For King and Country (Battle Scars Book 2)

by Charlene Newcomb

  At the door, Gil cleared his throat. “Is there a need for me to be jealous of my brother again?”

  Stephan laughed. “Not at all.”

  Gil strode across the room. “Still, I am glad you are leaving and I shall have the Lady Bea to myself.”

  Bea smiled coyly. Stephan still could not get over this turn of events. His brother and Henry’s sister? Might something truly come of this?

  Gil turned to Stephan. “Your squire is awake and being fed in the kitchen. Horses are being saddled.”

  David started to babble and reached for the bread again.

  “And your nurse…” Gil pointed towards the door.

  Cecili smiled. “My lady, shall I take the babe?”

  Bea cuddled David, planting kisses from his forehead to the tip of his nose. Waving Cecili to her side, she said, “Someone has wet braies.”

  “I shall see that Master David is cleaned up right away, my lady.”

  When Cecili had departed, Gil placed the writing tools on the trestle and helped Bea to sit. “What do you need from me?” he asked Stephan.

  “Nothing more than your loyalty to King Richard. When the time comes, he will call upon you.”

  “And I swear I will answer. You have my word.” Gil held his hand out. Stephan clasped it, his grip strong. Gil pulled him close and pounded his back.

  Stephan wished he could re-live the past, take back all the ill will that had passed between them. He’d not get those years back, but now he held his brother knowing friendship was theirs for the first time in his life.

  Choking back a breath, Stephan released his hold on Gil. “Bring me those letters. I’ll inform Lord de Grey that his daughter is in good hands.”

  Bea rested her hand on his arm. “Dear Stephan, I wish you to know my heart.” Her voice was thick with emotion, her eyes glistening. “Tell Henry he will find an ally in me should Father try to marry him off. Tell him I love him.”

  If Bea had been standing, Stephan would have picked her up and twirled her around the room. He had to satisfy himself with another kiss. “I will,” he said, leaning down to brush her cheek. Smiling and bowing to them both, he stepped with an enthusiastic stride out of the solar.

  Within the hour, they said their good-byes. Little John mounted his horse, eyes riveted on Elle. She ran up to him. He leaned down to kiss her, felt a tear dampen his cheek, and began to thumb it away. Elle took his hand, a low sob escaping her lips. She kissed his palm, and then untied a ribbon from her hair. She dried her stray tears with the blue silk, pressed her lips to it. Her hand slid behind Little John’s neck as she pushed the cloth into his palm. “Remember me.”

  “Always.” He ran his fingers into her hair and kissed her again. “I will see you again.”

  Stephan watched them with an ache in his heart. He knew how they felt, but there was little he could do. He checked his packs one last time and swung into the saddle, grateful Bea had given them two additional horses for the journey. They’d be able to ride longer and switch out animals, mayhap reach Greyton before sunset on the morrow.

  But before they could turn south, a stop at York Castle was in order. Delivering Adam Maes’ message about midsummer’s day to Sheriff Bardolf was Stephan’s first step towards gaining Maes’ trust.

  *

  Stephan knew he reeked of sweat and the dust of the road. He’d taken care to smudge his face with dirt to compliment the smell. None would have questioned he’d been on the road, slept out of doors. There was no sign of Sir Stephan, knight of the realm.

  A sergeant at the great hall asked his business.

  “I bear a message for Sheriff Bardolf from Master Maes. In Boston,” Stephan added after a thought.

  The guard looked annoyed at his presence, scrutinized him head to foot. Guards had removed his long blade and the dagger in his boot. His sword was in Little John’s hands, outside York’s gates. No need for both of them to be trapped should Bardolf choose to hold him.

  A large procession barged like a battering ram into the high-ceilinged room. The sergeant pressed Stephan back with his lance. “Stand aside,” he said, his voice gruff.

  Scribes taking notes, two churchmen in long flowing robes, four nobles and a score of knights encircled a man in an ermine cap. The Sheriff of Yorkshire. His gritty voice carried above their scuffling shoes and clacking spurs.

  The sergeant approached one of the knights. Stephan couldn’t hear them, but from the tilt of the man’s head, he knew he was the topic of their conversation. The knight drew up beside Bardolf, who stopped in his tracks. Where no one took notice of Stephan before, all eyes turned on him. A moment later and none too pleased, the entourage withdrew. Bardolf strode through the grand oaken doors at the far end of the room, and a few moments later two knights escorted Stephan to meet him. Apparently Maes’ name meant something.

  Two guards flanked either side of the door in the well-appointed office. A clerk looked up from a corner desk and a page stood ready by a large coffer. Window slits let in light and Stephan could see the bailey and the timber keep atop the motte.

  Stephan bowed. “My lord sheriff. I am Stephan l’Aigle.”

  Bardolf looked dwarfed by the huge oak desk. He glanced towards the window. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

  “My lord?”

  “The keep. I saw it captured your eye as you came in. It was rebuilt after the Jews set fire to an earlier, smaller one.” Bardolf pressed his thin lips in a hard line and his upturned nose twitched. “Before my time.”

  Stephan had been in Southampton when word of the York massacre spread across England three years past. He’d heard the debates about whether the Jews or riotous mobs started the fire, but the fact remained: one hundred and fifty Jews had died, and more at other anti-Jewish risings in the country.

  Stephan nodded. “You were with the king on the way to Tours.”

  Bardolf narrowed his grey-green cat eyes. “You were there?”

  “With the Anglo-Normans.”

  “Odd your brother never mentioned that.”

  “He’s not been much of family to me, my lord.” Stephan tugged at the tattered hem of his tunic. He didn’t want to tell Bardolf more than he needed to know. “I remember you returned to England whilst the army wintered in Messina.”

  Bardolf looked at Stephan’s filthy clothes. He’d no reason to suspect Stephan’s place in the king’s mesnie. “So I did,” Bardolf said. “And now you stand here with word from Boston.”

  Stephan was ready to provide details of his employment with Maes if asked. As luck would have it, the sheriff wanted the message and no more. “Well?” he asked.

  Stephan flicked a glance at the guards. Relaxed. Good. Seated behind his desk, Bardolf was in easy reach if this did not go well. Three steps forward and Stephan could seize the man as a hostage.

  He held Bardolf’s gaze. “Midsummer’s day. Our friend. The appointed place.” Straightening his back under Bardolf’s scrutiny he added, “It’s rather cryptic, my lord sheriff, but that’s all I was told.”

  “You aren’t meant to understand it.” Bardolf’s tone was condescending, but Stephan pretended not to notice. He had no desire to provoke the sheriff. He planned to leave York in one piece.

  “Would you have a reply, my lord?” With his guileless and probably witless face in Bardolf’s eyes, Stephan could play the ignorant little messenger boy. Behind him, the guards remained attentive but unmoving. Stephan shuffled his feet.

  Bardolf drummed his fingers on the desk, looking irritated. John’s vassal or not, his position as sheriff was tenuous. The corners of his mouth drooped. “Message received. I’ll see to it.” He shrugged off a hint of tension and looked at his clerk. “Pay this messenger that he might quench his thirst, wash his face, and be on the road.”

  The clerk retrieved two pennies from a latched box on his desk and handed them to Stephan.

  “You’re most generous. Thank you, my lord,” Stephan said and then hurried past the guards, through the hall, and
out into the bailey. He gathered his weapons and made haste for the city gates, all the while watching his back.

  Streams flush from spring rains, woodland, and villages crisscrossed the verdant Yorkshire countryside. Stephan and Little John rode hard, galloping south with only an occasional look back.

  “How do you do it?” Little John asked when they’d slowed to rest the horses. His gloomy expression was made more profound by his dark hair and eyes. He was missing Elle.

  “Say good-bye?” Stephan glanced sidelong at him. “We don’t.”

  “But you’ve no idea if…when you’ll see Sir Henry again.”

  Vivid memories of Henry’s near death at Arsuf flashed through Stephan’s mind. That was long before they’d become lovers. Yet even then he’d known. Something about facing the enemy made him find joy in every day he and Henry had together.

  Stephan closed his eyes letting Lune keep them on the road. Though he fought to keep the image away, a picture of Henry holding Bea’s son flashed through his mind. Henry would be a good father. Stephan’s eyes flew open. How can I deny him that?

  “Sir?”

  Little John’s voice sounded far away and it took Stephan a moment to find his thoughts. “We’ve not been apart this long since Bavaria. I don’t like it. But we did not say good-bye, then or now. He is here with me.” He placed his hand to his heart, pressed back the conflicting emotions settling deep in his craw. “I have to hold onto that.”

  Stephan pointed to a stream and they reined in to let the horses drink. He dug into his pack and tossed Little John a piece of dried meat.

  “I do not know if I can do that. Should I even dream I might take Elle for my wife?” Little John asked.

  “I’d say there’s a better chance for you to marry her than of me marrying Henry. Not even Allan would offer a bet on that one.”

  Little John dropped his head, grimacing. “Oh, God, how could I say that when you…Henry… God, I am so selfish.”

  Stephan swung about to face him. “No you’re not. You are in love.” He paused, gave him a reassuring look, and smiled. “For you it could happen. It is not a choice for me. I must be happy with my dreams.” Birds warbling in the trees barely hid the heartache in Stephan’s voice.

  Little John studied him and after a few moments broke the silence. “Elle’s brother will never agree to a marriage.”

  “He might.” When Little John’s brow rose, Stephan added, “Edric Weston is trying to blackmail me, but I can just as easily turn the tables on him. When the king returns, he will learn Edric has supported Count John unless…”

  “Unless you stand for him and ask the king to pardon his misguided ways,” Little John finished.

  Stephan stroked Lune’s neck with a smug look on his face. “That might be all we need to have him agree to your proposal.”

  Little John smiled for the first time that day.

  Hours later, they came upon an old stone marker for Tickhill. Robin had planned to scout the castle there after he’d made his inquiries in Nottingham, but they’d made no plans to rendezvous. Darkness was settling on the wood, and a few miles further south, Stephan led them off the road where they found a place to roll out their blankets.

  The next morning a soft drizzle danced through the tree canopy. Stephan wiped the moisture from his face and sat up. Gray clouds hid the sun, but it was light enough that the oaks they’d camped under showed distinct personalities. Huge gnarled limbs creaked above their heads; lower limbs swayed reaching for them. Massive trunks might swallow them whole.

  Stephan tapped Little John’s arm. “We should get on the road.”

  Little John rolled over and stretched, staring at one of the horses. He jumped up from his bedroll to check the animal.

  Stephan rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “What’s wrong?” He reached for his wineskin hoping to rid his mouth of the dry, nasty taste left from the night’s sleep.

  Little John stroked the animal’s haunches, down his leg. He whispered soothing words as he lifted the hoof. “He’s thrown a shoe.”

  Stephan frowned. He certainly wouldn’t abandon the stallion to the wood. Bea would be livid, and he’d not want to face her with that news. As it stood, he’d not even consider it an option, not with Tickhill so close. It was a good three miles back, and meant more time lost. But that would be nothing compared to riding south with the animal on a lead.

  Sighing, he stood and grabbed a saddle. “Pack up the camp and wait here. I’ll take Berry into the village we passed just outside Tickhill. No need to run all the horses there and back. I’ll leave him with a smith there.”

  “Why not wait?”

  “That would put us another day from Greyton. We’ll send one of Henry’s servants to retrieve him.” Stephan tossed the saddle on to Bruni’s back. He’d leave Lune fresh for the long ride to Greyton.

  Little John chuckled. “Anxious to see someone?”

  The squire always had a talent for knowing Stephan’s moods. He ignored the question, ducking to tighten the cinch. Grasping both animals’ reins, he led them through the thick underbrush.

  At the side of the road, Little John stroked Bruni’s neck as Stephan mounted. “Should I come looking for you if you’re not back when the sun is straight overhead?”

  Stephan shrugged. “It’s a village near Tickhill. What could happen?” With a salute, he turned north.

  *

  What indeed? Stephan thought. An apprentice, a short fellow with bulging muscles over every inch of his tanned torso, led Stephan to the forge. The shop was barely a stone’s throw from the walls of Tickhill Castle. The keep rose ominously, deep grey against a charcoal sky. That, or the blast of heat from the furnace, made Stephan sweat. Or was it the whispered words between the smith and his helper?

  The blacksmith pulled a white hot length of metal from the fire and plunged it into a pot of water. The rod sizzled and he said something meant only for the younger man’s ears.

  Stephan sidestepped to avoid being plowed down by the departing apprentice.

  “Your horse lost a shoe?” The blacksmith lifted the rod and angled it toward Stephan.

  Smoke stung Stephan’s eyes. He took a step back from the heat. “We rode from near York yesterday. Pushed him a bit hard.”

  “In a rush, are you? Let’s take a look.”

  Outside, the man’s eyes lit when he saw the two fine animals. He studied Stephan with a frown, but bent down quickly to check Berry’s leg. Then he lifted the shoeless hoof, carefully removing caked mud. He glanced at Stephan again.

  “Is there something wrong?” Stephan shifted uncomfortably. “He just needs a new shoe fitted, or do you see another problem?”

  “Only the shoe. Not a hard job, but I’ve an order from the constable I must finish. There’s a tavern just a few doors down. I’ll send for you when it’s done.”

  “I must get to Greyton today.”

  The smith straightened and stretched. “You’ve a long way yet to ride.”

  Men often eyed Stephan from head to toe for other reasons, but he did not care for the way the smith looked him over. Suspicion was written on the man’s face. He could hear him thinking that only nobles had such fine horses. Stephan looked more like a tradesman in his ordinary dress.

  Stephan glanced up the road. “Lord de Grey will send someone back for the animal on the morrow.”

  “Will he?” The blacksmith turned without a care, retrieving the rod he’d set against the door. “Where did you get these horses?”

  Stephan eyed the rod, eyed Bruni a few steps away. “From Lady Beatrice of Cartholme.”

  The smith tapped the rod on the ground. “Thought you said you were in York.”

  Stephan shifted towards Bruni. “I accompanied the Lady Cartholme to Castle l’Aigle.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t steal these animals when you set fire to her stables?”

  “What?”

  Stephan noticed movement at the stone bridge outside the castle. A constable trotted al
ongside the apprentice and a small crowd had gathered, but parted as they approached.

  “I am a friend of the Lady Cartholme, and of her brother, Henry de Grey.”

  “You’re a smart one.” The smith looked at Stephan wryly. “Most thieves wouldn’t know their prizes had branded hooves. Wouldn’t mention where they’d found them.” He started towards Stephan, holding the rod like a sword.

  The constable and the apprentice picked up their pace.

  Stephan bolted for Bruni. He untied him from the post and whipped into the saddle. Galloping away, he heard their shouts trailing behind him. “Stop that man! Thief!”

  Letting Bruni gallop, Stephan charged through the village. He took the fork on to the Great North Road. Glancing back, he was relieved to see no one on his tail. It would take the villagers a few minutes to saddle their horses, and they would have slow draft animals. The constable would have to go back to the castle to round up men to follow him. Let them think he was a thief. Mayhap they’d assume he’d lied about traveling to Greyton. All the better, for if he were caught it would take days to unravel, to get word to Henry. And it would be a risk to reveal his work for King Richard. Leaning forward in the saddle, he pressed Bruni harder. Tickhill behind him. Nottingham to the south. Both in Count John’s camp.

  A few minutes later he slowed to find the path he and Little John had taken to their campsite. He thought he’d safely escaped, but horse hoofs pounding the road at a hard gallop told a different story.

  Off the road or south? He didn’t want to lead anyone to Little John. But Bruni was lathered and couldn’t run a great distance, not after the pace he’d just put him through. His pursuers had fresh mounts. They’d catch him with minimal effort.

  Stephan had only a moment to decide when he realized that something sounded wrong. He listened, stroked Bruni’s neck. “The hoofbeats. It’s one rider.”

  That, he could manage.

  Stephan pressed his heels to the stallion. He’d have time later to feel insulted that they’d not sent two or three to track him. Glancing back, he saw the rider gaining on him. That was no draft horse.