Mary knew what he was thinking, but she shook her head. “He’s been off with the reeve at the south pasture. I sent young Robert to fetch him soon as we saw you coming up the road.”
She tried to convince him to wash, but Henry paced the hall and waved away food and drink Mary tried to place before him. Finally, he heard Edward’s voice strong and clear in the courtyard.
The door flew open and the sun streamed in behind Edward. Henry couldn’t see his face clearly.
“What in the name of the Good Lord is this?” Edward snorted, and then started for the sideboard. “Bea, betrothed? Why must I hear of this from that rat’s arse Weston?”
“You might have warned me how you felt about the man ere I went to Westorby.” Henry watched him pour a drink and swig it down.
“I’d not wanted you to dislike the girl on account of her brother.” Edward looked at him expectantly.
Elle was the last thing Henry wanted to speak of. But Edric…
“Bea and Stephan are not betrothed. Bea told the lie to Weston to dissuade him from being too familiar with her.”
Brows furrowed, Edward pour himself a second cup, brought the wine to his lips, and swallowed every bit. “Edric Weston is married.”
“He does not believe he will be for too long.”
Mouth agape, Edward set the goblet down hard. Henry told the sordid story, leaving out Edric’s threat. “And,” he added, “he has strong ties to those transporting war provisions from Boston. Hugh told me about the attack on Allan. It is a warning for us to stay out of their business, isn’t it?”
“Mayhap one you should heed.” Edward’s voice was flat.
Henry watched helplessly as Edward poured another drink, his face unreadable. Businessmen and barons alike were at Count John’s mercy. He understood that helplessness even more now, but it would not stop him from undermining the count’s efforts to line his pockets with silver and prepare his castles for war.
He needed the truth from his father, no matter how hard it might be to live with. “If you are more involved, I must know. I will leave Greyton if my presence here means your life is in danger.”
“No, you cannot. Everything I have—all this—it is for you, for your heirs.”
Edward started to down his wine, but Henry had drawn up to face him squarely. He grabbed Edward’s wrist. Wine sloshed over the rim, dampening their hands, but he ignored it. “Tell me if you are making deals with Count John.”
Paying no heed to his words, Edward said, “You’ve barely spoken of Elle Weston.”
Henry smacked the goblet from Edward’s hand. It clanked off the wall and hit the floor. They glared at each other and then Henry cackled harshly. He was talking of treason and his father thought only of him taking a wife. “There are more serious things at stake here.”
“But you like the girl? And Bea has taken her on. That is good. It removes her from that sick bastard brother of hers and prepares her for her role as lady of Gr—”
“Enough!” Henry shouted. “These people are dangerous. We were attacked by John’s men in Boston, and fires were deliberately set at Cartholme.”
“What?” Edward cried.
“A storeroom, the tanner’s shop, many horses—gone. Elle was nearly killed. Bea might have died had it not been for Stephan. He pulled her from the burning stables. Greyton could be next.” Henry grasped the cross hanging round his neck, tried to calm his mind. “King Richard will return,” he said quietly. “Those who collaborate with John may be ruined, if not hanged for treason.”
Edward’s mouth formed a hard line. “And those who choose to ignore John might also find themselves at the end of a rope long before Richard sets foot on these shores. The fights in Boston. Your sister’s home. You should heed these warnings.”
“So you do provide—”
“Nothing more than taxes and a place to store the wood William Carpenter shapes for a hunting lodge to be built near Lincoln.”
Henry laughed derisively. “You believe that after everything I have told you?”
“No, of course not.” Edward emptied the wine flagon into another mug and drank it down. “I am no fool. But I must look the other way.”
“By doing that you help provide the finest food and drink on John’s tables,” Henry spat, “for mercenaries on his payroll, and provisions for war. War he has brought to us!”
Edward’s face turned fiery red. “Only for your meddling. You and your king’s men.” He sneered. “After thinking on this, I am relieved to know nothing will come of a match between your sister and Sir Stephan. When your friend Robin returns from his mission, and Stephan with him…I do not want them here.”
Henry couldn’t find the words to speak.
“You and your friends may not like it,” Edward continued, “but should Richard not return, John will be king. Grow up, Henry. Be a man. John is Richard’s rightful heir, and one way or another, we will bow down to him.”
A vile taste crept up Henry’s throat. He’d heard the arguments before and still rejected them. His frustration fed his anger and his voice grew harsh. “Look to yourself, Father. I am a man, but I am not a coward.” Henry spat into the floor rushes and strode across the hall, the timbers shaking beneath his boots. He flung the door open, slammed it on his way out. His father’s voice clamored for more drink behind him.
Henry kicked up dirt and stone as he rounded the house. The argument with his father had exhausted him and sweat streamed down his face. His father would deny his friends refuge. How can I stay here? His eyes burned. He swiped at his brow. How can I not stay?
He thought the world had gone mad when he’d fought against the king’s allies in Messina, when he’d watched near three thousand men executed by the king’s order in Acre. He’d suffered the whims of weather on that godforsaken desert. Nearly died marching towards Jerusalem. For my king, my country. Did that mean nothing now?
He wandered up the hill where his mother had been laid to rest alongside his grandparents. Storm clouds threw him into darkness that matched his mood.
“Was he always this way, Maman?” Staring at the stone slab that marked his mother’s grave Henry crossed himself and then sat. “I miss talking to you. You could tell me—was I too young to notice? How can he expect that I would turn my back on King Richard after what I have been through?” He plucked a blade of grass and twirled it in the air, thrusting it at ghosts haunting him from the war.
He remembered his father speaking of King Henry’s sons—Geoffrey, Henry, Richard, John—the devil’s brood. “Thank God I’ve but one son,” Edward had said. While the old king and his sons feuded with each other over territories, over alliances with and against the French, the politics had seemed so distant. What a naive child I was…
Now, the politics infuriated him. He might be warring with his own father. Unthinkable.
Henry fell back on the tall grass. Trees overhead swayed beneath the clouds. Thunder rumbled in the distance. He shivered, wishing he could wrap himself around Stephan because he wasn’t sure he could find peace of mind any other way.
“Stephan!”
Edward heard Henry cry out. His voice was muffled behind the door separating them. Edward started to step past, but a second heartbreaking call made him stop. He pressed his palm against the door, listening. Henry thrashed in his bed.
Sweat beaded on Edward’s brow. Mayhap he should wake Henry from his nightmare.
He opened the door quietly, but another voice from the past spoke in his mind.
“Calm, husband. It is but a dream.”
Margery, my lady wife. I miss you.
Blood, steel clanking, dead men at his feet. A battle long past, but the noise and stench filled his dreams. Margery had been there to comfort him.
Edward fell against the door frame. His breathing slowed, but watching Henry suffer made each breath come hard. The specter of war haunted them both.
My son… Why did you go? I didn’t want you to see what I’d seen, feel life drai
n away in your hands. Why?
Edward closed his eyes. In his mind, he ran. The sword slipped from his grasp. Falling…falling…face down in the mud…the harsh clank of armor coming up behind him.
Henry moaned, startling Edward back to the present. Henry’s head writhed from side to side. His fingers twisted in the bed covers. “No!”
Hands trembling, Edward stepped towards his son. Henry smacked the bed, his cries joining the screams of the dying in Edward’s mind.
Overwhelmed with despair, his knees weak, Edward froze. The battlefield loomed in his vision. He struggled to roll to his back, reached for his long blade. An enemy soldier approached with sword raised, shrieking, an ugly resounding war cry. “For the king!” Edward shouted, fingers curling around the hilt of his blade. Sunlight flashed along its length as he thrust upwards.
Moisture tinged Edward’s eyes. He swiped at it, groaned. He saw blood. On his face. On the floor. On Henry’s bed. Covering Henry. Edward’s chest tightened, heart ready to burst.
Henry jerked upright, eyes wide and fearful. “Father?”
Edward saw more blood. On Stephan. Cannot breathe…
“Father,” Henry called again and leapt from the bed. His arms slid around Edward's waist, bolstering him. “What are you doing? Are you all right?”
Edward rasped. “Heard you cry out. The nightmares…so sorry.”
Henry brushed the sweat from Edward’s forehead. “Let me help you to your bed.”
Each step took effort. In his bedchamber, Edward stared at the empty bed. Margery. Gone. How long now?
Henry urged him forward gently but with a firm grip.
“Forgive me…shouldn’t have let you go off to war.”
“Shh. That’s past.” Henry helped him lie down. “Can you sleep now? I’ll stay with—”
“No.” His voice was firm.
Shivering, Edward clutched the blanket to his chin. He heard Henry close the door. He’d not sleep. The images flashed through his mind in a devilish dance. Henry’s nightmares, his own. Was that the past…or what yet might come?
*
Henry stretched, feeling the empty space in his bed. Not even a day and he missed Stephan so. He cracked his eyes open. Sunlight filtered through the open window. It was well past dawn and the house seemed strangely quiet. Pressing his cheek against the feather pillow he remembered the look on his father’s face. My nightmare fired his own memories of war. Edward was lost, paralyzed by pain and fear. At least now Henry understood his father’s reticence to speak of his service to the old king. War had scarred them both. It should have brought them closer, and might have, had it not been for Count John.
Henry smacked the pillow. He did not want to rise, but he forced himself from the bed, dressed, and made his way to the kitchen. Hugh came in through the back door, his arms laden with firewood for Mary’s cooking fire. Stacking the wood, he informed Henry that his father had left the manor early for Lincoln. Henry poured himself an ale, tore off a chunk of bread from the loaf Mary had left, and retired to the hall. He started the day at the ledgers, spoke with the reeve, inspected repairs to the barn, and even stopped in at the chapel to say a prayer for Stephan and Bea on their journey to York.
It was after midday when he left for Grantham where he planned to look in on Allan. He dug his heels into Soleil’s flanks, galloping and glad to have the wind in his face.
At St. Wulfram’s he hurried through a side door and into the priory. The corridors were cool, the stone beneath his feet worn from countless men scuffling along in quiet prayer. A cleric named Brother Aldus escorted him a short ways, and then gestured at Allan’s room. Aldus excused himself and, from the shadows, Henry peered into the chamber. He watched Allan’s slow movements at the wash basin, grimaced at the wide bandage wrapped round his torso.
“This place allows all sorts inside, squire.”
The irony of Henry’s words didn’t escape Allan. He turned slowly, a cautious grin drifting across his bruised face. “Not near as fancy as that hospital in Acre where I found you, Sir Henry. What are you doing here?”
Allan’s attitude made it easy for Henry to forget how close to death they’d each come. “Is that any way to greet a friend?” he asked, his spirits lifting. He needed to see a friendly face after the nightmares and his argument with his father.
“Shouldn’t you be in York?” Allan looked past him into the corridor, his brow furrowed. “Where is Sir Stephan?”
“Change of plans. As you plainly see, I am here.” Henry held up a hand to stop Allan’s next thought. He strode into the room. “Don’t think I returned to Greyton just upon hearing of your wound.” With a gentle touch, he thumbed the dark purple bruise on Allan’s cheek. “I will admit everyone worries for you. Sarah asked about you. Little John was willing to give up the company of a lovely young woman to see for himself that you will live.”
“What’s this? Little John and a girl?” Allan asked, pulling a clean tunic over his head.
“We shall have time to talk of that later. In truth, I returned to Greyton to check on my father.” Henry sat on the stool by Allan’s bed and lowered his voice. “We’ve found a storehouse in Boston. Hundreds of barrels of Greek fire. Stephan and I were attacked by men who run those goods to Nottingham.” After telling Allan of the fire at Cartholme and all they’d learned, he listened to Allan’s unfortunate encounter. “You’re certain you were attacked by common thieves? Did they say anything?”
Allan drew back. “You think they work for Count John’s men?” Deep in thought, he gaped past Henry’s shoulder at the darkened corridor. He cupped his bruised jaw and winced. “They knew I was a squire. I heard one say ‘he got the message.’”
Henry was convinced the assault was not a coincidence. He tapped the younger man’s leg. “We need you well again. Shall we see if the healers think you’re able to ride?”
Allan struggled to tug on his boots. “My chest feels like they cut into it and pulled out my innards, but I am ready to go back to Greyton.” He stood slowly and fitted a belt at his waist. “What of Robin?”
“You know he said we’d not hear from him for at least a week.”
“A squire can hope, can’t he?” Allan rubbed his temples, worry replacing the earlier sparkle in his eyes. “We’d know, would we not? I mean…if anything happened to him.”
“Robin is fine.” And Stephan. Henry hated the not knowing, but there was nothing he could do without endangering his friends. He pictured the knights riding into Greyton in high spirits. He refused to think that one or the other might not return.
Allan managed a brisk pace in the corridor. When they stopped to speak with Brother Aldus, the old prior puffed his chubby cheeks. He admonished Allan with a look that made Henry feel guilty they’d asked. “Neither today nor tomorrow would be advisable.” Aldus clasped his steady but wrinkled hands at his waist. “Better to wait two days before attempting the journey.”
“But it is only a few miles,” Allan whined.
Henry took Aldus’ advice. No need to rile Robin or Little John should Allan fall back to a feverish state. Henry ordered Allan to bed.
Allan’s steps slowed. “It’s so quiet here, except for the monks in prayer. They hardly say more than a word when my meal is delivered. And—” he looked up and down the hallway, “they do not believe in gambling. Neither dice nor chess. A man could shrivel like a grape in the sun in this place.”
“Wasn’t it the gaming that landed you here in the first place?” Henry punched Allan’s arm gently. “Just two days more. You shall survive.”
“What will you be doing? Mayhap I will dream that I am with you.”
Henry released a long slow breath. “Sometimes it feels we may have nothing more than dreams.” Life seemed so uncertain now, and he could take nothing for granted. Allan looked as downcast as he felt, but Henry managed a smile. “A friend runs a tavern here. I shall have an ale or two and keep an ear on conversations from loose lips.”
Allan’s mout
h curled and his eyes took on a mischievous sparkle. “No gambling.”
Henry laughed. “You have my word.”
Henry left the priory and headed towards the market square. A clatter at the far end of the road caught his attention. Six wagons rattled into town from the east. Twelve guards. These were the men Edric Weston had warned away.
The square was a busy place in the afternoon. The caravan turned up Haymarket only catching passing interest from merchants and shoppers. Residents of Grantham were familiar with the wagons’ passage through town. Wisely, no one asked questions.
Henry expected the wagons to cross the river and head north on Ermine towards Greyton. But they reined in near the blacksmith’s shop and set up in a familiar formation, three long, two across.
Henry skirted around the buildings. He jumped a low fence and slipped through the back door of the stables. Hiding behind a bale of hay, he listened to a gruff voice speaking with the smith’s apprentice.
“…you’ll have no issue with my wagons, will ya’ boy? Just take care of the bay. Replace that hind shoe by dawn if you want to be paid.” The clang of hammer on steel from the forge next door smothered the young man’s response.
Staying here overnight? The smith might re-shoe the animal with little delay. The caravan could easily make Greyton before dark, but the stop meant the captain’s men would seek out women and ale. Better to let them have their fill and start on the road fresh in the morning.
“Sergeant, set the guard for the night.”
An order rang out and the guards dismounted.
“Three on duty at all times. Same as last week, sir.”
Henry couldn’t see the sergeant, but he knew that voice.
The captain had the final word. “All of you, watch your drinking and your tongues. Maes will not be pleased if he hears you spent the evening blabbering away. King’s men were in Boston a few days back. Too many questions being asked.”
For King and Country (Battle Scars Book 2) Page 25
