For King and Country (Battle Scars Book 2)

by Charlene Newcomb

  He woke sometime in the middle of the night shivering though the night was warm. Eyes adjusting to the darkness, he noticed the other beds in the Spartan room were empty. He’d not had a room to himself. Ever. He and Little John had shared haystacks and cots. Small spaces, not always a room. Tents, barns, wherever they might lay their heads. There had been comfortable beds at the palace in Acre. And a pallet in the hall at Greyton.

  Allan tugged the blanket to his chin. He wished his friends were here. They’d be near Lincoln by now. He counted the days that had passed on his stiff fingers. Had it been two? What day was it? He’d give anything to hear Little John snoring. On the other hand, being at Greyton, seeing Sarah’s pretty smile was a more pleasant thought.

  But Master Robin—

  Allan scowled though he wasn’t sure it was at himself or at Robin. The knight had left him behind. It still ate at him. Draw less attention to himself, Robin had said. So what if he wasn’t traveling as Sir Robin, as Queen Eleanor’s agent? Said he’d no need for a squire. “I could be your apprentice,” Allan had argued.

  “I am not a craftsman. I’m not rich.”

  “What about as your brother? Or your son?”

  Robin had laid his hands atop Allan’s shoulders and looked him in the eye. “I’d have you as either, but, no. I need you to stay at Greyton. Keep an eye on the manor.”

  “You mean keep an eye on your son,” Allan had muttered. “Seems like Marian has been doing that without help from anyone for years.” He’d walked off pouting. Hadn’t even said good-bye when Robin had left.

  Allan clenched his fingers into a fist. What a fool I am. Think well of me, Robin. Wherever you may be…sleep well.

  And goodnight, Little John.

  Henry jumped to his feet as Captain Boneil bowled into Stephan, saving his head from a dreadful encounter with a flying trestle. The missile clipped Boneil’s shoulder, but he was none the worse for wear and the four men peeled out of the confused melee. Rain pelted them. Thunder rumbled out over the water as they escaped and then went their separate ways. It was a good thing no one followed. Henry’s ankle throbbed and he slowed, barely keeping pace with Stephan. Thoroughly soaked, they ducked inside the Bluefish Inn, laughing as they took the stairs.

  Shut tight all day, their room was stifling. Henry threw off his wet tunic and hose and opened the shutters. A breeze sent gooseflesh across his torso. Or, mayhap it was the sight of Stephan naked and striking flint to light a candle. Stephan’s muscles quivered and an unwanted image intruded in Henry’s thoughts. Boneil, his hand on Stephan’s thigh. Henry shivered. Fumbling with the ties of his braies, he huffed.

  “Might I help?” Stephan asked.

  The ties loosed and Henry shed his clothes. “Too late.” He tossed them, aiming for Stephan’s head.

  Stephan intercepted the braies and smirked. “Are you jealous? You did not like the way the captain watched me.”

  Lying on the bed, Henry stared at the wooden beam stretching across the ceiling. “You are wrong. I am glad he shoved you from harm’s way. What good would you be with a gash on your skull?”

  Stephan ignored Henry’s attempt to change the subject. “I’ve not seen you jealous before. I think I like it.”

  “I thought that trestle missed your head.” Henry laughed. “You’ve a short memory. Remember Messina? After we’d taken the city.”

  Stephan thumbed his temples, nodding. “Benedict.”

  “You’d every intention of a lust-filled night.”

  “But it came to naught,” Stephan protested. He climbed onto the bed and leaned up on one elbow. “Besides, that was long before we were lovers.”

  Stephan had changed, but the flirting never stopped. Many had offered him a bed for the night, but he’d waved them off. It will not end. He and Stephan might soon be apart for months…years. Men like Albin d’Bonel would be there. And what had that ginger-hair—Tuck—meant when he called Stephan Richard’s whore? Rumors about Richard’s preference for men had slipped across tongues for years, but Henry had seen nothing but a deep camaraderie between the king and his men. Surely Stephan would have told him had he been in the king’s favor in that way.

  Tracing his thumb along Henry’s jaw, Stephan broke Henry’s reverie. “Never doubt that I love you,” he whispered.

  Henry cupped Stephan’s palm to his face, took in his musky scent. Stephan bent close and kissed him. Unwilling to let the moment pass, Henry slid his hand along the muscles of Stephan’s shoulder. He liked the way his lover shivered beneath his fingers. Stephan deepened the kiss.

  Outside the rain stopped. The world went still. His body yearned for Stephan’s touch and a low moan escaped his throat. Pressing closer, he felt his flesh harden against Stephan. Hearts beating, blood rushing like a raging river, they coupled slowly, and then fell asleep in each other’s arms.

  *

  From the alleyway, Robin could see the torches blazing from the keep of Nottingham Castle. He pressed his palm to the ache near his ribs, glad the pursuers had abandoned the chase. Blood dribbled from his lip and he wiped it on his sleeve. He answered Much’s stare with one of his own. “What? Not a thank you? You got your pennies back. Maybe a few more.”

  Much blushed. “All right. Thank you. Are you all right?”

  “Just need a bit of a rest, and no more boots to the gut.” Robin could name a dozen times he’d suffered worse at the hands of the king’s enemies, but Much didn’t need those stories.

  Much planted his hands at his waist. “Now, who are you?”

  Robin dragged in long slow breaths. “I like you, Much. Question is, can I trust you?”

  “Are you an outlaw? What were you and your friend Allan doing in Messina?” Much’s eyes narrowed. “Would you truly hunt down the cheat’s family?”

  “You have many questions.” Robin studied the miller. He was going to need a friend or two in Nottingham. “My name is Sir Robin du Louviers.”

  “You’re a knight?”

  Robin bowed, a flash of pain reminding him of his bruises. “In the service of Queen Eleanor. But no one must know that.”

  Much eyed him skeptically. “Or you’ll kill me, too?”

  “It was a threat. One I hope he remembers. But you? I have a feeling about you, Miller.” So he’d only met the young man over a game of dice. He considered himself a good judge of character. “I was not exaggerating when I called you kind and good-hearted.”

  “You do not even know me, Sir Robin.”

  “Just Robin,” he said, looking around. “Is there somewhere else we might talk?”

  “I am not so certain I should talk to you if you are the queen’s servant. That causes trouble for people here.” Much twisted his mouth in a grimace, exhaled sharply. “Follow me.”

  A few minutes later they sat atop crates in a storeroom. The tallow candle Much lit burned low, barely giving off any light. Neatly stacked chests lined one wall shared with the mill run by Much’s father. Shelving ran floor to ceiling on the other walls.

  Much rooted through items on one shelf. “There it is!” He pulled out a flask, uncorked it, and took a draught. He handed the drink to Robin. “If my da hears us just moan like a girl.”

  Robin grinned, eyeing the two exits from the small room—one into the mill, the other to the alleyway they’d come through. “Caught you here before, has he?” He found himself thinking of Marian, suddenly wishing he could hold her in his arms in a quiet place softly lit by candles.

  Much blushed. “Sir, I mean, Robin, mayhap I shall turn you over to the constable.”

  “You could, but you will not.” Robin lifted the skin and drank the sweet tasting mead.

  “Sure of yourself, aren’t you?” Much asked.

  “I overheard you telling the barkeeper that sheriff’s men arrested an apprentice to the smith, and how unfair that was. You mentioned the tanner was short a few coins and you gave him your last piece of silver. Why did you do that?”

  “I expected to win it back.” Much
fidgeted. “All right. I am a terrible gambler.”

  “That is easier when the dicer is a cheat.”

  “Aye, but surely they all are not,” Much said, admitting his overall record was nothing to brag about. “Did you really know he was cheating?”

  Robin took another gulp of mead and shrugged. “I only suspected. But tell me, why are you generous with your coin when you have little yourself?”

  Much dug his fingernails into his thigh, anger growing behind his eyes. “The sheriff put a child in the dungeons! Do you believe that? And there was a young girl sold into slavery. It is wrong.”

  As Robin suspected, Much’s indignation of unjust arrests and people sent to begging was genuine. Robin envied Much’s father. What a gift to have a son so honest and caring. He hoped Robert would be such a man. If he did, he’d owe it all to Marian.

  Robin pushed himself off the crate. He ran a hand along the others stacked there. “Have you heard of any dealings the sheriff might have with Count John or his supporters? What else might be in the castle dungeons?”

  “How would I know?” Much crossed his arms across his chest. “I haven’t been down there.”

  “Any rumors? Have you seen anything suspicious coming or going? I know countless deliveries arrive.”

  Much hesitated. “Then why are you asking me?” He grabbed the flask from Robin and slugged more brew. He swiped a hand across his forehead and then spoke a tale all too familiar to Robin. Taxes, the recent siege. Robin winced at the memory of the charred villages he’d seen in the south. So many devastated by John’s Welsh mercenaries.

  Much swore beneath his breath, shook his head. “Why do men do this to people they should be protecting?”

  Power, politics, and greed. Robin glanced skyward. “Mayhap the people will suffer their Hell on Earth and fall straight into God’s arms when He calls them home.”

  Much’s expression said he’d never heard a priest say such a thing. He swigged another gulp from the flask. “You are right about the deliveries.” He pressed the drink back into Robin’s hands and described what he’d seen. It was enough to feed an army during a long siege. “Provisions of every sort. Swords, armor, lances.” Much grimaced. “I arrived too early for a grain delivery one day. They told me to return at my appointed time.”

  “And like a good delivery boy, you do as you are told.”

  “I did not! I mean, yes, I am good, but—”

  Robin chuckled.

  “I left, but circled back to the kitchens,” Much added. “A friend works there.”

  “His name wouldn’t be Jacob?” Robin asked, remembering to inquire about young Sarah’s brother.

  Much shook his head. “Don’t know anyone by the name of Jacob, but my friend lets me sneak in now and again to watch the council meetings in the great hall.”

  “You like listening to all that politics?”

  “I learn a lot. Friends, foes. It’s telling to observe faces when they know the constables aren’t watching them.”

  “You’d have made a good soldier, Much.” Robin slapped him hard on the back.

  “Ouch!”

  “Much, what are you doing in there?” Elias Miller pounded on the door.

  Much sighed. “My da,” he mouthed calmly.

  Robin giggled in a high-pitched voice.

  Much grunted. “Almost done.”

  The young miller was calmer than he expected, and Robin giggled again.

  “It’s no wonder you have no coin left in your pocket, boy. Finish it up. Put your cock back in your braies. Sun’s been down, candles burnin’ low. Your ma says you aren’t in your bed and we’ve a delivery bright and early in the morning.”

  “I’ll…be…in shortly.”

  Robin moaned girlishly. “Oh…oh…”

  Much smacked his arm. Robin covered his mouth to hold back a laugh.

  “Much!”

  “Coming—” Much planted his hand over Robin’s mouth to ensure not another word might slip past his lips to embarrass him further. “Oh God, help me.”

  “Doesn’t sound like you need any help, son,” his father said, voice trailing as he wandered away from the storeroom. Robin could have sworn he heard the man chuckling.

  “You are no help at all!” Much said when he was certain his father was beyond earshot.

  “You told me to moan like a girl. I thought I did a good job.”

  “Do you always cause your friends this much trouble?”

  “More,” Robin said with a grin. “Does this mean we are friends?”

  “It might.”

  “Would you see if your castle friend remembers Jacob from Greyton? He’s likely no older than you. And that delivery in the morning?” Robin waggled his brows. “I could be of great help.”

  “I was afraid you would say that.”

  The sun greeted the port of Boston and bled through the shutters. Stephan woke, watching Henry. He had little desire to leave the bed. Three roosters crowed, each squawking louder than the next. A well-fed gull landed on the ledge outside the window and stared at him. Stephan laid a finger to his lips, hoping the gull would be quiet, glad when it flapped its wings and flew off.

  Henry’s hair was still damp and fell in waves around his face. Beneath the stubble on his jaw a dark bruise had formed. He stirred, his mouth curling at the edges. His eyes remained closed, eyelashes brushing his cheeks.

  Stephan swept those cheeks with a kiss. “Did you want to see the boat slip anchor?”

  Yawning, Henry wiped the sleep from his eyes. “I’d rather stay here. Pretend the sky is black as pitch, covered with white diamonds.”

  Stephan’s fingers played along Henry’s forehead. “I like that.”

  “I knew you would.”

  “One more night,” Stephan said. Henry’s breath felt warm against his face. “Let’s stay another day.”

  Henry sighed. “Odo is to meet me at the quay, and there’s still business to attend to before we leave for Cartholme. Bea might worry.”

  “Will she have me sleep in the barn?” he asked, voice tinged with humor.

  “Nothing so good for you,” Henry teased. He stood and stretched, muscles tightening. Sunlight caressed the dark fuzz on his bare buttocks.

  Henry turned around and Stephan choked on his response. It didn’t matter how many times he’d seen that jagged scar on Henry’s thigh. How many times he’d run his fingers along it. He’d come so close to losing Henry.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Stephan rubbed his eyes. “It’s nothing. Toss me my clothes.”

  By the time they left the inn and found Odo, the streets jostled with merchants and the quay swarmed with wagons. Fishermen unloaded their catches and burly men off-loaded cargo. On the Goldfinch, Boneil stood at the wheel. He acknowledged Henry with a salute. His second-in-command barked orders and the boat slipped from the docks heading towards the open sea.

  Odo pointed at the approach of another galley. “Riding low. Doubt that’s from water she took on during the storm.”

  Three empty wagons awaited the boat at a deserted slip. Stephan didn’t recognize the drivers and there was no sign of Tuck. Fingering the hilt of his sword, he scanned the quayside. “I shall see what I can find out and meet you back at Greys.”

  As Henry and Odo departed, Stephan wandered towards the wagons. He jangled the pouch dangling from his swordbelt. Not a clink. He could feel one coin and reached for it, catching sight of the falcon head as he plucked it out. It was the token Tuck had shoved into his hand during the fight. Very valuable, though he’d not even get a meal for it.

  The driver of the wagon laughed. “Spent too much on ale, did you?”

  Stephan feigned a sorrowful look, and, shaking his head, he approached the man. The tarp on the wagon flew up and a mass of ginger hair appeared. Tuck. Startled, Stephan bumbled into someone who’d come up behind him. The bookkeeper. Perfect.

  “Look what we have here,” the bookkeeper said as Tuck stretched and yawned. “The singing
, drunken fool from The Sloop.”

  Stephan held his hands up and bowed. He wanted a job, not a fight. “I believe that might have been me. Too much ale.”

  “I’d say so,” Tuck said grumpily and jumped down from the wagon.

  Stephan grimaced, pointing to the yellowing bruise beneath Tuck’s eye. “Sorry about that.”

  “Was this one from you?” Tuck chuckled. “Had a bit much ale myself.”

  “You certainly did,” the bookkeeper said. His tunic and surcoat were a fine silk, embroidered with silver and gold designs. A Flemish weave. His job paid well. Even beneath the mud on his boots the engrained leather was rich-looking.

  Tuck wore a tattered brown tunic, but his padded gambeson showed little wear. Stephan recognized the former man-at-arms even without his mail hauberk and chausses. Stephan had not known Tuck well, though both men served Richard before the old king died. In the camps, they’d played a friendly game or two of dice, never a nasty word between them. The falcon token was a signal. Tuck worked for the queen’s justiciars. He was a king’s man.

  The bookkeeper saw Henry disappearing into the crowds. “Your friends deserted you.”

  “I am not so certain I’d call them that, but one sailed this morn. The others had business.”

  “At Greys,” the man said, nodding. “You were with the son of Lord de Grey.”

  Henry’s family business was well known in Boston. No surprise the man knew Henry’s connection. “We served together in Outremer, but have had a…disagreement…of sorts. I must find a way to feed myself.”

  “Oh?” The bookkeeper frowned. “I must have been drunk last night too. I swear I remember you cheering the Lionheart.”

  “That you did. He is a great warrior. But I’ve seen what war has cost us. And if the emperor demands a ransom? What then?”

  If the bookkeeper doubted Stephan’s sincerity he did not show it. Nothing in his voice or mannerisms revealed his loyalties. “I am Hugo Fitz Simon. And you are…?”