For King and Country (Battle Scars Book 2)

by Charlene Newcomb

  BATTLE SCARS II

  FOR KING

  AND

  COUNTRY

  Charlene Newcomb

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously apart from those well-known historical figures. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  BATTLE SCARS II: FOR KING AND COUNTRY

  Published by Charlene Newcomb

  Manhattan, Kansas

  Copyright ©2016 by Charlene Newcomb

  All rights reserved to the author. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the author except in brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Cover art design by ProBookCovers.com

  Map ©2015 by Dennis Lukowski

  Interior design by the Author

  For my friends Jen and Julie

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map of England 1193

  1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 - 10

  11 - 12 - 13 - 14 - 15 - 16 - 17 - 18

  19 - 20 - 21 - 22 - 23 - 24 - 25 - 26

  27 - 28 - 29 - 30 - 31 - 32 - 33 - 34

  35 - 36 - 37 - 38 - 39 - 40 - 41 - 42

  43 - 44 - 45 - 46 - 47 - 48 - 49 - 50

  51 - 52 - 53 - 54 - 55 - 56 - 57 - 58

  59 - 60 - 61 - 62 - 63 - 64 - 65 - 66 - 67 - 68

  Author's Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Praise for Men of the Cross

  Death was a shadow called Saracen

  in the Holy Land for men like Henry de Grey.

  The young knight had taken the Cross and fought

  at Richard the Lionheart’s side. He survived to

  return to England. The shadow followed him home.

  But here, the shadow was called Englishman.

  Near Greyton Manor, Lincolnshire

  May 1193

  Drums. Dear God, not the drums.

  Henry de Grey shuddered and blinked against the mid-afternoon sun. Streaks of light shimmered through the trees like blades of a hundred broadswords. Stephan l’Aigle stirred beside the young knight, but then lay still, like Henry, listening. At the water’s edge, the knights’ horses perked their ears. A distant rumble sounded. Not drums, but wheels grating along the old Roman road on the other side of the River Witham.

  “One wagon.” Henry muttered and exhaled sharply.

  Stephan brushed Henry's hand. His fingers lingered on an old battle scar. “Thinking of the war?”

  “I am fine.” He smiled, dismissing memories of the Holy Land conjured by the play of light and sounds. “Go back to sleep.”

  “Your father expects us. You said we’d not far to go.”

  “Not far.” All the while he’d been on crusade Henry dreamed of coming home. He left one war behind only to fight the absent king’s enemies in England. He would be the last to begrudge anyone of the recent truce, but he worried about facing his father and his desire to see Greyton diminished the closer they drew. Sheltered in the quiet of the greenwood he prayed the peace would last, though he wasn’t certain he would find it himself.

  Three years at war changed a man. Stephan had changed him.

  Stephan stretched his battled-honed muscles, but made no move to rise. His eyelids drooped. The man could sleep anywhere. In a siege camp, on a boat rocking on the sea, or on the hard ground. The slightest indication of trouble would wake him, a priceless trait for a king’s man in wartime, and one Henry had been grateful for from Outremer to Bavaria to England.

  Henry wanted to forget Stephan’s work for Queen Eleanor still loomed, their time together so uncertain. Drawing up on his elbows, he leaned close to Stephan breathing in the smell of leather, musk, and sweat. A gust of wind swept his dark wavy hair against Stephan’s cheek. Warm breath touched his face chasing away all thoughts of kings and queens, wars and traitors. He tilted his head to steal a kiss, but held back when the trees stilled and the wagon wheels echoed like distant thunder.

  Henry placed a finger to Stephan’s lips. “Quiet.” That wasn’t one wagon. He sat up, jostling Stephan and earning a grunt of displeasure.

  Stephan rolled to his stomach and shifted to scan the wood. “Three—”

  “Four,” Henry said, pointing to a fourth wagon lagging a bit behind the others on the opposite bank. A group of mounted riders passed in and out of the shadows headed north towards Lincoln. The chink of horses’ harnesses rang louder and dust and dirt stirred in the caravan’s wake. The riders wore hooded mail hauberks and black-as-night surcoats. Henry couldn’t make out their badges at this distance, but they were armed. Swords, shields, and clubs clinked against their mail chausses.

  “I do not think they carry goods for market day.” Henry frowned. “Not with a dozen guards.”

  “Count John’s men,” Stephan wondered as he stood. "I may have news for the queen sooner than anyone suspected.”

  “Let’s find out, shall we?”

  Just three weeks past the truce had ended sieges across England. The king’s own brother had sought to usurp the throne. Count John’s treachery had been quelled for the moment, but John had many loyal vassals. The Sheriff of Lincolnshire, castellan of Lincoln Castle, was John’s man. If troops and provisions were en route to Lincoln, would this peace be crushed like grain beneath a millstone?

  Henry struggled to rise. His hauberk felt heavy, his bones remembering the ache of battle. Stephan offered him a hand and pulled him to his feet, embracing him tightly. Henry pounded his back. Reluctantly, they released each other, their eyes locking, no words needed.

  Stephan’s surcoat hung from a tree branch. He jumped a log to grab it, and then crossed the grassy bank to the horses. Sunlight painted his hair the hue of fresh-sown hay. Five months in England had faded the deep tan each man had worn in Outremer.

  Henry stared at Stephan as he dressed.

  “What have I done?” Stephan asked, his sky blue eyes sparkling with child-like innocence.

  Henry fingered his own linen shirt. “We may have a truce with the king’s brother, but if those are John’s men…” He pointed to Stephan’s clothes.

  Stephan looked at his surcoat and, with a wry smile, shook his head. “This will not do.” He stuffed all evidence of the king’s red and gold colors into his saddle pack.

  Henry glanced at the sun dipping below the trees on its way to the horizon. The wagons could travel at a steady pace, but Lincoln was more than twenty miles to the north. “They’ll not make Lincoln before dark.”

  Stephan fixed his swordbelt at his waist. “When they bed down for the night we shall inspect their cargo.” He craned his neck, eyes suddenly narrowed. “Listen.”

  Wind rustled the trees. Sheep bleating in a nearby pasture did not hide the rattle and groan of the wheels on the cobbled road.

  Henry jerked his head. “They’ve turned towards Greyton.” Why? The one easy answer repelled him and fear crept into his heart. Surely his father did not play at Count John’s treason.

  “There is some reason for this,” Stephan said, reading his mind.

  Scrambling to his horse, Henry tried not to think the worst. He had one foot in the stirrup when hoofbeats echoed along the little-used forest trail where they had rested. He stepped away from Soleil, signaling Stephan to stay within the shadows of the trees. Stephan unsheathed his sword as two riders approached at a gallop.

  Henry reached for his blade, but the mounted men looked vaguely familiar. One sat as tall as King R
ichard in the saddle. The other was a head shorter and broad-shouldered. A branch caught his hood revealing a mass of light-colored hair.

  “It’s Allan and Little John,” Henry said, surprised to see the young squires. He stepped on to the path and flagged them down. Their lathered horses snorted and pranced. “We did not expect to see you before the morrow.”

  Emerging from behind a huge oak, Stephan looked more curious than concerned. “Where is Robin?” Their good friend Sir Robin du Louviers claimed he’d been ordered to hold a day with the squires at Windsor to await additional instructions from the queen. “You go on,” he’d said, one brow quirked knowingly. It had been a welcome ploy giving Henry and Stephan time alone.

  “Wagons,” Allan said, pointing across the river. “Sir Robin is at their backs. We followed them from Grantham, stayed far enough behind not to be seen.”

  “Sir Robin remembered this trail and had us backtrack to get word to you,” Little John added. “He was certain you’d be at Greyton Manor by now.”

  “We’d thought to rest—” Henry said.

  Stephan snorted, having enjoyed more than rest in the greenwood. He also knew full well Henry was not anxious to face his father.

  Henry turned a mocking smile on Stephan. The squires’ grinned, but he ignored them. “The wagons are making for Greyton. If they are John’s men, we’ll not look for trouble, but I must learn their business.” He mounted his horse as Stephan vaulted on to his dark Spanish stallion. They spurred the animals to the old stone bridge that crossed the Witham, slowing as the wagons came around the bend.

  Henry waved a greeting, not wanting to appear threatening. “Good day to you, sirs.”

  Stephan halted, resting his fist on the pommel of his sword, his eyes on the guards. To either side of the knights, Little John and Allan sat straight in their saddles, their faces unreadable.

  The captain raised his arm signaling the wagons to stop. He looked young, his face unmarred but with strong cheekbones and dark eyes beneath black brows. He nudged his horse forward.

  Henry didn’t miss hands slipping round the hilts of a dozen swords. “You are traveling to Greyton?” he asked.

  The captain studied Henry and Stephan, their stallions, and the squires. He might have noticed the fine weave of Henry’s clothes, but showed no sign of recognizing the badge on Henry’s surcoat, a heraldic fleur-de-lis and stags on green and blue. “My lord.” He tipped his head. “I am Harold Burford. We’re to stay at Greyton tonight.”

  Henry’s heartbeat quickened. “My father is expecting you?”

  “We sent no word ahead, my lord.”

  “Just for the night?”

  “Yes, my lord. On the morrow we’ll journey to Nottingham.”

  Not Lincoln. But why stop at Greyton? A chill snaked through Henry’s bones. His horse sensed his unease and pawed the ground. Henry thought better of questioning the man further and stroked Soleil’s neck. Inspecting the cargo while it sat at Greyton should not be difficult. He’d arrange to share plenty of ale with the captain and his men to loose a few tongues.

  “I shall ride ahead and let my father know you are not far behind.” Henry heeled Soleil and gave him head before the captain could utter a reply.

  Pastures and fields of grain blurred past Henry. A few minutes later, he galloped into the village with Stephan and the squires at his back. Two small children chased a cat across the road directly in his path. His horse responded to the gentle tug on the reins and he skirted by them. Their arrival caused a stir, but Henry did not slow as villeins looked up from their work. Someone called out to him, but he reined in sharply and swung down from his horse, starting towards the timbered hall.

  Stephan slid from Lune and hurried to catch up. He clamped a hand on Henry’s wrist. “Rest a moment. You’ve not seen your father in three years. No need to barge in like a wild boar.”

  Henry’s jaw muscles twitched. Stephan was right. He placed his hand atop Stephan’s and held it fast, and then turned to the squires. “See to the horses. Then go round to the kitchen and tell Mary I’ve sent you. And don’t eat all her bread.”

  Stephan chuckled and handed his reins to Little John. “I’ll keep watch on the road while you speak with your father,” he told Henry.

  The squires led the animals away as Henry took in his surroundings. A young boy peered at him from the stable door. Robin’s son. With this commotion, when would he have a chance to let Marian know that Robin was alive and at their doorstep? Henry did not know the whole story, only that Robin had left Marian without a word all those years ago. The war had kept Robin away, but had he known about the boy, he would have returned to Greyton.

  The village was much as Henry remembered. The chapel, the mill, a score of cottages and barns, animal pens, and workshops—still there and little changed while he had been gone. He acknowledged the smith sweating over his forge, but the fine reddish bay tethered outside the stables held his gaze. It had been ridden hard, its coat gleaming with sweat. A saddle cloth of rich crimson and jade graced the stallion’s back. From nearby Cartholme, if memory served him. Henry had met the baron once, but he had no recollection the man had ever called at Greyton. What business had brought him today, Henry wondered.

  He studied the weathered oak of the hall, the oldest part of Greyton Manor, built by his great-grandsire. His gaze strayed to the window of his father’s bedchamber, upstairs in the stone-built part of the manor. Edward de Grey had opposed Henry’s decision to take the Cross. Mayhap he had feared for Henry’s life—what parent would not? Oh Father, did you know war would force me to question everything I once believed? And love. Henry’s heart clenched. His father would never accept that two men could love each other. Never. And Henry would not tell him. Edward would be devastated, cast him from his land and his heart at any whisper of the truth.

  Henry had never imagined he would fall in love with another man. It had come after many prayers to God whose Church would condemn them, but he knew in his soul it was a rare gift he shared with Stephan. Their close friends recognized it—mayhap before they admitted it themselves. Henry took comfort they knew the truth.

  He drew in a deep breath and met Stephan’s gaze. “I am ready.”

  Henry strode across the hall, his boots stirring the rushes on the old wooden floor. He slowed, his heart heavy as he eyed his mother’s empty chair by the hearth. Edward de Grey was alone in the room. When he leaned back from his desk, Henry stopped, gaping. A tallow candle illuminated more than Edward’s work. Deep lines marred his father’s sallow face. His hair was pure white.

  “Thank God, you are home.” Edward stood, smiling.

  “Father, how are you?” Henry said, stepping closer to clasp Edward’s arm.

  Edward embraced him, his grip not as strong as Henry remembered. When he pulled back, his blue eyes settled on Henry’s face. “If your mother was here, bless her soul, would she see that your youth has been lost to the soldier standing before me?”

  Broad-shouldered, muscles well-honed by wielding a sword one too many times, Henry was much stronger than he’d been at twenty summers. But will he see beneath this flesh and into my soul, see what I must fight so hard to keep hidden?

  Henry forgot the initial shock of his father’s appearance and stiffened, fists clenched at his side. “There are wagons—under guard—crossing the Witham at this very moment.”

  “This is the way you greet me after three years?” Edward growled, more amused than irritated. He motioned to the servant who had appeared from the kitchen. “Hugh, look who has returned to us. Bring us wine.”

  “Master Henry, welcome home.” Hugh bowed, his face alight. The man had been gray since Henry’s earliest memories. He had always had long, skinny legs and thin-as-sapling arms, but his shoulders stooped now. That hadn’t dampened his spirits.

  “Hugh,” Henry said with a friendly nod before turning back to Edward. “Father, the wagons? The captain of the guard said—”

  “Sit and we shall talk.” E
dward pointed to a stool by his desk. “We did not know what hour you’d arrive, but Mary has been at the fires cooking since before Lauds.”

  Upstairs, a baby wailed. Surprise must have shown on Henry’s face when a familiar voice soothed the child. Edward glanced casually towards the commotion. “Bea rode in from Cartholme this morn.”

  Henry remembered the stallion in crimson and jade by the stables, but shook his head.

  “Your sister’s home,” Edward said, seeing his confusion. “Did you not receive our letters?”

  “Only of Maman’s passing.” Henry swallowed hard. “And Alys.” He thought of Stephan and that bittersweet day when his father’s letter arrived. He had put Stephan through Hell. He’d been so torn, believed his mother and betrothed’s deaths were God’s punishment for his loving Stephan. Mortal sin. Eternal damnation. In the years since, he refused to believe God had that in store for him. He palmed the plain wooden cross hanging round his neck and asked himself for the hundredth time, “How can loving another person be a sin?”

  Edward did not sense Henry’s unease. “We sent word of Bea’s marriage, of her son’s birth.”

  As much as Henry wanted to ask about Bea, he could not. He waved his hand impatiently. “The wagons,” he demanded. “Why do they stay here when their destination is Nottingham? Why not in Grantham?”

  Edward blew out an exasperated breath as Hugh placed a flagon of wine on the desk. Edward poured drinks for himself and Henry, set the jug down, and dismissed Hugh. “It is easier to guard their cargo here.” He took a swig of the wine and eyed the door over the rim of his goblet. “Fewer prying eyes.”

  Henry forced his father to meet his gaze. “What might someone see in that haul?”

  “Do not take that tone with me.” Edward drained the goblet and refilled it, his hands shaking.