“Do it, lover,” Edric sneered.
Frozen in the corner of the room, the kitchen girl whimpered. Henry didn’t want Edric’s servant to end up a hostage, dead, like Sarah. He took his eyes from Edric and shouted at her. “Get out!”
One heartbeat—it could not have been any longer, but Henry knew he’d made a mistake. He didn't see Edric draw the dagger that sliced into his gloved hand, sunk into his flesh. Henry suppressed the urge to cry out, but pain snaked up his arm as Edric bolted for the kitchen. Henry still had a grip on his sword, but the hilt grew slick with blood. He hurried after Edric, grabbed a cloth to wrap round his hand, and ran out the back door.
“Where is Weston?”
Two mounted knights guarding the door looked at him, confused. “He didn’t come this way,” one said.
Henry scowled and flew back into the house. A hidden passage—that was the only explanation. He toppled a cupboard, felt along the walls, his frustration growing each second. His boots scuffed the floor. He shoved the cook’s work table aside. There it was! A small door. He reached for the latch, but shouted orders outside told him he need not bother.
“Hold!” Chester’s voice. “Let him go.”
Edric’s secret passageway opened on the west side of the house. He’d toppled a knight from his horse and stolen it, galloping off across pastureland. Henry saw him disappearing in the cover of the woods.
“I am sorry, my lord,” Henry told Chester. His voice cracked, parched from his fight with Edric. “I should have captured the traitor.”
Chester regarded the blood dripping from Henry’s fingertips. “Take care of that wound.” He stared after Edric. “I’ll not waste our horses on a chase. He’s heading to Nottingham. We shall let him have a few more days of freedom, but he’ll be brought to the king’s justice with the traitors there.”
By the time Henry’s hand was cleansed and bandaged, Chester’s men were loading their war prizes on the wagons. Three archers captured, three others dead, blood pooling on the ground around them. Of their own men, four were wounded and two horses had to be put down.
Without prompting, villagers emerged from their cottages with crates and sacks, provisions that Weston had ordered hidden. Tuck eyed the goods being piled at the foot of the manor stairs. “I remember a large locked chest saved from the fire.”
“Coin?” Henry asked.
“Weston guarded it like it was the bones of the Savior, my lord.”
Chester nodded. “Search the house.” Tuck needed no encouragement and slipped away. Chester ordered the villeins to see to the dead, and then called to two of his men. “For every six barrels or crates of food, distribute one amongst the villagers.”
“A good deed, my lord,” Henry said. “I shall take my leave of you, return to Ringsthorpe and check our men’s progress there.” The sound of splintering wood made him glance at an upstairs window of the manor. “Tuck may have found his chest. You’ll have more reason to celebrate tonight. Enjoy Weston’s wine. He buys only the best.” Henry grimaced, remembering poor Amicia. If he had his way, he’d pour every bit of the drink down the privy. And then drown Weston in it.
Chester raised a brow, the question on his lips interrupted when a squire brought Henry’s horse. Mounting, Henry saw Tuck standing in the doorway, his hand cupped and brimming with coin. “Must be a hundred pounds or more, my lord,” Tuck said.
Chester ordered Tuck to deliver a shilling to every villager and one for each of the men. Henry liked a man who overstepped his bounds, especially when it helped the common folk. Besides, he imagined the Earl of Chester could easily make up the difference.
Henry tipped his head to Chester. “Grantham. Midday tomorrow.”
*
The next morning, Henry surveyed the wagons rumbling away from Greyton. Laden with King Richard’s war cargo from the storehouse in Ringsthorpe, the caravan would rendezvous with Chester coming from Westorby and the Earl of Huntingdon advancing from the south. The siege train would head to Nottingham.
A light snow had fallen during the night and his gaze swept from the snow-covered pasture to the thick stone of Greyton manor. Four years past he’d taken the Cross, struck out for war full of pride and righteousness with nary a thought of what he was leaving behind. Now, the conflict raged at his doorstep, and all he had left of that naive twenty-year-old was his loyalty to King Richard. The pounding in his heart was so strong that it took effort to find his breath. He ached for his home, his people—and for Stephan. Keep safe, wherever you may be…
Cold and dreary February melted at a snail’s pace into March. Twenty days since King Richard had been freed. Thirty. No word. The siege camp had been set in Nottingham for three weeks when finally, to every man’s relief, news came of Richard’s landing at Sandwich. Henry grew more anxious to see Stephan with each passing day. The work of war kept his mind occupied. The moat backfilled, attention had turned to construction and placement of the siege machines. Messengers charted the king’s progress north. Canterbury, London, Bury St. Edmunds, and Huntingdon. Count John’s constables at Tickhill and Nottingham knew of his approach. And still, there was no sign they’d lay down their arms.
On the twenty-second day of March Henry accompanied the Earl of Chester to Grantham. Shading his eyes, he surveyed the western edges of the town where smoke curled into the air from dozens of campfires. The landscape had changed. The army’s tents and King Richard’s entourage hadn’t been here when he’d journeyed with the siege train weeks past. Streets and alleyways leading in every direction swelled with people. Most conspicuous was the Lionheart’s standard flying from the prior’s house near St. Wulfram’s church.
When had the air sizzled with such excitement? At Richard’s coronation? Mayhap it was like Southampton when he’d watched knights embarking for Outremer charge through the streets shouting “St. George!” Emotions had been as strong, but different, in Acre when their Saracen prisoners were executed; and after, as the army began its grueling march towards Jerusalem. At least the journey to Nottingham with the king would not be under an unforgiving sun.
Despite the coolness of the day, sweat tickled Henry’s neck. He swiped at it, and then flexed the fingers of his gloved hand. The dagger wound had healed, the ache of those first few days gone. His grip was near as strong as before the fight with Edric.
Henry dismounted and followed Chester and his knights to welcome the king. At the king’s temporary residence the earl was escorted inside without delay. Hoping to see Stephan, Henry searched the faces in the crowd to no avail. Tradesmen bartering and gossiping voices punctuated the air. A troop of armored knights cantered in from the south, spurring people to scurry from their path. Henry recognized William Marshal’s banner. He knew Marshal had taken Bristol; had heard Marshal’s brother, a strong supporter of John’s, had died at Marlborough.
Marshal sprang from his stallion like a man half his age. Stories of the knight’s prowess spilled from tongues far and wide since Henry’s childhood. Henry had known him but a year, and he was every bit the gentleman admired in those tales. Queen Eleanor trusted him implicitly. His loyalty to the king was unparalleled. Henry would wager the queen put more faith in Marshal than she did in God.
Marshal handed his reins and gloves to his squire. He shoved his mail hood back revealing thick brown hair streaked with grey and matted to his head. His dark eyes met Henry’s, acknowledging him with a confident nod. Marshal strode across the cobbled street and followed the chamberlain into the house.
Henry shivered, but not from that sound. A voice—a familiar laugh. Henry’s breaths grew short. A face outside Brewer’s Tavern caught his eye. Four years of memories flooded him. The ache of being apart six months vanished. Stephan.
Smiling, Henry waved. Stephan saw him and picked up his pace. Heat poured through Henry’s veins.
“The king will see you now,” the chamberlain announced. He started inside, turning when Henry didn’t follow. “My lord?”
Clouds skittered
across the sun throwing Stephan into shadows as he maneuvered through the crowds towards Henry. Their first meeting in months would be delayed, but oh, what a reunion it would be.
Forcing his heart to calm, Henry was ushered through the hall. Chester and Marshal stepped back from their conversation with the king and looked at him approvingly. Richard sat near a window. Despite the cool March air, the shutters were thrown open. Light streamed in highlighting strands of grey in the king’s reddish-gold hair.
Henry knelt. “My liege.” He raised his head, smiled up at Richard. Had it been proper, he would have clasped Richard’s arms, hugged him warmly like a brother. God’s bones, it was good to see his king. “Praise God you are finally returned to us.”
Richard’s grey-green eyes met Henry’s with a twinkle. “We had quite the adventure in Bavaria, did we not?” He waved Henry to take a seat and snapped his fingers for wine to be poured. Everyone else was ordered to leave. “You look well. It has been a long hard time, but good, brave and loyal men surround me once again.”
Richard pointed toward maps and parchments scattered on the large trestle in the center of the room. “My brother has been busy in these parts. Chester has nothing but good things to say of your work. The Earl tells me that John’s little cache from the stores near Greyton netted us three dozen siege machines. The people of Lincoln will be relieved to learn you thwarted a siege there.” Henry started to praise Robin and his men for their part, but Richard would not let him get a word in. “The Greek fire is plentiful, enough to destroy every castle between London and York.” His face soured.
“Will you use the Greek fire against Nottingham, sire?” Henry could imagine fireballs streaking through the air, striking the castle walls or structures in the baileys.
“It’s not been used in England.” Richard could see Henry’s concern. “Time and silver—I have little of either and cannot waste months besieging the castle there when Philip Capet is running rampant in Normandy. My brother was storing the Greek fire to use against me. The castle garrison—at least those in charge—know what it can do. I’ll use it if I must.” Richard downed his wine.
“That will send a clear message, my liege. They’ll not hold out long.” Henry felt a bit of remorse about the implications. A short engagement was desirable for the king’s logic, but should the siege drag out… He thought of Stephan being nearby if the king’s camp settled here and his cheeks grew warm.
Richard broke Henry’s reverie. “I hope to see young Allan knighted when this is done. I wonder if the squire has beaten Murdac with his tricks. At least we know Allan has fooled them all.” Richard saw the frown cross Henry’s face. “You don’t know?”
Henry shook his head. “Only that Allan has been working in secret with Robin. But with Murdac?”
Richard laughed. “Our young friend is in the castle working under the constable.” He paused, shuffling through the maps to retrieve one showing the layout of Nottingham Castle. Chuckling, he said, “Allan is my bastard nephew, son of my late brother Hal.”
Henry sputtered, nearly choking on his wine. “What?”
“Introduced by way of a letter in John’s own handwriting, thanks to the adept skills of my lady mother’s forgers.”
“And they believe this?”
“The good Lord knows John has enough bastards of his own, so why not Hal?”
What a ploy, Henry thought. Dangerous, too, though Allan’s natural talents and skills learned while he attended to Richard’s queen and his sister would serve him well. “The training at the palace in Acre was well worth it then.”
Richard raised his goblet and they both drank to Allan. Richard slammed the cup on the table and scowled, his Angevin temper suddenly flaring. “Those men behind Nottingham’s gates best understand that my patience has worn thin. Nottingham Castle impregnable? Let them think that. But I did not go to the Holy Land and back to see traitorous men usurp my crown.” Richard tapped his fingers and seemed to find a calm harbor, eyes focusing on Henry.
Henry was not so calm under that gaze but managed not to fidget. He expected more protest from the king about his brother and righteously so, but Richard surprised him with a change of subject. “I received a letter from my sister before we sailed from Antwerp. I understand you continue your correspondence.”
“Queen Joanna’s letters are one of the few things that make me smile these days.”
“She cares deeply for you.”
Henry thanked the saints he was seated, else his knees would have given out. He stared at the gold filigree on his goblet. Surely the king would not suggest…surely he was not thinking Henry and Joanna… Joanna knew, even Queen Eleanor knew Henry’s feelings on the subject. And Eleanor had claimed the king would only seek a marriage for his sister that offered a political alliance. Henry remembered his shock when Joanna told him Richard had offered her hand in marriage to Saladin’s brother. Marrying her off to a minor baron would bring little to the king’s coffers.
Still, Henry’s life was at the pleasure of the king. He shifted uncomfortably. “And I for her,” he said.
“She is in Poitou. You must plan to see her.”
Henry smiled, released a deep breath. “It would be my honor, sire.”
A huge ruckus rose beyond the door reminding them the business of war was underfoot. Richard gestured towards the hall. “I should greet the others and prepare them for the morrow.”
Henry followed the king to the adjoining room where his earls, barons, and knights had gathered. Standing in the doorway, Richard relished the cacophonous sounds of laughter and dozens of conversations.
Henry searched for Stephan amongst the men. The windows were still shuttered from the cold. Torchlight and candles only lent shadows across many faces.
A voice beside him shouted, “The king.”
Knights stood and heads bowed. The men grew still. Henry could hear the fire in the central hearth crackling. He raised his eyes, looking past it, and saw Stephan across the room. Everything else around him seemed to blur.
Richard strode towards the dais set at the far end of the hall. He took his place there to a swell of praises and cheers.
Henry finally caught Stephan’s eye. Holding each other’s gazes, neither man moved. The look between them said more than words ever could. Henry heard nothing but his own heart when he finally forced his feet forward. He strode up to Stephan and they embraced warmly as friends would. Stephan brushed Henry’s cheek with his lips. That warm breath against his face, his neck. Months of waiting, and here they were surrounded by dozens of men.
“Tonight,” Stephan whispered. “Sit down, join us,” he said for the benefit of other knights at the table. “Good sirs—do you know Lord Henry de Grey? This man saved my life near Arsuf and Beit Nuba.”
“And near Marseilles when you nearly drowned in the river,” Henry added.
The men laughed. Most knew Henry’s name. To a man, they’d heard about the explosion at Westorby, knew of the stores of Greek fire there. A cry went up demanding they tell of their adventures in Outremer. Henry grew quiet. He let Stephan tell the tales. Stephan pounded his back at certain points in his stories. The knights thought the blush on his cheeks was from Stephan’s praise of his heroics. Mayhap it was that the listeners had too much ale. Their glazed eyes remained riveted on Stephan. No one noticed when Henry slid his hand beneath the table and rested it on Stephan’s thigh or when passion flamed in Stephan’s eyes.
An hour passed, then two. The candles on the table burned low and the platters of food were bare, goblets empty of ale.
“Come to Greyton tonight,” Henry said as they joined the throng of men leaving the hall a short while later.
Stephan’s fingers brushed Henry’s hand. “I was thinking you might never ask.”
*
Henry had Hugh set a fire in the hall when he returned, and then sent the servant off. The house was quiet when Stephan arrived. Standing next to the hearth, Henry gripped the mantelpiece. His knees felt w
eak. He felt awkward, like a young boy, filled with desire yet unsure what to do or say. Had it truly been six months since he and Stephan had been together?
Firelight reflected in Stephan’s blue eyes. He paused at the door, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and rustling the rushes on the floor. That was so unlike him. A hollow feeling stabbed Henry’s stomach. Had something changed?
Stephan walked across the room slowly. He took Henry’s hand and turned it up, rubbing his thumb over his palm. Henry shivered against that touch, but felt an odd distance between them.
“You’ve not been wielding a sword of late,” Stephan said.
“Only in practice with young Robert but for the fight at Westorby.”
There was a gleam in Stephan’s eye. “Mayhap I should ask one of Huntingdon’s knights to stay at my back in Nottingham.”
Henry shoved Stephan playfully. “You could, but they do not have the passion that I do.”
Stephan closed his eyes, turning away.
Henry laid his hand on Stephan’s arm. “What is wrong?”
“Why are you doing this to yourself?” Stephan’s voice cracked. “We can never live a normal life.”
“I love you,” Henry said. When Stephan didn’t reply, he felt a chill. His brow creased. “Is there someone—”
“You…you should have someone.” Stephan couldn’t meet his gaze. “A wife.”
“Do not tell me what I need.” Why this, now? Stephan knew his thoughts on marriage. There was only one reason Stephan would push him away. Oh God, he had to know, but he didn’t want to think it might be true.
Henry lifted Stephan’s chin, his hands trembling. “You have not answered my question. Did you find another man to take my place in your bed?”
“No, never.” Stephan was vehement. “No one will ever catch my eye again.”
“Do you still love me?” Henry asked quietly.
For King and Country (Battle Scars Book 2) Page 41