For King and Country (Battle Scars Book 2)

by Charlene Newcomb

  Richard tipped his head, almost smiled. “Talking to Hal’s bastard. Working for my traitorous brother John.” He glanced from Robin to the Archbishop of York.

  There were many Plantagenet bastards from England to Aquitaine, including Geoffrey, but there was no sign on the archbishop’s face that he’d heard their oldest brother had sired one. “The sound of clinking silver is a great lure, sire,” Geoffrey said.

  “Indeed it is.” Richard turned back to Robin.

  “Sire.” Robin bowed. Two knights held fast to him; a third had a sword at his back.

  “Are you a spy?”

  “Yes, my liege.”

  Men gaped, cursed softly, rage growing in their eyes. Henry shuddered, not certain what to make of Robin’s admission. He fell back, felt Stephan’s hand at his waist. “Don’t worry,” Stephan whispered.

  Richard’s face looked rigid like the trunk of an old oak. Eleanor did not move.

  “We have been friends for a very long time, Robin. Have I not taken care of you?” Richard gave him no chance to respond. Looking at one of the guards, he stood and said, “Give me his sword.”

  The room stilled. The blade being withdrawn from its sheath sounded like a clap of thunder. The guard turned, the sword laid across his arm. As Richard touched the ornate hilt and slid his fingers round it, the quiet was broken. Outside, a boulder had shattered against the castle wall.

  “This was a gift.” Richard’s face colored with betrayal. “To a knight I admired greatly. To a man I called friend.”

  Robin lowered his eyes.

  Eleanor shifted anxiously, the rise and fall of her chest matching the beat of Henry’s heart. Stephan rested his forehead on Henry’s shoulder.

  “I thought you were better than this.” Richard’s eyes sparked, met Edric’s and then bore down on Robin with a look that could scorch flesh. “Get this traitor out of my sight.”

  Henry groaned, bit back a cry.

  Richard waved the sword at the fourteen. “Lock them up.”

  “What? Wait!” Edric cried. “My liege—”

  Richard thrust the sword towards Edric to silence him. Gesturing at the guards, he said with disdain, “All of them.”

  By early afternoon, King Richard had decided the fourteen would be transported to Winchester for disposition, Edric Weston in chains alongside them. But what of Robin? The king said nothing, and Henry had no opportunity to speak with him as he addressed the rest of the day’s business. His attention shifted to his half-brother Geoffrey’s feud with the Archbishop of Canterbury. These men of God—both archbishops—had thrown darts at each other day and night since Hubert Walter’s arrival two days earlier.

  When their arguments turned to curses, Richard grew tired of listening to them. He stalked off to his rooms at one point with Geoffrey at his heels. Whatever words passed privately between the king and his half-brother brought an end to the squabbles. They returned to the hall and Geoffrey remained silent. Forced to stand at Hubert’s side, he sulked, unable to hide his discontent.

  The day wore on and there was still no word from the remaining traitors in the castle. Richard’s anger with them intensified. The longer they waited, the less inclined the king might be to show them mercy.

  “Let me meet with them,” Hubert suggested. He would lead a small delegation to speak with Murdac and the others. With an encouraging nod from Queen Eleanor, Richard agreed.

  Henry looked at Eleanor, glad when the proceedings ended for the day. She had been wrong about one thing. It certainly had not been a tedious few hours.

  A short while later the hall became a dining pavilion, the trestles arranged and a parade of servants appearing with steaming platters of herb and onion-laced pike. Waiting by the dais for Richard and the queen mother, Henry’s mind reeled with thoughts of Robin. It was hard not to when loud and boisterous voices buzzed about his friend’s treachery.

  Two knights plunked down at the nearest table. “Wouldn’t have believed it had it not come from Robin’s mouth.”

  “Traitor,” the other said, shaking his head. “Take me to Hell now.”

  Beside Henry, Stephan released a frustrated breath. “Listen to them.” He kept his voice low. “One word from Weston and Robin is now the Devil himself.”

  “The king should just hang the lot of them,” a third knight chimed, jabbing a piece of fish and sticking it repeatedly. “Or have their heads on a…” He stopped mid-sentence.

  Everyone in the hall turned to the doorway where King Richard and Queen Eleanor looked out over them. A hush swept the room, the only sounds the shuffle of boots and the rattle of mail when the knights stood and bowed.

  A hue and cry rang out. “Long live King Richard!”

  Richard waved, signaling them to sit, but the men stayed on their feet banging the tables, cheering and repeating the call.

  One knight bulled his way through the crush of men towards Richard. He did not shout with the others and his face held a menacing frown. As the crowd parted to let him pass, Henry noticed the man’s hand rested on the hilt of a dagger tucked into his belt. Seconds later, the sheen of a blade flashed.

  “Protect the king,” Henry shouted above the chants. Clambering atop a trestle, he launched himself at the assassin. Knights surrounded Richard and Eleanor and hustled them away.

  Henry hurtled into the attacker. They landed atop another trestle with an enormous crash, food and ale airborne, the table splintering under their weight. Straddling the would-be killer, Henry remembered Blanchegarde on the plains of Ramla. He had captured a Saracen there and could think of nothing but his desire to kill the man for the pain and suffering enemy soldiers had inflicted on him, on Stephan. Stephan had to hold him back that time.

  Henry stopped his bloodlust this time and rose, his shadow on the assassin like a shroud. Dazed, the man moved slowly, his spurs scraping the ground. Henry offered him a hand to help him up, but with surprising agility, the man snatched a dagger from his boot.

  “Watch out!” Henry caught the assassin’s wrist before he could loose the blade. The man shrieked as Henry straddled him again.

  “Who are your friends here?” Henry demanded. He heard Chester ordering guards to the doors.

  Spitting blood into Henry’s face, the man drew the blade back until it rested against his own throat. Henry tried to wrestle it away, but the assassin dug the edge of the blade into his neck. Blood spurted. “Long live King John!” he cried.

  Henry cursed, his stomach lurching. Blood filled the man’s throat. Choked gurgles spilled from his mouth. Henry closed his eyes against the cacophonous noises sounding in his head. Voices around him cheered, but he couldn’t escape the grizzly sight that brought memories of the men who had died by his sword. He stared at his bloodied hands, trembling, sweat beading on his forehead.

  “Henry?” Stephan’s voice.

  He felt a strong hand on his shoulder and Stephan came into focus beside him. His ragged breath slowed as Stephan helped him up.

  Conversations around them ebbed and flowed, hushed one moment, raucous with curses the next. Some men stood in shock, others were indignant they weren’t permitted to leave the hall. Chester ushered Henry and Stephan through the crowds. Outside, Will Marshal accompanied them to the king’s lodgings where a dozen men stood guard.

  The hall was strangely quiet and empty. Henry had expected to see a throng of bishops, earls, and trusted advisors bending the king’s ear here. Marshal disappeared into the solar, reappearing moments later. “The king will see you now.” He stepped aside to let them pass and closed the door behind them.

  Eleanor and Richard were speaking in hushed tones, but looked up as the knights entered and bowed. “Come, come,” Richard said, indicating the empty chairs at the trestle where food and drink had been laid out.

  The queen looked calmer than many of the knights they’d left in the hall. “I told you we would feast together tonight. It is the least I can do after all we have been through. I was not expecting that welcome,
but once again, you have proven your loyalty.”

  Henry looked like the repentant son. “I failed you, sire,” he told Richard. “We needed that man alive.”

  “Your effort was valiant.” Richard shrugged. “And I am still here before you.”

  Eleanor’s voice did not falter. “You have my thanks. There are no men I trust more.”

  Henry tensed. It was a privilege to receive such praise, but Robin’s life was at stake. “Then you must believe these charges against Robin are false.”

  “Robin has pledged his life, his honor to you, sire,” Stephan added.

  Richard looked between the two knights with no sign he was convinced one way or the other. “This revelation was quite the turn of events,” he said as the door creaked open and he gestured someone to enter.

  “Robin was at the castle as your spy. He is not—” Henry paused when Eleanor held her hand up and looking past his shoulder, smiled.

  “Fortuitous, I must say.” Richard tipped his head towards the new guest at the door. “Would you agree, Sir Robin?”

  Henry and Stephan turned. “Robin!”

  Robin strode into the room and bowed. “My liege. Madam.” He clasped Henry’s arm and then Stephan’s before taking a seat by Eleanor. He turned to Richard. “If it is good fortune that nearly every man beyond these walls believes I am a spy for your brother, then how shall you use my talents, sire?”

  Richard appeared distracted by muffled shouts outside in the street. “Do you hear that shouting, the clatter of boots on the cobbles?” He swallowed a gulp of ale, giving them all a chance to listen. His eyes settled on Robin. “I hear the traitor Robin du Louviers has escaped. The men are looking for him.”

  “Any idea where he might be headed?” Robin asked.

  “Why to France, of course.”

  Henry tried to puzzle through what the king’s declaration meant for Robin. “When word reaches your brother, sire, he will know Robin is not his spy.”

  Robin agreed, but with a devious nod. Always plotting and planning, traits that served him well over the years. “Count John did offer to keep my family from harm if I helped him.”

  “Cultivate his trust as best you can,” Richard said and snarled. “I want you at his side as long as I am alive, whether he remains my enemy or becomes my devoted and loving brother.”

  Eleanor knew her sons well and sighed heavily. She patted Robin’s hand. “It is not an easy task, but we have faith in you.”

  Dangerous, Henry thought. An outlaw in the eyes of most men.

  “I’ve issued a writ that your lands are forfeit. You’re to be brought before me, alive, if captured. I am sorry, but we must play this game for as long as it takes. When, or if, John swears his allegiance to me, he will be pardoned, as will you.”

  “What of Allan?” Stephan asked.

  “My bastard nephew.” Richard bit into a chunk of fish he’d skewered with his dagger and then looked from his mother to Robin. “Maman tells me you both concocted this scheme. By God, I would like to claim that idea as my own.” His eyes sparkled, but he turned serious. “When the siege is concluded, I will pardon Allan that he might continue to serve the castellan of Nottingham Castle. Who knows? Mayhap he’ll be Sheriff one day.”

  Henry chuckled. If Allan kept his luck at the game tables, he just might earn enough to buy the shrievalty.

  Will Marshal returned to announce the way was clear for Robin to depart. Henry swallowed hard. The road ahead was uncertain. He grasped the knight’s arm. “Robin—about Marian…”

  Robin’s expression softened. “I am a traitor. I have nothing for Marian, but I love her. I had planned to ask the Lady Bea to help her find the finest gown.”

  Henry’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “A wedding gown?”

  Robin turned to the king. “If my lady will have me, will you marry us before I leave for Paris?”

  Stephan cheered and Richard laughed. “That can be arranged,” Richard said. He leaned close and whispered something only Robin could hear.

  “My liege,” Robin bowed.

  Henry watched from the door as Robin slipped out into the night. His thoughts turned to Marian. She might pretend she understood Robin’s loyalty to the king, but she would cry inside. He was lost to her again.

  Laughter from the table made Henry turn. Eleanor looked up at him and said, “Come, eat.”

  “Let’s drink to the morrow. A good day,” Richard said as Henry sat. “The end of this siege.”

  “You’re certain my lord Walter will convince Murdac to surrender the castle?” Stephan asked.

  “I am,” Richard said. “Our good archbishop has a talent for negotiation.”

  Henry admired the king’s confidence, but he was skeptical. He knew only one thing for certain. Tonight they would enjoy his wine. And tomorrow…? Fight or die. They’d do what the king asked. At his side.

  Shooting flames high into the air, bonfires lit Castle Road. Raucous celebrations—dancing, whoring, drinking and feasting—lasted deep into the night. Men of the castle garrison lined the wall walk and watched, silhouetted by the late March moon. The king prohibited the flinging of insults at them. His troops were at their best despite the flow of ale. The story of the fourteen and the traitorous Robin du Louviers took on a life of its own. Exaggerated tales were spun into song. By morning the fires died back, glowing orange to match the sky. And still, the men on the wall walk watched.

  Henry counted four messengers come and go after dawn broke and into the late morning. When the trumpets blared, he stood with the king’s men and watched the Archbishop of Canterbury accompany Ralf Murdac across the rubble of the outer bailey to lay his life in the hands of the king.

  And so it was that the siege of Nottingham ended on the twenty-eighth day of March in the year of Our Lord one thousand one hundred ninety-four.

  *

  The next day Henry shielded his eyes against the bright morning sun. Stephan moved slowly, still stiff from his wound, and Henry let him set the pace as they walked. “Did the king explain why he needed to see us at this hour?”

  A few steps ahead, Allan looked over his shoulder and grinned. He’d come from the castle with Murdac and, unlike the others, had received an immediate pardon from King Richard. “I am just the messenger.”

  “Slow down,” Stephan told him. “And do not try to tell us you know nothing, squire. You appear before the sun is up, insist we bring bows and packs?”

  “Just the messenger,” Allan repeated.

  King Richard emerged from his command headquarters. His advisors hemmed him in, cackling like hens following a farmer with grain in his hand. Henry and Stephan’s horses were saddled. A squire straightened the red and gold blanket on the king’s white stallion, checked the girths were properly cinched, and held the stirrup ready for Richard.

  Richard swept a frown round the circle of advisors. “I will not stand here and discuss the Archbishop of York,” he said, stretching his fingers into his gloves.

  A councilor wearing a fur-lined ermine cap and sable-trimmed wool cloak complained. “But sire, the Archbishop has been—”

  “Save your concerns for the Council tomorrow. My brother will address your grievances against him there.”

  Sensing the king’s impatience with business the Earl of Chester stepped in. “I’ve sent a herald to Clipstone. They expect your arrival later in the day.” Chester waved a man by the horses forward. “This is Will Scaflock. He shall be your guide. King’s forester these last four years, like his father before him.”

  Scaflock could not have been more than five and twenty. Impressed, Henry exchanged a glance with Stephan.

  Scaflock’s dark hair fell into his eyes when he bowed to Richard. He was a head shorter than the king, but his chest and shoulders were broad like an archer’s. His squarish face was long and set with high cheekbones. “The lodge at Clipstone is the best in Sherwood, sire,” Will said, adjusting the red wool scarf round his neck. “And we’ve plenty of deer and boar to
hunt.”

  Henry raised his brow at Allan, who’d swung into the saddle of a black courser that rubbed snouts with Henry’s horse. Scaflock held the reins of two mules laden with crossbows, bow sacks, and other supplies.

  “I hear my brother John stayed at the lodge. And John does have good taste.” Richard smirked. “Except when it comes to his alliance with Philip of France.”

  The king’s advisors agreed with vehement nods. Around every bonfire the previous evening, there’d been speculation about Richard’s intentions towards his brother. The political intrigue seemed to have no end.

  “Enough of John. We’ll speak no more of him today,” Richard said, climbing atop the white charger. “Politics is tiresome, am I right, my Lord de Grey?”

  “Indeed, sire.” Politics still left a sour taste in Henry’s mouth. It was one of his failings though he wouldn’t call it that himself.

  “Are you two fit for a hunt?”

  Stephan rubbed his wounded leg. “We’ve only to shoot bow, not run from an enemy, sire.”

  “You’ve not been charged by a wild boar?” Richard glanced towards his lodgings. “Don’t tell Maman,” he said.

  Hunting parties were usually large, lavish affairs with dozens of nobles, knights, and their attendees, but Henry noticed only five horses had been saddled. He swelled with pride. He’d ridden in the Lionheart’s mesnie in the Holy Land, seen the lights of Jerusalem at his side. He’d followed on the king’s trail through Bavaria. Those harrowing moments still sent chills through him. Now, in sight of so many, Henry and his friends had been singled out to accompany the king to the Forest.

  Richard looked about noting something—or someone—was missing. “Almost like old times. A shame Little John isn’t here. But it is a glorious day for a hunt and to be in the company of men I trust most.” He looked intently at Henry and Stephan and nodded knowingly.

  Henry suddenly realized the king’s whispered words to Robin. They would see their friend one last time at Clipstone ere he sailed across the Narrow Sea.

  “Mayhap I shall cook venison instead of chicken tonight.” Richard waved his bejeweled fingers and tossed a wink at Allan.