“A threat? Such harsh words from my mother.” John glowered at him.
Robin shrugged. “I am only the messenger.”
John had not been close to his mother in his youth. She’d spent much of it as old King Henry’s prisoner, locked away at Sarum. But he’d had encounters with her since Richard’s departure for the Holy Land. Robin imagined those meetings left vivid memories of his mother’s forcefulness. But in the end, it would come down to King Richard. His liege lord could be ruthless. He was also a practical man. Prisoners of noble blood could be ransomed just as he himself had been.
Robin pointed at the coins. “That is enough to buy you passage back to Flanders. Return to Paris if you truly believe Philip is your friend. Or slip quietly back to Poitou and pray that our liege lord chooses not to rout you from there. He will be home soon.”
“To the king,” John said, his tone sinister.
Robin met John’s sneer with a nod as John lifted his mug and downed the rest of his drink. He quirked his head when Robin refilled the mug. “Tell me, Robin…”
Robin couldn’t help show his surprise that John knew his name. A smile crept into the corners of John’s mouth. “I lied. I do know you, Robin Carpenter of Ringsthorpe.”
Robin’s shoulders grew tight. Breathe, he thought, suddenly feeling like a hunted animal.
“You let them capture my dear brother Richard. You escaped and left him behind. How convenient. I could like you, Robin. Ensure that your manor in Louviers is not destroyed by King Philip’s troops.” John leaned forward, planting his elbows on the table. His eyes turned black and calculating, but Robin refused to flinch. “A shame about Edward de Grey, isn’t it? I understand you missed the funeral.”
John’s words confirmed Robin’s suspicions. The man’s network of informants was more extensive than Queen Eleanor believed. De Grey was a minor landowner, not a powerful or wealthy lord. Yet John knew of his death, knew that Robin had been unable to be at Henry and Bea’s sides during that sorrowful time.
“It would be a sad day should anything else befall others who live near Greyton.”
Robin’s pulse quickened. Tongue clenched between his teeth, he quashed his fear.
John took a huge gulp of his drink and chuckled. Wine dribbled from the corner of his mouth. He dabbed it away with his fingertips. “You might tell Henry de Grey that when you visit your family there.”
God’s blood, Robin thought. John’s men knew of his father and stepmother, his brothers. Did they know about Marian and Robert?
Gloating, John sat back. “In fact, if you have names of those responsible for destroying my goods at Westorby, I might see that those you love remain unharmed.”
“A generous offer, my lord.” Robin’s voice was cold.
A serving girl sashayed up to the table with sweet giggles, a trencher of herbed fish, and a magnificent pair of bosoms she flaunted in John’s face. Though he had a reputation of enjoying whores’ company from England to Paris, he waved her away. He looked pointedly at Robin. “Is it true my dear mother is preparing to depart for Bavaria?”
“I am not privy to that information, my lord.”
“A shame.”
Robin drew in a deep breath, set his resolve. “Your friend Philip might know, assuming he is not shaking in his boots because King Richard will soon be free.” Robin cocked an ear. “Ah, is that your knees rattling beneath the table?”
John leapt to his feet sliding his sword from its jeweled scabbard. Robin’s swift move countered John’s. Their blades crossed. People scattered, chairs toppling to the floor. John’s guards were on their feet, weapons drawn but frozen mid-air. John hissed through his teeth. “Leave him to me!” His face reddened with the effort to keep Robin’s blade at bay.
Robin let him think he would be a match, but he could feel John’s arms quiver. One signal from John and the guards would come to his defense. Kill John, kill his men? No, he could not do that to his queen. Eyes locked with John’s, arm and shoulder muscles tightening, he forced their swords to the table with a thud.
John’s eyes gleamed defiantly, but Robin smirked. He released his hold on John and bowed curtly. “I shall tell your mother you are well. Safe travels, my lord.”
“Bastard.” John growled, turning to his guards. “Take him!”
Robin flung the trestle up and ran, tipping two more on his way to the door. The guards’ spurs clinked against the wood floor as he bolted outside, needling his way through a throng of men gathered there. John’s curses echoed behind him. “Get the whoreson!”
Robin disappeared round a corner before the guards pressed their way through the horde. Now he would wait and watch.
*
The bells of St. Peter’s church tolled. Allan tugged his cloak tight to ward off the late October winds. Gray skies blanketing Barton made it feel more like night than mid-morning.
Down the street, Robin warmed himself over a pot of steaming stew at the quayside and talked with the men working there. Stomach growling, Allan tried to imagine the taste of that meal, could almost feel the thick broth coat his throat. But his nostrils filled with the scent of fish spilled out on the quay and he shivered. Blood. He could smell it. He stared at his hands and suddenly reeled. Sarah’s blood. Sarah lying dead in his arms. Trembling, he wondered if he would be like Sir Henry, forever condemned to remember that horror.
He consigned his dark thoughts to the back of his mind when Little John came up beside him. Once, that name suited his friend. Now the man towered two heads above him and had shoulders the width of a bull. He must stand a nose or two taller than the king. Wouldn’t Richard be surprised? Allan smiled, something he was not wont to do in recent weeks.
A hooded figure with two armored companions skulked up the gangway of one of the boats. Orders rang and dockworkers tossed mooring ropes to the crew. On the deck, the man turned and took hold of the rail to scan the quay. His gaze alighted on Robin.
Allan looked between the two men. “That’s a look hot enough to start a fire,” he said as the boat carrying Count John slipped away from the dock. The oars cut the water with a steady thrum.
Little John chuckled and rubbed his hands together. “I wouldn’t mind a fire right now.”
“We must celebrate Robin’s convincing Count John he has worn out his welcome in England. We’ll find a tavern with the hearth ablaze, have good ale. Mayhap you’ll find a pretty wench for your lap soon as this boat slips out of sight.”
“I’ll leave the tavern girls for you. I’ve my Lady Elle.” Little John ground his boot into the mud. “Sorry. I shouldn’t remind you of…” He blew out a breath.
The wind battered signs and shutters, but silence hung in the air between the two squires. Little John hadn’t spoken of Elle since Sarah’s death, though Allan knew he brooded over the girl. Allan had no desire to talk of the women they loved. He was hurting too much. Besides, Little John could be getting his hopes up over a baron’s daughter. The two of them were penniless squires who would likely remain hearth knights for the rest of their days. Land and titles—who needed them? Those trappings meant even less to him after Sarah’s death. But being knighted. That would suit him.
The galley disappeared around a bend and into the mists. Robin signaled the all clear and they started up the road. Little John looked miserable. Allan couldn’t bear to see him that way. Mayhap over time he’d get better at talking about Sarah, of what he might have had, at listening to his friend’s hopes for the future. Putting off those conversations wouldn’t make it any easier. He drew a ragged breath. “Tell me about Elle. I want to know.”
“It’s not right. Not after you’ve lost Sarah.”
“I know Elle is on your mind. Mayhap your words will bring me closer to Sarah.” His voice grew quiet. “To know what I had was true.”
“Would it not make you feel worse?”
“Only for a bit. Seeing you happy…” Allan’s voice cracked. He swiped at moisture threatening to blur his vision. “You are
my best friend. Like a brother.” When Little John didn’t answer, Allan added, “Tell me.”
Without a note of hesitation, Little John said, “I love her. Being a knight means nothing to me if I cannot be with Elle.”
Loyalty to the king or the desire to have a life with your family. Could there be both? “You won’t forsake the king or your friends. If not as a knight, you will find other ways to serve.”
“I must ask Sir Stephan.” Little John exhaled sharply, blowing smoke into the frigid air. “What would you have done if you’d married Sarah?”
Allan’s lip curled in a memory. “I imagined she might accompany me to Louviers to be Marian’s maid when Robin made her his lady.” He clamped his arm across Little John’s shoulder. “I shall be at your wedding if you let me dance with this girl. She must be very special for you to give up all this.”
“To give you up?” Little John tried not to grin.
Allan chuckled. “Saints, no! I meant to give up the fighting and the sneaking around, and to miss my dice games.” Little John laughed and Allan pounded his back. “I’ll miss having you around as my sidekick.”
“Your sidekick?” He shoved Allan playfully. “You are such a humble man.”
Allan winked. “That, I am.”
They laughed so hard, cuffing necks, boxing and strutting like two drunken fools down the road, that they nearly strode right into three men blocking their path. The wind whistled between the buildings to either side of them, but it didn’t mask the sound of a sword scraping leather.
“Humble enough to admit you serve the wrong master?” the tallest of the men asked. A scar below his eye ran jagged through creases on his face. The younger man to his left gripped the hilt of his sword and looked about nervously. Like his companions, he wore muddied leather boots and a black tunic over brown hose. Each man had the same sword belt, leather inlaid with silver studs. The third man tossed his cloak back to keep his sword arm untethered. He stood bold and straight, fearless. Experience showed in his face.
Allan glanced back. No sign of Robin. His gaze darted to a nearby alley. He hoped these thugs had no accomplices. They could run, but ridding England of traitors who supported Count John was more appealing. He looked at Little John. “Three of them.”
“Aye.” Little John sized up their enemies with a steady gaze. “I’ve the two on the right.”
Amused, the men looked at each other, and then paced forward.
In one fluid motion, Allan and Little John drew their swords. “For the king!” they shouted and charged.
Little John’s deep voice crescendoed as he repeated the war cry. It echoed down the street. Terrified by the wolf-like howl, the youngest of their adversaries bolted. Little John swung his sword round, the blade crashing into the tall man’s weapon.
Allan sliced downward. Steel met steel, the blow savage and snaking up his arm. He stepped back, shocked by the strength of the dark-haired thug. The man lunged, his huge hands two-fisted on the hilt. The tip of his blade nicked Allan’s arm. Allan laughed, pointed at his shredded shirt. “Is that all you’ve got?”
Anger blazed in the man’s eyes. Circling, Allan raised his blade and struck down again and again.
Little John was swifter than the older man. Swords clanged and he pressed him up the road. His opponent weakened. When the man failed to block a straight thrust, Little John’s sword dug deep into his shoulder. The thug screamed, doubled over, and fell to his knees. Little John withdrew the blade and raised it to deliver a final blow. Pleading eyes met his. He saw blood staining the man’s tunic. Lowering his sword, he turned and charged to help Allan.
Allan had found his stride, striking hard and fast, but in the shadows he failed to see a muddy spot from the previous day’s rain. His foot twisted angrily. He flailed, tumbling to the ground. Hands slick with sweat, his sword flew from his grasp.
Allan rolled, missing the cut of his adversary’s blade by an ear. From the corner of his eye, he saw Little John, a huge hulk like a bear coming towards him, his hair wild and wind-blown.
Little John shouted, “For King Richard!”
The shriek made Allan’s opponent turn. The man had no chance to block Little John’s sword. Piercing flesh with a sickening sound, it missed bone, and protruded from his back. The man dropped his weapon and stared glassy-eyed at Little John.
“For the king.” Little John sneered and yanked the blade out, hot blood spraying his face. He didn’t look at Allan. And he couldn’t bring himself to watch the last bit of life drain from the man whose fate he’d sealed.
Backing away, Little John gasped for air. He flung his sword to the ground and ran. Allan jumped to his feet and retrieved their blades, hastening after his friend.
Little John dove into an alley. Rounding the corner, Allan stopped short. Little John leaned against the building, heaving his guts into the dirt.
Allan started towards him, but a strong hand gripped his shoulder. His heart dropped until he spotted a familiar mark on the man’s glove. “Robin,” he said with a heavy sigh.
“What happened?” Robin saw the sword in Allan’s hand, saw the blood. Little John had stopped heaving. “Are you all right?”
Little John swiped at the sweat and blood on his brow, but couldn’t speak.
“We were jumped by three men,” Allan said.
Robin needed no further explanation. He took the sword from Allan. “Hours of practice. Feeling the hilt in your hand, molding your grip to it. Striking wood and straw targets, or trying not to maim your practice partner.” He held the blade down, steel ready to slice the ground between them. “Nothing will prepare you for killing a man,” he said, meeting Little John’s hard gaze. Robin’s eyes held a thousand memories. “You see their faces every time you draw your sword.”
“You saved my life, Little John.” Allan placed his hand on the hilt with Robin’s.
Little John stared past them. It wasn’t the first time he’d killed a man. And it likely would not be the last. For the king. More importantly, for family. He palmed his friends’ hands, but glowered at Allan. “Do not make me do that again.”
Robin pounded his back. “Let’s be off. The others will be waiting for us.”
Little John frowned again. “Where to now?”
Robin looked at him slyly. “We have a friend to see in Nottingham.”
“A friend?” Little John huffed. “Isn’t that what you said about this rendezvous in Barton?”
“It was the way he said it,” Allan said. “A friend is different from a friend.” His voice had dipped low and he gave a wink.
“You have my word,” Robin said. “This friend in Nottingham won’t be pointing a blade at your heart.”
The steady beat of wood and cogs, the crush of straw, grain being ground to flour. Little John found the sounds of the mill soothing and strangely familiar. He watched the Nottingham miller at work, trying to place that memory.
The man had paid him no mind when he walked in, too intent on his work. It was a younger man who greeted him. The apprentice matched the description Robin had provided: light brown hair, blue eyes, and a small jagged scar on his chin.
“Something for you, friend?” Much asked. He scrutinized Little John. “I know every servant from every manor for miles around. I do not think I know you.”
Little John straightened to his full height. He wasn’t dressed in rich robes and had no jewels on his hands. No hauberk or gambeson to single him out as a soldier. No sign of the Lionheart on his cloak. He might easily be mistaken for a servant, and that was fine.
He reached beneath his dark brown cloak. Much tensed, drew back, and eyed the sword at Little John’s waist. Little John tugged at his purse, smiling as the coins clinked. “What does it matter who I am? I can pay.” He sounded more confident than he felt. Allan was so much better at this.
Relaxing, Much dabbed at sweat on his brow. “Indeed you can.” He looked past Little John at the horse tethered outside. “Fine looking animal.” Clearin
g his throat, he asked, “How much flour would you like?”
Little John dug into his purse until he felt the rough edges of the mark Robin had given him. His fingers curled round the silver like a cocoon.
Laughter out on the street made him turn. Two dark-haired men propped themselves on the window splay. “Much,” the crooked-nose one called, “Leena said she misses your handsome face.”
“I cannot understand why when she could have me,” the other laughed.
“I am certainly more handsome than the miller’s son,” crooked-nose said.
“You are both mad,” Much barked. “And jealous. Leena obviously has good taste.”
Crooked-nose laughed. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that, but she does know what tastes good.” He grunted, tugged at his crotch.
Much turned strawberry red. “Away, both of you.” He looked towards the back of the mill, released a sigh. His father hadn’t heard a word.
Much fixed innocent-looking eyes on Little John. “They like to tease.”
“I have friends like that.” Little John rolled his fist and uncurled his fingers.
Eyeing the mark, Much frowned. “Won’t buy a thing with that. Silver, isn’t it? Mayhap one of the merchants will give you something for it.”
“I don’t mean to sell it.”
“Well I can’t give you flour—” Much’s eyes narrowed. He stared at the token. When Little John held it up, Much took the piece for a closer look. A hooded falcon. He closed his hand on the silver. His eyes darted around the shop and out to the street. “Where did you get this?”
“Robin would like to meet with you tonight.” Little John’s voice was so quiet that Much strained to hear him. “He said you will know the place.”
Much nodded. “Tell him I will be there.”
“What’s this?” Elias the miller growled from the doorway.
“Da—” Much choked.
“I am Leena’s brother,” Little John chimed.
“Leena? From the castle?”
Much swallowed hard, but Little John wasn’t flustered. “Good day to you, Miller.” It almost surprised him how easily the lie had spilled from his mouth.
For King and Country (Battle Scars Book 2) Page 37