For King and Country (Battle Scars Book 2)

by Charlene Newcomb

  “Leena’s brother? Knew I’d seen you round here.” Elias Miller scratched his head, powdering it with grain dust. “‘Nough of that.” He brushed his hands together sending specks of grain into the air and then pointed at his son. “Tell your sister that this one won’t be round ’til the grain is ground and the shop cleaned.”

  Little John left Much to his work and wandered up the street. He peered at the castle walls, at the keep rising high and menacing above the town. He shivered, thinking of men defending the castle from the battlements. He pulled his cloak tight wishing it was the cold November air that sent a chill to his bones.

  *

  “You look awfully young.” The constable’s clerk studied the seal on the note Allan handed him. Count John’s seal. He eyed Allan skeptically.

  Allan wore a new blue silk tunic, black hose, and chausses. The tunic and matching surcoat were embroidered with strands of gold thread that snaked vine-like up each arm and across his shoulders. His black cape was a fine Flemish wool.

  “I cannot say that the constable will—”

  “He will do as my lord the Count orders.” Bold, with a bit of haughtiness. It sounded just right to Allan. “I would suggest you give him that letter. Let him be the one who chooses how my services might be used.”

  While serving Queen Berengaria and Queen Joanna in Acre, Allan had observed how to act far above his station. Acting the part, looking the part—it wasn’t any different than bluffing and baiting at the game tables. Still, he was glad it had been Robin confronting Count John in Barton-upon-Humber. But this underling? And the constable? He could do this.

  The clerk sneered. “Wait here.” He had a limp, but strutted out of the hall, the scabbard of his sword brushing his dark leather chausses.

  Smoke rose to the high ceiling of the hall from the central fire. Allan wandered towards it to warm his bones. He nodded amicably to servants laying out a long trestle for the midday meal. His back turned to the fire, he counted thirty pallets stacked along the wall, likely belonging to knights and their squires. He reached for the hilt of his blade, frowning when he remembered he’d had to relinquish it at the gate. Robin had given him that sword. He’d hate to leave it behind if this ruse did not work.

  He shifted, felt the dagger in his boot. What good would that be when the guards had lances and swords? Stop thinking. It would take weeks for the constable to confirm the letter’s origins. And until that happened, he would be firmly implanted at Nottingham Castle.

  “You want me to what?” he’d asked Robin when the knight appeared with a rolled parchment in one hand and the fancy clothes in the other.

  Robin waved the letter. “You are the bastard son of King Richard’s deceased brother, the young King Henry. Says so, right here in John’s words.”

  Robin claimed Queen Eleanor had cooked up the plot. Allan wasn’t surprised they’d had a copy of John’s seal, that she employed someone who expertly forged his handwriting. Sly ones, the two of them. The Count’s supporters were fools to believe they might outwit the queen. This could work. Allan certainly wouldn’t be the first baseborn child of royalty to be given a job. The king’s half-brother Geoffrey was Archbishop of York and the youngest Plantagenet bastard was a close companion of Count John.

  The clerk limped back into the room. He looked impatiently at Allan. “The constable will see you now.”

  Ralf Murdac was dressed in black. His face was webbed with age, pale as the white fur that trimmed his tunic. “William FitzHenry. I met your father once.” He looked Allan over, making no bones that he sought a family resemblance. Satisfied that Allan’s lighter hair was in line with the older Plantagenets, he said, “It was years ago at a tourney in Normandy. Did you travel with the young king’s court?”

  Robin had schooled Allan in the facts. He could spin a tale in his sleep. “I was too much a reminder to his wife of the son they’d lost.” He stood opposite Murdac, an ornate oak desk separating them. It was littered with parchment, a map, and lit by candles with a sweet rosy fragrance. A huge fire crackled in the hearth. “I’d seen him once, and he provided for my mother. But I was quite young when he died. Ten years now.”

  Murdac’s dark eyes fixed on Allan’s face. “His son would be your age. You bear his name.”

  Prodding for family history? Allan raised his chin.

  Murdac smiled as if he admired Allan’s restraint. “Shall we get on with it? Where is my Lord John? When did he give you this letter?”

  “We crossed the German Sea together, setting ashore in Barton a few days past. Uncle John intended to introduce me to you personally, but when plans for Lincoln fell through he chose to return to Flanders. He wrote the letter of introduction you now hold and bade me come here.”

  Murdac bristled, though Allan wasn’t certain it was the mention of Lincoln or Uncle John that set him off. The smile had vanished from his squarish face. He drained his wine and leaned back into his chair. The fierce bears and lions carved into the oaken frame seemed to envelop him in a protective cage. Who needed guards when he had such a chair?

  A young servant refilled Murdac’s goblet. He signaled the boy to bring a platter of cheese and fruit and began to pick at it. He let Allan stand, watching to see if he’d squirm.

  Breathing slowly, Allan remained calm. Playing people for fools? He excelled at it. Robin had faith in him. He wouldn’t disappoint. He only need remember that this was a much deadlier and dangerous game. Sarah’s death was very much on his mind.

  Murdac tapped the letter. “You shall sleep with the knights in the hall. No special favors. Find my clerk. He will show you where to stow your belongings. You’ll report to him. There will be no rest, FitzHenry.”

  “Uncle John assured me of that,” Allan crowed confidently.

  Murdac’s brow rose. He gave Allan a nod. Allan bowed and took his leave. He heard the massive doors close behind him and picked up his pace, off in search of the clerk.

  Much hurried to finish his chores. Robin would be waiting at The Trip. He liked the man, though every instinct warned him of danger. Shaking his head, he realized he would miss the subterfuge. There was no adventure in being a miller.

  Two huge sacks of flour were by the door ready for an early morning pick-up. Much added an armful of wheat to the pile, and then turned to inventory what remained on the shelves behind the counter. Plenty of barley and rye stacked neatly the way Da liked. Enough wheat. He’d not need to pull more from the storeroom. Most customers couldn’t afford the more expensive grain anyway. Da preferred to keep it locked up.

  The front door opened, sending a blast of cold air into the room.

  “I’ll be with you in a moment,” Much said without looking back. Candles nearest the door sputtered and he shivered, but not from the wind. A giant shadow of a man enshrouded the shelves of flour. Much swallowed hard. Just a customer, he told himself. He turned, noticing the scabbard with the long blade on the man’s worn leather swordbelt. The shadow had exaggerated his height, but not his girth. Big chest, broad shoulders, and a head of ginger-hair. Much recognized him, had seen him a time or two at The Trip. The man never gambled. He was a loner and would sit quietly with his ale.

  Much watched curiously as Tuck flipped a piece of silver into the air and caught it.

  “How might I help you?” He looked at Tuck’s huge hands. “We’re closing up for the night.”

  Tuck repeated the toss. “Much Miller?”

  “Aye.”

  Tuck reached for him. Much jerked back, fist raised. Tuck lifted his hand slowly, the coin pinched between thumb and forefinger. He held it out, and when Much relaxed, Tuck laid it on the flat of his palm. The rough edges of the coin drew Much’s eye. He flipped it over. He tried to keep a masked face, but spied the familiar hooded falcon. Another one? And in one day?

  “I am William.” Tuck’s voice was deep and resonated through the shop.

  “Of course. Common enough.”

  Tuck chuckled. “I’m glad you understand.”<
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  “What say you then, William?”

  “I have a message and was told that you might pass it on to a mutual friend.”

  Much fingered the coin. “You know this friend?”

  “I’ve not met him, and I’d encourage you not to ask too many questions,” William said quietly. “The more you know, the more likely our work might be discovered.”

  Much nodded. This William had Robin’s speech memorized, though he claimed he did not know the knight. “If I see this man, what shall I tell him?”

  “His big companion will be needed home three weeks hence for a wedding. Further instructions will arrive in due course.”

  Big companion? The one who’d claimed to be Leena’s brother? “A wedding,” Much repeated, his brow furrowed in question. “Does that have some secret meaning?”

  Tuck shrugged, but before he said anything, Much said, “I know, I know. No questions.”

  *

  “A wedding?” Robin repeated.

  Much had found him at The Trip. Robin apologized twice for denying him a brew there and dragging him back out into Nottingham’s muddied streets. An early snow kept people indoors after the sun set. Smoke swirled in the air from cottages and shops in the borough. The wind had turned fierce rattling doors and shutters. Shop signs swung wildly, creaking, though the noise was buried beneath the howling gale.

  Back at the miller’s storeroom, Robin tossed his cloak on a crate. He rubbed his arms and blew on his hands to bring life back into them.

  Much grabbed a small sack of flour as they’d passed through the shop. Setting it down, he dug for a flask hidden beneath empty grain sacks. He hopped onto a crate and uncorked the ale. “Does that mean anything to you?” He downed a gulp of ale and handed it to Robin. “I suppose it is important.”

  “Yes, it would be.” Robin had learned from Stephan about the wedding quandaries, that Henry would postpone his wedding to Elle Weston until the king’s return. But if his friend needed Little John, it appeared there would be a November wedding after all. Robin could imagine the look on Edric Weston’s face when he realized what was happening. Losing that shipment of Greek fire had been a blow to the man’s reputation and to his pocket. But losing a chance for ties to Greyton? The bastard might rear that ugly head of his yet.

  Much was watching him. “Twice in one day I see that hooded falcon.” Much tapped the small sack of grain with his fist. He kept his voice low. “You and your men are here. Knights from Doncaster have laid their pallets in the castle, dozens of them, so I hear. Must bring their numbers to a hundred-fifty or more. I see them practicing in the bailey when I make deliveries. Welsh archers, too, with their longbows. The fletcher has been a busy man. And the armorers.” Much rubbed his forehead. “I’m not sure what you want from me.”

  “You’re a friend.”

  Much snorted. “And I shall hang right beside you.”

  “The game is that none of us shall dangle from the rope.” Robin took a drink. “We can never have enough eyes and ears.” He pushed himself up onto a crate opposite Much. “I have one more favor to ask of you. We must build up the king’s supplies.”

  “Ha! His men will take what they need from those who are least able to give.”

  “But if we have grain and meat set aside…”

  “And you want me to do this? Where would you propose I get these provisions? My father would notice if our stock disappears. He knows every sack, could probably give you a count of every stalk that’s been delivered to us from the surrounding farms.”

  Robin laughed. He imagined his own father was the same way about the wood he trimmed and shaved. He pushed the flask back into Much’s hands. “I need to borrow as many wagons as you can round up.”

  Much eyed Robin skeptically. “You are going to steal the provisions in the castle undercroft? That’s impossible. I should just turn you over to the constable and be done with you.”

  “I know you would not.” Robin pointed at the sack of flour Much had brought in. “Did your da tell you to bring that for your mother?”

  Much patted the bag. “This is for the widow Beeman down the road.” He paid for it himself, planned to give it to her to feed the three children her husband left behind.

  Robin leaned forward, laid his hands on Much’s shoulders. “A good man, just as I said. Now about those wagons.”

  Much frowned. “We need every one for our deliveries.”

  “Not during the night. I shall have them back each day before the sun rises. Your father won’t miss them. And find me two or three more.”

  “Each day?” Much pushed himself off the crate and practically bowled into Robin. He started to pace, and then halted, nose to nose with Robin. “Someone will hear you. See you. Do you think they shall let you through the gatehouse in the middle of the night with empty wagons?” Much huffed, creased his brow. “So how do you intend to get to the stores?”

  The corner of Robin’s mouth curved. “You are asking questions again, Much.”

  “Mayhap I want to help.”

  “And when would you sleep? Don’t you think your father might notice if you cannot keep your eyes open in the shop? Do you want him thinking you were with a girl in the storeroom all night?”

  Much blushed. “That happened once. All right, three times. I swear. When I was seventeen. And none since you pretended… Oh Christ! All right. But my father will hear the wagons and the horses.”

  “You might grease the wheels for us. And we won’t use your animals.”

  Much drained the flask. He studied Robin thoughtfully. “So you found the entrance to the tunnel?”

  “You know of it?”

  “Of course,” he cried. “I found it as a boy. It’s well concealed. Looks like any other of the caves around it until you explore far enough to find the gate.”

  Robin was impressed. Much would make a good spy.

  “You must be mad. They’ll notice the stores that disappear.”

  “I don’t think so. We won’t take it all, as much as I’d like to.”

  “Why don’t you just divert wagons in Sherwood before they arrive in Nottingham?”

  “Do you read minds, Much?”

  “No.” Much frowned again, then his eyes widened. “Oh… I won’t ask where you’re taking them. And I know they are meant for the king’s soldiers, but there are a lot of poor folk in the forest and in villages from Nottingham north to Yorkshire who barely have enough to eat.”

  “We will share what we can, and in the king’s name.”

  Much drew in a long slow breath. “Next week, you say?”

  “I’ll send word to you when we are ready to begin.”

  Robin wandered to the door, pressed his ear to it. All quiet. He cracked it open, checked that the way was clear. He saluted Much, tugged his hood over his head, and slipped outside.

  The street was deserted, but candlelight glowed through every window along his route back to the inn. Torches along the castle’s wall walk and from the keep blazed like beacons, a reminder of the enemy within.

  His thoughts turned to Henry’s message. The wedding, still weeks away. Allan was already in the castle. His other men wouldn’t arrive for another six days. He couldn’t send Little John straight away. He needed his help.

  The question in his mind now… Should he wait to tell Little John he would be needed at a wedding?

  Robin never doubted Allan’s skills to find ways to take advantage of his new life as Count John’s nephew. If it was divine intervention, then so be it, and he thanked the Lord. No matter, Allan’s assignment certainly was fortuitous. Murdac’s clerk would have had Robin’s young squire shoveling dung, but the constable wouldn’t want to displease the count. A favor here, a kindness there—a future reward?

  Within a matter of days, Allan knew every man who worked the castle undercroft, who watched the shipments unloaded, and then some. He knew which ones drank a bit too much and who tended to doze off on night duty. The kitchen servants loved him. Allan dishe
d out compliments with a genuine face, most from the heart. He could make a serving girl or a cook blush like she’d been kissed for the first time.

  Robin’s men had appeared as arranged. By mid-November the plan was well underway and in good working order. Moving the barrels of dried meats and sacks of grain became child’s play. Allan ensured that certain guards had duty; he knew their patterns and hadn’t questioned their minimal inspection of the stores. No one liked to venture far into the darkened tunnels, especially when strange noises echoed and someone, Allan had said looking slightly guilty, had mentioned spirits. Besides, they had argued, the guards on the day shift could easily check the stores.

  Night after night, Robin’s men were methodical. They never left a gap, never reduced a stack by more than a head or two. It didn’t take long to load the wagons Much had procured for the task. Murdac and his friends still had enough supplies to hold out for months. Much insisted on keeping one barrel from each nightly run. He distributed that cache to Nottingham’s poorest folk.

  Robin disliked involving the miller’s son beyond his help with the wagons. One slip up on their raids into the castle and they would find themselves at the end of a rope. He went out of his way to avoid contact with him, unless Much left a signal for them to meet.

  It was just such a night when Robin settled in a shadowy corner of The Trip. The tavern smelled of stale ale and the haze from smoking rush torches stung his eyes. Head covered to ward off the chill, Much arrived a few moments later and slipped on to a stool across from Robin. “Your friend William came by just before Vespers.”

  Robin tipped his head. Tuck.

  Much leaned close. “The big man should wait at the crossroads just west of Grantham. Tomorrow, midday.”

  The instructions were near as cryptic as the original message Tuck had delivered, but Robin smiled. Little John would be married. He’d be sorry to miss the joy on his young friend’s face.

  Nodding at Much, he started to rise.