For King and Country (Battle Scars Book 2)

by Charlene Newcomb

  “You bastard!” She turned to the courtyard, shouting, waving for attention. “Help!” No one outside would hear her above the noise, but she shouted out again. Suddenly, a huge hand gripped her forearm. The stranger dragged her inside the stable. Jerking away, she reached the closest stall and flung the gate open. The animals she and John had ridden from Westorby bolted for the door.

  The stranger sidestepped the horses and came after her again. She threw open Bellefleur’s gate looking for something to use against her attacker. A hay fork, the animals’ tack? Nothing. Bea’s prized stallion tamped the ground, pressed back its ears. Elle started to wave frantically to shoo the animal out. The stranger grabbed her again. She kicked him, her heavy boots connecting with his knee. He fell back, but the horse pranced madly. Calm. Don’t scare her. Elle held her hand out. “Come, Bellefleur.” The animal shied. Horses had strong homing instincts and this was home. This was the safe place. “Come,” she cried, her heart breaking as animals at the far end of stable screamed.

  Taking a step forward, Elle reached for Bellefleur’s mane. But the stranger wrenched her back again, swung her hard. She smacked the wall, hands cushioning the impact. Lifting her skirt, she climbed the rails between the stalls trying to escape him.

  Fire in the far stalls crept up the wall. Burning wood crackled and popped and embers floated in air growing thick with smoke. Flames shot up behind Elle. The animals grew more distressed, their high-pitched screams ear-splitting. Elle avoided a kick from one, sidestepped to avoid a rump in her face. She tugged the gate open and ran through. But the stranger had guessed her move and his hand snaked into her hair. Unable to escape his grip, she watched him torch another stall. Frightened, the horse there reared.The man shoved Elle towards the stallion and its forelegs came crashing down on her.

  *

  Little John watched for Elle to come from the stables. When she’d not appeared after a minute, he charged across the yard. He tugged at the door, stepping back as smoke billowed out.

  “Elle!” he shouted from the doorway.

  He saw the stranger standing over her. The man barreled towards him, raising a sword over his head. Little John unsheathed his blade and blocked the downward swing. Flames were consuming the wall behind Elle and he called out her name again. The man snickered. He stepped forward and thrust, but Little John caught his hilt between their bodies. Little John broke the man’s grip and heard a crack above the hissing fire. The bastard shrieked, his wrist broken. Little John shoved him, and then drove his blade into flesh. The man dropped like a struck boar.

  Burning thatch dropped on Little's John back from the roof. He stumbled to Elle’s side. Flames crackling and animals screaming around them, he flung Elle over his shoulder. Coughing, his lungs heavy from the smoke, he unlatched two more stalls hoping the animals would flee, and then bolted outside.

  Villagers finally noticed the stables ablaze as Little John emerged carrying Elle to safety.

  As he laid Elle down, Bea fell to her knees beside them and grasped Elle’s hand. Trying to find his breath, Little John brushed ash from Elle’s face.Blood stained her clothes. She was not moving.

  Hands trembling, Bea gaped at the stables. The fire had spread to a second building. Horses screamed. She jumped to her feet and pushed through the firefighters, anger hardening her face. Flames burst from the stable door, but she ignored them and charged inside.

  The road from Boston to Lincoln snaked alongside the River Witham. Henry slowed to watch for a marker showing the way to Cartholme. He swatted at insects buzzing around his head. Despite the brush of their scabbards against leather chausses and the clop of horses hoofs, noises of the river-trade rang clear. Barge captains shouted orders; oars slapped the water.

  Henry spotted the weathered stone post. Deer antlers etched on it were half-hidden by dried mud. “Not far now,” he told Stephan. He urged Soleil westward along the narrower, wooded road. The sounds of the river faded behind them. A few miles further and the trees thinned becoming no more than a border edging fields of corn and beans. Peaceful, tranquil, and far from war and politics.

  Stephan tapped Henry, pointing to dark billows rising against the blue sky. “Smoke?”

  Without a word, Henry kicked his stallion to a gallop. The two knights charged to meet a different enemy. Fire.

  Henry looked to the stone manor and tower as they approached, relieved to see them untouched. But so many other buildings were ablaze. He slowed to cut across the courtyard, shouting, “Where’s the Lady Bea?” The place looked like a disturbed hornet’s nest. A bucket brigade struggled to douse the flames.

  Through the chaos, Henry saw Little John hovering over Elle. This cannot be… There was a sudden shout and he turned. Bea was herding three stallions from the stables. Running loose and frightened, the high-spirited animals cut a trail through the firefighters.

  “Bea!” Henry shouted as she swept around and headed back into the blazing building.

  Stephan had seen them too. “Go to Elle. I’ll help Bea.” Both men reined in hard and flung themselves down from their horses.

  Henry ran to Elle’s side. Kneeling, he looked from her still body to Little John. “Is she—”

  The younger man coughed hard and couldn’t respond.

  Henry pressed his ear near Elle’s face. Nothing. He rubbed her cheeks, calling her name. He parted her lips, pressed his mouth to hers. Can I give you my breath? He blew, felt air escape through her nose. Touching the corner of her mouth, his hands trembled, but he bent over her again. He blew hard, willing her to breathe.

  Elle drew a shuddering breath. Her eyes fluttered.

  “Thank God,” Little John managed to murmur.

  Henry pulled back as Elle took a deeper draw of air. She choked, a grating dry hack. It was a sweet sound to Henry’s ear. He started to smile, but noticed the blood on Little John’s face and clothing. More blood than would have come from the cut on Elle’s forehead.

  “The man…who did this…” Little John swiped at sweat stinging his eyes. “He’s dead. I killed him.”

  Henry heard him, but the sound of cracking timber made him turn. A deep rumble echoed through the yard. Flames whipped at the stable door. Stephan…Bea…where are you?

  Elle tried to speak, but couldn’t find her voice. Henry helped her sit up. He dabbed at the seeping gash on her head. Little John watched her, watched Henry. Though she was cradled against Henry, she reached for Little John and twined her fingers through his.

  A thunderous roar rippled across the courtyard. Part of the stable roof collapsed. Henry pressed Elle into Little John’s arms and jumped to his feet. He shoved his way through the crowd, their grunts and prayers a litany beseeching the Lord.

  Thick black smoke poured into the courtyard, the smell of burnt horseflesh stinging Henry’s nostrils. His stomach curdled. Stephan…Bea… He stepped towards the inferno. A blast of heat drove him back. The rear wall began to topple, the noise echoing like thunder. Henry looked at the building, frantic, sweat pouring from his face. He shielded himself from the heat with his arm—what little good that did—and made a dash for the stable door. He’d taken three steps when Stephan appeared through the flames with Bea in his arms.

  Bea coughed uncontrollably. Alive, thank God! Henry wanted to shout his joy, but Stephan’s legs buckled. He kept hold of Bea as he fell and Henry steadied him, wrapping them both in a strong embrace.

  Bea’s coughing subsided and as quickly as Henry felt relieved she was safe, he grew angry. “What did you think you were doing? You nearly got yourself and Stephan killed. What if we hadn’t arrived?”

  “My horses…”

  “Horses can be replaced. You cannot.”

  Stephan touched Henry’s hand. “Don’t be so harsh.”

  “Don’t you— You might have died.” Henry cupped Stephan’s jaw, traced his thumb from ear to chin. Oh God…to never see this face or hold him in my arms again. Tears welled in his eyes. He pressed his forehead to Stephan’s and sho
ok violently.

  Pressed between the men, Bea reached for Henry. Her hands trembled, but she combed his hair back, her face so filled with compassion that he thought she might finally understand his feelings for Stephan. Henry leaned down and kissed her.

  “Elle…?” she asked.

  “She’ll be fine.”

  Bea’s eyes grew fiery with fear and anger. “Take me to her.” Henry was about to protest but she added, “Now. It is my fault she is here. Why— Who would do this?”

  The western wall of the stable suddenly toppled. The knights cocooned Bea before the heat wave blasted them. Villagers cried out, stumbling in their haste to move away from the inferno. The hot wind tousled Henry’s hair. Fiery ash landed on Stephan’s head and fizzled out. Bea finally broke down. Sobs wracked her body.

  Henry tightened his hold on Stephan and Bea. How will I protect my family?

  *

  Henry watched Bea will her hands to still. Washed up, bandaged, and dressed in clean clothes, she sat at the head of the long trestle. Candles and torches in the hall kept the growing night at bay. She looked composed as the steward summarized the damage. When he finished, she took a long swallow of wine. She gestured for a servant to refill her goblet and then dismissed them all from the room. Elle had been kept in bed after the healer checked the cut on her head. Henry sent Little John to her bedchamber knowing he wanted to watch over her, though Seilda had not left the young girl’s side.

  Henry drew up behind Stephan. He placed his hands on his shoulders daring Bea to complain. He met her eyes. “I do not think you should stay here.” He and Stephan had spoken while she was upstairs.

  “You believe this was deliberate?” She looked from Henry to Stephan. “Count John’s supporters? Edric?”

  “The only one who could tell us that is dead. He’ll be burned beyond recognition by the time we sift through the ashes. I am certain this was a warning. We cannot know where they might strike next.”

  Bea sat unmoving except to swallow more wine. She struggled to keep her emotions contained. “Father…my son… Greyton is much more vulnerable. Dear God.”

  Stephan leaned across the table and took her hand. “They are fine. We’d have news if something had happened.”

  “How can you know that?” Bea scoffed, snatching her hand from Stephan.

  “I shall leave for Greyton at first light,” Henry said. He had no choice despite his desire to go to Yorkshire with Stephan. His responsibility was here. The sense of tranquility and warmth from the colorful tapestries covering the walls, the huge hearth, and long sideboard topped with silver trays and gold inlaid goblets was nothing but an illusion.

  He downed his wine. Bea wasn’t going to like this. “You and Elle must go to York with Stephan.”

  She drew back, appalled. The compassion he’d seen earlier? Gone. “With Stephan?”

  “He did save your life. And I do not believe I’ve heard one word of thanks slip from your tongue.”

  “Henry, don’t.” Stephan was the calm one. His face filled with empathy. “It’s been an awful day. We should just be thankful that Elle and Bea are safe.”

  Bea reddened. “Henry is right. I cannot think straight. Thank you, Stephan.”

  Henry placed his hand on Stephan’s. Bea’s mouth became a hard line, her face unreadable. “I do not see why I should go so far north. Why not to Lincoln Castle?”

  “It’s too near Edric Weston,” Henry argued.

  “The Sheriff’s wife was a good friend to Maman. She would not harm me.”

  Henry had met Nichola de la Haye on many visits to Lincoln, but he would take no chances. “She stood against the king’s men, openly supporting Count John. And whilst the Sheriff has not raised his head in recent days, he was at John’s side when Nottingham and Tickhill were besieged. I would not trust him. Edric will know your every move.”

  “Castle l’Aigle has ten-foot thick walls,” Stephan said. “Gil has a mesnie of knights at his call. You and David will be well protected.”

  Bea’s blue eyes held a dubious gaze. “You said you’ve not been on speaking terms with your brother for years. What makes you think he would welcome me?”

  “You and Gil have something in common.” Bea raised a brow and he added, “You both dislike me. Despite his feelings for me, I have no doubt he shall be pleased to entertain you and to do his chivalrous duty. I shall leave it up to you to tell my brother the truth about our betrothal.”

  Scowling, Bea folded her arms across her chest. “I have no intention of keeping up this charade. I will go, but I cannot leave without my son.”

  There was a tap at the door and then it swung open abruptly. “Sorry, milady.” Steward Osmer looked flustered. “Riders approaching.”

  “How many?” Henry asked.

  “Two, from the south.”

  Henry and Bea exchanged a glance. From Greyton? “Stay here,” Henry said and hurried outside. “Still two?” he called to the man he’d posted on the keep tower.

  “Yes, Sir Henry.”

  He could see them now, headed towards the manor at a gallop, kicking up dust in their wake. It was nearly dark.

  A hollow feeling made Henry’s stomach ache and he clenched his fists at his side. When the riders drew near, he recognized Hugh. The second rider’s hood fell away. It was Bea’s wet nurse Cecili. Young David was bundled tightly to her chest and had started to cry. Henry helped her dismount.

  Bea had heard her son’s wailing and had rushed outside. She reached for the babe. “What’s happened? Why are you here?” She looked down at David’s face, cradled him close. Her lips trembled as he quieted and smiled up at her.

  Henry swallowed hard. Thank God he’d have them on the road on the morrow.

  Cecili stared wide-eyed at the remains of the stables and burnt-out buildings. She noticed the bandage on Bea’s head. “My lady, are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes, come inside.”

  Hugh held a sealed letter out to Henry. “From your father, my lord Edward.”

  Back in the hall, Henry unfolded the parchment and read it by the light of the candles on the trestle. He shook his head.

  “Bad news?” Stephan asked.

  “Nothing so dire as we’ve seen today,” Henry said. Seeing Bea rocking David in her arms comforted him. It made all the madness of the last few days fade for just a brief moment.

  “Father received Odo’s message about the trouble in Boston and that you’d left for Cartholme. He thought it best to send David here today. He didn’t think it was safe for your son at Greyton.” Henry turned to Hugh. “But all was well at home when you left?”

  “Yes, Master Henry. No trouble.” Hugh folded one hand over the other repeatedly and cleared his throat nervously. “Leastwise none that seemed to portend any danger, though squire Allan might have been killed in Grantham had—”

  “What!” Henry and Stephan chorused. Henry looked towards the stairs knowing Little John sat at Elle’s bedside. Poor Little John. One more person to worry over. “That is not in the letter. When did this happen?”

  “Day before yesterday. Had the dagger struck Allan a finger’s width closer…” Hugh traced a line from breastbone to heart and then crossed himself. “Your good father said it was thieves, but when he and the prior spoke, he feared it might be the work of the king’s enemies. And Marian heard Sheriff de Camville telling the master he knew nothing of the attack. He said after midsummer’s day he expected more news.”

  Henry strode to the window, his mind whirling. Had this truly been another reminder of Count John’s agents at work? And midsummer—the information Stephan was taking to Hugh Bardolf, the Sheriff of Yorkshire. Lincoln and York, both in John’s circle.

  He waved the servants from the room and then read the next part of the letter aloud. “‘And Bea betrothed to Sir Stephan? What in the name of our Good Lord is this about? I admit the news does not surprise me, but the fact that it was delivered by Edric Weston—’”

  “Dear God.” Be
a fanned herself. “More wine,” she ordered and Stephan quickly complied. “Edric did not actually pay a visit to Greyton?”

  “On this very morning,” Henry said.

  Bea looked ill, pointed at the letter. “What more does Father write?”

  Henry continued. “‘I believe Weston does not suspect I’d no knowledge of this betrothal because I did not say otherwise. He is pleased that Henry has taken a liking to Elle and joyful that our two families will yet be united.’” Henry strode back to the table and swallowed down his drink.

  Bea turned pleading eyes on him. “You’ll set this straight when you return to Greyton on the morrow.”

  Henry glowered at Bea. “Why did you have to complicate things by creating this story?”

  “What difference does it make?” Bea stood abruptly, waking her snoozing son. David cried and she swung him in her arms. That only made him cry louder.

  Henry tried his hand at calming the little one. He stroked his hair, tickled his nose. Nothing worked.

  Stephan lifted the baby from Henry’s arms and held him up to his shoulder. He tapped David’s back and whispered in his ear. The babe quieted immediately.

  Bea stared at Stephan, and then her expression softened. “What time do we leave for York?”

  Henry had ridden hard from Cartholme to Greyton beneath gray skies and his thundering heart. Saying goodbye to Stephan had crushed his soul, taking a part of him. They had lain awake most of the night, talking, in each other’s arms. Henry could not dare ask…would they ever be this close again? But no matter the days apart, the longing and the love would remain.

  Mary greeted him at the door. “We’d not expected to see you for weeks, Master Henry.” She eyed him up and down. He must have looked a mess, hair windblown from the journey, dark circles beneath his eyes from lack of sleep. “Should you like a wash before you see your lord father?”

  Dust covered his clothes, but he brushed himself off and strode into the hall. “That will have to wait. Where is he?” He glanced upstairs. It was well past Terce. Surely he’d not be… “Still abed?”