For King and Country (Battle Scars Book 2)

by Charlene Newcomb

  *

  Tuck watched the curious smirk cross Weston’s face. He could only guess what thoughts whirled through the man’s mind.

  Tossing a tarp down on some smoldering ash, he stamped on it. He’d done his job. Message received. Edric Weston played in dangerous territory by harboring Count John’s Greek fire.

  The injured guard leaned against the side of the chapel nursing the blow to his head. Tuck gathered with the other men to commiserate on his hapless story. The man could shed no light on who had set the blaze. No one was the wiser.

  The guard captain swaggered up and down the line of his men. When none admitted seeing or hearing anything unusual, he barked orders. “Four to a shift, one to each side of the storehouse.” He pointed to Tuck and the remaining guards. “Search each cottage, every workshop. Question everyone. And find me an empty wagon.”

  Edric’s look was as black as the charred remains of the barn. “You’re taking one of my wagons?”

  “I shall leave ten men behind to guard the stores, my lord. I need a wagon to carry the drivers back to Boston. If he wants to move provisions, I don’t need drivers stuck here at Westorby, now do I?” There was something in the way the captain said “he” that implied Edric knew who was giving orders. Edric stalked away. The captain rolled his eyes, noticed Tuck watching. “You’ll set the guard whilst I’m gone.”

  “As you command, sir.”

  Tuck’s companions grumbled when the captain was out of earshot. “He returns to Boston,” one grunted. “Leaves us here. What say you—we won’t see a penny.”

  “Our wages went up in flames,” another said.

  Tuck sighed. As they started up the road to interrogate the villagers, his eye caught on Weston’s possessions. Silver, a silk blue tapestry, dozens of bronze pots, and the Weston crest. An array of swords and daggers surrounded a fancy chest. Tuck was intrigued. That chest—with iron rungs and a lock the size of his fist—might hold enough coin to feed every village between here and Lincoln.

  He watched them load the coffer onto a wagon. The steward kept close watch and checked that the cargo, covered with a dingy brown tarp, was tied down securely. Edric climbed up next to the driver. The wagon rumbled down the road, Edric’s servants walking beside it. Some poor villein would be giving up his home to the wretched young lord.

  On the other hand, that was good. Weston and his treasure would be nearby. Tuck could keep an eye on that cache. He wiped his sleeve across his damp brow. Sun and shadow played across the scowls on his companions’ grizzled faces. Cold and tired, their pouches empty. Not a good combination when a boss wanted to keep a man loyal. There was fear, too. Fear that words or actions might bring the wrong kind of attention. They’d seen Edric Weston’s rage. That would keep most men in line.

  But Tuck was not most men.

  A few days after Edward’s passing, Henry and Bea brought their father home. Leaden skies hung over Greyton and the wind blew cold and biting. Villagers lined the road as his body was taken to the chapel. They wept, praying and crossing themselves. Shock filled many faces. Mayhap only the oldest amongst them remembered such violence at their doorsteps when King Stephan and Empress Maud fought for the crown.

  It was just past midday when Henry and Elle settled by a blazing fire in the hall. Bea was upstairs with Gil seeing to little David’s needs. Henry was exhausted. He’d hardly slept these last days. He palmed his cross and offered a prayer for his father and young Sarah and thanked God there had been no deaths at Ringsthorpe when Robin’s men took the wagons there.

  Elle’s hands wrapped around a goblet of wine. She stared into the flames. Henry didn’t need to ask what was on her mind. “He is fine.”

  “John?” She nodded.

  Henry loved how she called him John, not Little John.

  Elle leaned towards the warmth of the fire. “My brother—he will be here for the funeral on the morrow.” Her voice hinted at her loathing. She twisted her hand in the woolen folds of her skirt.

  “We have good reason to fear him,” Henry said, having received a message about the attack at Westorby. He touched the back of her hand. “Stay near me. We shall be fine.”

  Elle sipped her wine, closing her eyes a moment as if searching for courage to speak. “The wedding…our plans to wait for the king’s return…” She downed more of her drink. “What if I am with child?”

  Henry’s eyes flicked to her belly. “Oh dear God.”

  “I am sorry to lay this at your feet when you must deal with your father’s passing.”

  Henry tore his gaze from her, swallowed his wine, dumbfounded. Slowly, he turned back. She did not look like she was with child. Had the night of handfasting not been their first? He took her hand to give her strength as much as to find some for himself.

  Elle must have read his mind, and a blush crept into her cheeks. “That was our first time together. I swear.”

  “Can a woman tell so soon?”

  Elle placed her hand across her belly. “I may be wrong, but what if I am not?”

  “Have you told Bea?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well, you must.” Henry gave her a smile brimming with joy, and then laughed. “And should you carry Little John’s child, then God be praised. That boy has powerful seed.” Elle relaxed under his gaze and he added, “I will be glad for you, but our wedding plans become more urgent now.”

  Delaying the wedding until the king’s return would have been reasonable. Now? It was impossible. If Elle was with child and unmarried, everyone would look upon her with shame.

  “Father and Edric planned a November wedding and we must give them one.”

  “But I cannot marry you. John and I spoke vows.”

  “And you will do so again next month.”

  “What if Queen Eleanor does not receive your letter?”

  “Then you and I must marry.” He placed a finger to her lips before she could protest. “But the bride must come to my bed a virgin. I shall invite Edric to meet with us, and you must tell him of the handfasting and that you carry Little John’s child. I will refuse to marry you and Edric will want to keep this quiet.”

  “And if I am not with child?”

  “He will not know. And we can still have the Bishop preside over your wedding to John.”

  “Edric will have me dragged off to a nunnery.”

  “I do not think so. He will cooperate with us to protect your honor. To protect his name.”

  “How will you protect yourself?” Elle reached for Henry’s hand, squeezed it. “He might blackmail you still.”

  “My father is dead.” He looked away. “Edric holds nothing over me now.”

  Elle kissed his forehead. “Where is Stephan? Surely he would be here for you now.”

  “As I know Little John would like to be at your side.” Henry’s voice cracked. He tried not to show his disappointment. There were too many others in need of comfort. Gil had offered to put a few men to the task of tracking down the knights, but no, Henry knew his friends would come if they could. But getting word to Little John about Elle—ensuring he’d be here at the appointed day and time—was even more critical.

  The next morning came peacefully, but fog blanketing the village only isolated Henry and made him feel more alone. He stood motionless at the window of his father’s bedchamber. He watched the procession of people, young and old, rich and poor. They came on mules, on fine horses, in wagons and carts, and on foot. The chapel might burst with such crowds.

  Soft footsteps padded into the room and Bea drew up behind him. “Do you think Stephan will come?”

  “I do not know.” Henry trembled. He laid his head back against her cheek. “I miss him every waking hour, but now more than ever.”

  Bea’s arms tightened round his waist and they stood staring at the blanket of people come to say good-bye to Edward de Grey.

  *

  Gil led Bea to the chapel. Henry had Elle on his arm. She looked better rested, her cheeks shining with a
rosy glow. Henry felt her tense and followed her gaze. Edric was galloping up the road on a magnificent white stallion.

  Henry rested his palm atop Elle’s hand, glanced at Bea. Dread filled her eyes. Surely Edric wouldn’t make a scene. The sight of Elle and Henry together might calm him.

  Edric reined in hard, whipped down from the saddle, and tossed his reins at the first villein he saw. He hurried up to Henry and Elle, studied Henry’s face a moment, and then bowed. His gaze swept past Gil to Bea. She took his outstretched hand reluctantly and tried not to squirm as he kissed it.

  Edric looked distraught. “I am horrified by your father’s passing. He will be remembered for his generosity and spirit.”

  Henry wasn’t fooled, but he forced himself to remain polite. “Your words ease my burden,” he said. “Bishop Hugh awaits us. Mayhap we’ll find a time to speak with you later.”

  “Of course.”

  At the chapel door, Henry glanced over his shoulder. Edric glared at Gil’s back. Would any of them ever be free of the man?

  *

  Henry kept Edric waiting in the hall as long as he could. The funeral feast carried on in the courtyard. The smell of roasted pork and herbed vegetables wafted into the manor mingling with the scent of tallow candles lit to ward off the gloom of early evening.

  Edric had made himself at home. He sat at the head of the long table picking at the spread of cheese, bread, and wine that Mary had set out. He wore a sneer, not a hint of the sympathetic presentation he’d made earlier for all to see. But Henry’s friends knew the man’s reputation. At least that gave Henry some satisfaction.

  “My dear Henry. From the looks of it, I’d surmise that your sister has traded one l’Aigle brother for another. I cannot tell you how disappointed I am.” Edric heaved a heavy sigh.

  Henry shifted impatiently. “Father would never agree to Bea marrying you.”

  “So you say, but we won’t ever know that, will we? How convenient that he was run through by those mercenaries.” Edric drew out the words, eyes filled with accusation. Henry opened his mouth to speak but Edric cut him off. “Such calamities around us. Your father’s death, royalists battling a so-called enemy here at Greyton. The fires at Cartholme…at Westorby.”

  Henry remained stone-faced. “We’d heard of your loss whilst on the road.”

  “Yes, of course.” Edric watched him, gulped down his wine and then refilled the goblet. He pulled a small dagger from his belt, stabbed a chunk of cheese, and waved it in the air. “Like a head on a spike.” He chuckled, popping the morsel into his mouth and chewing vigorously. “I hear King Richard will be released soon.”

  Henry shot him a surprised look. “Is that rumor? I’d not heard.” He couldn’t tell if Edric believed him. Was he trying to weasel news of the shipment of ransom money? Even Henry wasn’t certain of the details. Edric was such a small cog in Count John’s circles. Surely the king’s brother must have that information in hand and wouldn’t need confirmation from a lowly baron like Weston.

  Edric smirked. “With all your friends in the service of the king? L’Aigle? And the carpenter’s son? What was his name? Robin?”

  “I’ve not seen my friends in months.”

  Studying Henry, Edric twisted the emerald jewel on his finger. “No? Not even your lover?”

  Henry jumped to his feet. He lashed out, striking Edric square on the jaw. The man reeled. Furious, red-faced, Henry swung again as Edric stood. Edric’s nose crunched and he staggered backwards, groaning.

  “Get out!” Henry shouted.

  Edric stanched the blood spurting from his nose on his sleeve. Henry started after him again, but Edric broke for the door and tore out into the night.

  Chest burning, Henry grabbed the flagon of wine and poured himself a drink. Had he confirmed Edric’s suspicions? God on the Cross, the man had no proof. No proof! Henry swallowed his wine. He hurled the goblet. It smashed against the door just as it opened. It took him a moment to realize the man beneath the hooded brown robe was Stephan.

  *

  “Christ, Henry…I’m so sorry.” Stephan closed the door and hurried to Henry’s side. He flung his arms around him.

  Sobs wracked Henry’s body. Stephan whispered in his ear. “I was there. I held your father.” He choked back a strangled cry. “He died in my arms.”

  Tremors rocked Henry’s body as Stephan held him. Stephan felt as if his heart had been ripped from his chest. His mind reeled, torn with thoughts of Edward’s final words. Edward wanted Henry to have a life with a wife, with children, but what life is that when you care deeply for another?

  As he calmed, Stephan twined his fingers through Henry’s. “You are so cold.” Henry’s breath brushed his face, warm and smelling of sweet wine. If only that staved off the chill left by Edric’s presence. “I wanted to be here, to hold you after…”

  “You are here now. You were with Father at the end.”

  Let him go. Stephan’s hands began to shake. I must tell him. “Henry…your father…”

  “Why are you trembling?” Henry’s arm went round Stephan’s waist. “He accepted our love.”

  Stephan buried his head on Henry’s shoulder. How can I tell him? The words would not come. He stroked Henry’s hair, and then met his eyes. “Your father gave his life for mine. I promised I would take care of you.” He traced his thumb along Henry’s temple. “Will you be all right?”

  “I get up each day and breathe. I don’t know that I can do more.”

  Stephan pressed his lips to Henry’s forehead. He thumbed the soft stubble on Henry’s jaw.

  Henry took Stephan’s hand, fingering the ring he’d given to him in Vienna. “Little John and Elle said vows, pledged their troth each to the other. She believes she may be with child.”

  “How—I know how, but when…? Does Little John know?”

  Henry shook his head. “Can you get word to him? He must be here for the wedding—his wedding.”

  “I’ll see to it.”

  “I am hopeful for word from the queen blessing their union, but Elle and I will carry on as if we are to marry. If you hear anything…”

  “I know your heart belongs to me.” Stephan pressed Henry's back to the door. He combed his fingers through the dark waves framing Henry’s face and kissed him softly. Henry responded, deepening the kiss. Stephan clung to him, every corner of his soul caught in his love for this man.

  You are wrong, Edward.

  The Crown smelled of tallow candles, stale sweat and leather and reminded Robin of ones he'd seen in Bavaria on his return from the Holy Land, but the conversations around him were not in German. The weeks he’d spent waiting in Barton on the Humber had finally paid off. The queen’s spies had suspected Count John would use the port to get to Tickhill now that Boston and Lincoln were securely in the hands of King Richard’s men.

  “Hello, my lord.” Robin slid onto the creaky wooden bench.

  “You’ve mistaken me for another, friend. I don’t know you.”

  Two shadowed figures across the room started towards the table, but Robin wasn’t cowed. John signaled them back.

  Robin leaned close and whispered, “But I know you, John, Lord of Ireland and Count of Mortain.”

  John looked nothing like Richard. The dark-haired prince was years younger than his brother, broad across the chest, but not a big man. His surly expression gave him the look of a spoiled child who’d not gotten his way.

  John’s gaze took in Robin but did not hold there. He scrutinized other faces as if wondering who accompanied Robin. “What do you want?”

  Waiting and watching had never been one of Robin’s strengths, but he’d kept the king’s brother in sight since John had stepped off the galley. He had been craving this moment.

  “Only two lapdogs with you tonight, my lord?” Robin asked, knowing Allan watched the street and would warn him if others approached. “Do not worry. I mean you no harm. I have a message from your lady mother.”

  John showed no surpris
e, his face cold but indifferent. He swallowed a mouthful of wine. “What news have you then?”

  “She thought you might have need of this.” Robin slid four coins across the table, enough silver to pay passage back across the sea.

  “Generous in her old age. I hope you are well paid, though you won’t have much need for it when my men finish with you.” John paused, met Robin’s eyes, memorizing his face. “She always liked the good-looking knights. You, Marshal, de Bethune.”

  “She surrounds herself with able men. You would be wise to learn from her.”

  “You are far too bold and would do to watch yourself.”

  Robin chuckled. “You are not the first to remind me of that.” He drummed the table staring intently into John’s dark eyes. “Your lady mother asks that I remind you we have many men watching you, reporting your movements. Come or go from any port—we will know. Move from one town to another—we will know. If you are not careful, you will have nothing in England. Nottingham and Tickhill will be no more than rubble if you continue to fortify them.”

  John yawned, shaking his head. “I might debate defensive and offensive tactics with you, messenger, but tell me something I do not know.”

  Time to turn the tables on this one. “You must have heard there will be no need to store any weapons or other provisions in Lincoln. That is why you’re here, am I right? But your vassals will not be laying siege to any of King Richard’s castles. The building supplies for the stone throwers are safely in our hands. And all those barrels of Greek fire? The king will be most grateful.”

  John choked on his wine, his face turning the color of the drink.

  “Your man in Lincoln—de Camville?” Robin added. “You think King Richard will keep him around? You’d be wise to tell your vassals to lay down their arms, lest they suffer the fate of the thousands at Acre.” Robin had no doubt that John understood his message. The execution of the Saracen prisoners was well known.