For King and Country (Battle Scars Book 2)

by Charlene Newcomb

  Little John left his horse tied up behind the bake house and stole round to the kitchen. Hearing nothing, he lifted the latch and opened the creaking door slowly. He bumped into the cook’s workbench in the dark. Plates and pots rattled. His clumsy attempt to still them sent dried herbs spilling to the floor. He hoped the cook living in the undercroft would ignore the noise. A mouse on the loose, nothing more. He peered into the buttery and made his way through the passageway. Eyes still adjusting to the darkness, he stared into the great hall.

  Someone snored. Startled, Little John held back. Another snore. Then he saw them. Knights sleeping on pallets. At least a dozen of them. In his thieving days, he had sneaked past hundreds of sleeping men, even pilfered pockets. He could do this. He thought of Elle, calmed his nerves, and eyed the stairs.

  Someone rolled over, rustling the floor rushes. Taking a deep breath, Little John crept along the wall. He felt his way up the stone steps imagining every footfall sounded more camel- than mouse-like. From his last visit, he knew Lady Bea’s bedchamber occupied the highest level of the stone tower. Elle’s chamber was on the first landing. But which room? If he chose the wrong one, would he face Lord l’Aigle or Sir Henry’s blade?

  He paused to listen. A man-size snore settled his question. He stole farther along the corridor. Gently pressing the second oaken door, he stepped inside, bathed by a swath of moonlight. A figure stirred on the bed. Little John froze, pressing himself against the tapestry covering the cool stone walls. Suddenly, the fur blanket on the bed was tossed back.

  “Who is there?”

  “Elle?”

  “John?”

  Little John’s heart jumped near as high as the moon when he heard her call his name. “Might I come in?” he whispered.

  “It would appear you are already in.” She kept her voice low. “What are you doing here?” She pulled on her furred robe, her feet stirring the herb-sweetened rushes on the floor.

  “I had to see you.”

  Elle lowered her eyes. “You should not be in a lady’s room in the middle of the night. Should you be caught—” She glanced towards the door.

  Little John stood before her. “I…I…”

  Suddenly Elle was on her feet, throwing herself into his arms. Their eyes met. His lips brushed hers. Little John slid his fingers through her hair, surely the softest he had ever touched. She smelled of roses. When her hands wound around his waist, he felt a stirring in his stomach…lower…that feeling he’d had when he lay awake at night and could only think of her.

  But the picture of Sir Henry holding Elle made him pull away.

  He pressed his hand to her cheek. Ran his thumb there as if it might be the last time he felt that smooth skin. Her hot breath brushed his face. “Do you love him?”

  Elle shook her head, confused.

  “I saw you with Sir Henry.” He didn’t want to ask, but he had to know. “Have you decided to wed him after all?”

  “We are not— John, I do not love Henry. We are friends.”

  “But will you marry?”

  “Yes.”

  “What!”

  Elle cupped Little John’s face in her hands. “I will not marry Henry, but I will marry when the right man asks it of me.” She gazed into his eyes.

  Little John’s throat felt dry. She’d not pulled away. Surely she must wonder why my legs shake. “Will you have me?”

  Elle kissed him on the lips. With a teasing tongue, she pressed his apart and opened herself to him. “Yes.”

  He captured her mouth again. Her passion made him breathless. He finally stepped back but tugged her hands into his. “I cannot give you home and hearth.”

  “I have been happiest at your side. I need nothing more.”

  “Hear these words, Elle Weston,” he said. “I love you. I will protect and keep you always. I take you as my wife. I am your husband as God looks down on us.”

  Elle did not complain that she had no wedding finery beaded with jewels, no gathering of important nobles, no priest. She smiled, lifting the hem of her robe and wrapping the fabric around their hands. “I take you as my husband and I am your wife, to love, protect, and keep, as God is our witness.”

  Little John fumbled with the silver band on his finger. He placed it on her thumb where it was still a bit loose. “I have nothing else to give you. This is but a token of my love. I shall get a proper one for you soon.”

  “It is yours.” She touched the band like it was her greatest treasure. “I am yours. That is all that matters.”

  Little John kissed her, felt the robe slipping from her shoulders. Their hands separated to let the garment drift to the floor. Her breaths grew rapid, matching his. His fingers snaked up her arms, and back down to twine through hers.

  Elle drew him towards the bed. He bent down to kiss her, but she scooted back to lay down.

  Little John removed his swordbelt. He nearly fell trying to shed his boots. She giggled and he gave her a huge smile. Moonlight caressed her face, revealing the passion in her eyes as he climbed on the bed. Breaths shallow, heart pounding, he took her for his wife. His thrusts came slow and awkward at first. She arched up to meet him. And suddenly the joining became natural and more intense than anything Little John ever imagined. In the hours they had together, they spoke and touched, laughed and lay quiet. She gave herself to him a second time, and later, when she curled into his massive frame and dozed off, he knew that Heaven could not be sweeter.

  Wind whistled through cracks in the barn at Westorby where the caravan of wagons had stopped for the night. Tuck rolled over on his pallet thinking of what had been. What was to come. He remembered his loyalty to Richard beneath the sounds of Saracen war cries, beating drums, and the whoosh of Greek fire lobbed against the crusaders from Acre’s walls. The weapons struck their siege engines, splattering liquid fire, bursting like waves striking rocks on the shore. The noise, the light, its colors—they’d held a bit of fascination for him. Never bothered him the way it did some men.

  He’d not been lying to young Henry de Grey. He had grown tired of the fighting, but would take up arms again if it came to that. For now, he assumed a different role against men attempting to usurp King Richard’s throne and gave thanks to the Earl of Chester who had provided him the opportunity after Gisors fell earlier in the year.

  His clandestine messages for Chester detailed changes in Maes’ operation. Westorby was no longer just an overnight stop for the wagons from the coast. Provisions for war were being stockpiled in the village. A storehouse close to the manor house was bursting with Greek fire. Tuck’s muscles twinged, a ghost memory of carting dozens of barrels from the wagons. Edric Weston was deluding himself. Count John’s men sat comfortably behind gated castle walls. Those traitors wouldn’t lift a finger to help a slug like Weston. The time was right to send a warning to them all.

  The wagon master snored next to Tuck. Their nine companions and other drivers slept laid out like dead bodies all in a row. Ale had flowed freely and warmed them on the early autumn evening. Tuck’s clothes reeked of spilled brew. Even the poor man on guard duty plugged his nose as he helped Tuck to his bedroll. Tuck pretended to sleep even before the barn door closed, and he heard the man laugh when his fake snores harmonized with the bleats of sheep out in the pasture. There’d be more than those noises before the sun rose.

  Tuck slept a while and when he woke, it was still dark. He lay awake listening to the night rhythms of the animals. Hay crunched beneath someone’s pallet. Startled by another movement, Tuck sat up. Two big yellow eyes watched him. A plump black cat with mustache and whiskers the color of snow sat straight as a statue, guarding the thin streak of moonlight that laid a path from the door.

  Tuck exhaled deeply. At least the little beast had taken care of the rats. He had no desire to sleep amongst those creatures. Their bites might not be so bad as the sting of tarantulas in Outremer, but he’d known many a man get deathly ill after being a rat’s dinner.

  Rising quietly, Tuck gath
ered a handful of straw. When a gust of wind shook the door, he cracked it open and slid outside and into the shadows. Across the yard, a guard wandered to the side of the storehouse. Tuck ran towards the building and circled round the back, thinking how perfect his timing. The guard’s back was to him. He was taking a piss, the stream pattering against the cold ground. The man never saw Tuck or the pommel of the sword that struck his head.

  Tuck dragged the guard deeper into the shadows. He retrieved his bundle of straw, checked the courtyard, and hurried towards the fire they’d huddled around before bed. One log smoldered red hot, but it was cool at one end and he picked it up. He looked over his shoulder at the storehouse. All that Greek fire. Pity, he sighed, that it wasn’t his target. Wouldn’t want that to go up in a ball of flame. No, not tonight. Chester and the Earl of Huntingdon had agreed that a small display for the traitors would be adequate. The wagons, with their precious cargo of the fiery weapon, were conveniently lined up in three rows of two, pressed wheel to wheel. Tuck grumbled to himself, wishing they stood closer to the manor house. But there was the wind… If just one barrel caught, the explosion would ripple, catch the rest of the cargo. And the sparks…what a sight if some landed on the thatched roof of the house.

  A strong breeze brushed Tuck’s face. Perfect.

  Straw beneath his arm, glowing log in his hand, he sliced the tarp of one wagon. He set the log to the straw, blowing on it. When it caught, he stuffed the straw through the opening he’d made and between two barrels. He crammed the burning log into the hole, ensuring it rested against the tarp.

  The straw crackled. Tuck brushed his hands and crept back to the barn. He scratched yellow-eyes’ head to a delighted purr and crawled onto his pallet. The blanket was scratchy wool, but he pulled it up to his nose and felt his bones warm. Closing his eyes, he held his breath.

  When the first explosion rang out, Tuck smiled softly. The sleeping souls around him stirred, mumbling groggily, complaining, until a shout arose out in the yard. “Fire! The wagons!”

  “God’s bones,” the wagon master cried.

  The men roused themselves to wakefulness. A second explosion rocked the night. Tuck rolled off his pallet, the fetid odor of tar, pitch, and smoke striking his nostrils. He started after his companions to help. By then it was too late.

  *

  Little John brushed Elle’s lips, savoring that sweet flesh one last time. Her hand was warm on his cheek and he held it there for another memory of her. All too soon, he slipped away quietly.

  His horse looked at him with a bored, “Now what?” Little John started to mount, but he rested his forehead against the saddle. Have I done right by her? Edric Weston would be furious. Will I be there to protect her? If he should hurt her… Closing his eyes, he whispered a prayer. “Keep my Elle safe. Don’t punish her for my weakness. I won’t ask forgiveness for taking her as my wife, lying with her. You understand, don’t you, Lord? I love her.”

  He swung up into the saddle and nudged his horse through the trees. He thought of Elle, of their flesh closer than he’d ever imagined. His heart pounded like a herd of bulls on cobbled streets. He almost didn’t see the rider emerge through the gate. Moonlight splashed the man’s white fur-lined cloak.

  Gooseflesh rippled across Little John’s skin. Sir Henry’s father? Why would the Lord of Greyton depart well before sunrise and without an escort?

  Elle had told him of the Edward’s argument with Henry. Had that driven him to leave ere he’d not have to face his son? Lord de Grey would skirt the camp if he headed home. Anyone traveling at this hour would raise suspicion. The sentry might alert the others, send someone after the lone rider. I’ll need to warn them. And tell Robin… Which meant admitting he’d been at Cartholme all night. He’d worry about incurring Robin’s anger later.

  Edward cantered towards Greyton. Little John cut through the woods on the narrow trail back to the camp, but skirted it to look for the guards watching the road. He pulled hard on the reins and whistled two short calls.

  Stephan appeared from behind a large oak. “Where have you been?”

  “Might I tell you later? Lord de Grey just left Cartholme. He’ll pass this way any moment.”

  “At this hour?” Stephan twisted towards a cloaked figure in the shadows. “Tell Robin we shall follow Henry’s father.”

  The man slipped further into the wood without a word. Stephan leapt astride Lune, stroked his neck to keep the animal calm. And they waited.

  Some minutes later, horse hoofs struck the road. Stephan held a finger to his lips. “Let him pass.”

  When Edward disappeared from sight, Stephan nudged his horse from the shadows with Little John close behind. Several miles down the road they galloped round a bend, and then reined in hard. Lune reared, churning up dirt and gravel. A line of wagons loomed ahead. And more guards than Little John could count.

  Stephan swore loudly.

  Edward de Grey stared at them.

  Little John’s horse stamped the ground. “Looks like war supplies headed to Lincoln.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Stephan said.

  Edward pointed at them, flicking his hand almost like he was waving them off.

  “Is he warning us?” Little John asked.

  “I think we should turn around. What say you?”

  Orders erupted from the caravan. “King’s men! After them!”

  “Good idea,” Little John said. He and Stephan pivoted their mounts and broke towards the camp.

  *

  Christ! Henry’s father. Was he with them, or against them?

  Stephan looked over his shoulder. Six guards had given chase. Not good, he thought. Escorting the wagons, the guards’ horses were fresh. Stephan’s stallion was lathered and snorted, breathing hard. Little John had a fine mount—but not the caliber of Stephan’s—so Stephan slowed to keep pace with him. And now the guards closed in. They’d never outrun them.

  Half a horse’s length behind Little John, Stephan heard the younger man shout. “Riders!” Two of them ahead, on huge black beasts. Robin and Allan. Suddenly the odds looked better.

  Robin drew an arrow from his bag. He barely slowed.

  “Stay low!” Stephan shouted to Little John.

  Robin nocked the arrow, loosed, and nocked a second as Stephan and Little John pivoted their horses.

  The first arrow found its mark, striking one guard in the throat. The man swayed in the saddle, his blood spraying. He grabbed the shaft, unintentionally yanking his horse’s reins. The animal swung its head wildly and bucked, flinging him to the ground.

  Robin’s second bolt sent another horse stumbling when it was hit. The rider flew head first into bushes on the side of the road.

  Four against four now, but the guards whirled about to rally with their compatriots who still guarded the wagons. So much for the odds…

  Robin reined in hard and Stephan drew up beside him. “Henry’s father is with them.”

  The only sound breaking the dawn was the horses’ breaths and the angry swish of their tails. Robin gave a nod and unsheathed his sword. The guards hefted their weapons and charged.

  “Shields,” Robin cried.

  “For the king,” they all shouted and spurred down the road.

  The king’s men remained tight, legs brushing. Stephan pressed forward in his saddle. From the corner of his eye he saw Allan and Little John, faces determined. There was fear there, too. He hoped—he knew—their training in the tiltyards would serve them.

  The guards came at them, faces emerging from the shadows. The first rays of sunlight cut paths like shining blades through the trees and struck their helms.

  Ten horse lengths. Lune snorted. Eight lengths. Clods of dirt kicked up beneath thundering hoofs.

  Stephan’s grip tightened on his shield. Suddenly, a guard on the left flank was struck by an arrow loosed from the woods. The guard pitched into the man on his right and then tumbled to the ground. The guards in the center panicked. Their horses lurched into
each other, and the four king’s horsemen drove straight into them like a solid moving wall. The guards broke left and right, but swords and shields collided with a ferocious clang of metal and wood. Stephan sliced into one attacker’s neck and blood sprayed. The man pitched into his comrade, their horses careening into a third.

  Little John and Allan swung their blades. Savage strokes, well placed. Two more guards were down. Dust and dirt blanketed the air and the stench of death drifted in the chill of the October morning.

  Sweat dribbled into Stephan’s eyes. He heeled his horse into the crush of men and beasts. Sounds assaulted his senses. Robin’s bellowed war cry, the horses labored breaths, the grunts and groans of men, the crash of steel. Stephan’s arms ached, but he hacked and slashed again and again, lost in the fight.

  A quarter mile down the road dust billowed and a cloud there took shape.More king’s men had arrived from the camp and charged into the fray.

  A war cry erupted behind Stephan. He wheeled Lune about and saw Edward watching the melée from the wagons. The drivers had scattered to the trees or cowered beneath their carts. A guard bore down on Stephan. He pressed his spurs to Lune’s flanks and the stallion reared, nostrils flaring. Coming down hard, Lune’s hoofs ripped into the smaller horse’s neck. Stephan followed the downward motion with his blade, slitting the rider’s face. Animal and man screamed, but another guard caught Lune’s bridle and a second man grabbed Stephan’s arm. Fighting to stay upright, his shield slipped from his grasp. Fear seized him as he was dragged from the saddle. For a heartbeat, he thought of Henry, but a ghostly movement drew his attention.

  “For the king!” Edward bellowed, spurring his white stallion forward.

  Distracted, Stephan’s attacker loosed his grip. Stephan wrenched free, straightening atop his horse. Edward hacked at the guard, but he wasn’t the strong knight he’d once been. His strokes grew weak and clumsy, each one a struggle.