by York, Ashley
"Gold?"
"Yes, my lord. He tousled the boy's head and told him he'd done a good job."
"I see. Any sign of what specifically the boy had used to rile the horses?"
Philip shook his head. "He left the barn by the back presumably so he wouldn't walk in front of us. We were still preparing the horses since the remaining stable hands refused."
From the first, it seemed, Arthur was working against John not only with his wife but with his soldiers as well. Would he have noticed himself if he hadn't been so wrapped up in winning his wife?
"I appreciate you sharing this with me."
"Mayhap I should have done so earlier." Philip’s own feelings of guilt were apparent.
"No mind. If we are correct in our suspicions, he will be dealt with." The proof was not conclusive against Arthur. As it was, John would have to wait and hope to catch the man in the act. That old feeling of jealousy reared its ugly head at the thought of confronting the man. It lost its venom, however, when he remembered his time with his wife. Rowena had indeed been a virgin and though obviously new to lovemaking, a very willing pupil. Shaking his head to mentally remove the memory and the longing it created, John focused on the problem at hand.
The people believed that the Normans were despoiling and laying waste their villages. There were a group of Saxon men intentionally misleading the people into believing this. Every village John had visited was full of people afraid for their lives. They didn't trust the Normans and by association, John. King William had ordered their allegiance by the spring. John's mission seemed doomed before it had even started. If it was indeed Arthur leading these Saxons, there would be hell to pay.
"When Mark gets here, we will need to head east. We believe that will be the next village attacked. Mark had come here to warn you of that. If we can get to the village by daybreak, we may be able to catch the men in the act."
Philip offered, "Drink?" John nodded, and the man poured him some mead. "Any word of the king?"
"He was spotted in Portsmouth and Peter should have arrived by now."
What would the king think when he heard of the disturbances here? He could hardly be pleased. At least John had handled the lesser of his problems. His wife was well and truly bedded. There was much relief in that. He had corrected his wrong from his previous visit and William need be none the wiser. That John felt great satisfaction was the crux. This was satisfaction he could have had from the beginning if he had just given her a chance. The guilt he experienced as her father's murderer had added to his desire to leave her untouched. She had never mentioned it but he clearly remembered her crying over his body. Mayhap it was something they never had to discuss. So be it.
One by one the men sent out in search of Mark came back with no information. John needed to move on with his plan and hoped that Mark would find them. Traveling at night would be more dangerous. Had Mark not taken proper precautions for his safety? There was no way to know, but they needed to be in Towton by first light.
The orders were given for the men to break camp. Moving cautiously by the slim light of the waxing crescent moon, the men moved like shadows into the surrounding woods. They approached the village soundlessly. Smoke from their many fires hung like a blanket over the village as the inhabitants slept safe and sound. Unknown to them, they were surrounded by a protective army of Normans ready to fight off their own kin who would lay waste to their homes.
John waited somberly for the bloodthirsty group. He was not sure how the perpetrators would react when confronted by his soldiers. His men had their orders to take them alive if possible. If a redhead was among them, they were told to bring him immediately to John to deal with. One way or another, John hoped to have his long awaited confrontation with the man that had taken too many privileges for himself. He hoped to teach him a lesson.
At dawn, when they expected to see movement within the village, the stillness gave John a strong sense of foreboding. The sun made its way into the sky. They still waited silently. No one stirred in the village. The blanket of smoke had long since dissipated. The animals moved restlessly in the few barns and the roosters repeated call went unanswered.
"Something is wrong here." John signaled for his men to hold back. Pulling himself up slightly, he ran to the closest outbuilding and waited, watching for any sign of movement. There was none. Again hunching low to the ground, he ran to the town well house and found nothing. The closer in he got, the bigger the knot in his stomach grew. At the first house, he pushed the door open and found it empty. The hearth was cold.
In each house, he found the same until he got to the manor of the overseer. The iron knocker indicated the wealth of the occupant. John knocked on the wooden door.
"Show yourself." He signaled for his men to come down with him. Busting open the locked door, they located the massacre.
"They've already been here." Philip headed in and started pulling at the dead bodies, checking to see if anyone had survived. "Damn." John was beside himself. How could they have gotten there before them? Who were these men that they traveled like a vapor and disappeared like the fog?
"My lord?" John slowly turned toward Philip, his voice sounded tight. Balling his fists at his side, the sight of Mark's body thrown among the others that had been left dead pushed him over the edge.
He clenched his jaw. "Can you tell if he was killed with the others."
"Not for sure but you should take a look." John fought down his anger as he squatted down beside the man. His shirt had been ripped open, etched across his chest like the scoring of an animal was the word “SCUM”.
Chapter Twenty
"So they seem to know our moves before we make them." Philip gently pulled the ripped tunic together over Mark's chest. "They are cold-blooded bastards."
"And they lay it all at our feet," John replied
John was at his wits end trying to piece together what had gone wrong. How had they missed the men who did this? How long could it have taken them to bring about such total destruction on a village? Most importantly, when was it that they'd come across Mark? Had they followed him when he left the castle?
Remembering his time at the castle, John closed his eyes. His emotions were in turmoil. His guilt overwhelming; guilt over letting Mark go alone; guilt over the pleasure he'd found with his wife when he should have been with Mark; and guilt over choosing her company and his own desires over his duty. John needed to know for sure that his being with Mark would not have saved his life.
"We need to trace Mark's steps. Have any of the men returned?" John stepped into the light from the darkened building. Philip followed him to a clearing a short distance away.
"Henry!" Philip called. A bearded man turned at his name, and Philip waved him in. "David and Maurice are helping with the bodies."
The two watched as the men reverently carried Mark's body to the grave that was being dug for him. A burial shroud had been brought out from the church and placed on the ground. Philip adjusted the man's tunic again before wrapping him solemnly in the sacred cloth. Closing his eyes and lowering his head, Philip said a prayer over his body. John bowed in respect but inside he seethed.
This man should not be dead.
John strode to where the horses waited. He dug deep into his bag and retrieved his most treasured possession from his youth, the codex of scriptures he had copied himself. The frail book was wrapped in deer hide and tied with a leather binding. He could again see the brothers hunched over their trestles with their various bottles surrounding their vellum. That would have been his destiny if not for Duke William.
The unsmiling face of Brother James came to mind. "John, the Duke would like you to go with him."
"Why? I haven't done anything wrong."
William knelt beside him. "I would like you to be able to carry that sword. And even learn to fight with it…for me."
Full of excitement for his new adventure, John had packed his meager belongings and gone on to learn to be a knight. A position wi
th honor and power. It was not turning out the way he had hoped, however.
John closed his eyes to rid his mind of the memory. He carefully opened to the Psalms of King David and read for himself that God would not let his enemies go unpunished.
"O Senior, eripio mihi ex malum populus. Servo mihi ex qui es vehemens, qui consentio malum in suum pectus pectoris quod concito perturbo totus dies porro."
"O Lord, rescue me from evil people, protect me from those who are violent,
those who plot evil in their hearts and stir up trouble all day long."
John took a moment for himself. He struggled to find peace and strengthen his own resolve. After a moment, he walked to Philip and handed him the codex. That he tried to forge an understanding with the people now under his protection was a noble act. That someone else was intentionally misleading those same people so that they would turn against him was intolerable.
Philip held his gaze. "You do not wish to read it for us, my lord?'
John shook his head, unable to speak. He needed to hear the words said out loud and find comfort from those words, a comfort he couldn't offer himself. Philip’s voice was strong and clear as he read the Latin words. John translated them in his head. He prayed that Mark had indeed found peace.
When the grave was covered with dirt and covered with stones, John turned to Henry.
"Tell me exactly where you went when you looked for Mark. Where you stopped, anyone you met along the way. We need to piece together all that we can and figure out where Mark went and where he was killed."
John turned back to the house where the bodies had been left and shook his head.
"The people who did this have no sense of right. This is not about the Normans. This is about something evil and greedy and we need to put a stop to it."
"Yes, my lord," Henry tipped his head respectfully.
"Let me get the others." Philip went toward the house now being emptied of the rest of the bodies. As before, there were no survivors. Except for the one boy that they hadn't realized was alive, there were no witnesses to these attacks.
The boy. He was really their only chance.
"Where is the boy?" John asked Henry who stood beside him, watching Philip approach the rest of the group. Henry looked surprised.
"I don't know, my lord. He was much improved when I left yesterday. I have not seen him today."
The men Philip had gathered approached John, their faces showed their upset at this turn of events.
"Philip, where is the boy?"
"He rests at the camp, my lord."
"Tell me he has not been left unprotected." The men turned to each other, questioning who would have been left behind for protection. "No one was left to guard him?"
John could not believe they would leave their only witness unguarded. He rewrapped his codex and nestled it safely away. He quickly settled himself atop the big destrier and turned toward the men who had followed him.
"Philip, put together an accounting for me of where these men searched for Mark. Leave out no detail, what roads they took, who they spoke with, anyone they passed on the way. No detail is too small. We need to put together Mark's last hours so that we can avenge him. It is reprehensible that these Saxons would kill their own and lay the blame on us but when they kill the king’s own men, they go too far."
The words hit home and John winced at the realization. He was putting his own above the others, above Rowena and her people. No wonder the Saxons hated them.
The fire at their camp lay dying with an ominous trail of thin, gray smoke as John approached. Aside from that, there was no movement.
"Where is the boy?" John asked in a quiet voice, jumping from his horse to look around the desolate area.
Philip led the way. The lean-to was set in the darkest part of the woods. They'd left the boy to rest.
"This way."
John followed on foot, leading his horse behind him. Snorting restlessly, the beast seemed to sense the tension.
The shadows were growing longer and the primeval forest allowed little light. They crouched at the sound of the heavy wings that preceded the hungry owl, passing close to their heads, in search of his breakfast. Philip whistled the call and they awaited the answer.
"That's it," he smiled.
Moving quickly, they found the boy sitting up in the little hut.
"How fare ye, Aldred?" Philip approached the boy first, motioning John inside.
"I am well, sir." Perhaps sensing the tension, he asked, "Should I not be?"
The resilience of the lad brought shame to John for his own selfish concerns. The young boy had witnessed a massacre but considered he was doing well because he was still alive.
"No one has troubled you then?" John squatted down beside him and handed him his water skin.
"None at all, my lord." Aldred drank his fill from the skin before returning it.
"You seem in good spirits. I wonder if mayhap we could talk."
"I can't remember any more than I told you before, me lord."
The boy was quickly throwing away childish things and speaking as a man. Who would be there to help him make the transition complete? His mother had been killed. He hadn't spoken of a father.
"No matter. How does your hand heal?"
He waved what remained of his hand, now covered with a tight leather sack. Aldred smiled sheepishly. "I was always good at ciphering but no one could read what I wrote."
John was surprised. "For whom did you keep books?"
"Oh, a lot of different people in the village. The butcher…the priest…me mum." John saw his misting eyes at the mention of his mother.
"That is quite a trade. Where did you learn it?"
"Me dad was part of King Harold, excuse me me lord, Harold Godwinson's men." His eyes became distant, as if remembering the battle. "He died in the fighting."
The reality of all he'd been through in his young life seemed to haunt him. He closed his eyes. John waited for him patiently. The boy was strong. He would survive.
When he looked at John, he snorted in resignation but continued. "When he was alive, he would take me with him to the castle, and I would help with the stores, running accounts, counting items."
John nodded understanding before he took a sip of water. "Your father had a title?"
"No."
John’s surprise must have been apparent because the boy explained himself. "There are a lot of people with titles that use others to do what they cannot."
John knew that to be true. Having been taught in the monastery, he had an education that many of William's knights did not have. Many couldn't even read. John could read and write French, English, Latin and Greek, and work numbers. His education was an exception, not the rule.
"Did you enjoy the work?" He smiled with the question, trying to encourage the boy to be honest.
Aldred snorted again. "I did." He smirked and raised his eyebrow jauntily. "I was a man of importance."
They exchanged easy smiles.
A boy with his knowledge could be an asset anywhere. "I think I might be able to find a place for you at the castle if that would please you."
Aldred's expression quickly went from excitement at the proposition to disappointment. "How can I write then?"
John tipped his head up at his butchered hand. "If you were not very legible with your right hand, mayhap you will do better with your left."
Aldred considered the offer for a moment, then grinned, his eyes becoming mere slits. "Mayhap you are correct."
John left the boy to return to Philip. "He is in good spirits."
"He has recovered very well."
"Don't take chances with his life, Philip. If they are watching and know our movements, the boy's life could be in danger. They don't know that he can't remember aught."
"They may not even know who he is or why he is with us," Philip offered.
"So we will take a defensive stance anyway."
"Aye."
Chapter Twenty-One
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"Any word, Joan?" Rowena smoothed her hands down her kirtle, assuring the ties at her waist were secure. She needed to stop asking about John and get about her life. When her handmaiden rolled her eyes, she was sure of it. She just didn't care.
Her days were filled with seeing to the keep and maintaining proper stores in both the pantry and the buttery, and all sundry items brought in as payment. She wanted word of her husband. He had been gone nigh on two months and although she knew he was dealing with the trouble in the villages, she had to fight down the nagging feeling that he would not return to her.
"No, my lady, there is no word of your husband's return. I would tell you if there was. Nay, I would run to tell you if there was. Nay, I would run screaming…"
"Yes, yes, Joan, your point is well taken. Rest assured that I do not doubt you would let me know immediately if you heard aught. Understand that I must ask."
"What good does it do you to ask me?"
Rowena pondered her answer. Did it help her feel more in control? Yes. Did it give her a way to let out her thoughts that ran around in her head morning, noon and night? Yes. Did it really do her any good to ask? No. "It just does."
Rowena turned her back to the room, and Joan sat behind, braiding her hair as she spoke. "It does you no good at all to pine away in here either."
Rowena knew exactly how Joan felt about her wayward husband. "I do not pine away."
"You spend no time outside, my lady. Look." Joan held her hand in front of Rowena. A long clump of her hair was clasped in her fingers. "Your hair is falling out, my lady. End this."
"Joan," Rowena tried for a stern voice even though she too was concerned at the sight, "you overstep yourself when you speak to me so."
Immediately contrite, Joan lowered her eyes as she came to stand beside Rowena. "Forgive me, my lady. I am only thinking of your welfare."
"I know. Mayhap some fresh air will do me good."
Joan finished her braid without another word on the subject. "Raisins with your oats this morning?" She looked so hopeful that Rowena couldn't help but smile back and nod enthusiastically. Joan was happy with her answer and closed the door behind her as she went to get the food. Rowena's smile quickly changed to a grimace at the nauseous feeling she got at the idea of raisins.
