing to murder to ensure it does not fall into the wrong hands.”

  Spurs scraping the wooden floor sounded behind Henry. Bea had opened her mouth to speak, but stared past Henry’s shoulders. Suddenly, she screamed.

  A blade whooshed past Henry’s arm. In one fluid movement, he stood and twisted round, drawing his sword as something on the hearth squealed.

  The man in black raised his hands. “Apologies, my lady. A rat.” He pointed at the creature writhing on the floor only a few inches from Bea’s gown. The sleeves of his richly embroidered tunic swayed and his silky golden hair fell across his eyes as he bowed. Smiling, he said, “I am Albin Boneil. Is this man bothering you?”

  “Just a family disagreement. Thank you, sir.”

  Boneil tossed his head back and nodded. “Good day to you then.” His eyes traced from Bea to Henry. He retrieved his dagger and took his leave of them, hurrying outside to Boston’s busy waterfront.

  When Henry’s heart stopped pounding, he sat back down. How much should he tell Bea? She knew about the wagons at Greyton, but not about the messenger who’d met secretly with Edric Weston. He regarded her, running his hand along the leather cord that held his crucifix. “This is about the king’s enemies. There are forces at work we may know nothing about. We must learn what we can, report it to the queen.”

  “We? You have done your duty. Let Stephan carry on with his orders.”

  “As long as Count John is a threat, I will do what I must for the king.”

  “You place everything we have at risk.”

  “Don’t you think I know that? But no matter, I will never throw my support to Count John.” Henry clenched his fist. “The wagons we saw in Greyton—Edric is involved and working closely with enemies here in Boston.”

  Bea paled. “And Father with a key to the storehouse in Ringsthorpe? Is he as guilty as Edric?”

  “I do not know. Father and I will only argue, but you? Cajole him. Mayhap he will tell you more. And what of your friends? Someone will have overheard something.”

  “And if we discover Father plots with these men?”

  “Then pray I might convince the king to be lenient.”

  “You must. Else we shall watch Father rot in a dungeon or hang from the gallows with that piece of slime.”

  *

  Bea and Elle departed for Cartholme with Little John and Odo’s twin sons before midday. By the time Henry returned to the shop, three wagons had been loaded with sacks of raw wool. Sweat glistening on his face, Drew clucked the horse at the lead. Bringing up the rear, Henry climbed onto the bench beside Odo. The older man handed him the reins, looking like a proud father. Smacking the leathers lightly to the horse’s haunches, Henry encouraged the animal forward.

  “Your father seems to take less interest in the wool trade these days.” Odo waved an ink-stained hand at a shopkeeper as the wagons rumbled towards the quay. Bookkeeper and manager, Odo had long ago given up working the looms, but he hunched forward on the cart, like he did at his desk in the shop.

  “I do not know what to do to help him. He seems to have lost hope.”

  “Your mother’s passing devastated him.” Odo swallowed hard, shaking his head. “But surely having you back has brought him joy.”

  “I am not so sure of that. I think he finds I ask too many questions he would prefer to turn a blind eye to.” Gulls on the rooftops squawked. Henry cocked his head towards them. “Even the birds think so.”

  Odo chuckled, his heavy jowls bouncing. “Wait until you have sons of your own.”

  “My nephew will suffice for the nonce,” Henry said.

  Odo sucked in a breath. He looked ready to offer sympathy for Alys’ death, but Henry pointed to a large oared boat bobbing on the water, masts swaying in the breeze. “Is that the Goldfinch?”

  Odo nodded. “A fine boat.”

  Men covered in grime and sweat plodded up and down the Goldfinch’s gangway loading supplies. A carved ugly sea urchin growled from its bow. Henry shivered. The bo
at reminded him of those that skirted the coast when the crusader army had marched to Jaffa.

  The wagons rolled to a stop and Odo jumped down, orders on his breath. “Get these jewels on board and secured in the hold.”

  Drew swung about in the first cart and hefted a sack as he stood. Alfred, the other driver, hustled at Odo’s call. Drew tossed the bag to him without effort, the muscles on his bare arms rippling.

  “Will take us a bit longer to unload,” Odo said.

  Henry shook his head. “Why didn’t you remind me you needed your boys to help?”

  “It appeared you needed them more.” Odo watched Drew and Alfred approvingly. “And those two will be glad to have a ha’penny more in their pockets.”

  Alfred trotted up the ramp, his greeting to the man at the top of the gangplank lost on the wind. Henry recognized him—the rat killer from the inn—though Boneil’s golden hair was tied back. The sleeves of his black tunic whipped like sails in the morning breeze. The man’s attention wasn’t focused on Odo and the cargo, but directed elsewhere on the quay. Henry followed his lascivious gaze, his heartbeat quickening. Boneil was watching Stephan striding towards the boat.

  “Would you like to speak with the captain?” Odo asked, noticing Henry’s inquisitive look. “I’ll invite him to sup with us. A meal at The Sloop? I can introduce you to other people you should know.” Something caught Odo’s eye. “Get that wagon moved, Drew—excuse me, Sir Henry,” he said with a frown and shot toward the front of the line of wagons. “C’mon, boys. Let’s get this work done. The taverns are waitin’ for your pennies.”

  Henry hopped from the cart minding the soreness in his ankle.

  “How’s the leg?” Stephan asked coming up beside him.

  Henry took a few steps, splayed his hands out and did a little bow. “Tender, but no limp.” He kept his voice low. “You left early this morn. We’d not had a chance to talk of your watch last night.”

  Stephan’s smile was soft. Memories of their passion heated his eyes. “We had other things on our mind. There was nothing that could not wait.” He turned and planted his palms on a dock post. “The captain’s name is Albin Boneil. His men like him. He remembered seeing me at the tavern last night. Said he would’ve introduced himself had he known I was accompanying you. Runs cargo for Grey’s regularly.” Stephan shifted. “He’d not say what goods he brings on his return trip. He takes jobs from whomever will pay.”

  “Weren’t you buying rounds of ale to loosen the crews’ tongues?”

  “I learned a barrel was twice the weight of a sack of wool.”

  “A barrel of what? Greek fire?”

  “None would admit they’d inspected their cargo. I suggested it would be a shame if one of those wine barrels crashed to the deck and broke apart. At least they agreed it would be a terrible waste of good wine. We drank to that. I dragged nothing more from their mouths. They insisted on stories of Outremer. Toasted my service there.”

  “What a burden,” Henry teased.

  “You know how melancholy I can get when I’ve had a few ales.”

  “Melancholy? Is that what you call it?”

  Stephan cuffed Henry playfully, but Henry dropped his teasing like a stone. The captain’s shrewd eyes met his own. Henry didn’t flinch. Odo had boarded the boat to review details of the shipment as the last wagon was unloaded. The captain smiled at something Odo said, and both men nodded at Henry.

  Henry rubbed a hand along the sleeve of his tunic. “The captain dresses well for a man hauling wool and wine or spices.”

  Before Stephan could agree, both turned at a shout from Odo.

  “What is this?” Odo had stopped Drew at the top of the gangplank. He boxed the young man’s ear and then scolded Alfred on the dock. “What do you mean sending this sack?”

  Alfred looked up, confused. “What be wrong, sir?”

  “The sack has a hole large enough to stuff a body through, boy!” His voice was sharp. He twisted Drew around and gave him a gentle push, plodding down the plank on Drew’s heels.

  Drew tossed the damaged sack onto the wagon. Odo patted the wool like it was his friendly steed. “Do you know how much we lost Lord de Grey today?”

  The two men lowered their eyes. Neither one argued that it was only one sack of wool. They knew it was like silver or gold, and every sack not sold to the Flemish weavers across the sea might mean one less penny in their own pockets.

  A short while later, the last of the wool was on board the boat. Henry returned to the shop with Odo to acquaint himself with the ledgers. There seemed no logic to Odo’s organization of the books and loose parchments covering the desk and lining shelf after shelf in the cramped office. Henry flipped through a handful of documents, stacking them in a neat pile when he was done. He threw his hands up in frustration. “How do you do this?”

  Watching the activities of his workers downstairs, Odo glanced back at him. “I do not keep a tidy workplace, but there’s not a thing out of place.” He wandered to the desk, the floorboards creaking harmoniously with the sounds of the carding, spinning, and weaving. “I can find anything you wish here in the time it takes you to blink an eye.”

  Henry smirked.

  “Well then, mayhap not quite that fast.”

  “I did not mean that your office is as bad—”

  “As a pig sty?” Odo interrupted with a grin.

  Henry nodded, chuckling. “As you say.” He pointed at figures in the ledger. “But I meant this. How do you keep track of it all?”

  “Years of practice. Nothing you need worry about.”

  “You are wrong. I must understand how it works, not just that it works by your fingers.”

  Odo frowned. “Do you not trust me?”

  “You mistake my meaning.” Henry rubbed his jaw, thinking about his words, before he said, “My father has great faith in your abilities. After less than one day at your side, I can clearly see why. I do trust you. Father no longer needs to know how the books are managed, how you schedule the shipments. It gets done. He sees profit. Me? I do not just want to watch. I must know how the pieces fit together.”

  “Good then. Let’s begin.” Odo pulled a flask from the shelf behind them. He offered it to Henry.

  Henry took a swig and then passed the wine to Odo. Leaning over the ledgers, Henry scrubbed hands through his hair. After another hour, he stood and paced the room, asking question after question. Thank the saints the wine was watered, for he’d be in his cups with an ache in his head before the day’s end if it hadn’t been.

  Shutters on the window were thrown open and a breeze tickled the tallow candles. The steady whir of spinning wheels and knock of the beater boards of the looms were like music broken by occasional laughter. Odo’s fingernail nervously scrapped old wax hardened on the desk. “Helps me think,” he said when Henry noticed the habit. Another finger traced entries across the ledger pages. With a gleam in his eye, he pointed out names, dates, amounts sold, and costs. A few names brought smiles to his face; a story for every customer was on his lips. Henry noticed his ink-stained fingers for the second time that day. He glanced down at his own hands, marred only by callouses and the scars of battle.

  When the men finally emerged from the books, Henry stood at the top of the stairs. A head or two turned from the floor below, but not a beat was missed by either spinners or weavers. He breathed in the scent of the soaps from the troughs at the far end of the room where raw wool was washed before it was spun. He looked past the open double doors. “We’ve lost the sun. There may be a storm coming in.”

  As if God had heard him, a strong gust rattled the ledgers. A stack of parchments sailed into the air. “An ill wind?” Odo asked. He shuffled back into the office to gather the papers and shutter the window.

  Henry gripped the stair rail and shivered. In his mind’s eye, he saw Greyton Manor in flames, the wool shop a heap of charred wood. There’d been a time when he believed in signs from God. That had nearly cost him Stephan’s love. Now he ne
eded neither storms, shooting stars, nor black crows perched at windows to tell him that his world might be shattered.

  “Let’s to the docks,” he called, rejecting those thoughts. He let Odo’s enthusiasm for his work infect him. “I want to watch the boat—my wool—slip anchor.”

  But that was not to be on this day. A northwest wind howled through Boston’s alleyways. Warmth deserted the summer air beneath menacing clouds. When the sky opened, the town was thrown into darkness as black as night. Men dove into the taverns and shops to escape the rain. At the quay, the Goldfinch lurched against its ropes in the choppy water. Captain Boneil shouted orders. Henry could barely hear him over the storm, but his crew hastened to secure lines and cover cargo on the deck. It was a wonder the men could do any work the way waves tossed the galley.

  Henry watched from the door of The Sloop, disappointed. The men who’d plowed into the tavern ahead of him and Odo were already rowdy, drunk on the rain and not on ale. Many were drenched from their sprints from the boats. None seemed to mind.

  “Look,” a familiar voice shouted from the back of the tavern. Atop a table with an ale in each hand, Stephan shouted, “Boys, meet my friends.” He guzzled down one drink. Swaying, he lifted the other to make a toast. “To the king!”

  The men around Stephan repeated his call and drank. They smacked down their mugs and pounded the trestles.

  Henry scanned their faces. Not all looked so enthusiastic. Odo noticed, too. “I hope he knows what he’s doing,” Odo said. When Henry tipped his chin—barely—Odo realized Stephan’s plan.

  “My friend Henry fought in the war.” Stephan’s voice slurred. “He saved my life!”

  Applause, more pounding mugs, and cheers arose. Henry cut a path through the room. Every man within reach slapped his back.

  Henry looked up at Stephan. “You are drunk.”

  “I am not!” Stephan swayed again, waving one arm over the men. “Barkeeper, ale for my friends. And girl, bring some food,” he called to a pretty blonde as Henry and Odo sat down. He planted a hand on Henry’s shoulder to steady himself. “What else do we need?”