Henry turned to go into the hall, his smile fading. He needed to find the key to the storehouse. And then he must glean more information about it from his father. The thought of another confrontation made his head ache.
Inside, the hall was deserted, but the trestle had been set for the midday meal. Mary’s toiling sounded from the kitchen and his nephew entertained Bea and her ladies upstairs. Henry paused to look at the door to his father’s bedchamber.
“Your lord father is not here,” Mary said, standing in the passageway between the hall and the kitchen.
“His ills subsided then?” Henry asked.
“He had a cart hitched. Hugh took him into Grantham.”
“Had he business there today? He’d not mentioned it when I spoke to him this morning.”
Mary shook her head woefully. “Mayhap the business of drink. Now don’t you worry. Hugh will watch after him.”
“What can I do to help him, Mary?” Henry asked in exasperation. He could confide in her, but did he fear what else she might tell him? “He is in trouble.” With the drink and the wagons. The storehouse.
“I thought having you back would cheer him. He ne’er went a day without saying your name—sometimes a curse, but oft in prayer.”
“I think he curses me more now.”
“You became your own man on pilgrimage.” She studied Henry’s face. “You are not the brash boy who thought he knew all. You see things as they are. Your questions raise problems the Master would like to forget.”
Henry sighed. “I cannot push them aside.”
Mary looked somber. “I pray for you both, Master Henry. One of you may be the death of the other.”
Henry gaped, speechless. He’d never considered it in quite those terms. No matter their disagreements, he loved his father. He would never take up a weapon to fight him, but the lines were drawn for battle. They were both pawns, and anything could happen.
Mary shifted uncomfortably. “Forgive me, that is not what I meant.” She rubbed her jaw and glanced back into the kitchen. “Smell that? I’ve got pork in a gravy that you might want to roll in. It’s as good as that. Shall I set the meal out in the hall?”
“In a short while. I must talk to Bea first.”
At the top of the stairs, he heard Marian’s voice gently prodding David to take a few steps. The ladies clapped, encouraging the babe.
Rather than join them, Henry stole into his father’s room. The shutters were latched, but the open door let in light. Blankets covered the thick feather mattress on the curtain-draped bed. A coffer and wash basin stood near the window and the brazier and a tall chest to one side of the bed. The key to the storehouse might be anywhere, but he was drawn to the chest. He rummaged through braies, hose, and tunics catching a whiff of dried roses and lavender. But no key. He stepped back, frustrated it had yielded nothing. The wood floor creaked beneath his feet. Glancing down, he sighed. Might the key be hidden there?
“What do you think you are doing?” Bea marched across the room. “Why are you going through Father’s things?”
“Do not ask. It’s best you not know.”
“Armies have swept like fire across England in the past. When did ignorance keep people from being hurt?” Bea stood straighter, raised her chin, looking defiant but wounded. “You do not trust me. You fear I will send word of your activities to Count John.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Henry blew out a breath. Bea knew of the wagons. She’d claimed her interest in preserving her land and wealth for her son. Why wouldn’t she be a willing—or unwilling—collaborator like their father?
“That captain will report my actions,” he added.
Bea reached round him, her hand sliding along the back of the chest. “Is this what you want?” she asked, holding out an iron key on a leather chain. “What does it open?” Her eyes, filled with fear for their father, pleaded with him.
“A storehouse in Ringsthorpe containing materials to build siege engines.”
Bea’s mouth tightened. “You must find a way to protect Father. I have no desire to turn him over to the king’s men.”
Henry took the key from her hand and placed it back on the hook for safekeeping. He ran his fingers along the leather cord. The key swung back and forth when he released it, like a body dangling from a gibbet. He couldn’t take his eyes from it. “Neither do I.”
Saints in heaven. What’s got into the boy, Little John wondered, unable to keep pace with Robert. The boy galloped down the heavily-wooded trail like he was being chased by a wild boar.
“Slow down,” Little John shouted. “Robert!” he called as horse and rider disappeared amongst the trees.
They’d trotted away from the manor and into one of the pastures south of the house. Robert cantered across the field, but when they were far enough that no one could see, he’d given the animal rein.
Little John hadn’t been much of a horseman in the Holy Land, but he’d learned quickly enough on the mountainous roads in Bavaria and north to Hamburg on the way back to England. Leaning forward in the saddle, he charged headlong into the thick brush after the boy to catch up. A limb swiped his face. He shifted to the right and ducked to avoid another low hanging branch. Robert swerved and shot down a western fork. Little John had no time to think about wagons trying to wend their way through these woods. Where was the boy leading him?
Robert shrieked with delight. And that was when Little John saw the huge fallen tree looming ahead.
*
“Let me help with that.” Allan extended his hand. Struggling with a bucketful of water, Sarah pretended not to notice. Isn’t that the way with all girls? Leastwise, all the ones he had known.
Allan grasped the rope and tugged the pail to the top of the well.
A breeze tossed Sarah’s hair into her face. She tucked the loose ginger strands behind her ears. Curtsying shyly, she said, “Thank you, my lord.”
There was a second empty bucket next to the one he’d filled. “One more?”
She nodded, smiling graciously. “It is kind of you to help, my lord.”
Allan sighed. He’d lost count—the smith, Robin’s family and friends in Ringsthorpe, Robert. “I’m no lord, just a lowly squire.”
By the time he’d carried six pails of water from the cistern to the kitchen, Allan had won Sarah’s affections. She brought ale outside for them both as he lowered yet another bucket into the well. He peered into the dark hole.
“It’s a long way down,” Sarah said. “My grandmere told me she climbed down there. Hid from King Stephan’s soldiers from midday ’til the moon was high overhead.”
Allan felt the blood drain from his face. He could hear his ma screaming. My baby! Please don’t!
“Is something wrong?” Sarah asked. “Are you feeling well? I should not have let you carry so much.”
“No, it’s…” Allan rubbed his face. He turned around and slid to the ground. His back against the rough stone, he hugged his knees to his chest. He’d not intended to dredge up old hurtful memories.
Sarah knelt beside him. She pushed the hair from his face, dabbed at the sweat beading on his forehead.
Allan’s breaths were ragged. “My da was a bastard.”
“What an awful thing to say,” she said, pulling away from him.
“What would you call a man who holds his five year old upside down over a well and threatens to drop him?”
Appalled, Sarah’s hand flew to her mouth. “Mary, Mother of God, he did that to you?”
“That and worse.” Allan balled his fist, pressed it against the sudden ache in his thigh. “What is this shite?” Da seized the pot from the fire and hurled it across the room. Allan flinched at the memory of the kettle scalding his leg.
“Bastard.” Sarah cupped his face. “Your ma could not stop him? I’d have whacked him on the head, knocked him flat on his arse.” Her grey-green eyes turned fiery, and then she leaned close as if to kiss him.
“Sarah!” Mary shouted from the kitchen.
Her kiss turned to a peck and she popped her head above the well.
“What are you doing there, girl?” Mary asked. “Get those linens off the line.”
Sarah stole a peek at Allan, smiled, and hurried across the courtyard. Allan got to his feet, struggling to push thoughts of the past away. He watched the wind catch a bed linen. Billowing out, it wrapped around Sarah. She twisted to untangle herself, tugging the sheet from the line. A second gust sent it over her head. Flailing, blinded, she started to giggle.
Allan laughed and snared her, pulling the linen away from her face. Her eyes met his. Serious eyes, full of compassion. He suddenly felt the need to protect her. Not just find out what she had told Captain Burford, but get her away from the man.
He ran his hand along her smooth cheek and thumbed the dimple on her chin. Another gust of wind grabbed the linen and covered their heads. They both laughed.
“Squire Allan,” she said, “it seems I cannot do anything without your help this day.”
Allan smiled. “I’ve nothing else to do.” Allan tipped her chin. Her lips looked plump and luscious, ripe red like strawberries. He wouldn’t mind a taste. It had been months since he’d held a girl in his arms. But she twisted away, dashing his hope for a kiss. She thrust a corner of the sheet into his hand. He helped her fold it, watching her intently. Her cheeks turned rosy. Hair mussed by the wind gave her a wild look. He had to look down at her because he stood a head taller. When they completed the final fold, he grasped her hand and brought it to his lips. Her fingers felt slender and delicate in his. She lifted her head. Allan slid his hand to the small of her back, took her into his arms, and kissed her.
*
“You are mad. Jumping over trees. Flying down embankments.” Little John hoped he sounded more angry than impressed, for he had to admit Robert had skills he wasn’t sure he’d ever master himself. He would have to tell Robin. “Does your ma know you ride like that?”
Robert lowered his head.
“I did not think so,” Little John said, glad they’d slowed the horses to a walk through the dense underbrush.
“I shall do all your chores if you promise not to tell her.”
“You already do my chores.”
“Oh.” Robert thought a moment. “I will clean your boots, and Allan’s.”
The offer was tempting. Allan certainly would like it. Still, Little John didn’t break a smile.
“Will you tell her?” Robert asked, sounding half-repentant.
“You nearly killed the two of us.” Hurdling the downed tree was one thing. Little John figured it was mid-thigh high to him. But he’d not seen the steep drop on the other side of the oak until it was too late. It was all he could to hold on and not fly head first over his horse.
“I watched how you handled your bay.” Robert was not only an excellent horseman, he was also a master of flattery. “Some people, well, you can just tell. Them and their horse—they ride like one. That was you, Sir John. And being a knight and all, fighting Saracens, you have to be a good rider.”
“I am not a knight yet. Never lifted a sword against a Saracen. Don’t think honeyed words will save you.” Little John’s brow furrowed. “Have you been talking to Allan?” he asked, realizing how much Robert sounded like his friend.
“Yesterday, ere you left for Ringsthorpe with Sir Robin, Allan showed me some dice tricks.”
“Just dice?” There were worse habits, Little John thought. “Should I ask what your ma thinks of that?”
Robert whistled innocently, and then they both laughed.
Little John looked at the boy thoughtfully. “Clean my boots. I like that idea.”
“First thing on the morrow,” Robert said.
They’d not gone much beyond the bottom of the embankment when Little John spied the abandoned barn. He held Robert back a moment. Birds chirped and insects buzzed. He could hear their horses breathing, their hoofs crunching on the path. Satisfied the place was deserted, he signaled Robert to move ahead.
Robert pointed to the easier path through the trees. “We can go back that way if you like,” he said, barely suppressing a grin, and then changed the subject. “Are you truly only sixteen summers?”
“Almost seventeen.”
“You seem older. Allan—he’s nice, but not near so serious.”
“Hm…” Little John wasn’t sure if he liked that observation.
“Would you tell me how to become a squire?” Robert asked as they dismounted. “Do you think Sir Robin might take me on? I’m a very good horseman as you’ve seen. I could go with him across the Narrow Sea and fight the French. I’d gladly shine his boots and his sword.”
“Hold on,” Little John said. “He has Allan for that.”
“But you and Allan will be knights soon.”
“Someday.”
Robert kicked at leaves in the dirt. “Ma shall not let me leave. Besides, I do not think she likes Sir Robin.”
Little John forced himself not to smile. “Why would you say that?”
“She scowls at him when he is not looking.”
Little John laughed. He wouldn’t touch that one with a quarterstaff twice as long as his own. He’d leave Marian and Robin to explain. “Allan has had a girl or two. He would tell you that a woman’s mind can be hard to read.”
“Two girls? And only sixteen summers?” Robert shook his head in awe.
“He is the ladies’ man. Always impresses the girls.” Little John thought fondly of their days at the palace. “Even queens.”
Little John circled the perimeter of the barn. He tugged at one board and ripped it free with a quick snap. He tugged at another. “Many loose, rotting timbers.”
Robert was not so much interested in Little John’s inspection. “Have you a woman?”
“I do not talk about the women in my life. We should be gentlemen. Chivalrous.” Little John stopped when they reached the barn door. Nose twitching, he sniffed at the air.
Robert imitated him. “Rotted wood, lathered horse flesh.” He lifted his arm and took a whiff, “And me.”
“Shh.” Little John studied the woods around them. The wind whistled through the trees. He glanced at the ground around his boots. “Fresh hoof prints.” But no sign of any horses except their own.
Two rabbits darted from the underbrush. Robert startled, but grew more alert. He kept his voice low. “I have never seen anyone here.”
Little John tugged on the barn door. It opened with a groan. Peering inside, eyes adjusting to the dimmer light, he spotted the source of the smell he had detected. “They had a fire.”
Robert stayed at the door. He watched Little John, watched the woods. “Is it cold?”
Little John bent down. His hand hovered over the blackened wood. He picked up one piece, tapped his finger against a charred section. There was a hint of warmth. “They were here last night. Probably someone seeking shelter.” He rearranged the wood just as it had been. Standing, he wiped his hands on his hose. The fire-makers could return. Outlaws, poor folk, good or bad? No need to take chances. “Find something to cover our tracks,” he told Robert.
Little John searched every corner of the barn. The fire-makers left nothing behind, not one clue to reveal their identity. Pausing, he listened again. “Robert,” he called when the boy did not reappear. God’s blood. Sweat beaded on his brow. He felt sick. His hand slid to the hilt of his sword.
Then came the muffled cry.
Breathing slowly to calm himself, Little John drew his sword. He peered into the clearing beyond the open barn door. Nothing. Cautiously, he stepped outside.
The outlaw was a good nose shorter than Little John and had a belly that looked well-fed. He held a hand over Robert’s mouth. His other hand had a firm grasp of Robert’s hair. The boy’s eyes flamed with defiance and he squirmed, grimacing when the man nearly wrenched out a handful of his hair.
A second outlaw came around the side of the barn. “Drop your sword.” He held a dagger in one hand and
long blade in the other. Tall and lanky, he was barely a wisp of his stout older companion.
“Let the boy go.” Little John’s heart pounded like the hoofs of a dozen charging warhorses.
The men wore ragged tunics, one in faded and filthy red, the other might once have been the green of a summer forest. Swords dangled from their belts. They were not soldiers. Neither one had the build of the men-at-arms or knights Little John knew. But there were two of them. And they had Robert.
Little John laid his weapon on the ground. He pressed his mouth closed to keep his lips from trembling. He’d hate for the outlaws or Robert to see his fear. “Let him go,” he repeated firmly.
“What are you doing here?” the one holding Robert asked.
Little John didn’t want to antagonize them. “We are exercising the horses. Came down from Greyton.” He put on his firm voice again. “Let the boy go. We’ll be on our way. You might be sorry if they come looking for us.”
The younger man’s gaze kept returning to Robert. “Why would they send someone after a couple of villeins?” he asked.
The stout outlaw cocked his head at Little John. “Look at him, Milo. He don’t dress like any stable boy I have seen. And look at his blade. We shall keep that. Who are you?”
Milo ignored Little John’s fancy blue and grey tunic. He stared at Robert. “It’s Marian’s boy.”
“She will be worried sick,” Little John said. Milo might recognize Robert, but that didn’t mean the outlaws wouldn’t kill them anyway. “Keep my sword, but we have nothing else to give you.”
Robert let out a muffled shout and Little John started for his sword. From the corner of his eye, he saw Milo loose his dagger and felt a sting. Blood wet his face, but the dagger only nicked him and landed in the dirt.
Robert stomped on his captor’s foot. The outlaw bellowed, clawing Robert’s scalp with his nails. Little John lunged for his sword again. The older man scowled at him. “You do not want to pick up your blade.” He laid his dagger to Robert’s neck.
“Ysac, no,” Milo said.
“Shut up, Milo.” Ysac pressed the tip of his dagger beneath Robert’s chin. Little John held his arms out, palms up.
For King and Country (Battle Scars Book 2) Page 10
