For King and Country (Battle Scars Book 2)

by Charlene Newcomb

  Lost in thought, Marian heard Hugh open the door to the undercroft to retrieve the tub. Mary was whispering a prayer, but Marian had to do more than pray. She clenched and unclenched her fist. The king’s enemies had attacked Allan. Robin needed to know. As did Master Henry. But how? She had no way to contact Robin.

  Hugh grunted as he pushed the barrel tub up the stairs.

  Hugh! He would accompany Cecili and David to Cartholme in a day or two. With luck, Master Henry would still be there and not yet on his way to Yorkshire with Sir Stephan. Hugh would tell him—the knights would surely want to know. Then Henry could get word to Robin.

  “Find the rose-scented soap, Marian,” Mary said, interrupting her thoughts.

  Sheriff de Camville’s favorite, Marian remembered with a crooked smile. Count John’s man, here, tonight.

  “Mary,” she said, “poor Sarah is in such a state with this news of Allan. I will help with her duties tonight.” Marian hoped the wine would flow. And the tongues. She would be listening to every word.

  Henry looked up from Odo’s ledgers when Stephan appeared at the door. “Where have you been?” His voice sounded harsh, but he had been worried. Stephan had been missing for hours.

  Stephan wiped sweat from his dirt-smeared brow. “Loading barrels onto wagons headed to Nottingham. Making the acquaintance of one Adam Maes.”

  “So you’ve a job to transport John’s Greek fire,” Henry said.

  Eyes narrowed, Odo looked between the two younger men. “I warned you about the foreman. Is there no other way?”

  Stephan straddled a bench by the window and let the warm afternoon breeze brush his face. He closed his eyes a moment, one finger tapping the sill to the steady clunk of the looms. Stretching, he rubbed the stiffness from his arms. “I won’t be guarding their contraband, but I’ve a message to deliver to the Sheriff of York.” He pointed to his head. “Midsummer’s day. Our friend. The appointed place.”

  Stephan wouldn’t have questioned the meaning of the message so there was little to go on. Midsummer was only a few weeks away. That gave them time to watch the enemy, assuming the Sheriff of York did not kill the messenger. Henry banished that thought. “Our friend,” he said, repeating the message Stephan had committed to memory. “Count John?”

  Stephan shrugged. “If not him, then someone in his inner circle.”

  Despite the truce between John and the royalists, the subterfuge went on. Just as the provisions grew for John’s castles. For war.

  Odo cleared his throat. “There are always rumors that the king’s brother has been seen in Boston or Hull, and he has friends in Wales. He might skulk in through any port. Any one might be your appointed place, but gossip flows round here quick as a man’s piss. I would know had he been in Boston.”

  Henry nodded thoughtfully. Hull would place John in easy reach of his castles at Tickhill and Nottingham. If John came with French silver, he could buy support anywhere. It was unlikely that King Richard would be freed from his German prison before the truce ended on All Saints Day. John was plotting something, there was no doubt about that in Henry’s mind. Was he meeting with his vassals on midsummer’s day to prepare for war?

  “Keep a good watch and let Henry know if you learn anything,” Stephan said and turned to Henry with a grin. “It won’t surprise you to hear that Maes’ bookkeeper friend knew of my betrothal to Bea. I mentioned the lady and I had argued. Can you imagine Edric Weston’s face when he gets that news?”

  Perfect, Henry thought. The bastard would believe he had the upper hand in his plot to oust Stephan.

  Odo blinked, looking thoroughly confused. “You’re to marry the Lady Beatrice? What’s Edric Weston to do with this?”

  “The man is enamored of the Lady Bea. He took an instant dislike to me,” Stephan said, knowing neither he nor Henry had any desire to delve into the story. “But no matter, I do not believe Bea will have me after our argument.”

  Odo looked from Stephan to Henry. “Is that not for a higher authority to decide?”

  “Come, Odo,” Henry teased. “You know Bea better than that.”

  Henry and Stephan laughed, and Odo joined in, nervously.

  “We’re off. Be well, Odo.”

  “And,” Stephan added, “if you hear talk of my actions…”

  Odo nodded. “I know you are true to Henry. To the king.” His brow drew up beneath his grey-streaked hair. “But should anyone ask, I shall lie, and then say two Pater Nosters.”

  Elle walked from Cartholme’s chapel across the courtyard towards the stone arcades outside the great hall. Lady Bea’s maid Agnes hobbled arm-in-arm alongside Seilda, her hair not yet as silvery as the older woman’s.

  Since arriving the day before, Elle had no time to herself. None with Little John. She’d suffered beneath Bea’s careful watch and tried not to have her eyes stray in the aisled hall when servants set out a late day meal for them. Little John had not been invited to sit. Bea had decided that he should assist her servants. After all, the squire’s place was to serve, not to dine with the lady of the manor. Little John stood behind Elle. It was only when he poured the wine that she could see him.

  Now, with the sun wonderfully warm on her face, Elle didn’t complain of the maids’ sluggish pace. But the chance to look for Little John was about to end. Holding the door for the maids, she twisted like a snared animal, still scrutinizing the yard. Little John would not escape her notice. He was bigger and stood a head taller than any man at the manor. But he was nowhere to be seen. She heaved a sigh and trailed inside after the women. Bea expected her in the solar. Embroidery and Latin lessons. Mother Mary be with me. She wished to be in Little John’s company. She missed the conversation they’d shared on the road. Stallions, Outremer, wide seas, and pirates.

  She started across the room to follow the women up the stone tower’s circular stairwell. Pallets were stacked against the far wall, but the trestles had not been set out. The house servants would do that soon, she thought, when the scent of foods from the ovens tickled her nose. Her eyes brightened. She rushed to Agnes’ side and pleaded, “I shall starve waiting hours to eat. Surely cook will give me bread and cheese.”

  Seilda laughed and shooed her towards the passageway that led to the kitchen. As soon as the two maids disappeared up the stairs, Elle glanced outside one last time. Villeins filed into a barn near the gate. They carried rakes and spades, having tended the manor’s fields.

  Finally, there, coming from the smith’s. Little John. She hurried out the door to meet him. Her boots crunched on the gravel, but he hadn’t heard her and had leaned on the fence to watch the horses.

  “I have forgotten four again,” she called.

  He turned to her, a smile spreading across his face.

  Elle feigned a remorseful look and started to count before he could properly greet her. “Wahid, ithnain, thalatha, khemsa, sitaa—”

  “You are cheating. You cannot skip four.” Little John paused a moment, and added, “My lady.” He chuckled.

  “Will you smack my hand like my Latin tutor? That man was a strict task-master.”

  “He hit you?”

  As if on cue, the blacksmith’s hammer slammed down at his forge. The noise startled them both, but they laughed. Elle watched a groom guide one of the animals through its paces. The black stallion bucked and swished his tail. He didn’t like lessons either.

  “Did you never get a switch during lessons?” she asked.

  Little John looked away. When he didn’t respond, she tilted his face to hers. Blushing cheeks, close-cropped beard. It was a handsome face full of strength, yet so vulnerable. “John, tell me.”

  “I ne’er had any real lessons.”

  “But you know your letters and music, and Arabic.”

  “I knew none of that until Sir Stephan took me as his servant. And it was Queen Joanna who made sure Allan and me learned Latin and history, even dancing. What other learning I had was from the streets of London.”

  Elle laid
her hand on his. “Is that why you are embarrassed?”

  “I know you would not look down on me, but my childhood was nothing like yours. I do not know where I was born. I cannot remember my father. I met Allan in London right after my ma disappeared when I was eight. We stole what we needed to survive.”

  A noise by the stable door made Elle turn. A man in dark chausses and a light brown tunic was watching them. Caught, he hastily entered the stables.

  “Bea’s spies.” Elle pressed her lips together. “I almost feel like a prisoner here. She wants what is best for me, but God forgive me if I cannot be the sister, the wife, that others desire me to be. Why must I do what they want? Look at Poor Amicia.” She tightened her grip on Little John, looked into his eyes. “My brother has no excuse for his behavior. You may have been a thief, but you had good reason. And I know you have a kind heart, just as Sir Stephan must have seen.” She twined her hand into his and he held onto her gently, his touch heating her blood.

  “Lady Elle!” It was Seilda, cutting a path across the sward towards them. “You are keeping Lady Cartholme waiting."

  Little John stole his hand away before Seilda drew too close. “We must heed Sir Henry’s warning.”

  Elle sighed, her heart calming. “But you were only teaching me Arabic.”

  Little John winked. “Arbaa. Four.”

  “Arbaa.” She smiled and then looked over her shoulder at the maid. “I shall be there in a moment.”

  Seilda huffed back to the hall.

  “Go.” Little John laughed softly. “I will be in enough trouble with Lady Bea for keeping you away from your embroidery and your Latin.”

  Elle hurried inside. Upstairs in the solar, Bea stood by the arrow-slit window. Elle smoothed her skirt, tucked loose strands of hair behind her ears, but Bea didn’t turn. She’d probably seen Elle with Little John at the stables.

  “You sound like a soldier running up the stairs.”

  Elle stared at her boots. She loved the rich, embossed leather, specially made for her by a bootmaker she had met in Grantham one market day. “Two silver pennies,” he’d said. She wore them proudly. They were so much better for riding than the elegant goatskin shoes tucked into the cupboard in her bedchamber.

  “I shall try to be quieter next time.” Elle cleared her throat. “I am sorry to be late. John was teaching me Arabic. We’d gone to check on the horses.”

  “I do not think you’ll find need for that language in England. And I have grooms and stable boys to tend the stallions.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Call me Bea when we are here alone.” She sat down by the window and picked up her embroidery. Her eyes met Elle’s. “I must insist that you not keep Little John’s company unless you are with me. It is not proper.”

  Elle held her hands stiffly at her side. “You sound just like my brother.”

  “You must remember you are here because you’re to be betrothed to Henry.”

  “Not likely,” Elle muttered under her breath.

  “What was that?”

  Elle shook her head and plopped down across from Bea. She ignored the frown on Bea’s face and gazed outside. Even through the narrow window slits she could see the brilliant blue of the sky. A bird glided past with outstretched wings. If only I were free like the hawk…

  She sighed. “Must we sit inside? Surely we can embroider out in the garden. The light is so much better there.” Jumping from her chair, she practically lunged at the window. Her long braids dangled against the grey stone of the embrasure. “When will you show me the rest of your estate?” She turned, hoping Bea might see the pleading in her eyes.

  Bea looked past her and Elle could see her relax.

  “You are right,” Bea said, standing. “There will be time for lessons when the weather keeps us inside. Let’s enjoy the sunshine.”

  Elle wrapped her arms around Bea. She grabbed the hoop and needle from her hand, and set it on the chest. “Hurry! Let’s go,” she cried, tugging Bea towards the door.

  “Calm down, Elle. The sun will stay a while.”

  *

  Bea brushed her fingers on stalks bursting with lavender as Elle led them along a path curling through Cartholme’s well-tended gardens. An alcove sheltered beneath limbs of giant oaks beckoned them. Feather-stuffed cushions topped stone benches carved with intricate designs of foxes and deer.

  Bea loved this place. Glancing back at the tower, she turned melancholy. “I miss my son.”

  “He shall be here on the morrow,” Elle said, knowing Bea had sent word to Greyton. Hugh would bring him along with his nurse.

  Bea stared at the green and gold standard rippling in the breeze above the turret. “My late husband had such pride in Cartholme. I think this was the only thing he loved.” Her voice cracked. She stared at her hands, twisting the emerald ring her father had given her as a wedding gift. When she’d lost hope in her loveless marriage, it took her back to Greyton. When her husband hurt her, she looked to the good things—her son and this land. The stallions. Those thoughts allowed her peace.

  “Guillaume’s family was granted this land by King William.” She told Elle of the construction of the stone tower, added when her late husband was a young child. When talk turned to the magnificent horses they bred, her mood brightened, which led her back to the subject of her brother. “Henry and I would race along Ermine. My mother hated it. Always worried I would fall, dreading someone might see me so competitive when I should be sitting demurely inside the hall doing my embroidery. Guillaume did not seem to mind.”

  Elle laughed. “You and I are alike in so many ways.”

  It was just what Bea wanted to hear. “And because of that, you will be a perfect wife for Henry.”

  Elle’s shoulders sagged. “Why must you ruin a perfectly lovely day by bringing that up?”

  “You like him, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course. At least what I know of him after four days. That does not mean I wish to marry him. Besides,” she said, looking hard at Bea, “he is in love with someone else.”

  Bea bristled. Henry would come to his senses, put behind these unnatural urges. “That matters not. We must all do our duty.”

  “Duty? I—we must both consent to this arrangement. And what about love?” Elle was on her feet now, pacing, kicking up pebbles and dirt. “Does my happiness count for naught?” She stopped, glaring at Bea defiantly. “You have not heard one thing Henry has said. Nothing that I say. Can you not see how Henry and Stephan care for each other?”

  Bea’s face heated as if the fires of Hell dragged her towards Henry’s fate. “That is not love.”

  “Then you must be blind, my lady.” Elle huffed out of the alcove.

  Bea stared after the girl. Tears pooled in her eyes and she buried her face in her hands. No, she wasn’t blind. Henry had changed. His eyes masked pain, but not all the time. She’d seen how he looked at Stephan. Oh, God—such joy. Was that love? Why did she feel a pang of jealousy that she’d not found that with her own husband?

  Muffled shouting broke her reverie. It took her a moment to realize the sounds she heard were dozens of boots pounding the stones in the courtyard. Her steward’s voice rang out above the noise. Turning, she gasped. Flames shot above the garden wall. The chapel bell began to peal.

  Fire!

  Villeins rushed in from the fields. The blacksmith, servants from the house, and a dozen others passed one bucket after another from the well to douse the flames. Elle handed an empty pail to the man behind her.

  Little John stood at the head of the line. “Faster! Move!”

  “Where’s Tanner?” someone shouted.

  Elle couldn’t hear a response above the noise. Heat struck her like the blast of the smith’s furnace.

  Bea bolted into the courtyard, eyes filled with horror. “How did this happen?” She caught the steward’s arm. “How?”

  Two villagers rolled barrels from a burning building, coughing, ash streaking their faces. The steward
didn’t answer, hurrying to help the men. “Tanner,” one of them pointed back at the shop. Consumed in flames, its thatched roof burst with hot oranges and yellows stabbing the bluest of skies.

  “Help him!” a female voice cried. A barrel appeared through the thick black smoke. A few steps behind, Tanner pushed a second one clear and collapsed. Two men dragged him away from the blaze. Tanner turned, looking back, shouting, “It’s lost, all lost.” A loud crackle and a whoosh! accompanied his curse. The roof caved in.

  Elle saw the frantic look on Bea’s face, followed her gaze from the fires to the house. Thank God, little David was in Greyton, safe with her father. But the danger was great. Every structure enclosing the courtyard was timber except for the manor house. Cottages and shops were clustered, not a breadth of a finger’s width between them. The stables… It was frightening to think that fire could consume them all.

  A gust of wind kicked up and fanned sparks.

  “There!” Elle shouted, directing villeins to ash nesting on the cooper’s workshop.

  Bea joined the bucket line, passing water to the woman in front of her. Men scrambled with blankets and more water to contain the fires. Too late. With an armful of tools in his arms, Cooper stared at smoke curling into the sky.

  Sweat stung Elle’s eyes. She worked as hard as anyone on the bucket line. Her arms and shoulders ached. When the wind died down and a cheer rose she was glad for one moment’s rest.

  Across the yard, a man hurried towards the stables. She’d seen him when she’d spoken with Little John.

  “My lady.” The girl behind Elle held a bucket out. Elle took it, passed it on, but then struck out from the line.

  “Elle,” Little John shouted. “What are you…” His voice was lost amongst villagers’ prayers, curses, and efforts on the water lines.

  As Elle approached the stables, the horses neighed, agitated. She threw open the door. Torch in one hand, the man in the brown tunic stared at her. Flames rose from one of the empty stalls behind him. But the building held more than a dozen horses. The animals tossed their heads, throwing shadows against the wall.