For King and Country (Battle Scars Book 2)

by Charlene Newcomb

  “The barn is run down, but livable,” Little John said. “The track leading to it is overgrown. Easily passable on foot or horseback. Not so good for a wagon.”

  “Now tell me why we are huddled like three men sharing a dark secret?” Robin asked impatiently.

  Little John mentioned the warm ashes left from an early morning fire and the two men who surprised them. “I did not think you would want Marian to hear I convinced them to put their daggers away.”

  Robin’s eyes tinged with fury. “Who are they? What did they look like?”

  The voice, those eyes. Stephan cringed, pitying the men who’d have to face Robin.

  Little John winced, but remained calm. “One was Milo, your friend from Ringsthorpe. He turned to stealing to get food for his mother. Ysac seemed less trusting.”

  Robin growled, but Little John’s compassion rang strong. “They are poor villeins, down on their luck. Let them watch the road for you. Give them a chance to show their loyalty.”

  Stephan couldn’t understand why Little John trusted the men. That cut on his face implied the outlaws had been a deadly threat. For the moment, he would play along. “Second chances,” he said. “You and Little John know about those.”

  Robin crossed his arms across his chest. He wasn’t convinced. “You believe they are good men?”

  Little John didn’t shrink back from Robin’s scrutiny, but he did hesitate long enough to raise Robin’s brow. “They just need a bit of help.”

  Robin eyed the cut on Little John’s cheek. “Asking for money with daggers in their hands? They tried to rob you.” He tore across the courtyard.

  Stephan caught up to him. He kept pace as Robin stormed towards the stables. “You are not going after them.”

  “They could have killed Robert and Little John.”

  Stephan grabbed Robin’s arm and forced him to stop. “But they did not. King Richard would be impressed with Little John’s negotiation skills. He’s just acquired two more men to observe Count John’s activities here. Food, a bit of ale, a ha’penny a week. Henry can arrange that.”

  Robin gritted his teeth, staring, and then relaxed. “You are right. I will not kill them.” Stephan watched him thinking. Robin’s agreeing had come far too easily. It was no surprise when Robin added, “Leastwise not until after I talk to them.”

  “Wait ’til the morrow,” Stephan urged, hoping more rational thought might take hold. “Henry and I can accompany you before we leave for Westorby.”

  “Allan and Robert will go with me.”

  “Robert?”

  “I promised I would shoot bow with him.” Robin glanced back at Little John. “He is not telling us the whole truth.”

  Stephan didn’t admit he felt the same. “Why would you say that?”

  “A tree branch?” Robin rubbed his face and scoffed. “And my name is John Lackland.”

  Robert wouldn’t stand a chance under Robin’s questions, but mayhap Allan would keep Robin calm. The knight wouldn’t draw a sword without good reason—like a threat to his son. Ysac and Milo best show their good faith, Stephan thought, else Robert might see his hero Robin in a very different light.

  Henry relished the quiet before the sun rose. Stephan’s breathing was even, his breath warm on Henry’s neck. Untangling himself from Stephan, he sat up on the edge of the bed. Stephan rolled and caught his hand, pulling him back for a kiss.

  Stephan ran his hands through the waves of Henry’s hair. “Will you be able to say good morning to me that way on the morrow?”

  “In Westorby?” Henry looked towards the latched door. “I hardly believe I am saying it here.”

  Stephan’s blue eyes filled with mischief. “I never knew you were such a rogue, my lord.”

  Henry thought of his father and his sister down the hallway. Voices drifted up from the kitchen. Mary and Hugh were preparing the fire. “There is a part of me that does not care if others discover us because I want as many of these moments as I can find.”

  Stephan pressed his lips to Henry’s forehead, to each eyelid, to the tip of his nose. “I will never have enough of you. I cannot bear the thought that we shall be apart far too soon.” He found Henry’s hand and tugged it to his heart. “But be assured, you are here.”

  “I never imagined love could hurt so much. When I denied my feelings for you, oh, the heartache. And when I gave you my love? Look what we have done to ourselves. I’d have it no other way,” Henry said, “but do you truly not regret giving your heart to me?”

  Stephan’s arms slid around Henry. “Falling from one man’s bed into another is nothing but pure pleasure. You think of that one moment and of little else. But when you care for someone, you have all the memories. Of talking with him about everything, about nothing.” Stephan touched Henry’s face, traced his finger across his lips. “Of watching the way his lip curls when he sleeps. Of seeing him across the room and feeling your heart pound. Knowing his soul is yours and just wanting to be near him.” He paused and cupped Henry’s face. “Feeling torn when you must be apart.”

  “Wondering if…when we will be together,” Henry whispered.

  Stephan slid his hand behind Henry’s neck. “Words never need be spoken between us. But I love you.” He tugged him closer, covering his mouth with his own.

  Henry rested his head against Stephan’s and breathed in his musky scent. But suddenly, his stomach rumbled.

  Stephan laughed. “Can’t wait to break the fast?”

  “Starving.” Henry wanted to stay in bed with Stephan, but he was determined to sneak into the kitchen to see if Mary might have bread left from the previous evening. He stood without a stitch on searching the darkened room. “I know I did not come in here naked last night.”

  Stephan laughed again and tossed his own tunic to Henry. “Take mine.”

  Henry pulled the tunic over his head. He brought the sleeve to his nose. That same wonderful smell of Stephan. He might forego wearing a clean one of his own today.

  He mussed the wool blanket on the pallet where Stephan should have slept and then stepped into the hallway. Closing the door slowly, he watched Stephan through the narrowing slit until he could see no more.

  “Good morrow, brother.”

  Henry jumped. Bea. He turned, smiling.

  “I heard the laughter,” she said. “You are up before the sun.”

  Hoping that was all she’d heard, he tugged at his tunic to cover evidence of his arousal, glad the hallway was dark. “I’d heard Stephan stir and wanted to tell him about a dream.”

  “No nightmares?”

  He shook his head, letting a broad grin spread across his face. “Little John, a gull, and a biscuit. We were sailing to Messina.”

  Down the hall, David began to squall. Bea gave an exasperated sigh and started towards her bedchamber. “I shall look forward to having a laugh. And Henry,” she called over her shoulder, “you are not in an army camp with ten thousand soldiers. You really should not roam the manor half-naked.”

  David’s wet nurse stood at Bea’s doorway. She lowered her head and managed to keep a straight face as Bea brushed past.

  Henry laughed nervously, his knees going weak. Surely even his father would hear the way his heart pounded. A few more days and he’d deliver Bea back to Cartholme, and then he’d not need worry of her suspicions.

  A few more days…and Stephan will be gone, too.

  Robin was almost disappointed when Robert didn’t take him on the same wild ride Little John had survived. But when he thought about Marian, he decided that was a good thing. He’d be in enough trouble if she found out Robert had a run-in with outlaws on his account.

  Robin poked at the cool ashes in the barn. “Appears they found a new place to threaten young boys.”

  “They must be afraid of you,” Robert said.

  Robin feigned a curious look. He knew damn well why the men might fear him, but he’d calmed since last night. Still, that cut on Little John’s face. There was more to this story. “
Why would they be afraid?”

  “Pro’ly didn’t think you’d pay them to work for the king so they moved on.”

  Robin raised a brow. He jangled his coin pouch. “I came prepared for nothing.” He gave a cursory glance round the barn, and then walked back outside.

  The sun bled through the tree canopy striking a fleck of red amongst the trees. That was no holly berry. He pocketed his pouch and rested his hand on the pommel of his sword. “How far to the road from here?”

  Robert noticed Robin’s movement and the flick of his eyes towards a thick stand of bushes. Robert nodded slowly and pointed south. “Down that path, just a short walk.”

  “Little John is right. Moving provisions here would be impossible, except on a pack animal. But this could serve as a place to rest for a night should King Richard’s men want to be off the road. Even in the dead of winter, it would be well hidden.”

  A tree branch snapped. Robin unsheathed his sword, signaling Robert to move behind him. A lanky figure stepped from the thick cover of holly bushes. “Milo?” Robin called, recognizing his boyhood friend.

  “Robin Carpenter. So the boy was right. You came. Might you truly have work for us?” Milo’s voice cracked. “God help us, Robin. I am tired. Scared. I did not mean…but my ma…”

  Milo wasn’t the cocky youth who had bragged he’d be an archer as skilled as Robin. Robin frowned. Mayhap he’d be in Milo’s shoes if he hadn’t helped Queen Eleanor all those years ago. But trying to steal from Robert and Little John? He did not like that.

  “You threatened my young friends.” Eyes still focused on the woods, Robin searched for Milo’s accomplice. “Why should I trust you?”

  “They did not harm us, Sir Robin,” Robert said.

  Robin took a step towards Milo. “That cut on Little John’s face?”

  “It was just a warning, Rob—Sir Robin. If I’d wanted to hurt him, I’d not have missed.” Milo made sure Robin could see both his hands, neither one near the long blade hanging at his side. “Soon as I learnt the young boy was with you, I told Ysac to let him go.”

  “Let you go?” Robin said sharply to Robert, but his gaze swept from the trees to Milo and back again. “Exactly what happened here, Robert? Little John lied about being maimed by a tree. What else did he not tell me?”

  Robert dug in stubbornly. “I am all right. You can see that.”

  Robin pointed his sword at Milo, but directed his growing anger at Robert. “Little John bluffed your way out of danger. I want the truth.”

  “It wasn’t me, Robin,” Milo said firmly. “Ysac held the blade.”

  “You whoreson!” A dagger flew from the trees. Milo turned, but not quickly enough to dodge the blade. He cried out, eyes wide with pain as Ysac charged from the wood, sword raised over his head.

  Milo’s wound was not mortal, but Robert froze, gaping at the blood seeping through his tunic.

  “Robert, to the horses,” Robin shouted. He whirled to meet Ysac’s blade. Blocking the blow, he twisted as the outlaw ran past.

  Ysac screeched like a feral pig as he whipped around. He came at Robin again, his weapon arced high, then sweeping down. Their swords crossed, but Robin controlled the fight. He struck one blow, a second, and a third, anger building as he pressed Ysac away from Robert. Ysac looked for a path through the trees, but Robin cornered him and caught his weapon. He brought both blades to rest on Ysac’s neck. The man’s eyes were wild.

  “You held a blade to my son!” Robin shouted. His eyes flicked to Robert.

  “What!” Robert cried.

  Robin swiped the blade along Ysac’s throat. The man groaned, a low guttural sound. Blood splattered Robin’s face. He tossed Ysac aside like a limp rag. The outlaw crumpled to the ground, his hands flying to his neck. His eyes rolled back in his head.

  Robin turned, hearing Robert exhale short, sharp breaths. Confusion and fear filled Robert’s face. Devastated by that look, Robin’s rage dissolved. What have I done? He reached towards Robert, wanting to explain.

  *

  Robert shook his head. He stared at the blood coating Robin’s hands. His legs felt weak. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. My son?

  Robin dropped his bloodied sword and took a step forward. Robert tore away. He jumped a log, scrambled through the trees, over bushes. He didn’t stop running until he reached the river. Sitting down hard on the bank, he stared at the water skipping over the rocks and brushing the shore.

  He started to tremble. Tears came, mingling with the sweat on his cheeks. His heart pounded. His stomach heaved over and over until every muscle in it ached.

  All that blood. Robin…so cold and hard. Robin…my father.

  “And what is this?” Mary’s knife hovered mid-chop over a bloodied chicken. She eyed the flowers in Allan’s hands. “Second man in less than a day wandering in here with a handful of blossoms.”

  “For you,” Allan said and bowed.

  “I feed you well. You’ve a pallet in the hall.” With a whack, she severed one of the bird’s legs and then the other. “What more might you want, young squire?”

  “Why do women think a man wants something when he brings flowers?” He pressed the white-as-snow blooms towards her. “How else might I show appreciation for all you do. You practically run this place, you do.”

  “We both know that for a fact.” Mary set the blade aside and brushed her hands on her skirts. Her eyes sparkled. “I thank you for the flowers.”

  Allan laid them on the edge of her worktable. He bowed again and was halfway out the door when Mary called, “Sarah went down to the mill.” She tossed pieces of chicken into the kettle on the hearth. “Might want help carrying her load back to the house.”

  Allan leaned against the doorframe. “I helped her fold the linens yesterday. And carried all that water for your pots.”

  “I saw you.” Mary smiled. “Like her, do you?”

  Allan had bluffed his way in and out of situations for years and never thought twice of it. But he liked Mary. If he lied to her now he’d feel as guilty as a man running from a chicken coop caught with a bird in his hand. He realized he had no need to hide the truth because he did enjoy Sarah’s company, though his arms ached from all the work. And that one kiss had been a nice reward.

  “I do,” he said, answering Mary with a huge grin.

  Mary scrubbed the table with a dampened rag. “She needs an honorable and faithful young man. I should tell you to stay away. Not that you aren’t honorable. But I see Marian remembering how Robin Carpenter walked away.” Her eyes grew misty. “I suppose if Sarah had to do the same, they could cry together.”

  Allan would never want to cause Sarah heartache, but other men—like the captain of the guard—might take advantage of her, hurt her. “Does she like Burford? Is he a decent man?”

  Mary huffed, rubbing her eyes dry. She grabbed a bowl covered with cloth and turned out the dough in it. Her mouth stern, she punched the dough hard a half dozen times.

  Allan flinched. Was that the captain’s face?

  “I cannot say what hold he has on Sarah. But I do not like it. She will not speak to me. I’ve tried to be a mother to the girl since she lost her folks. Even Marian has failed to draw her out.”

  “She has no other family?” Allan asked, feeling the loss of his own mother.

  “A brother, but he left Greyton before the old king died. Never been back. Some say he went on pilgrimage. Mayhap you’d seen him in the Holy Land?” Mary kneaded and turned her dough, looking at Allan hopefully. “His name is Jacob.”

  He hated to disappoint her. “There were thousands of soldiers there. I met hundreds of them, but none named Jacob.”

  “Thousands?”

  A woman who had lived her life in a small village could not possibly imagine an army the size of King Richard’s. “You should have seen them when the king led the march south. The vanguard disappeared from sight even before the knights at the rear took one step.”

  “Must have been a sight.�
� She dabbed at the sweat on her brow as if she could feel the desert heat. “Sarah will miss you when you move on with Sir Robin.”

  Allan liked the idea of one special woman thinking of him, but dismissed Mary’s words with a wave of his hand. “She won’t be worrying for me.” Especially if she thinks I like her only to get information about Burford.

  “It’s too late for that, young squire. She’s already starry-eyed and dreamy. Blessed young thing. She’d be a fool not to be. If I were twenty summers again…” Mary looked him up and down with a glint in her eye. “Now get on your way. She’ll need a strong hand or two on her way back from the mill.”

  She waved him from the kitchen into the warm sunshine of a fine May day. Allan started towards the mill. Two young peasant boys carting farm implements from the barn straightened as he passed. The tanner’s wife curtsied and called, “Good morrow, sir.” He wondered what the peasants would think if they knew he was not of high birth like Sir Stephan and Sir Henry. It hadn’t been long since his days as a camp-follower snitching food to stay alive and he wasn't sure he would ever get used to being treated like gentry.

  Allan neared the mill as Sarah appeared in the doorway. She was dressed in a dark green kirtle. Strands of ginger hair had escaped her braids. When she looked up and saw him, her face lit, but she lowered her head and turned shy.

  “Might I help carry your load, my lady?” Allan asked.

  “Thank you, my lord.” She handed him the bundle and walked at his side. “Mary said Master Henry heads to Boston on the morrow. Shall you leave with him?”

  “Little John will accompany him and Sir Stephan, but I am squire to Sir Robin. We shall head west.” When Sarah did not respond, he added, “To Nottingham.”

  She perked up a bit, but remained quiet. Was she thinking of Burford?

  The sack of flour grew heavy and Allan shifted it from one arm to the other as they approached the house. “Have you been there?” he asked.

  Sarah stared down the road. “It’s where the wagons go.”

  Allan nodded. “Right. The ones stopping here overnight with all those guards. I heard Lord de Grey say they come through all the time.”