For King and Country (Battle Scars Book 2)

by Charlene Newcomb

  Robin could be nearby. Robin might draw his sword against the men guarding the wagons. He could die.

  “No!”

  “Ma…?” Robert sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  Marian hurried to his bedside and combed her fingers through his tangled hair. Sweet, sweet child… She wanted father and son to know each other. Please, dear God, let no harm come to Robin.

  “Maman?”

  “It’s nothing.” She rubbed his back. “Lay your head down.”

  Within minutes, Robert fell into a deep sleep and Marian hurried to the manor house. Candlelight flickered through the oilcloth on the windows. The scent of fresh herbs drifted in the air as she crossed the kitchen threshold. Mary looked up. “Sarah is not here,” Mary muttered, her brow glimmering with sweat as she crushed herbs in the mortar with her heavy pounding. “Can’t get the child to listen to good sense. She needs to stay away from that captain. I do not like him.”

  “I don’t either, Mary, but she’s not a little girl. She’s a young woman.”

  “I know. And so does that bastard.” Mary looked skyward. “Forgive me, Lord, but she’ll just be hurt by his kind. He wants one thing. He’ll get it and then be gone. I worry like she’s my own, you know.” She dug the pestle into the mortar as if she imagined the captain’s head beneath it.

  Marian picked up a knife from the worktable. She waved it, only half-joking. “We shall take care of him, though I imagine Sarah is the one who will need us.”

  Mary nodded sullenly. She tossed her herbs atop the bread dough and kneaded it, pouring her frustration into her work.

  With Lord de Grey and Henry both away, there were no beds to straighten, no chamber pots to empty. Marian lit a rush torch near the hearth and busied herself mending a ripped hem in the master’s tunic. She had just tied off her last stitch when Hugh barged in with an armful of firewood. Outside, galloping hoofs sounded at his back. Marian put aside her work and stood beside Hugh at the door. Three riders tore past headed north to Ringsthorpe. She was sure she recognized them as guards from the wagons that departed before dawn.

  “Devil at their backs.” Hugh shook his head. “Trouble, I’d say.” He plodded to the hearth to stack his wood.

  Shielding her eyes against the rising sun, Marian looked in the direction the riders had come. Had they been attacked? No one followed them, not even the Devil. She went back to her sewing, her thoughts on Robin while Hugh stoked the fire. Mary grumbled about Sarah again, and Hugh took the girl’s chores to settle the old cook. He’d added the last of the water to the cooking pot when Robert raced into the kitchen. “Wagons coming,” he said.

  Marian hastened to catch the door before it closed and stepped outside, pulling her arms tight around her to ward off the morning chill. Coming from the north, Captain Burford trotted confidently at the head of a dozen wains packed high with cargo, his horse’s breath smoking a whitish-gray that matched the color of its mane. Sarah was perched on the saddle in front of Burford.

  “By the saints,” Mary hissed, looking over Marian’s shoulder.

  Marian felt Robert’s hand on her arm. His attention had turned eastward where a cloud of dust rose on the road. She grasped Robert firmly, her stomach twisting in fear.

  Through the haze, knights in the king’s red and gold appeared.

  *

  Robin saw the wagons ahead and held up a hand to rein in his men. They were a full complement, with Allan and the rest of his mounted troop having caught up to them before they’d turned on to the Greyton road. Unintelligible shouts echoed from the village, and suddenly, the wagons were moving, creating a blockade and cutting access to the manor.

  “God’s nails,” Robin cursed. He didn’t want a fight in the heart of Greyton. Too many innocents, including Marian and Robert. A crossbow bolt struck the ground in front of him. “Shields!”

  Allan’s face was pinched and drawn. He could see Sarah with Burford.

  “Stephan,” Robin ordered, “take half the men. Cut through the pasture and come in on their flank. The rest of you, with me.”

  Helms on, shields raised, swords drawn, the knights charged. The wagon drivers fled to escape the confrontation. Burford scrambled down from his horse, grabbing Sarah by the hair as bolts flew and the first swords clanged.

  Sarah screamed and kicked. “Let me go!”

  “Burford!” Hatred filled Allan’s voice. He heeled his horse’s flanks, disregarding a wave of bolts that whooshed past his head.

  Burford dragged Sarah across the cobbled stones. He crashed through the door of the manor. Allan leapt from his horse to follow. “Come out, you coward!” he shouted.

  Springing from his stallion, Robin tailed Allan into the hall and towards the kitchen following the curses and sounds of a scuffle there. Sarah shrieked.

  “No!” Mary cried.

  Her voice sent a chill through Robin and his heart stopped for a beat.

  “Let her be!” Marian shouted.

  Marian! He sped towards her cry.

  Allan stood at the far end of the buttery. Hugh lay sprawled at his feet, blood pooling by his head. Dead, alive—Robin couldn’t tell.

  “Drop the blade, captain.” Allan’s voice sounded harsh but calm.

  Standing behind Allan, Robin saw Sarah at one end of the hearth, a blade held at her throat. The wall blocked his view of Burford. Marian and Robert were on the opposite end of the hearth. Just beyond Robin’s line of sight, Mary uttered a choked cry. Sarah was sobbing.

  “Shut up, you blubbering bitch,” Burford yelled.

  “She’s done nothing to you.” Marian had one hand on Robert’s shoulder, the other held stiffly at her side.

  The fire in the hearth spit. Marian shifted, firelight reflecting off something in her hand. A knife. Robin sucked in a breath. What was she thinking…

  “You’ve blood on your hands, you cur!” Mary moved closer to Hugh.

  “Stop right there!” Burford shouted. Eyes on Mary, he didn’t see Marian lunge. The knife ripped across his sword hand. He screamed, blood spurting from the wound, sword still firmly in his hand. “Bitch!” With the back of his fist, he shoved Marian to the ground. Sarah tried to pull away, but his fingers clutched her hair more tightly and he yanked her head back. She whimpered, the fight gone from her.

  Blood coating his hand, Burford raised his sword to strike Marian.

  “Ma!” Robert cried.

  Marian rolled beneath Mary’s worktable out of reach and scrambled up past Allan and into Robin’s arms. Glaring, Burford turned the edge of his blade back on Sarah. He started towards Robert, dragging the girl along. Robert picked up the mortar bowl and threw it, tossed the pestle towards Burford’s head, and then kicked over a cauldron of water. As Burford sidestepped, Robert lifted the end of the worktable, heaved it into the captain’s path, and ran for the buttery.

  Robin grabbed hold of Robert, wrapping himself around his son and Marian, thinking he could have lost them. Sarah’s whimpers turned his fear to anger. He whispered to Allan. “Make a deal. He’ll hurt Sarah if we charge him.”

  Sword pointed at Burford, Allan stepped over Hugh’s prone body. Mary huddled by the door. He gave her a nod before his eyes met Sarah’s. The captain wrenched her head back and laughed. Tears streamed down the girl’s face.

  “Please, please, don’t hurt her,” Mary said.

  Allan tossed his sword to the floor. “Let the girl go. We’ll see you and your men have safe passage away from here.”

  “We will,” Robin said, stepping forward, the tip of his blade pointing at the floor.

  The captain dug his sword against Sarah’s neck. “You,” he told Robin and Allan. “Outside.” His voice was as black as the hair protruding from beneath his mail hood. “Tell your men to put away their weapons.”

  “You’ll release the girl?” Robin asked as Allan shifted nervously beside him.

  Burford’s dark eyes bored into Robin. Brows narrowed, he gave a short nod.

/>   Gesturing Allan forward, Robin strode to the door and stepped outside. “Truce. Weapons down,” he shouted and laid his sword down. “Truce!”

  Slowly, the pockets of fighting ceased. Stephan’s blade hung in mid-air. His horse pranced, sidestepping, and then he pivoted away from his adversary.

  Burford dragged Sarah into the yard. “Get me a horse,” he sneered at Allan.

  Eyes blazing with hate, Allan led one of the animals forward.

  “That’s a good boy,” Burford said with a smirk. His sword never left Sarah’s throat. “Wouldn’t want me to hurt this little thing, now would you?” The yard was bloody, littered with the bodies of men and horses. Half the guards were dead, many wounded, but Burford shouted to anyone who could ride, “We’re off.” Skeptical faces looked at him, but they started down the road. Robin’s men did not move.

  Burford dug his fingers into Sarah’s scalp. She cried out as he mounted. “Help her up, whelp,” he told Allan.

  “You said you’d let her go.”

  Burford wrenched her head again. Fresh tears filled Sarah’s eyes. “At the crossroads—to ensure we’re not followed.”

  Allan leaned close to Sarah. “I’ll come for you,” he whispered as he lifted her to sit in front of the captain.

  The man flashed his blade again daring anyone to attack. He spurred his courser after his men. Robin felt his heart calm, but the look on Allan’s face made him shudder.

  Stephan nudged his horse before the two men. “Shall we follow them?”

  “We have what we came for,” Robin said, eyeing the wagons. “Give them a few minutes, then go after the girl.” That could have been Marian…

  Allan watched the captain and Sarah disappear behind a curtain of dust and dirt. “Will he hurt her?”

  Robin started to speak, but a twisted corpse outside the barn caught his eye. “Milo?” He clenched his fist. “Damn you to hell, Burford,” Robin shouted, punching the heavens. He ran to his old friend’s side and fell to his knees. The tip of a crossbow bolt protruded from Milo’s back. How had this happened? He’d been at the rear of the troop. Robin hadn’t expected him to join the charge. Christ! He’d a light gambeson, but no mail, no helm. Just his bow and a sword. Why this? The poor man had paid the ultimate price for his loyalty.

  Robin gently touched the dark curls matted to Milo’s head. He crossed himself and then rose. Heading towards the manor, he called to Allan. “Let’s check on Hugh.” When Allan made no effort to move, he said, “Allan, I may need your help.”

  Settled in the hall a short while later, Mary tended to the gash on Hugh’s head. It was deep, but not deadly. He flinched as she cleaned and bandaged the wound.

  “You let him take Sarah? How could you?” Marian asked, watching how Allan stood tensely at the window and peered out into the yard. Her eyes flicked to Robert.

  “We had no choice. He’d have killed her before we’d a chance to take him down. What were you thinking? Taking a knife to a man holding—”

  “Will they come back?”

  Robin pressed his lips to her forehead. “I will leave enough men here.”

  “You’re leaving?” Marian’s voice cracked.

  Robert’s hand curled around the hilt of the dagger hanging from his belt. Robin’s stomach twisted. He understood how Marian felt, but there was nothing he could do. He had to believe they would be fine.

  “Word has been sent to Huntingdon. More knights will be on their way soon. Little John—” Robin paused. He realized he’d not told anyone about Henry’s father.

  “What of Little John? Is he all right?” Mary asked, looking up from her work. Hugh sat up unsteadily.

  “Little John should arrive with Gilbert l’Aigle’s men. Henry and Lady Bea will bring Lord de Grey home.”

  Mary’s eyes narrowed, her face paled. “Is he hurt?”

  Feeling battered and old, Robin stood unspeaking. Years of being a leader, of giving orders that sent men to their deaths, of being the bearer of bad news—the burden was great, like the weight of boulders crushing his body. “Henry’s father was killed when we encountered the wagons on the road to Lincoln.”

  Marian gasped, crossed herself. Mary’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh dear God, bless his soul,” she cried, swaying and grabbing on to Hugh to steady herself. The older man could only stare at Robin.

  Stephan appeared at the door. “Riders coming.”

  Allan shot outside. Robin met Marian’s eyes, but turned quickly, two steps behind Allan. A small troop emerged from the haze, several wearing blue and white that Stephan pointed out as l’Aigle. Little John rode at the head of the men, a small figure cradled to his chest. Blood splattered his clothes and coated his hands, soaked the gray garment covering the body in his arms.

  “No!” Allan bolted towards the riders. “Sarah!” He cried out her name over and over, his voice bitter and pained.

  Robin lowered his head. L’Aigle’s man Sir Aubrey cantered up to him. “A big brute killed the girl, dumped her body on the road, and then he and his men charged us.”

  Robin wanted nothing more than to hold Marian. He stared across the yard where Allan cradled Sarah in his arms. Villagers appeared from behind bolted doors, stunned, crossing themselves. They held their own loved ones close.

  “Robin,” Stephan said, “This accounts for eighteen wagons. Your informant said there were four and twenty. The others may still be in Ringsthorpe.”

  Robin rubbed the ache in his temples. What will we find there? “I shall take some of the men. We won’t see help from Huntingdon until the morrow. Best keep guards here should—” Marian ran past him towards Allan. Robin looked away, his breaths short, painful. “Was it ever this hard in the Holy Land?”

  Stephan nodded. “When you love someone and fear you might lose them? Every day.” He clamped a hand on Robin’s arm. “Talk to Allan, and then go.”

  Those steps to Allan’s side were hard, Robin’s legs heavy like lead. He wanted to console Allan. He wanted to give them all hope, but how could he? This wasn’t a battle far away they’d only hear of. It touched them all. He’d seen hundreds of men die. He’d been too young when his mother died to feel anything other than missing her. This was different. He hadn’t lost someone he loved, though he thought of it all too often in the months since he’d found Marian.

  Robin knelt next to Allan. “I am so sorry.” Words deserted him. What else could he say?

  Allan didn’t appear to see anyone save for Sarah. His tears mingled with the blood and dirt on her cheeks. His fingers brushed her forehead, pushed the ginger strands of hair away from her face. He pulled her closer, kissed her lips.

  “If I had known—”

  “Why didn’t you know?” Allan shouted. “We should have waited until they’d passed through Greyton.”

  The smell of blood filled Robin’s nostrils. He forced back the bile in his throat. “You are right. But once they’d seen us, what else might I have done?”

  “You’d not have let him run off with Marian, would you?”

  “He would have killed Sarah in the house if we’d tried anything. You know this.”

  Allan was so lost in grief he refused to hear any more. He thrust his arm out, signaling everyone to leave him be, and then slowly rocked back and forth touching Sarah and holding her tightly.

  Marian led Robin away. His hands shook, but she forced them to still.

  “God, Marian, what have I done?”

  “You did what you must.”

  “But Allan is right. I never would have let that bastard walk out of the manor holding a blade to you.”

  “You do not know that.”

  “If anyone should hurt you…” Robin held Marian, but his glance was drawn to the stone-faced figure watching the knights lay out the corpses of the dead. Robert. The wind caught his son’s hay-colored hair and blew it back from his face. Shadows haunted Robert’s eyes. Overhead, clouds were streaked red like the blood of the dead on the ground.

  Edric Weston�
��s dark eyes flamed with anger, nostrils filled with the sharp scent of charred wood, of tar and pitch. He paced, kicking dirt and stone from his path, cursing as guards and his villeins sorted through the rubble of the house. Another explosion ripped through Westorby and the ground shook. A fireball shot towards the clouds. Edric flinched, covering his head as ash flew.

  The first explosions had sent spark and flame to the thatch on the barn. Three other outbuildings had burned, and then the manor house caught fire and collapsed.

  “God’s nails,” Edric cursed. “When I find out who did this…” He whipped his fist at the man nearest him, a poor soul who’d stopped work to watch black smoke billowing against the red-tinged morning sky. The man stumbled backwards. “More water to the storehouse,” Edric shouted.

  The servants had saved some of his possessions. What little remained surrounded him. Horses had been turned out into a pasture at the north end of the village. Edric’s mind whirled. He could sell most of them, would have to because their feed for the winter had burned with the barn. That would not raise enough to cover the worth of Count John’s precious cargo. Staring at the ashes and melted metal of the six wagons, he saw profits from his wool trade disappear into the black smoke. He’d have nothing left. Now, more than ever, he must see his sister marry Henry de Grey, and he must have Beatrice of Cartholme in his bed.

  His gaze fell to the storehouse. At least that had been spared. Mayhap Count John would not be too upset. Six wagons of Greek fire destroyed, but many times that number still in safekeeping.

  The captain of the guard hurried up to Edric. “It’s Gerold, my lord. Found him in the bushes back of the storehouse. He has a wicked bruise.”

  “Did you have a drunkard on duty?” Edric spat.

  “No, my lord. Someone bashed him senseless.”

  Edric’s angry glare was hot enough to start another fire. “This was deliberate. I want every one of your men questioned. Then search the village.” Just a small clue—that’s all he’d need to tie this to Henry de Grey and his royalist friends. Count John would forgive this incident if he could bring them down. The edge of his mouth curled. That might secure him a position at John’s side. He might enjoy a nice reward. Bea of Cartholme. Greyton and all its holdings. That would do just fine.