“How can you ask that?”
“You stand here telling me to marry. What should I think?”
Stephan threw his arms up in the air and turned his back to Henry. “How can I deny you a family?”
Henry reached around Stephan’s waist. “For six months I have wondered where you were. I have worried. I turn a corner and something there reminds me of you. A smell, a voice, the sky, a meadow. I think of you and my nightmares fade. I don’t want or need anyone else.”
Stephan turned in Henry’s arms. “The sky?”
“Like your eyes—so damn blue!”
Stephan laughed.
Henry slid a finger to Stephan’s lips, traced around the edges. He cupped Stephan’s face, kissed him. Pulling away, he walked to the stairs, stopped, and looked back. “Come here.”
A smile lit Stephan’s eyes. He took a step and then broke into a run, rushing past Henry. Henry caught him at the top of the stairs, crushed him in his arms, and pressed him towards the bedchamber.
*
Dawn was breaking, a cock crowed outside, and downstairs, Mary and Hugh prepared the kitchen fire and set the hearth. Stephan dreaded those cruel sounds, dreaded the light that would tear him away again.
“This is where you belong.” Henry draped his arm and a leg over Stephan, spooned his body to keep him close.
Stephan found his hand, twined their fingers together to secure that bond. “Can there be any greater love than what I feel for you?” He pressed his forehead against Henry’s cheek.
Let him go. Edward’s words came unbidden as they had too many times of late. Stephan strangled back a groan and rolled onto his back. Henry pushed up onto an elbow, brushed Stephan’s lips and kissed down his neck to the hollow of his throat. Stephan moaned, sheltered from Edward’s words by Henry’s passion. “You make it harder to leave every time,” he said when Henry looked up at him.
“That was my plan.”
Stephan pushed Henry onto his back. His fingers wandered across muscles that trembled at his exploration. Let him go? No! I cannot. I love him. Henry would be devastated knowing Edward’s last words. He’d hurt beyond hurt, if there was such a thing. How can I tell him? It would make no difference, surely.
Stephan couldn’t take his eyes from Henry. He breathed in deeply. Leather and musk and sweat. That was Henry. His friend, his lover. There was no sweeter smell.
Henry touched each line on Stephan’s face and the scar barely visible beneath his closely cropped beard. Stephan caught his hand, stroking the mark left by Weston’s blade. He weaved his fingers in his hair, every touch building more memories. Cupping the back of his head, he pulled Henry close. Their mouths met in a passionate clash of lips and tongues and teeth that left them both gasping.
The rooster crowed again and Stephan sighed. He kissed the tip of Henry’s nose. Sitting up reluctantly, he threw his legs over the side of the bed. He retrieved Henry’s tunic from the floor and tossed it over his shoulder and then stood to find his own.
Henry tugged the soft wool garment over his head. Rounding the bed, he came up behind Stephan. He planted his chin on Stephan’s shoulder and slid his arms around his waist.
“The men may be on the march to Nottingham by now,” Stephan said.
Henry whispered into his ear. “Would we be missed?”
“Wagons, men-at-arms. They’ll not go much more than half the distance today.” Stephan turned so that their lips nearly brushed. The warmth of Henry’s breath washed across his face.
“We might easily catch them up,” Henry added.
Desire welled in Stephan again. Henry’s mouth covered his. Stephan capitulated without a fight. He laughed as they fell back onto the bed.
“Quiet,” Henry said.
“I want you,” Stephan whispered, removing Henry’s tunic. Flesh-to-flesh—nothing else would do.
“Again?” Henry smiled.
Stephan kissed him. “I need you. I love you.”
“Today, and every day,” Henry said.
Stephan felt the beat of Henry’s heart against his chest. He took Henry—rough, urgent, passionate, and then they both drifted back to sleep, tangled in each other’s arms.
Allan nearly stepped on a chicken when he left the hall in the upper bailey. The bird squawked at him angrily. He would’ve laughed had it not been for how it reminded him of the sniping conversation of Nottingham’s constables.
“It’s a trick,” Murdac had said. Gravy had sloshed over the edge of his silver trencher when he’d ripped a piece of roasted pike and chucked it into his mouth.
“But what of the attack at Westorby?” Allan had asked innocently. He had also heard the rumors of King Richard’s return like every other man in the castle.
Murdac grunted. “That is merely Huntingdon’s men following orders from Eleanor’s lackeys.” He picked at his teeth with his finger. “I say Hubert Walter and de Coutances control the old woman. She will believe anything they tell her, including that Richard is alive,” he said, flicking something grizzly from the end of his finger.
William de Wendeval had looked concerned and sipped at his wine nervously. “Our plans to secure Lincoln crushed. Our own mangonels used against us. Thirty of them by my count. We’ve repaired the palisade a dozen times this week alone—”
“Yes, and the wall of the middle bailey. I have eyes. I’ve seen it myself.” Murdac’s voice crowed with impatience. “Richard is dead.”
“I wish another of our agents would confirm—”
Murdac pounded the trestle rattling every plate and mug. “We do not need another report,” he spat.
De Wendeval eyed him warily. “They say he is in England.”
“What else might you expect them to say? If Richard was released on the fourth day of February, where is he? The news that he visited Canterbury? I tell you it is the justiciars’ lies, nothing more.”
Allan blew on his hands to warm them as he set off across the bailey, scattering goats and more chickens in his path. There looked to be as many animals in the yard as there were men on the battlements. He’d not seen Robin in days and was determined to find him. The constables were right about one thing. If the king had been in England nearly two months, where was he?
“You! FitzHenry,” a snide voice called.
Edric Weston. He’d been in Nottingham since the king’s men seized his manor and the Greek fire.
Allan turned, tipped his head. “My lord Weston.”
“You’ve come from the hall. What news is there?” He combed his long unkempt hair back.
“None that is mine to speak, my lord.”
Weston slid his arm across Allan’s shoulder. The man reeked of sweat, his clothes as disheveled as his hair. He might have been sleeping in them for days. Clearing his throat, he gave Allan a sly grin. “There could be a piece of silver in it for you.”
Allan slid from beneath Weston’s arm. “I shall remember that should I learn something of interest to you.”
“Do you see your uncle often?”
“Uncle John—” Allan’s response was interrupted by the blare of distant trumpets. He glanced at the men on the wall walk. Shouts, men pointing east—something was happening. A bell in the middle bailey began to peal.
“Excuse me, my lord.” Allan rushed toward the stairs. Behind him, he heard Weston shouting.
A sergeant darted past Allan. “God help us!”
“Is it the king?” another man asked.
“It cannot be. He is dead,” said another, repeating the words spewed by the constables.
On the battlements Allan peered towards the town. King Richard’s red and gold banners fluttered in the breeze. Allan’s pulse began to race. Knights—dozens of them with golden lions emblazoned on their surcoats rode astride magnificent stallions. Huntingdon, Chester, Marshal—he recognized their colors. And Richard led them all from the vanguard. Sunlight glinted off mail and polished shields. Threescore drummers followed the knights. Men-at-arms marched behind them with pikes resting on thei
r shoulders, and axes, clubs, and swords in their belts. Allan swore the rhythmic tromp of their boots vibrated through the stone of the castle. Thousands of men. Fewer wagons, knights, and men-at-arms than he’d seen from Acre’s walls when the army marched south, but still, it was a sight and his heartbeat swelled to the beat of the drums.
Someone pounded Allan’s back. Startled, he turned, released a sigh. “Robin.”
“FitzHenry,” Robin said with a nod.
“What is our plan?”
Robin leaned close, mindful of the scrape of boots on the stone stairs. “Stay out of the way of arrows and swords.” He clapped a hand atop Allan’s, his face suddenly serious. “Jacob—Sarah’s brother—he was hung for thieving three years ago.”
Allan punched the wall. Sarah had wanted to be reunited with her brother, had believed Burford’s promises. She’d given herself to the bastard for nothing. Allan steeled his jaw. “I will find Burford and kill him.”
“I shall help you,” Robin said.
Allan pointed at the flurry of movement behind them. Murdac shouted orders, waving his arms wildly, while his poor squire attempted to help him into his armor. The constable spied Allan and shoved his squire away. He strode toward the stairs, the strap of his helmet rippling in the wind like the king’s standard.
Along the parapets, archers and crossbowmen aimed their arrows and bolts at the king’s entourage. “Hold,” a captain shouted as he patrolled the line. “They’re too far away.”
Allan drew a deep breath, remembering the times he’d stood here watching the road the last four months. Even with King Richard leading the charge, he worried about the broad expanse of the outer bailey. When the army breached the gate, they’d have little protection except for their shields. The garrison’s defenders knew it, eyes lustful for the killing.
“This could be a bloodbath.”
“Or it might drag on for months. The king needs you here,” Robin said. “But if our men breach the barbican, don’t feel you must stay. Head out through the tunnel.”
“Where will you be?”
“In here. Out there.” Robin shrugged. “I won’t know until I report to the king.” Robin hurried away, his head lowered as he passed the huffing Murdac on the way up the stairs. Allan steeled himself.
“FitzHenry! What are you doing up here?” Murdac shouted.
“Sorry, my lord. I heard the trumpets and wanted to see what the commotion was about.”
“Well you’ve seen it. Round up your men. Make sure they aren’t whiling their time away with ale and whores.”
Allan started past the rotund Murdac, but the red-faced man caught his arm. “Who was that soldier you spoke with?”
Allan shook his head, confused.
“Just now,” Murdac added, pointing down the stairs where Robin had disappeared.
“Don’t know his name, my lord. He came up beside me when I was watching the king.”
Murdac cuffed Allan with the back of his hand. Allan reeled from the blow, rubbed his jaw.
“That is not the king!” Murdac hissed, teeth bared like a wolf ready to pounce.
Face stinging, Allan said, “No, my lord, no.”
“Get out. Go do your job!”
Allan edged away, muscles tensing in his jaw. Mother of God, he wanted to remind Murdac of dear “Uncle John” but he thought better of it. One day soon he’d be able to laugh in the constable’s face.
*
Henry and Stephan reined in when the vanguard slowed.
“Christ,” Stephan whispered, staring in awe at Castle Rock.
“Have you seen anything like it?” The swell of horns blaring sent a chill through Henry and he kept a tight hold on his horse’s reins. Nottingham’s streets stood empty, doors closed tightly against the king’s men. The Earl of Ferrers’ banners flapped in the breeze from tents rising north of the castle. The eastern flank between the town and the palisade of the outer bailey was blanketed with Chester’s colors. The stone throwers stood silent, their crews lining the road to greet the king.
The vanguard proceeded up Castle Gate Road. Will Marshal and the earls remained somber, concerned, if not troubled by the king’s insistence that he be at the fore. Richard wore light mail over a padded gambeson, reminiscent of the armor he’d been accustomed to wearing in the Holy Land. His helm hung from a saddle strap.
“We’ll be within range of their archers soon,” Henry told Stephan above the roar of the trumpets. “He wants the garrison to get a good look.”
Richard reined in within feet of the back-filled ditch. His horse and its brightly-colored blanket had been splattered with mud kicked up by pounding hoofs. Wiping at sludge that dirtied his mail chausses he studied the timber palisade. He pointed out a newly repaired section. At his side, Chester indicated where the stone throwers had damaged other parts of the wall. Richard nodded thoughtfully. He gestured towards the buildings lining Castle Road. “One of these will do for my headquarters.”
“So close, sire?” Huntingdon asked.
The distance to the palisade and to the stone curtain at the far side of the outer bailey had Richard’s eye as he tossed his reins to a squire and dismounted. The swish of an arrow stirred the air. Richard’s stallion sidled. The squire jerked, eyes wide, struck. Blood streaming from his mouth, he fell at the king’s feet.
Henry leapt from his saddle and shouted, “Protect the king!” A dozen men rushed to Richard’s side. Henry and Stephan joined them to form a shield wall in front of the king. Richard’s hand closed round the pommel of his sword. He tossed an angry glare at the castle.
“Mayhap we should find lodging a street or two east, my liege,” Huntingdon said as an arrow thunked off a shield.
“No. This will do.” Richard scoffed. “I will stand here before them. Let them dare defy their king.”
Huntingdon looked from Will Marshal to the earls. With a stiff jaw, he nodded. Marshal ordered his men to secure the houses and ready them for the king. Richard started to pace along the road. Huntingdon and others scrambled to stay with him as the rest of the troops were ordered to disperse.
Henry led Stephan to lodgings the Earl of Chester had commandeered the week they’d transported the Greek fire and stone throwers. “Do you suppose Robin and Allan are still in the castle?” he asked. “Little John will never let us hear the end of it should anything happen to either of them.”
Stephan chuckled. “I’m certain they are well. Do you see them hanging from the towers?”
“Still worrying about me?” a voice behind them asked.
Both knights turned, grinning. “Robin!”
“And you two—together again.” Robin embraced the knights. He kept his voice low. “Allan was watching this procession from the wall walk when I last saw him. No one is the wiser about him. I must speak with the king.” He started towards Castle Road.
Henry called, “Robert told me to remind you of your promise.”
Robin turned, hand over his heart, and then disappeared into the throng of men.
A mounted rider charged up the road, scattering the crowd. “Back to the line,” he shouted. “The king has ordered the attack.”
Men-at-arms stood six rows thick. Shields so many, so large, it seemed like a steel blanket covered the bowmen and knights as they surged forward.
Henry crouched, gripping the pommel of his sword. He tugged at his helm nervously. A flight of arrows thunked off the shields and he jerked, bumping shoulders with the man on his right. An arm’s length away, a well-aimed bolt whooshed through a gap. It struck a man—no, he was just a boy. He collapsed to the ground, dead without a scream, the arrow protruding from his eye.
A few feet back King Richard shouted. “Let us drink in the castle tonight.”
“Don’t drop those shields!” Chester ordered.
Men around him bellowed war cries. The arrows still fell.
Henry’s gloved fingers found the crucifix round his neck, the prayer on his lips buried beneath the slap of boots on the
ground and the clink of armor. There was no rhythm to the thunk! thunk! of deflected arrows. It was like the roll and clap of thunder, one atop the other without pause.
Bells pealed and the columns advanced. Richard’s bowmen answered round after round of bolts. Reaching the gate of the outer bailey, his men-at-arms took axes to the wood. Henry heard their blows. Once, twice, again. Crack! The gate splintered and they were through. A cheer made the hair on Henry’s neck prickle.
Beside him, Stephan shouted, “For the king!”
Henry unsheathed his sword. The king’s men swarmed into the outer bailey surrounded by the blanket of shields. Crossbowmen fired relentlessly from the battlements. Henry heard a man scream to his left, nearly tripped over a soldier who fell in front of him.
The hiss of arrows suddenly ceased and Henry risked a quick glance at Stephan. “Is it done?”
His question came too soon. The defenders bellowed out war cries.
“Here they come!” Stephan shouted.
The enemy charged through the barbican of the middle bailey. Just ahead of Henry, Richard’s blade arced downward, shimmering in the mid-afternoon sun. Stephan cried out savagely, but Henry dared not look his way more than a heartbeat. He had his own problems. As the shield wall broke, a soldier with a pike lunged at him. He blocked the first blow, parried a second. Bringing his sword beneath the weapon, Henry forced it from the man’s hands. He swung, his blade battering the man’s helm and sending him to the ground.
Stephan’s thrusts forced two men back and Henry barreled forward to join his strikes, confident with battle experience. Bolstered by Stephan and the men around them, Henry’s pulse surged, his breaths so loud he was only dimly aware of men groaning and grunting. Sweat trickled into his eyes. He blinked it back without a halt to the hacks of his sword.
“Take the barbican!” someone shouted.
The ground grew slippery and red. Like Acre. Like the march to Jerusalem. Saracen war cries and the pounding of the drums were missing, though that gave Henry little comfort. He hacked and slashed towards the barbican in the footsteps of the king. A sword nicked his arm, but he fought on, his blade taking down one traitor then another. He felt nothing. There was no time to watch life drain from his enemies’ faces. He was barely aware of the flights of arrows arcing over his head aimed at the men on the battlements until a man on the wall walk tumbled twenty feet to the ground.
For King and Country (Battle Scars Book 2) Page 42