“Stephan l’Aigle.” He met Fitz Simon’s eyes. “De Grey is young and taken in by Richard and his justiciars’ rhetoric.”
Tuck quirked his head. The bookkeeper’s face could have been cast in stone. Convincing these men to trust him would not be easy. And then, Fitz Simon surprised him with a devilish grin. “L’Aigle?” he said. “Betrothed to Beatrice of Cartholme. Good for you.”
“Why would you need coin?” Tuck asked, skeptical.
Edric Weston. The bastard had more reach than Stephan cared to admit. Bea’s idea to ward off the man’s advances sucked him deeper into a cave that twisted and turned. The deceit might crush them beneath their own lies, but there was no time to dread where that might lead. He had to seed thoughts of his own discontent in the bookkeeper’s mind. After all, an unhappy man is more easily turned.
“I should have lands and gifts from the king for my service. Be in a position to have something to offer a prospective bride,” Stephan told Fitz Simon. He wondered if he looked sufficiently miffed. I might have to strangle Bea when this all ends. “But whilst Richard is imprisoned, I remain a penniless and landless knight. And de Grey is none too happy for that. He knows his sister might easily pay my way. She has a healthy dower and controls Cartholme until her son comes of age.”
Hugo clapped Stephan on the back. “Young de Grey suspects you’ll squander the widow’s dower and bring nothing of your own.”
“He looks for any reason to be rid of me.” Stephan ran his hand along the wooden rail of Tuck’s wagon. The silence drew out between them until two gulls screeched over their morning meal. Stephan eyed the bickering birds and added, “The lady Bea and I argued.”
“Women!” Hugo scoffed.
“I prefer to face a horde of Saracens over a woman’s wrath,” Stephan said.
“True,” Tuck agreed with a roll of his eyes.
Hugo laughed. “She will calm. I’d wager an ale—she’ll not complain when you take her on a good roll ‘neath the bedcovers.” He elbowed Stephan suggestively. Even Tuck chuckled.
Stephan joined in their laughter. “That I can do.” Bloody bastard.
Orders rang as the boat closed in on the quay. Mooring ropes snaked through the air, caught by calloused, tanned hands. The men could have been blindfolded and still tied the lines to secure the boat.
“I must beg your leave, Sir Stephan. I don’t trust these men to take care with my cargo. As much as I pay them…” He grunted.
The boat nudged the pier gently. Stephan tipped his head towards the wagons. “I may be in need of work when I return from Yorkshire.”
Tuck frowned at him, but Hugo was watching the men secure the plank. “You’ll have little time for the likes of me,” Hugo said. “You shall be overseeing business at Cartholme.”
“And if I am not?” Stephan did not flinch.
Hugo studied him, grey eyes the color of a stormy sky. “I might know of a man looking for help. Though he would be leery of a king’s man.”
“I am not Richard’s man,” Stephan said. “Not any longer. I am here for England.”
Tuck grumbled beneath his breath and then trotted up the gangway.
“Off to Yorkshire, you say?” Hugo’s eyes gleamed. “Help with this load and I shall introduce you to Adam. If he trusts you, he might pay you to take a message north.”
St. Peter’s bell pealed as the miller’s wagon lumbered up Castle Road amidst Nottingham’s mid-morning bustle. Robin hopped onto the bench. Much wore a sheen of sweat. That, and the grain filling the bed, was ample evidence he’d had a busy morning.
“I’d have helped load the sacks,” Robin said, “but there’s no need to have your father asking questions.”
“You’re certain no one will recognize you at the castle? Might be a knight returned from the Holy Land knows you,” Much said. “I’ve heard many a man from the garrison speak of serving the old king in Normandy. You might have fought them.”
“Do you expect any of those men will be in the kitchens when we deliver these goods?”
Much looked around warily to see if anyone was watching them. “Well, no, I suppose not.”
Robin smiled to himself. He wouldn’t tell Much they were lucky Will Marshal did not serve Count John. Now there was a knight who might be found in the kitchens, what with him once being called “guzzle-guts.” Robin had heard stories about the king’s justiciar since his earliest days at Richard’s side.
“All you’ll need do is point me to the tunnels,” Robin said.
Much kept his voice low. “We shall not have much time.”
“Just get me inside and you may go on your way.” Robin felt for his sword. He felt naked without it, but grain deliveries from town were not guarded, and peasants weren’t permitted to carry swords. He carried two daggers, one on his belt, the other in his boot. “If I am caught—”
“You’ll tell them the miller’s son led the way.”
“I would not,” Robin protested.
“If they torture you?”
“I will say I was lost. I was seeking a job in the kitchens and started to wander. My father always said I was too curious for my own good. Dark stairways deserve exploration like a woman’s body. I was feeling my way along every crevice…” Robin paused to let Much’s mind fill in the details. “And suddenly, there I was, stumbling into a tunnel.”
Much pulled up on the reins. “A woman’s body?” He looked incredulous, but mortified at the same time.
“I spin stories well, my friend. Look at this face.” He pointed to himself, twisting his head from side to side. “Have you ever seen such an honest face?”
Much rolled his eyes. “You could get lost down there.”
“One main tunnel with small alcoves, the third of which leads to a passageway. On the north wall, a door. Through that, the stairwell leads to a large underground chamber.” Robin scrubbed his hands.
“You remembered?”
“Of course!” Robin laughed. “Now all you must do is forget you ever saw me.”
Much looked astonished Robin would suggest such a thing. “I do not forget people who save my hide.”
Robin clapped Much’s back. “And I remember people who help the poor amongst us.”
Much spurred the draught horse towards the castle gate. Earth and timber walls enclosed the lower bailey. Robin followed Much’s gaze to the stone towers and battlements of the middle and upper baileys. “The constable keeps guards on the wall walk day and night.” Much swallowed hard. “It will not be easy to take this place. Some say it is impossible.”
Robin had seen the keep on his approach to Nottingham. Sitting high atop the motte, it was like a giant, beckoning, daring anyone to pass. “There is always negotiation. But if Count John chooses to fight, the king will have no choice.”
“Just remind the king it’s the poor folk who suffer most when armies wage war.”
Robin nodded and they approached the gates without another word between them.
The guards knew the miller’s son. Still, they poked and prodded the sacks on the wagon and sized up Much’s companion. The shortest one pointed his lance at Robin.
“My da’s uncle’s cousin.” Much cocked his head at Robin. “Come for work. Da heard the kitchens were looking for help.”
“Where you from?” the guard croaked.
“York.”
“You come all the way here? No work in York?”
“Not when your employer is of a mind to remove certain body parts when he finds you’ve slept with his mistress,” Robin said.
The guards chortled. “Keep your cock in your pants and you might hold a job,” one snickered and waved them on.
Jiggling the reins, Much clucked at the horse. The wagon rolled into the lower bailey. He whistled softly when they were out of earshot. “I bet you use that line all the time.”
Robin hadn’t, but he looked aside innocently, smiling as crimson crept across Much’s face.
The expanse from the timber wall to the sto
ne curtain of the middle bailey was like a valley devoid of trees. Robin breathed in the scent of recently tilled earth. The siege had delayed spring planting and sprigs of green there looked the size of his little finger. Pastures teemed with horses and cows turned out from the middle bailey to take advantage of the truce. Hopeful signs, Robin thought, mentally placing and counting the cottages and shops scattered either side of the rutted road. Other structures stood blackened, burnt to the ground—victims of the siege. Much was right. It wouldn’t be easy to take the castle. He could picture the king’s men charging. The whoosh of bolts from the wall. The clank of metal on shields. This would be brutal and bloody.
A wood and stone bridge crossed a dry ditch and led to the barbican of the middle bailey. Planks creaked beneath the wagon wheels. The portcullis, nestled into the arched gateway, threatened those who passed with pointed iron rods sharp as the tip of a lance.
The middle bailey was a different world. It smelled prosperous, untouched by the recent campaign. The day was warm and doors were propped open. Bread baking, meat roasting, candle making, stalls of fresh fruits. People, young and old, tending to business and pleasure. And soldiers. A dozen on the wall walk and many more in the streets. No signs of siege but for baskets of stones, bolts, and arrows lined up along the base of the wall.
Much guided the wagon along the winding road and into the upper bailey. At the back entry to the constables’ kitchens, he pulled up on the reins. Flies feasted on rotted meat and discarded entrails overflowed from a barrel there. Robin’s nose wrinkled at the stench.
Much jumped down. “C’mon, then,” he said when Robin didn’t move. “Grab a sack and follow me.”
The sack was the size of a large child weighing down on Robin’s back, near three stone. They trudged through the kitchen to the pantry. Not far, but moisture dampened Robin’s brow. Much sweated like a pig, more from Robin’s presence than the work. Much knew the routine, but followed Joseph the clerk like a puppy. Joseph asked after Much’s father, and then pointed. “Stack it there.” One brow raised, he asked, “Have you met Leena?”
Much tossed the sack down, stepped aside so Robin could stack his, and shook his head.
“Newly come from Southwell. Worked at the archbishop’s manor.” Joseph clucked his tongue irritably. “Constable has eyes for the pretty thing.”
Much elbowed Robin. “Stay away.”
Robin winked at Much. He followed him back to the wagon for two more loads. By that time, Joseph had tired of their company and left them to finish their work. On the fourth trip, Much gestured towards the passage to the underground chambers.
“Thank you.” Robin dug into his purse and handed him a coin.
“There’s no need for—”
“Look closely.”
Much eyed the silver in his hand. “Hard to help the poor with this.” The token was rounded like a penny, rough-edged, but imprinted with the head of a falcon.
“Certain people will know it signals a friend.”
“Let’s hope this friend is not caught for treason,” Much said.
Robin clasped his arm and then slipped into the shadows.
*
Much avoided any additional attention from Joseph, but his eyes locked on the girl from Southwell. Not only was Leena pretty, she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. Her dark brown hair was braided and wrapped round her head. He imagined it fell to her waist and was soft like a feather. No wonder she’d attracted the constable’s interest. Everyone in Nottingham knew the man was known for his taste in young women. It was said he confessed daily. Dozens of Pater Nosters and a few coins in the priests’ hands did wonders for forgiveness.
Much wanted to introduce himself to Leena despite Joseph’s warning. But he needed to avoid questions about Robin—his missing companion.
Smiling at her, he bowed slightly at the waist and tipped his head. When she smiled back, he knew he must find a way to speak to her. Up close, she looked more beautiful. Her lips full, her skin pale in the torchlight of the kitchens. She had a smallish nose and dimpled cheeks. Her eyes—
“Careful with this now,” the cook said interrupting Much’s musing.
Leena turned before he got a look at her eyes. Sighing, he envied the tray she held in her strong hands. Cook lined the platter with biscuits, cheeses, and a fresh jug of wine. “Constable’s special brand,” he told her.
Much moved slowly towards the door. He wanted to stay, wanted to hear her speak. Her voice had to be as lovely as she herself. Much sighed again. His work was done. He couldn’t dally any longer without questions raised. He looked back at Leena one last time. Oh, to see her with sunlight on her face, to be close enough to melt into her eyes. He was certain they must be blue, because every pretty girl he’d known had blue eyes. He climbed aboard his wagon and decided that even if her eyes were dark like coal, he’d still like her.
*
The lighting grew dim as Robin moved away from the main passage seeking the third alcove. He felt along the rough stone walls. Mice scattered beneath his feet. He found the doorway and pushed into the stairwell. If he hadn’t known there was a chamber ahead, he’d feel lost.
At the bottom of the stairs a gust of cool air struck his face. The chamber was darker than a forest on a moonless night. Robin inched along the wall. His boot hit something solid with a soft thud. A chest. He pulled a candle and flint from his pouch. On his second attempt, the flint sparked against the iron bindings of the chest. The candle sputtered in the drafty passage and threw his shadow on the wall. Holding the light out, he inspected his surroundings and stepped deeper into the chamber.
He didn’t know what he felt, other than the rapid beat of his heart. He had known what he would find here, but seeing the wealth of provisions—weapons, food, barrels of Greek fire—brought home the danger.
Twelve years serving Richard had hardened him for war, but it had not prepared him for its impact on those closest to him. Marian and Robert, his family in Ringsthorpe. So many innocent people would suffer and lives could be lost. How could he protect them against what might come?
Marian had just laid out a fresh cover on the bed in Henry’s bedchamber when she heard the clatter of horse hoofs outside.
“The master is back,” Sarah called from the bottom of the stairs.
Marian set a new candle on the coffer and placed dried rose petals with sprigs of holly leaves on a silver plate. She took one last look around the chamber, straightened a bolster on the bed, and then joined Cecili and the others in the hall to greet Master Edward.
Little David had been crawling on the floor. Cecili dusted him off and planted him on her hip. Tapping his nose, she said, “You must look good for your grandsire.”
“Mama,” David burbled.
“We shall see her in a few days, little one,” Cecili said.
Mary pinched David’s cheek for good measure. “The master would be pleased to see his only grandson even if he’d rolled through the mud.”
The ladies laughed, but Sarah didn’t join in. “Allan did not ride in with the master.” Worry tinged her voice. “He told me he would be back today.”
Marian fought back a wave of dread. Robin had said they were involved in dangerous business with some enemies unknown. What if Allan… No, she thought. He just went to market day.
“Mayhap he had other business in Grantham,” Marian said, though she couldn’t imagine what that might be unless Robin had asked something of him. She looked at Sarah. “And the day has not yet ended. He is fine. Just delayed.”
Mary smoothed her skirt, fiddled with the rolled vellum in her hands. “We’ve not time to worry over the young squire, so just put your mind to your work. We’ve too much to do ere his lordship’s guest arrives. Soon as the master is in, I shall need your help in the kitchen.”
The door opened and Hugh held it as Edward strode inside. The ladies curtsied. “Welcome home, my lord,” Mary said, handing him the message that had been delivered mid-morning.
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Edward broke the seal and read the words on the vellum. He looked at Mary. “The lord sheriff will arrive by midday.”
Mary nodded. “So his messenger informed us, my lord.”
Mary listed off the preparations for de Camville’s visit. Ruffling David’s hair, Edward appeared to half-listen. He turned for the stairs and uttered an exasperated sound. “Prepare for a long evening.”
That it will be, Marian thought. Gerard de Camville’s visits weren’t out of the ordinary. Once a month he arrived to share a meal and good wine with Master Edward. Her heart hammered. De Camville and his lady wife had openly supported Count John during the siege of Lincoln two years past. Thank the good Lord that Master Henry was away. And Robin. She clutched her hand to her chest.
“What? No!” Sarah’s voice.
Marian startled, noticing the others had slipped away and she was alone in the hall but for Cecili and David. Cecili looked alarmed, her gaze focused on the outburst from the kitchen. David, who had wiggled from the nurse’s arms, hung at Marian’s skirts and whimpered. Cecili lifted him gently. Marian left her to tend to the babe and followed the voices.
In the kitchen, Sarah’s eyes glistened with tears.
“Allan told Master Edward there were two thieves,” Hugh was saying. “They’ve not caught either one.”
“But Allan will be all right?” Sarah asked.
“Calm down, girl,” Mary said impatiently. She turned to Hugh. “Where is the young squire now?”
“The monks are caring for him. With that blade to the gut he won’t be fit to travel for three, mayhap four days.” Hugh shot a glance towards the hall and lowered his voice. “The master does not believe it was common robbers. I heard him speaking with the prior before we left.” Hugh looked at Marian worriedly. “Whoever attacked Allan knew he was a king’s man. Like our young master and his friends.”
Marian felt like a lump of coal had settled in her stomach.
Sarah paled and Mary pulled her into her arms. “We are all in the Lord’s hands. All we can do is pray.” She stroked Sarah’s back. “Now, go. Bring up more water from the well. We’ll need it for the sheriff’s bath.”
For King and Country (Battle Scars Book 2) Page 22