For King and Country (Battle Scars Book 2)

by Charlene Newcomb

  “That will do. Now sit—”

  “A song,” Stephan shouted. “That’s what we need! One of Robin’s favorites.”

  “A song,” several voices rang out.

  Henry tapped Stephan’s muddied boot. “You cannot sing a note.”

  Stephan ignored Henry and crowed out the opening lines in a loud and off-key voice.

  Gentle hills of Aquitaine,

  Green grass beneath mighty oak

  Let me lay there with my love

  Under stars above…

  Henry cringed, looking apologetically at Odo. “We’ve no need to stay.”

  Odo took a gulp of his brew, eyes pressed in pain. He swiped his hand across his mouth, but smiled up at Stephan. “No, no. It’s fine. After I’ve another ale or two, he’ll sound as sweet as a robin.” He elbowed Henry, eyes drifting to four men hovering over their trenchers. Only one paid any heed to Stephan. The ginger-haired man peered at him over the rim of his mug but not long enough that anyone might have noticed. The others might well have been enduring a funeral mass. None cracked a smile, joined in the toast, or even grimaced at Stephan’s awful singing.

  “Who are they?” Henry asked.

  Odo leaned close. “The dark-bearded one is Captain Courci. His client has a large storehouse two streets west of the quay.”

  Henry’s brow rose. “You know that place?”

  Odo smiled. “I see it did not take you long to find it.” When Henry nodded, he added, “Your soldiering taught you a few things.”

  The serving girl reappeared with their food and Henry devoured a piece of warm bread. “And the others with Courci?”

  “The one with the scar is Adam Maes. Foreman at the storehouse. Not one to fool with.” The jagged cut ran from the man’s chin to his ear. He had a short beard, but the scar was as bald as a babe’s behind. “The third man—he’s a bookkeeper. Acquainted with Sheriff de Camville in Lincoln so I am told. There’s no proof, but I would wager silver from the French pass through the two of them.”

  Henry said nothing, wondering if the Lincoln connection was more than money. War supplies appeared to be bound for Nottingham, but de Camville’s support for Count John was well known. Why wouldn’t he be fortifying Lincoln Castle?

  A cheer rose, startling Henry. The crowd’s enthusiasm for Stephan’s song encouraged the knight to sing louder and Odo had to lean closer. “Can’t say I’ve seen the ginger-haired man,” he added.

  Henry studied them, filled with dread. “They must know who I am.”

  “If they did not know your face, they certainly will have learned your name.”

  A chunk of bread bounced off Stephan’s head and landed in Henry’s trencher splattering him with gravy. He grimaced, glanced around the room to see where it had come from and spotted the captain of the Goldfinch at the doorway. Hair plastered to his head from the rain, Boneil watched Stephan with a lust-filled grin.

  Stephan stopped singing and stared at Boneil. Water beaded on the captain’s face like diamonds, reflecting the light from the rush torches. Henry’s throat tightened. Men from Southampton to Outremer had lusted after Stephan, but he had shunned them all long ago. Then why did Boneil make him uneasy?

  Stephan’s accompanying chorus stumbled through to the end of the song. Applause rocked the air and even the captain joined in.

  “Another story!” several men shouted.

  Henry rapped on Stephan’s boot again. Stephan wobbled. His foot missed the end of the table and came down in empty space and he toppled to the floor. Before Henry could rise, Boneil was on his knees helping Stephan. Henry didn’t miss the way their eyes locked or how tightly the man held Stephan. Boneil settled him on a stool and dusted him off. His hand lingered a bit too long on Stephan’s thigh. Henry’s heart hammered like Saladin’s drums.

  Stephan gestured towards an empty chair. “Have an ale with—” He blinked, looked drunkenly from Henry to Odo and turned back to Boneil. “—with my friends. Do you know them? Of course you do.” Stephan hiccuped. It took him two tries to grasp the jug, but he refilled his own mug without spilling a drop, grinned at his success, and handed the drink to the captain.

  “Odo, Sir Henry.” Boneil nodded. “I saw you at the docks when we were all dry. And l’Aigle. The man with many questions.”

  “Captain,” Henry said coolly.

  The serving girl knew Boneil and appeared with his regular fare, a trencher of fish swimming in fragrant herbs. He thanked her politely, but as she turned to go, Stephan grabbed her arm. “More ale,” he said.

  She scowled at Stephan, but a wink from Boneil sent her scurrying.

  A chair crashed to the floor across the room. Angry curses split the air. “Are you deaf as well as mad?” a man bellowed, his hands fisted in the tunic of Adam Maes’ friend with the fiery reddish hair.

  “Let the king rot in the emperor’s prison,” ginger-hair shouted. He wasn’t a big man, but his shoulders were broad like an archer’s, his arms thick like a man who was no stranger to the weight of a sword.

  “Gentlemen,” Stephan called as he rose and wobbled towards the fray, “we are all friends here.”

  “Stephan, stay out of it.” Henry reached for Stephan’s arm and missed.

  Stephan ignored him. “You cannot insult the King of England. He’s the…king.”

  “We’d not be half-starved if John was on the throne,” ginger-hair growled.

  “Tuck, you idiot, shut up,” Maes shouted.

  “Let him speak!”

  “Hang the traitor!”

  Boos and cheers collided, growing in intensity. Men on both sides groused and Henry could have sworn he heard someone taking bets. Allan would be right at home.

  Stephan stepped between ginger-hair—Tuck—and his adversary. “Let him go.” He tugged on Tuck’s arm.

  “Get your filthy hands off me, Richard whore!” Tuck shouted at Stephan.

  Stephan turned an angry crimson. Tuck spat in his face and shoved him aside. Tuck’s opponent took advantage of the momentary distraction and retaliated with a head butt. Tuck didn’t even sway. He brought his fists down and the man’s neck made a sickly crack! He keeled forward, smacking a trestle that crumbled beneath his weight.

  A jug of ale found Tuck’s head. Tuck reeled and fell into Stephan’s arms. Henry saw Tuck claw Stephan’s hand as he tried to right himself. Words were exchanged, but Henry was too far to hear. Stephan shrieked, jerking his head at Tuck’s painful grip. His brows knitted, his outrage suddenly replaced with an incredulous stare, a flash of recognition that passed so quickly Henry was certain he had imagined it.

  Stephan threw off Tuck and punched him. Fists flew in every corner of the room and ale splattered. Odo swallowed his drink to be sure it wouldn’t end up dampening the floor. Sitting back, he ducked when a trencher came his way.

  After a roasted chicken sailed past his shoulder, Henry jumped to his feet. He saw the gap-toothed sailor and his battered knuckles too late. Stunned by the man’s blow, Henry stumbled. Everything around him spun and he found himself face down on the ale-soaked floor rushes.

  Blood dribbled into his mouth. Bile rose in his throat, but he swallowed it and found his breath. Rolling onto his back, he heard Stephan calling his name. The silhouette of something large hung in the air. From the corner of his eye, Henry caught a shadow charging. “Stephan!” he shouted as a trestle came crashing towards Stephan’s head.

  Robin had not meant to attract attention in Nottingham. He ducked, missing a fist flying towards his jaw by a finger’s width.

  This was not supposed to happen…

  A friendly game of dice. Good ale. But the gamemaster, a man named Rooker, had taken an instant dislike to him. Shouldn’t have won that first game, Robin thought. He had not played well after that, and by the fifth round he was telling the miller’s son about Allan. “You could learn a lesson or two from my young friend.”

  Much Miller fingered his last three pennies spread one next to the other on the trestle. “
Good is he?” The room was hazy, but torchlight highlighted the gold in the younger man’s brown hair and the blue of his eyes.

  Robin smirked. “He was a thief and a pickpocket.”

  Much shifted in his seat.

  Rooker had coins piled five times higher than the combined winnings of the players at the table. He’d been accumulating their deniers even before Robin arrived. Grunting, his gaze targeted each man in the game. “A man with a thief for a friend?”

  “That was before I met him.” Robin tugged at the neck of his tunic, but not because of Rooker’s scrutiny. The air was stifling inside The Trip—the Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem. It was one of the newer inns in Nottingham or so he’d been told by five different men. Robin had never seen anything like it. The place butted up to cliffs below the castle. The upstairs rooms were carved into cool limestone walls. Narrow stairwells led to nooks and crannies, to storerooms, and, of most interest to Robin, to tunnels and caves beneath the town and the castle. If Count John’s supporters had hidden weapons caches in the caves they’d never be found.

  Robin chugged down his ale. “Allan knew every trick. Could spot a cheater a mile away.”

  A deep silence hung in the air. Much’s eyes widened even as he guarded his pennies with his palm.

  Rooker drew up straight in his chair, glowering beneath dark bushy brows. “Are you calling me a cheat?” He jumped to his feet before Robin had a chance to reply.

  And there came that fist.

  Robin twisted away. Next to him, Osbert the butcher sprang up. Coins spilled to the floor, soaked by ale from tipped mugs. Osbert’s large paw clipped Rooker. Rooker caught him, forcing his arm behind his back and propelling him atop another table. A platter of roasted chicken disappeared beneath his body.

  “You bloody whoreson.” The chicken’s owner lifted the table and sent butcher and his crushed meal to the ground.

  A chair flew into Robin’s sight, but he ducked and it smacked Rooker’s face. Curses streamed from the man’s bloodied mouth. The sound of splintering wood sent people scurrying from the room like hares being chased by wolves.

  Much crawled around the table, retrieving some of the coin he’d lost. On his feet, he scrambled towards the stairs. “This way!”

  “Stop them,” Rooker shouted.

  Robin took the stairs two at a time. It was too late to slow when he saw the serving girl with a platter of steaming food and a jug of ale. He plowed into her. The jug tucked beneath her arm sailed into the air. Stew, bread, and cheese flew. Ale splattered the wall. A helpful customer at the bottom of the stairs wrestled with Much. “Much, duck,” Robin shouted. He did, just a blink before the flying jug shattered against his captor’s head. The man’s hands fell away and Much sped towards the door with Robin on his heels. Curses followed them out into the damp night air.

  Blood pulsing, Robin raced away from The Trip and stopped a short way down the road. Much doubled over beside him, trying to catch a breath. Robin reached to rub his back, but suddenly, a hand clasped his arm. Linen tore. Bloodied fingers held him. Rooker.

  Robin squirmed, trying to break free, but Rooker twisted his arm. This man did not sit in taverns and play dice all the day. He was a strong bastard. Fire rippled along the muscles in Robin’s arm, the pain near excruciating.

  “You bastard! You ruined me.” Rooker forced Robin to his knees and then kicked him.

  Robin found himself face down in the street. This was not supposed to happen, he repeated to himself. He rolled too slowly to escape the boot to his side.

  Rooker’s eyes widened. He opened his mouth to speak, but a rotten cabbage bounced off the back of his head. Taking advantage of Rooker’s surprise, Robin kneed him in the bollocks. Petrified, Rooker uttered a stream of curses. Much reappeared with a second vegetable weapon. “No cheating!” he shouted, kicking the back of Rooker’s knees and sending him sprawling.

  “Much! Stop!”

  Much looked at Robin like he was mad. “He’s going to kill you!”

  Ignoring a flash of pain, Robin straddled Rooker. “No he won’t.” The man had a dazed look, but he managed a growl. “I could let my friend Much kill you, cheater, but I wouldn’t want that on the young man’s conscience. He’s a good person with a kind heart.” Robin’s hands tightened around the man’s throat. “But me? I cannot say the same about myself.”

  Robin withdrew his long blade from his swordbelt. He pressed the tip to Rooker’s cheek. “You know me, don’t you? Where did we meet?”

  Rooker grunted beneath Robin’s grip but didn’t say a word.

  Robin stared at Rooker. “I remember. Allan did catch you cheating in Messina. Lost a lot of silver that day, didn’t you?” Robin snarled. “Listen to me. You will leave Nottingham. Take your game somewhere else. But never—do you hear me—never repeat my name or I swear I will hunt you down. I will find you, your family. I will kill you all. Do you understand?”

  Much pointed at soldiers from the castle hustling down the street. “We must go.”

  The tip of Robin’s blade drew Rooker’s blood. “Do you?”

  Rooker nodded.

  Robin scrambled after Much, biting down on his lip to take his mind off the ache in his stomach. Behind them, soldiers broke up the fights that had spilled from The Trip. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Rooker get to his feet and dust dirt from his clothes. His angry stare could bore a hole in Robin’s back.

  Much bolted into an alley. With shouts fading and no sign of pursuit, they rested, safe in the shadows. Much stared at Robin, incredulous. “Who are you?”

  Allan strutted through the Grantham alehouse, coins clinking in his palm. At the doorway he eyed the late night calm enveloping the town. He’d enjoyed accompanying Lord de Grey to market day. Grantham didn’t have near the wealth he’d seen in the Holy Land. Still, merchants and customers in town meant pockets filled with loose coin. And after a busy afternoon, the alehouse had been a perfect place for a brew and several games of chance.

  He tossed a coin in the air, caught it. “Not bad for one night.”

  A young child hovering near the door looked at him dolefully. Allan tossed a half-penny his way, saw a smile and felt a rush of warmth. He’d been that child once.

  Fingering his pouch, Allan started down the street. He thought back on kings and queens, on Robin, and all the changes in his life. Saw himself scrambling through the tent city at Tours, being chased by Sir Henry and Sir Stephan. Remembered Stephan’s two strong hands gripping his shoulders…

  And suddenly, he was on the ground. In Grantham. Breath gone from his lungs.

  “Get his purse!”

  There were two of them, one to either side of him. A boot slammed into his ribs. It pressed into his back and held him to the ground. Allan felt a blade, heard the leather cord of his pouch ripping.

  The pouch jingled. “Not bad for one night,” the robber said, mimicking Allan.

  “Some squire you are!” The other man laughed and kicked Allan again.

  The younger of the two looked around nervously. “Enough. I’ve his silver. He got the message. Let’s be off.”

  “Don’t say a word, hear me, squire?”

  The man rolled Allan to his back. Angry eyes, dark like the Devil’s, gored into him. A heel smashed into his gut. Allan cried out, drew his knees up. He tried to turn over but the boot slammed down on his chest. The smell of mud and horse dung filled his nostrils. He gagged, eyes tearing, vision blurred. But there was no mistaking the glint of moonlight off a raised blade. It came down, sliced into his flesh. A sharp, stabbing pain.

  I am going to die…

  Allan seemed not to hear anything but the breaths rattling in his throat and a small high-pitched voice coming from the direction of the alehouse. He felt boots hammering the street through his battered bones. Oh God, how they ached. He tried to move, but pain ripped across his chest. If he could find his voice, he’d scream. But nothing came.

  A dozen men surrounded him.

  “Let me throu
gh, let me through.”

  Allan’s eyes fluttered. He saw a skinny figure shove his way through the crowd. The child—that voice. It was the poor waif he’d seen outside the alehouse.

  “Where’s your master?” Another voice, deep, coming from somewhere above him.

  Allan groaned. I’m alive. He’d been on crusade with King Richard’s knights and not suffered a scratch. Now this…and back home in England.

  On his knees at Allan’s side, the man pressed his hand to the knife wound. He held it tight, trying to hold back the blood that oozed between his fingers. “Lucky man.”

  “Will he be all right?” the young boy asked.

  “The blade missed your heart by a cat’s claw. Your master, young squire, is he here?”

  Allan’s breaths were short and rasping. He finally found his voice. “Lord…de Grey.”

  “Find him. Let’s move this poor man off the ground.”

  They lifted Allan gently, not an easy task for men who’d been drinking ere the sun slid toward the horizon. Allan tried to hide his pain. But it was worse than any hurt he remembered but for the time his da whipped him until he’d bled and he could not sit for days.

  Be brave. Sir Henry and Sir Stephan nearly died in the Holy Land. They’d survived arrows and swords. His was only a dagger wound. Bad aim, that fool. Even Allan knew where to thrust a knife to kill a man.

  His rescuers carried him to the priory, one still staunching the bleeding with a blood-soaked cloth. Though they tried to be gentle, he felt every jostle and groaned, certain he would pass out from the pain. A monk led them to a room lit with scented candles that didn’t mask the smell of the ill and dying. But the woolen blanket atop the thin straw mattress where they laid him was better than the cold ground.

  Someone stripped off his shirt and probed the wound. Allan reeled, a wave of pain wracking his body.

  “Be still,” a compassionate voice murmured.

  A monk by the bed whispered instructions to his postulant. The younger man scurried across the stone floor. When he returned with bandages, vinegar, and water, the two holy men cleaned the wound, stitched it closed, and covered it with strips of linen. They made Allan drink some watered wine, and then left him drifting off to sleep to the sound of the monks’ prayers echoing through the priory halls.