By the wagons, a flicker of a blade caught Stephan’s eye. “Edward! Behind you!”
No sooner had Stephan shouted the warning than hoofs pounded at his own back. With no time to help Edward, Stephan spun around, his sword raised instinctively. To his right, he heard Little John cry out, saw him tumble from his horse. “No!” Stephan shouted, striking an enemy blade. The impact rocked him. His arms quivered, but he gripped Lune tightly as his attacker tore past.
The wagon captain shouted, “Retreat!” His men bolted after him to the jeers of the king’s knights.
Stephan twisted in the saddle, spotting Little John clutching his arm and pushing himself up from the ground. Stephan closed his eyes to utter thanks to God, but Little John cried above the knights’ celebration. “Lord de Grey!”
Stephan’s eyes flew open. Edward was down.
“Christ, no!” Stephan leapt from his horse landing on unsteady legs, but stumbled to Edward’s side. A long dagger lodged deep in Edward’s back. Blood soaked his cloak and pooled on the ground. Stephan withdrew the blade and pulled Edward into his arms.
“Henry…” Edward gasped, his breaths coming hard. His gaze strayed to Robin, who hovered nearby, and then back to Stephan.
“He will be proud of you, my lord.” Stephan’s voice faltered. He dabbed at blood dribbling from Edward’s mouth. “He will know you were loyal to the king.”
One of the knights ripped the tarp off a wagon. Wooden beams, iron bolts, and rope filled the wagon bed.
“This is from the storehouse in Ringsthorpe,” Robin said. He looked at a driver trembling beneath the wagon. “Get up, man!”
Rising cautiously, the driver choked out a reply. “We were fo-following orders, my lord.”
Edward brushed Stephan’s hand. “Lincoln Castle.”
The other drivers emerged cautiously from the woods. Little John was helping Allan herd them when a bowman with a familiar face caught up to them. “Look after your arm, Little John,” Milo said. “I shall help Allan.”
“Was that your good aim back there on the road?” Robin asked.
“Aye, Sir Robin. I have been looking for you all night to warn you. There’s more than these six. Four and twenty wagons passed through Greyton headed to Ringsthorpe yesterday.”
“When will the others leave?” Robin asked the driver.
“A dozen more were being packed as we left this morn,” the plump older man confirmed. “The others will follow.”
“Turn these around,” Robin ordered. “Allan—to the camp. Rouse the rest of the men. We’ll need them all to stop those wagons.”
Allan had mounted before he’d finished speaking, and then galloped away.
There was nothing to be done for Edward and both Stephan and Robin knew it. “We must get word to Henry,” Stephan said.
Somehow Edward summoned the strength to grab Stephan’s arm. His blue eyes grew dull. “You love my son?”
“With every part of my soul,” Stephan said quietly.
“Take care of him.”
“I will.” He leaned closer as Edward's voice became a whisper.
“Let…him…go.”
Let him go? “Edward, no…”
Edward’s breath rattled in his throat. His eyes turned to the trees overhead and grew vacant. His hand fell away from Stephan.
Stephan stared, emotions raging—at Edward’s death, at his last words. Robin was speaking, but his orders disappeared beneath the sounds of creaking wagons and horses’ hoofs. Tree limbs groaned; a cool wind swept through the woods. Stephan closed Edward’s eyes.
Robin rested a hand on his shoulder. “We must stop the other wagons.”
Stephan looked at him as if he were mad. “You’ve a score of knights. I cannot leave Edward alone. Let me be at Henry’s side.” Stephan brushed Edward’s brow with a kiss. Robin issued more orders, but Stephan heard nothing. Edward’s last words lingered in his ear. “I must go to him, Robin,” Stephan blurted out. “He’ll blame himself.”
“Edward is dead. Little John is injured and cannot fight. He will take Edward to Henry. Grieve with Henry later, privately. Now come.”
Robin was right. Stephan nodded slowly. He couldn’t comfort Henry now. Not yet. Take care of him, Edward had said. But let him go? How can I?
“My lady?”
Bea heard the whispered voice, but when she opened her eyes it was still dark. No light crept through the shuttered window. She tugged the fur blanket up to her chin.
“My lady?” Seilda, her voice insistent.
Bea rolled over. “What is it?”
Seilda’s hands were clenched at her waist. “Your father…I didn’t want to… He ordered the guards not to alert you.”
Bea sat abruptly. “What about Father? What’s amiss?”
“He left the manor ere the sun rose and has not yet returned, my lady. Fools should have woke us,” Seilda said, her voice filled with worry.
“Wake my brother. Send the guard to the hall that we might speak with him. I’ll be down in a few moments.” Her servants were awake and moving about. “Help me dress,” she told them. Her head ached. She knew one reason why her father would have left—his argument with Henry.
*
It was near light when the horses were saddled and Henry and two of Gil’s knights prepared to ride out to follow his father. The rest of the house was up and dozens of people watched them. Bea held Gil’s arm tightly. Elle had pulled her cloak tight to ward off the morning chill. Dark circles lined her eyes. She looked exhausted, like Henry felt. He’d barely slept after the argument with his father.
Mayhap he should have returned to speak with him, he thought as he dug his heels into Soleil’s flanks. He’d been so angry. What good would it have done? More arguments? And to listen to his curses about Stephan?
His father be damned. This life be damned. He would leave Greyton, make a life with Stephan, even if meant living like a soldier again, laying a pallet in one baron’s hall after another, fighting King Richard’s enemies wherever that might take them. He couldn’t remain under his father’s roof. Yet here he was on the man’s trail. He’d not have been so quick to follow, but for Bea’s worrying. And his own, he thought. If Father hadn’t left under the cover of darkness…if he’d had one of the servants accompany him… God’s blood.
Less than two miles from Cartholme, Gil’s man, Sir Aubrey, pointed towards a rider approaching. Henry recognized Little John. Then he saw Little John leading his father’s stallion. He saw the white fur of his father’s cloak. His stomach lurched. Reining in, he exhaled shakily. No, it cannot be. “My God, my God… Father!” He flew from the saddle as Little John drew close and stopped.
Henry lifted the cloak. He touched his father’s damp silvery curls. Blood soaked Edward’s surcoat. “Dear God. Why? Why did you have to leave?” Henry pressed his cheek to his father’s. Our last words in anger. What have I done? He stilled his quaking shoulders, fought back tears. “What happened?”
“The blade was meant for Sir Stephan. Your father—he’s a hero, my lord. When he charged we heard his voice loud, strong. ‘For the king!’”
As the young squire spoke, Henry’s gaze drifted from the bloodied cloth wrapped around Little John’s arm to Edward. Mercenaries. Wagons from Ringsthorpe. The details washed over him. He could hear the rustle of tree branches, the swish of horses’ tails, Little John’s anguish-ridden voice. His father had saved Stephan’s life.
Henry uttered a cry. Father… Had he known the wagons would be on the road? Why had he fled Cartholme? It made no sense.
“Stephan held him as he died,” Little John said softly. “‘Take care of him’ he said.”
Now you say this, Father, when I cannot share my joy with you? Tears welled in Henry’s eyes.
Sweat matted Edward’s hair to his forehead. Henry combed it back, ran his fingers through it again and again. He felt desperately alone, and thought of Stephan. So close, yet he might as well be across the sea. “Here,” he said, clutchi
ng his hand to his heart. “You are here.” His whispered words echoed the thunder of Little John’s. Take care of him.
Little John wasn’t often at a loss for words, but he remained quiet. Henry covered Edward’s head with the cloak. He took the stallion’s reins from Little John. Gil’s knights had given him privacy, but one approached and offered to lead the horse. Henry waved him away.
“Does Robin need more men?” Henry asked Little John. He stroked the animal’s neck, trying to calm himself.
“We’ve more than thirty. Sir Robin leads the knights to stop the other wagons’ departure from Ringsthorpe.”
“I should go.”
“It’s best you not be there, my lord,” Little John said.
“Little John is right,” Sir Aubrey added. “Let the king’s men put down the traitors. You can claim you had nothing to do with it.”
“If it happens on my land, the men who support the king’s brother will find a way to tie me to it.” Men like Edric Weston. It didn’t matter that Robin and Stephan hadn’t been seen near Greyton for months. “Should Count John press the issue, I might yet find my head on a spike.”
“Please, my lord,” Little John said. “Your sister will need your strong hand.”
Henry’s fist tightened on the hilt of his sword. What he’d dreaded had come—a bloody fight on his lands. He touched his cross to his lips and prayed no one else would be hurt.
Questions bombarded his mind, but he didn’t want Little John to break Robin’s trust. Still, something in the squire’s story niggled at his thoughts. It wasn’t chance that Robin’s men were camped nearby. After all, Stephan had been skulking about the wood at Michaelmas. But Little John… “You said you saw my father leave Cartholme? Was Robin ordered to keep watch on him?”
Little John cleared his throat. “It was just me. I was watching the Lady Elle.”
“Robin gave you leave?” Henry asked, knowing the answer even before the young squire lowered his gaze.
The sun climbed in the east turning sky and clouds shades of red that matched the color creeping up Little John's neck. “He may throttle me when all is said and done.”
Henry looked at his father’s body slung like a sack of grain over the horse’s back. “You should go. Tell Robin to send word when it is safe for me to take my father to Greyton. God be with you all.” Henry mounted, and leading his father’s horse, turned towards Cartholme.
*
Bea paced the hall. The scent of bread baking in the kitchen should have been pleasing, but she held her arm across her stomach to quell the roiling there. The servants scurried about like mice, careful not to step in her way. They sensed her unease and went about their work without a word, stowing the knights’ pallets, setting the trestle, and stoking the fire. By the hearth, Elle watched the fire blaze, wringing her hands in the folds of her kirtle.
“Father was so upset with Henry.” Bea paused at the window and stared outside as Gil drew up beside her. “I worry for them both.”
Gil took her arm. “Your father knows the roads. Come away from the window and sit. Maud has set out some fruit and cheese. We’ll break the fast. Henry and your father may be a while.”
With no such expectations she’d see them return together, all harsh words forgiven and forgotten, Bea let Gil lead her towards the settle.
Maud appeared from the buttery with a jug of wine. Something outside caught her attention and without setting down the drink, she hurried to the door and opened it. “Dear Mother Mary!” She dropped the wine and gasped. “Oh dear God!” she cried, crossing herself.
Bea shot from the settle with Gil and Elle right behind her.
*
Barking dogs ran out to greet Henry as he passed through Cartholme’s gates. Alerted at his approach, the steward shouted orders. His voice died and he turned, following the villeins’ stares. Henry saw Bea emerge from the house, her skin made paler by the deep brown of her gown. Gil reached for her hand, but she pushed him away. Her gaze drifted from Henry to the horse, the body. Anguish tore across her face. Gil grabbed hold of her as she slid to her knees.
Henry leapt from his horse and rushed to Bea’s side. Sobbing, she pulled away from Gil and enfolded Henry in her arms. Elle gripped the manor door, knuckles turning white, eyes on the blood-smeared cloak. She paled and swayed, collapsing to the ground.
“Help her!” Maud cried.
Sir Aubrey carried Elle into the hall. Henry looked to the steward. “Take my father to the chapel.”
Henry helped Bea rise though his own legs felt weak. In the hall, he repeated Little John’s story. Gil’s reaction told him Bea had spoken of the storehouse, the wagons, and the war provisions passing through Greyton. Henry expected Bea to blame him for their father’s death. Edward would not have been in the middle of a fight between the mercenaries and the king’s men had they not argued. But Bea surprised him and grasped his hand. “Father gave his life to save Stephan. He understood,” she cried. “He must have forgiven you.”
Henry lowered his head. He wanted to believe. “For the king,” he said, repeating Little John’s words. “Would Father have stepped between that blade and any of Robin’s men? Was he working against Count John? Why couldn’t he tell me?”
“We may never know.” Bea took him into her arms again. Despite her words, there was hope in her voice and strength in her embrace.
Their grieving was cut short when the steward came in to tell them Edward’s body was being tended. Henry spoke to him and Gil to arrange for heralds to carry news of Edward’s passing while Bea fussed over Elle, glad for something to do. Wrapped in blankets by the blazing hearth, the girl’s color had returned, but barely. Bea held a goblet to Elle’s lips. She sipped at the watered-down wine, tried to take it from Bea, but her hands trembled.
“How do you feel?” Henry asked, offering Elle and Bea cheese that he’d snatched from the table after the steward left. He sat on a stool that one of the servants had placed next to the settle.
Elle was finally sitting. Reaching for the food, her hand quivered. She clenched her fist, settling it onto her lap. Henry uncurled her fingers and placed a chunk of cheese in her palm.
“I am fine.” She regarded them both with heartache in her eyes. “Your father…”
“Shh,” Bea said.
Henry stared at the ring on Elle’s thumb. He recognized it and lifted her hand. “When did Little John give you this?”
Elle’s gaze darted from Henry to Bea. “Last night.”
“He was here?” Bea asked, frowning.
Henry kissed the ring, then brought his lips to the back of her hand. They needed one bit of joy on this dark day. “He told me he was watching you. He did not say he’d been here.”
Elle sniffled, but seemed to find the inner strength Henry so admired in her. “John asked me to be his wife. We said vows.”
For the first time in days, Henry’s heart felt light and after a moment he smiled. “No wonder you looked so tired this morning.”
“Henry!” Bea cried.
Cheeks coloring, Elle nodded. “I love John.”
“Oh, Elle. What are you thinking?” Bea blew out a deep breath. Henry heard fear in her voice. “When your brother learns of this…”
“Who would tell him?” Elle asked. “He believes Henry and I will marry. As does all of Lincolnshire.”
Bea still had doubts. “When your wedding day arrives, what will you do then? When the truth is told, Edric will not allow your marriage to Little John to stand. He will find a way to declare it null. You and Henry were betrothed, good as married in the eyes of the Church.”
“I never consented to marry Henry.” She looked apologetically at Henry, and then turned confidently to Bea. “The king himself married his queen whilst betrothed since childhood to Alys Capet.”
Henry’s mind buzzed. “Edric will have no say if the king were to grant Elle’s hand to Little John.”
“The king is in a German prison,” Bea said.
�
�Not for long. And if not his permission,” Henry added, “then Queen Eleanor’s as his regent.”
Elle looked hopeful. “Can it be done?”
“I will send a message to the queen. She is quite fond of Little John. She may even want to attend the wedding. If we hear nothing from her as November draws to an end, we shall spread news that we await the king’s return to celebrate our vows.”
“Little John is but a squire,” Bea said.
“I do not care if he is a butcher—” Elle started, but Bea held up her hand.
“Elle, you must understand. There is rule and order. Little John serves Sir Stephan and the king. He might receive permission to marry though he brings nothing to this union. But he cannot set his own path. Marriage will not guarantee that he’ll be sitting at your hearth.”
“Bea, your steward is getting old,” Henry said mischievously. “Little John could work for you here.”
“Would Stephan release Little John?” she asked.
“He would.” It was a perfect solution. “Stephan is but a poor knight who can hardly afford to pay a squire.”
Bea frowned, unconvinced. “He is awfully young.”
“He has been trained for knighthood, has served queens and the King of England.” Henry’s pride in Little John rang out, clear as a bell on a quiet dawn.
Nodding slowly, Bea smiled. “He has been loyal to you and to Stephan. And,” she said, looking at Elle, “how could I deny true love?”
Elle hugged Bea and Henry. Henry thought of his father’s final moments in Stephan’s arms, of his final words. Take care of him. He felt an invisible hand on his shoulder. Mayhap his father did understand.
Marian had risen before dawn and watched six heavily laden wagons creak through Greyton. Robert tossed and turned, the rope bed groaning beneath his growing body. Dressing quietly so as not to wake him, she listened, wondering of the other wagons she had seen headed towards Ringsthorpe yesterday. Master Edward’s conversation with the Sheriff came fresh to her mind. Ringsthorpe, the storehouse, provisions for Lincoln Castle.
She looked at her sleeping boy, fingers trembling as she tied up the laces on her kirtle. Was war at hand? Her heart thudded in her chest.
For King and Country (Battle Scars Book 2) Page 34