For King and Country (Battle Scars Book 2)

by Charlene Newcomb

Bathed in darkness, the mill stood quiet as Much led Robin to the storeroom. “I have a crate for you.” He struck flint to light a tallow candle. The flame flickered, illuminating the iron hinges of a rectangular wooden box large enough to hide a young child.

  “Where did this come from?” Robin asked.

  “Your friend, the one who calls himself William. He brought word of the wedding. It was joyous. The wedding, that is.” Much grinned. “I was instructed to pass that news along and tell you this crate is a gift for Christmastide. That your friend across the sea is well and awaiting certain others’ arrival from England. Eleven days after the feast of the Epiphany. If any of that makes sense, I am certain you’d not tell me anyway.”

  “It’s best you—”

  “I know, I know.” Much rolled his eyes.

  Robin rubbed his hands to warm them, glad to know Queen Eleanor was preparing to sail to Germany, and Stephan was awaiting her entourage there. The king would be released from his German prison on the seventeenth day of January. He would be home soon.

  “Did you open the crate?” he asked Much.

  “Of course not.”

  “I thought you were the curious kind.”

  “Heh! You know what they say of curiosity. I am in enough trouble knowing you as it stands.”

  “Yes, you are.” Robin laughed, clapping his back.

  “Quiet.” Much glanced nervously towards the door.

  Robin traced a finger along the edge of the crate. “Let’s see what William has brought for me.” He pried the lid open, its iron hinges creaking. Much brought the candle close to shine on the contents. Robin tugged out a blanket, thinking it covered the treasure inside. He grabbed a second, then a third.

  “Blankets?” Much asked.

  “It is cold. My men can use them,” Robin said.

  Much said nothing, but his expression confirmed he suspected Robin’s men inhabited Sherwood’s caves. Where else would he be taking the goods pilfered from the castle’s undercroft?

  The fourth item Robin retrieved was made of wool cloth like the blankets, but as it splayed open, Robin realized it was a cloak. He tossed it round his shoulders and tugged it up to his chin. It was the softest and warmest thing he’d held to his cheek since Marian had been in his arms.

  Much set the candle aside. He dug into the crate and pulled out two more cloaks, draping them over the lid. He sunk his hands in deeper. “There must be a dozen in here. You’ll blend into the winter forest with this deep brown cloth.” He tugged the hood over Robin’s head playfully. “Shall I tell William to have them send Lincoln green ones for when the leaves begin to bud?”

  “I’d like to hope we won’t be in this line of work by spring.”

  Much raised his brow. “It will all be over by the seventeenth day of January?” Before Robin could respond, Much lifted a finger to Robin’s lips. “I know. You cannot tell me.” He retrieved his secret flask of ale. “I would invite you inside to celebrate our Savior’s birth, but if you think I am curious then you’ve not met my da. He would ask far more questions.” He offered Robin a drink.

  “This will do,” Robin said and took a swig. He ignored the rumble in his stomach. He could almost smell the miller’s supper on the spit. But no roasted meat for him tonight. He would have dried beef and day old bread with his men. And Henry’s gifts would be welcome.

  He wrapped the cloaks and blankets in a bundle and waited for Much to check the way was clear. Outside, he strode through snowflakes drifting down from the skies.

  Greyton was quiet, bundled against cold February winds under a bright full moon. Henry watched the last gasps of the fire in the hearth crackle and sizzle. Hoofbeats clattered on the cobbles outside and he straightened in his chair, listening. He told himself it wasn’t Stephan, but dear God, he was so tired of being alone, of missing Stephan by his side. To hear his voice… But he had been disappointed too many times over the last few months. Knowing Stephan had accompanied the queen to Germany was the only thought that kept him sane some days.

  Henry released a heavy breath when Hugh admitted the familiar messenger. “Tuck.”

  “Apologies for the late hour.” Tuck bowed and strode into the room.

  It had been after Little John’s wedding, in the late hours in conversation with Queen Eleanor, when Henry learned Tuck had been on the Earl of Chester’s payroll well before the tavern fight in Boston. His guard duty had dried up after the fire at Westorby, and though Henry knew few details, the ginger-haired soldier was a trusted messenger. His last message had not been good. Queen Eleanor had arrived in Germany with the ransom money only to find that the Emperor Henry had reconsidered the date for the king’s release. That date—the fourth of February—had come and gone, and it had been as if all of England held its breath.

  “What news?” Henry asked. “Is he free?”

  “He is. King Richard and Queen Eleanor have left Mainz. The king makes his way downriver to Antwerp. By our messengers, he will land at Sandwich early next month and proceed to London.”

  “Praise God,” Henry cried. “His captivity and suffering at an end. But what of Count John’s men? Have they sworn fealty to King Richard?” The constables at John’s castles had been ordered to stand down when the queen left for Germany, but there’d been no sign of that. Would this news compel them to reconsider? Winter drew to a close. Spring meant roads would be more passable and men would muster for war. The campaign season would open. Henry shivered, his mind besieged by the sound of stone throwers and the sight of bloodied swords.

  Tuck confirmed Henry’s fear. “Messages to the castellans with John’s seal were intercepted. He had ordered them to hold, to fight.” Heat rose on Tuck’s cheeks, but he delivered the message without embellishment or emotion. “The queen’s men have dispatched troops to Bristol and Marlborough and the Bishop of Durham will set siege to Tickhill per Queen Eleanor’s orders. You are to accompany the Earl of Chester to seize the provisions stored at Westorby and transport them and the materials from Ringsthorpe to Nottingham. You and Chester will join the Earls of Huntingdon and Derby there and lay siege to the castle.”

  Jaw clenched, Henry silently damned John’s supporters. Didn’t they realize their fight was hopeless?

  Henry gestured to the empty chair by the hearth. “Sit down, man.” He filled two goblets with wine and met Tuck’s wolf-green eyes. “For the king.” Both men downed their drinks and Henry poured seconds. “Will you head to the coast to meet the king?”

  “I must convey the Earl’s message to our friend in Nottingham. God willing, I will see you again in three days, and from there…?” Tuck shrugged.

  “From there to await King Richard.” His words sounded near unimaginable. After more than a year the king was free.

  Stephan. He would be here soon. Henry’s heart suddenly felt lighter.

  A short while later Tuck was settled upstairs in Henry’s old bedchamber, but Henry remained in the hall.

  “Stoke the fire,” Henry told Hugh. “I fear I will not be able to sleep even if I lay my head down on the softest feather pillow.”

  He stared into the gold-reddish flames. The king—home. But at what cost? He wrapped his arms around himself and closed his eyes. Thoughts of war sent a chill through his bones.

  *

  Within days, Greyton became an armed camp. Henry gripped the window, shuddered at the sights and sounds outside. A hundred or more horses. Wagons, spurs clinking, armor clanking. He could hear drums in his head, the noise deafening. Like the Holy Land.

  “Are you all right, my lord?” Hugh held out his gambeson.

  He wasn’t in Outremer. He was home, and war was here. His vision blurred and he blinked, looking past Hugh to the bed where his hauberk gleamed. “Fine,” he said, fitting his arms through the sleeves of the gambeson and forcing his heart to calm.

  From his window, he could see smoke rising from every shop and cottage. His villeins had contributed lodging and what food they could to the knights and their ento
urages. The manor smelled of meat pies baking in the kitchen. Mary had been up cooking before dawn. Squires darted in and out of the house to fill the knights’ packs. Robert walked confidently amongst the men and Henry let himself smile. The boy stood alongside squires inspecting the destriers’ hoofs, bridles, and saddles. He must remember to tell Robin.

  As Hugh laced up the gambeson, Henry’s eyes were drawn to the new slitted helm on the clothes chest. The Earl of Chester had presented it to him as a gift. It would take some getting used to. His open-faced pot helm was lighter. He couldn’t see near as well with the new one, but it would offer more protection. As he thought of arming himself with lance and shield again, he felt relieved to know Bea was safely behind the walls of Castle l’Aigle to the north. Little John remained at Cartholme with Bea’s servants and knights Gil l’Aigle left behind after Christmastide. King Richard had led men and won battles when he was sixteen. Henry had every confidence Sir John would follow in their liege lord’s footsteps if needed, and, he had Elle at his side.

  He thought of Little John’s message two days past.“Pity any of Count John’s men who come here. Elle has stocked our bedchamber with so many chests filled with arrows that I can barely make my way to the bed at night. She practices daily, loosing them at targets in the courtyard and most every time finds her mark.”

  Thankfully, Henry had not seen Edric Weston since the wedding, but Jack Brewer kept him informed of his whereabouts. The stores at Westorby would be in the hands of the king’s men within hours. Edric had no guards there but for his villagers, and if he resisted, he would be arrested, if not slain. Alive, he still might smear Henry’s reputation—something he’d held off on to Henry’s surprise.

  Hugh handed Henry his swordbelt. “Robert holds your horse ready for you in the yard, my lord.”

  The gray destrier he had named Cloud Bank had been a gift from Bea at Christmastide. Henry had worked with the animal despite the cold and snow of the last few weeks. The stallion felt good in his hands, like they’d been together for years.

  Henry adjusted the belt around his waist and sheathed his sword.

  The house felt strangely quiet. He drew a long slow breath and strode from his bedchamber. His feet on the stairs sounded loud to his ears, like the drums that never seemed to leave his thoughts. Light from the kitchen danced through the passageway. The shadows of Mary’s helpers splayed on the walls as they scurried about their morning tasks. She must have shushed them all because none said a word, the kitchen as hushed as a chapel.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Marian treading carefully down the stairs. She stopped when he noticed her.

  “God keep you safe, my lord.” Her hand rested near her heart.

  “He shall watch over us all.” Henry urged her down the stairs. “There are liable to be too many bloody days ahead if Count John’s supporters refuse to lay down their arms. I wish I could believe they might come to their senses.”

  “Must they touch King Richard, see him in the flesh?” Marian asked.

  “Like the doubting Thomas?” What would King Richard think of that comparison, he thought, and then shrugged. “So it would seem.”

  “Have you any news…” Marian’s voice trembled. “…of Robin?”

  “He is alive.” God willing. Henry took her hand and squeezed it. “I know nothing more.”

  Marian tried to smile. “Sometimes I think Robin was right not to come back, to let us believe that he was dead.”

  “Sometimes? And now? Wouldn’t you rather hold him in your heart and keep watch, hoping he’ll burst through that door soon?” Henry stared past her. He studied every groove, every pit, in the dark oak that separated them from the madness beyond. Let the cracks and lines be like a map to bring his lover home. “I must be of that mind, else I’d not be able to breathe or put one foot in front of the other each day.”

  Henry stepped outside. The noise struck him full on. Men-at-arms grunted, climbed aboard wagons. Knights mounted their destriers, mail chausses brushing the leather of their saddles. Wide-eyed children lined the yard, hanging at their mothers’ legs. Villeins, young and old, crossed themselves, lips mouthing softly in prayer.

  Determination in his eyes, Robert held Henry’s horse. He nodded stiffly. “God be with you, my lord. Would you…” He gnawed on his lip. “Tell my da he has a promise to keep.”

  “I will tell him,” Henry said, and clasped Robert’s arm. Thirteen summers now, Robert’s face was no longer that of a boy. He’d stretched to Henry’s height, but his weight had not yet caught up. Still, Henry knew the strength in those arms and legs. William Carpenter had made him a bow suited to his size. The boy could hit a target at a seventy yards. With years on him, he would be as strong as Robin. Henry hated to think Robert needed a warrior’s skills, but it was hard to imagine that the call to men for war would ever cease.

  Henry mounted and nudged his stallion past the line of wagons, acknowledging Tuck who rode with a group of mounted soldiers. Henry studied his companions. Twenty knights and three dozen men-at-arms would face Edric Weston and his peasants at Westorby. Never underestimate your enemy. Robin’s words.

  Henry unsheathed his sword and raised it. Pointing towards the colorful banners fluttering in the wind, he shouted to the gathered troops, “For King Richard! For England!”

  A rush of voices joined his, and then the Earl of Chester shouted, “Move out!” The knights spurred their horses with the wagons bringing up the rear and churning mud in their wake.

  A mile from Westorby, Chester turned to the knights. “Let’s make quick work of it.”

  Henry seated his helm on his head as a bell pealed in the distance, echoing in the brisk air. The late winter sun shone golden on the countryside where the trees gave way to the fens. Despite the cold, sweat tickled the back of Henry’s neck. The horses shifted restlessly, sensing their riders’ anxiety and passion. Henry stroked his stallion’s neck and then urged him to a canter behind the earl. Like a desert whirlwind, Chester’s men charged into Westorby, shields held ready. Villagers scattered, screaming, and yanked their young ones out of harm’s way.

  Henry unsheathed his sword. God forbid should he have to draw blood against these people. The assault on Messina invaded his thoughts, where citizens had met King Richard’s charge with jeers, with rocks and axes. Here the villagers stayed back. No one glowered or cursed. Nor were there cheers. And, thanks be to God, this was a far cry from the hordes of Saracens in Outremer who’d harassed the army.

  Henry and Chester hardly slowed, reining in hard near the newly-rebuilt manor. The knights fanned out to surround the storehouse. Villeins guarding the place scurried out of their way like rabbits eluding a fox.

  A shadow moved in the window of the manor. Edric.

  Henry removed his helm, but his grip on his sword tightened. “Weston!”

  Why did his hands tremble so? The knights had the upper hand. From the corner of his eye he saw Chester signal two of the men to watch the back of the manor. The earl waved his sword at the storehouse. “Get those doors open.”

  Henry dismounted. A tremendous crack splintered the air. Henry startled, turning at the sound. The heavy doors of the storehouse flew open.

  “Archers!” one of Chester’s knights shouted.

  Arrows flew. Two horses screamed, struck. A knight was hit, hurled back in his saddle. He reeled, but kept control and heeled his horse away from the direct line of fire.

  “Get the bastards!” Chester bellowed as Welsh archers hidden inside the building loosed a second flight.

  The men-at-arms surged towards their attackers, but Henry’s target was Edric Weston. He stormed up the stone steps of the manor. His boot steps didn’t hide the thunk of arrows against shields, of maces and axes and swords finding flesh. Screams. More screams.

  Henry jiggled the latch on the door. Jammed. He rammed his shoulder against it, every bit of his weight behind the thrust. Once, twice. The oak groaned but didn’t give way. A rustle of wind stirred hi
s hair. An arrow thudded into the wall inches from his head. Henry swore, kicking the door, and at the third try, it yielded. He stumbled inside, nearly tripping over a chest used to block his way.

  “Weston!” Henry shouted. Sunlight streaming through the door and a fire in the central hearth lit and warmed the deserted hall. A muffled shriek carried from the kitchen. “Weston, you must come with us.”

  No answer. Scuffling footsteps sounded from the buttery.

  Henry raised his sword. “We need not make this bloody, Edric. The king’s men will take the storehouse. The house is surrounded.” He advanced towards the kitchen.

  A young woman appeared in the doorway, her reddened face streaked with tears. “Please…”

  “Move aside,” Henry said.

  Her head shifted ever so slightly, her eyes cast back over her shoulder.

  Suddenly, shoved from behind, she slammed into Henry. He caught the girl and stumbled backwards, managing to keep them both on their feet. Edric barreled into the hall, his sword drawn. Henry forced the girl aside before the sharp tip of Edric’s blade slashed downward. Steel grazed his mail.

  Henry fended off a second blow and twisted away. Edric pressed him with more skill than Henry had given him credit for. A swish of air—too close. He felt a sting near his eye, but ignored it. He swung, bringing his sword round in a wide arc. Firelight glinted off the blade. Edric roared as their weapons tangled, but Henry forced him backwards. Muscles tightened in his arms and he struck a blow, slicing the fabric of Edric’s leather chausses.

  Cursing, Edric scrambled up the stairs. He stopped halfway and turned, daring Henry to follow. “Come to me, lover!”

  “Bastard,” Henry shouted, steaming up the steps.

  “Sodomite.” Edric snarled. He gripped the oaken rail and vaulted over it.

  “Burn in Hell,” Henry cried and leapt over the rail. The floor shook beneath his boots as he landed.

  “Yes, you will!” Edric charged, his sword raised.

  Their weapons impacted violently. Henry caught Edric’s blade and then tossed it off, the sword sailing through the air. The tip of Henry’s blade lay inches from Edric’s throat. Henry blinked back blood from the cut above his brow.