For King and Country (Battle Scars Book 2)

by Charlene Newcomb

  Delivering the Sheriff of York’s reply to Adam Maes could be dangerous and Stephan had no desire to stay in Boston any longer than necessary. He stroked Lune’s lathered neck thinking he could easily find Maes, but he’d best wait a day to rest up his mount. A hasty retreat would be easier with a fresh horse and under cover of darkness. Sheriff Bardolf hadn’t killed the messenger, but who was to say Maes would not want him permanently silenced.

  Tomorrow night then. He’d still have four days to ride to Hull for the midsummer’s day rendezvous. It was a gamble, but if they’d interpreted the message correctly, he could pick up Count John’s trail there.

  Streets on Boston’s outer edges were bathed in shadows except where a few establishments had opened their doors, spilling light into the warm summer evening. Stephan left Lune in the hands of a young stable boy and found food and drink at a tired-looking tavern nearby. He sat by the door as much for the breeze as for an easy escape. The trestles were as worn as the walls, stained from spills, saturated with smoke, but the roasted fish was passable and the ale more than good. With his belly full, he was about to leave when he spied the approach of a man in exquisite leather boots. A bit fine for a place like this, he thought, and slipped his hand to the hilt of his sword.

  “I thought I knew you.”

  Stephan could not place the voice, but when he looked up he recognized Albin Boneil. The captain of the Goldfinch tipped his head. “Sir Stephan.” His voice was low and sultry. “Shall I guess what business brings you back to Boston? But here?”

  Stephan’s work was his own and he ignored Boneil’s question. “I did not realize you strayed so far from the docks, captain.”

  “You must be trying to avoid certain riffraff,” Boneil said. “But haven’t you missed your quarry?” Boneil flicked his blue eyes at the empty spot on the bench. Stephan invited him to sit with a nod, surprised when Boneil’s hand gripped his shoulder. His golden hair fell across Stephan’s eyes as he sat and Stephan could feel heat radiating off the man. “A good friend runs an establishment next door where I find companionship.” Boneil leaned close, his warm breath touching Stephan’s cheek. “Had I known you would be here…” He laid his hand on Stephan’s thigh beneath the table.

  Three years earlier Stephan would have been looking for a way to escape to a dark, secluded place with someone like Boneil. Was he fooling himself? Never to be in another’s arms. Before Henry, he’d been satisfied to feel blood pour through his veins like fire and then go on his way. Could he have that again?

  Boneil’s large frame kept them in shadows and no one noticed his hand inch up Stephan’s thigh. Stephan’s breath left him. He looked into Boneil’s eyes. He could melt into this man, lose himself in lust. He hadn’t thought another man would ever stir him. But his knees went weak, his skin flushed with desire. Another inch and his cock would swell beneath Boneil’s touch.

  Stephan shivered. No! I love Henry. His hand gripped Boneil’s. “Don’t.” He removed Boneil’s hand.

  “I was mistaken.” Boneil cleared his throat.

  Stephan’s heart began to calm and his mind grew clear. “What did you say about my quarry?”

  *

  Lincoln, not Hull. Good Christ! Count John and two others had disembarked from the Goldfinch shortly after the boat docked around midday. Boneil had overheard John boast about a meeting on the morrow. Then what was happening midsummer’s day, four days hence?

  Stephan paid the stable boy to deliver Bardolf’s reply to Maes and took to the road. No moon, no stars, just the blackest of nights, and then the rain came down in wild torrents that left him soaked to the skin and shivering. What should have been a journey less than four hours took him six. But as the rain stopped and the clouds parted to a bright moon, he saw lights ablaze atop the double mottes of Lincoln Castle.

  It took two silver pennies for Stephan to bribe his way past the guard at the East Gate. The buildings of the inner bailey were darkened, but torchlights flickered from the keep. Count John, a most important guest to Sheriff de Camville, would have been given chambers there.

  Stephan hugged the walls to stay in the shadows and found the entrance into the keep. The ground floor was littered with dozens of sleeping bodies of more knights and retainers than he could count. Snores and slow, steady breathing sounded loud to his ears. Light danced in the stairwell, but no voices drifted from the upper floors.

  Stephan imagined there were secret passages in the keep, but not knowing the layout of the castle was a disadvantage. After considering his options to get close to John and his men, he found his way to the kitchen. Food, drink, and an abundance of servants would be required for the gathering and by the time bells pealed dawn prayers, he had worked himself into a job. The cooks were too tired, the men too grumpy to ask who he was or where he’d come from. He pitched in with the work, carting silver goblets upstairs. When one servant tripped and slammed his head in the stone stairwell, another ordered Stephan to take his place.

  Stephan stepped into the hall at the top of the keep. It was decorated with a woman’s touch. Finely-woven tapestries covered the walls and a rich silk curtain divided the sleeping quarters from the sitting area.

  Another servant nudged Stephan from behind. “Don’t stand round. Pour the wine.”

  Stephan approached the sideboard to fill the goblets, eyes lowered but focused on three men sitting at a cloth-covered dining trestle. Stephan had never met the king’s brother, but he recognized Count John from talk he’d heard. A hint of Queen Eleanor’s eyes, but not a trace of Richard. He was dark and well built, but stocky and short with a princely taste for fine clothes and jewels.

  “Your castellans at Nottingham and Tickhill have been in receipt of war provisions for well over a year, my lord,” de Camville was saying as John picked at a platter overflowing with cheese and golden pasties drizzled with honey. “We’ve little to sustain us here for any length of time.”

  John licked the sweet drippings from his fingers, and then drummed a beat on the tabletop. “The queen’s justiciars know you are my vassal, but you’ve kept your nose to the ground the last two years. They’ve no reason to suspect they’ll have a fight here, and we must continue to throw off the scent until the time is right.”

  “And when is that, my lord prince?” de Camville asked, the webbed lines around his eyes creased with concern.

  “Soon. King Philip and I have an offer for the emperor. When word comes across the Narrow Sea that he will accept our proposal, the first thing my mother’s lap dogs will do is set sieges against us.” John looked more amused than worried, his eyes gleaming as if he held secrets the others could not yet be privy to. “The weapons you need, supplies—all within a day’s ride.”

  Stephan drew in a breath, felt the veins in his neck pulse. John’s dealings with the King of France had taken a darker turn. And if John was preparing for war, Stephan would bet the siege weapons Robin’s father was building in Ringsthorpe would be moved.

  The third man, whose back was to Stephan, straightened in his chair. “An offer, my lord? Then has Richard’s ransom been set?”

  That gritty voice was familiar, but after being in the saddle most of the night, and with barely an hour of sleep, Stephan could not place it. Carefully balancing the wine on a gilded tray, he walked from the sideboard to the trestle and then placed drinks by each man’s trencher. He risked a glance at John’s unidentified companion and his heart froze mid-beat. Good Christ! The Sheriff of Yorkshire. If Hugh Bardolf recognized him, Stephan was in trouble. Averting his face, he returned to his post by the jugs of wine.

  “There has been no formal ransom declaration, but we hear Richard has agreed to one hundred thousand marks, hostages, and knights to assist in the emperor’s plan to invade Sicily.” John swirled the wine in his cup. “But, the queen’s council is unaware King Philip meets the emperor in Vaucouleurs four days hence and will offer to match that and support him against his rebellious barons.”

  “Most tempting,” Bar
dolf said. “And what must the emperor do to have your support?”

  John’s eyes darkened. “Keep Richard in chains for another year, or turn him over to Philip.”

  Smirking, Bardolf fisted his hand round his goblet and squeezed.

  “Philip would kill him,” de Camville stammered.

  John swallowed down a mouthful of wine. He looked between the two men, daring either to object. Stephan kept his gaze blank. Philip’s hatred of King Richard felt like iron chains clamped tight on his neck. John was taking a gamble. Even if their plan worked, he was a fool to think he could trust Philip. With Richard gone, Philip would have a less-seasoned adversary. He would quickly assert his power west and south. The Angevin duchies from Normandy to Aquitaine would fall…and then England.

  “Where will you and King Philip find the coin to—”

  “Truly, Gerard, need you ask?” John sniggered. “How much have you to ship to my mother and her little band of justiciars? Divert that, pay off a tax man here and there. That will be a good start.”

  Bardolf was shaking his head. “That may not be enough. We must raise more.”

  “Agreed, and that is why I will prepare messages for each of my vassals. I shall ask that you and Gerard see them delivered.”

  Bardolf slipped a dagger from his belt and rubbed his thumb along its jewel-encrusted hilt. He stabbed a piece of cheese and twisted the knife in his hand. “I have an idea.”

  John smacked the table. “Then let us hear it,” he said as Bardolf beckoned to one of the servants.

  The young man hurried to Bardolf’s side, nodding as whispered words struck his ear. His eyes darted nervously from the men at the table to Stephan, and then he strode from the room.

  Bardolf downed his drink. Stephan shifted uncomfortably.

  “What is it, Hugh?” John chuckled. “You look like a young boy about to swive his first whore.”

  “More wine,” Bardolf ordered.

  Stephan poured wine for John and de Camville and moved to Bardolf’s side. As he began to pour, four guards stepped into the room, but held by the door. John studied the guards. His eyes narrowed and he turned to Bardolf.

  “Like your brother, Lord John, knights and nobles from good families may be held for ransom,” Bardolf said.

  “What a plan,” John shouted. “We ransom kin of men pledging loyalty to Richard.”

  Bardolf smiled. “And we start right here, my lord prince.” He pointed at Stephan. “Have you met Sir Stephan l’Aigle of Yorkshire? Guards,” he said, turning, “arrest this man.”

  The guards drew their swords. Stephan had nothing but a dagger in his boot, no match for four swords. Pulse racing, he took a step backwards, but his only escape route was past them. The guards advanced. Stephan threw the jug of wine at them, grabbed Bardolf’s chair, and dumped him to the floor.

  “Get that man. Alive,” Bardolf shouted.

  Hoisting the chair, Stephan used it like a shield and charged the door. He bowled into the guards and felled two of them. The others’ blades came at him. He tried to twist out of reach, but one pierced flesh and he cried out. Falling to his knees, he saw the pommel of the second sword aimed at his head just before the world went black.

  *

  Stephan woke in a darkened room, surprised to be on a bed with a thin straw mattress and not on a pile of urine-soaked hay in a dungeon. He was stiff and his arm ached, but someone had tended to his wound and wrapped it with a poultice. Had hours passed? Days?

  I must escape. Warn the queen.

  Sitting up took effort, but he pushed himself upright and placed his feet on the cold stone floor. He felt unsteady and sat a moment, his head heavy. Fever, he wondered? His forehead was cool to the touch, but sweat clung to his face. He swiped at it—not sweat, but blood. And still damp, so only hours had passed. Pressing fingers to his temple, he winced at the tender knot there, and then dabbed the corner of the tattered blanket to his head to clean the cut.

  Moonlight shimmered through the arrow slit window revealing his tunic tossed carelessly atop a wooden chest. Stephan reached for the jug laying beside his clothes, glad to hear the swish of liquid when he picked it up. The scent of wheat and berries struck his nose and he took a swig. The ale soothed his parched throat and he would have swallowed it all, but he needed his wits about him.

  With a stream of curses, he struggled to pull his tunic over his head. The stitches in his arm felt like little knives. He stood slowly and crossed the room, planting each foot carefully to test his strength. The room swayed like he was on the deck of a boat. Grabbing hold of the wall, he closed his eyes to fend off nausea, confused when he heard a sound like the skittering of pebbles. He realized his stomach wasn’t complaining and he did not feel lightheaded. An odd creaking noise swept the room, then a rumble.

  Stephan’s eyes flew open. The room swayed again. Dust and dirt fell from the wooden rafters overhead. Shouts rang out, a bell began to peal, and the castle came alive. Were they under attack?

  Screams echoed through the corridors.

  “Help us!”

  “Dear God!”

  “Christ on the Cross!”

  Loosened rock from the ceiling rained down on him. He covered his head and stumbled to the door to join the chorus of cries. “Get us out of here,” he shouted, tugging on the oaken door as boots pounded the corridor beyond his cell.

  Beneath Stephan’s feet, the room shook and the castle groaned, that sick sound when a siege engine finds its mark and takes down a stone curtain wall. But this was no attack. The earth was shaking!

  Stephan grasped the latch on the door to hold himself steady as the floor rose and rippled. The wall shifted with a jolt. His heart thundered and Henry’s face flashed in his mind. Henry, will I ever see you again?

  “Let me out,” he shouted, beating the door so hard his fist was bloodied.

  A second jerk rattled the room and suddenly, the hinges of the door loosened. Stephan lost his footing and pitched backwards, but his grip on the door was firm and he dragged it down with him. Chunks of rock and wood dropped from the ceiling, striking the floor near his head. Several large pieces landed atop the door, pinning him to the ground. He struggled to lift it, cursing, choking on thick dust. “Agh!” Pain rippled along his arm. The door did not budge.

  In the corridor the screams faded. “Is anyone there?” he shouted. Someone moaned. He heard the distant sound of people fleeing. Tiny pebbles pinged lightly like drops of rain off the floor and the rafters creaked above his head. I must get out of here…

  Stephan bent one leg at the knee, bracing his heel against the floor. The door rose a few inches, shifted slightly. He grabbed its splintered edge and shoved it off his body. Muscles twitching from the effort, he stood to find his breath, and then ran, blood and sweat streaming down his face. The sleeve of his tunic grew dark red, soaked when the stitches broke. A man elbowed past him, smacking his wounded arm. He cringed, ignoring the pain.

  The tremors had stopped, but people swarmed through the great hall. “Hurry,” someone pleaded beside him, “ere the walls tumble down like the Cathedral.” None had forgotten the quake eight years earlier that left the church a heap of rubble.

  Stephan careered into the bailey. He nearly knocked over Sheriff de Camville, who shouted orders, pointing to stonework crumbling atop the keep. Sidestepping, Stephan came face-to-face with Count John. They stared at each other. Recognition lit John’s face. “My lord,” Stephan bowed, and then he ran, John’s curses ringing in his ears. Lost in the crush of hundreds of people, he fled towards the east gate.

  Weeks passed. Summer was long.

  Henry took on more of his father’s work when Edward suffered from too much drink. Daily visits to the villages surrounding Greyton. Market days in Grantham. Manorial courts and weekly trips to Boston and to Cartholme to check on the reconstruction of the stables and workshops. Letters to Bea and Elle. And when his day was done, he would ride out on Soleil to seek the quiet of the greenwood.

 
; Harvest came. Stephan did not.

  What he wouldn’t give for even one word to know his lover was well. Every day Marian or Robert would look to him to see if he had received news from Robin. He hated to disappoint them and could only shake his head.

  He could have commiserated with Marian, but he did not.

  He was alone.

  The nights were the hardest. The drums…Saracen trumpets…the war cries. The sounds haunted him.

  Henry hoped the festive atmosphere of the Michaelmas celebration would take his mind from Stephan. Preparations were underway when he trotted into the courtyard. Reining in by the stable, he soaked in the warmth of the midday sun. The crack of an ax splitting timber made him jump. Soleil shifted restlessly, tossing his head. Stroking the black bay’s neck, Henry watched the smith stack logs for the bonfire.

  “Quite the feast, Sir Henry,” the man called.

  Henry tipped his head to him and dismounted. Savory smells of roasting goose, pig, and beef carried on the breeze. He inhaled deeply, his mouth watering just thinking of the meat on his tongue. The cook’s fire crackled with dripping fat. Pottage bubbled in two large kettles, steam curling in the air.

  Robert sprinted out of the stable. He gripped Soleil’s bridle and stroked the animal’s lathered haunches. “You gave him a good run, Master Henry.”

  “We both needed it.” Henry wiped at sweat that curled the hair on his neck. He studied a cloud of dust on the road east. “Did my father have a visitor?”

  Robert cocked his head in the direction Henry looked. “Sheriff de Camville and Lord Weston, sir.”

  Coincidence? Henry wondered. Edric called on his father more often than Henry liked, especially after his wife Amicia had passed in July. And this wasn’t de Camville’s usual day to come by. Edward would more likely see him at Lincoln Castle, meetings Henry had not been invited to attend, much to his dismay.

  Robert’s eyes twinkled. “Lord Weston seemed sore disappointed not to see you.”

  Hiding a smile, Henry coughed. Robert knew of his intense dislike for Weston.