Men of the Cross (Battle Scars 1) Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  1190

  Map - The Holy Land

  Map - The Holy Roman Empire

  1 - March 1190

  2 - March 1190

  3 - March 1190

  4 - April 1190

  5 - June-July 1190

  6 - 10 July 1190

  7 - July 1190

  8 - August-September 1190

  9 - October 1190

  10 - October 1190

  1191

  11 - 8 June 1191

  12 - July 1191

  13 - July 1191

  14 - July 1191

  15 - late July 1191

  16 - 20 August 1191

  17 - 20 August 1191

  18 - 21 August 1191

  19 - 21 August 1191

  20 - 21 August 1191

  21 - August 1191

  22 - 3 September 1191

  23 - September 1191

  24 - September 1191

  25 - 7 September 1191

  26 - 10 September 1191

  27 - October 1191

  28 - October 1191

  29 - October 1191

  30 - November 1191-January 1192

  1192

  31 - March 1192

  32 - June 1192

  33 - July 1192

  34 - October 1192

  Map - The Holy Roman Empire

  35 - November-December 1192

  36 - December 1192

  37 - December 1192

  38 - 17-19 December 1192

  39 - December 1192

  40 - 20 December 1192

  41 - 21 December 1192-1January 1193

  1193

  42 - January 1193

  43 - March 1193

  Author's Note

  About the Author

  BATTLE SCARS I:

  MEN OF THE CROSS

  Charlene Newcomb

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously apart from those well-known historical figures. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  BATTLE SCARS I: MEN OF THE CROSS

  PUBLISHED BY BLUE X ENTERTAINMENT

  DAVENPORT, FLORIDA

  COPYRIGHT ©2014 BY CHARLENE NEWCOMB

  All rights reserved to the author. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the author except in brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Cover art design by ProBookCovers.com

  Maps ©2014 by Dennis Lukowski

  Interior graphics by the Author

  Title page art, Sword and Shield by angelfire7508

  http://angelfire7508.deviantart.com

  distributed under CC-BY-SA3.0

  For my friends Al and Willie

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Writing is often a solitary journey, but a number of people encouraged and supported me on this adventure. My friends and fellow writers Jen Fitzgerald and Julie Durdin read and provided comments on my first draft. Classmates in the University of Virginia MOOC Plagues, Witches and War: The Worlds of Historical Fiction had kind words for the opening scene and let me know I was on the right track. Janice Hardy critiqued the first page on her blog and offered thoughts on how to make it better. I read the first chapter to two different groups of librarians and they have been waiting patiently to see this novel published. Many, many thanks to JW Manus for her formatting advice, and for reviewing and tweaking my converted files to ensure a pleasant ebook experience for the reader. Lastly, and most importantly, my Thursday night writing group, Cathy Hedge, Marie Loughin, and Mark Rogers, listened to me tell Sir Henry and Sir Stephan’s story week after week. Mark also read the third—or was it fourth—draft and offered additional editorial comment. Marie and Cathy were the champs and provided extensive editing. The group’s enthusiasm, questions, and observations made me work all the harder, and without them this novel might never have seen the light of day. They helped me find the words to share with you.

  1190

  HENRY DE GREY PALMED the crucifix hanging round his neck. This path,You have laid out for me. His heart told him he’d made the right decision. He quieted the noise of his father’s misgivings. What good was it to get your spurs and not answer the king’s call? And what better service than to take the Cross, to free Jerusalem from the infidels.

  “You do not know war.” His father’s words.

  Henry’s destrier shifted beneath him and pawed the ground. He stroked Sombre’s neck, calming both man and beast. True, he was untested in battle. But I have trained for this. He would sail across the Narrow Sea and join King Richard’s army at Tours. He’d journey with the Lionheart’s men to Outremer, fight at their sides in the Holy Land, and if it were God’s will, he would die for this noble cause.

  A stiff wind tossed back Henry’s hood. Waves of dark hair matted to his face and rain trickled into his eyes. He frowned at the column of wagons lumbering ahead through the Bargate, wares rattling and wheels groaning over the din of the driving rain.

  Henry wished the storm could drown out that voice in his head. And this downpour, like his father’s words, could easily drench his spirit—the galleys would never leave Southampton in this squall.

  Riding alongside Henry, his servant Roger shifted from side to side to look ahead, anxious for a glimpse of the town. The fifteen-year-old tapped the pommel of his saddle, his frustration mirroring Henry’s. When they finally passed through the city gate, Roger gasped in awe. Knights and soldiers crowded the High Street. There were hundreds, mayhap a thousand. Their colourful surcoats blanketed the road and obscured the mud beneath their boots. The storm, the delays, his father—none of that mattered to Henry compared to this. One look at these men erased his apprehension. He curled his hand around the hilt of his sword. He was one of them.

  He urged Sombre onward. A score of tradesmen plied sword and bow, leather goods, and mail beneath pavilions set up in St. Michael’s square. The rain slowed, and scents wafting from a baker’s shop collided with the smells of stall after stall of fresh and salted fish. An argument at one cart drew stares. A fishwife with mussed gray hair haggled over prices with a customer. She waved a huge gutting knife.

  “I’d place my silver on the old woman with the blade,” Henry said.

  “I gave my word to your father that I would remind you gambling only leads to trouble, my lord.” Roger glanced sidelong at Henry. “She will win.”

  The pot-bellied customer shook his fist. “You foul woman.” The fishwife crossed her arms across her chest, leaving a hand free to point her knife conspicuously towards his throat.

  Applause erupted across the road. Four full-bosomed women crowded an upstairs window, cheering her and gesturing suggestively to men on the street.

  “Holy saints in heaven.” Roger’s cheeks blushed like summer’s strawberries. It wasn’t the first brothel they’d passed on the road from Lincolnshire. Henry remembered Roger had stopped counting at ten. A boy growing up in the countryside wouldn’t see that many in a lifetime. But a boy going on pilgrimage? That was another matter.

  Mischievously, Henry asked, “Should I worry about you?”

  “I have been to Lincoln, my lord.” A grin settled on Roger’s round face.

  Lincoln did have its seedier quarters, but it was the memory of a trip to London with his father that made Henry smile. Lord Edward had answered his ten-year-old’s wide-eyed curiosity with blunt honesty, and then added, “Not a word to your lady mother.” Now at the age of twenty
, Henry couldn’t imagine being shocked by anything.

  A shriek startled Sombre. The horse jerked, nearly throwing Henry. The fishwife was tearing around the cart. She shoved her customer. Her blade ripped his cloak. He flailed and stumbled back into Roger’s horse.

  “Whoa,” Roger cried, trying to control the skittish rouncy.

  The man stared at the fishwife wide-eyed, furious. He plucked a long blade from his belt and stepped towards her.

  Henry whisked his sword from its scabbard and heeled Sombre between the combatants. “Enough, you two!” He planted the tip of his blade against the man’s shoulder. People scattered. The voices from the brothel quieted.

  “Put away your weapons,” Henry ordered. “There’s more than one merchant with fish.”

  The old woman snorted. “See if you find a better price elsewhere, thief.”

  Glowering at her, the man thrust Henry’s sword aside with his long blade. “You are the thief, old woman.”

  “Go!” The force of Henry’s voice drowned out the sound of his heart’s pounding.

  The fishwife flashed her knife again for good show, drumming up more applause from the enthusiastic whores. From brothel’s window, a dark-haired beauty called, “Come to me, brave knight.” Her gaze swiftly left Henry. Her alluring smile faded, her eyes narrowed. Elbowing her friends, she pointed towards something on the street.

  Henry tracked the aim of her slender finger. A slight figure slinked cat-like through the crowd.

  “Thief!” the ladies chorused.

  Hands reached for purses, outraged murmurs swelled. “Catch him!” someone shouted.

  Darting through the crowd, the thief was hard to follow, but a soldier had taken up the chase. The brown blur darted towards Henry. Henry managed a good look. A young boy. A blue silk purse dangled from the sleeve of his filthy tunic. God’s bones, he is thin.

  The pickpocket charged into the gap between Sombre and Roger’s mount. Sombre balked, head chopping the air. Without a second thought, Henry tightened his grip on the reins. He made a quick decision. He pressed his heels to Sombre’s flanks. The destrier sidled into the other horse and the space between the two animals disappeared.

  “Christ!” the soldier cursed, stumbling backwards to avoid bowling into the horses. “Out of my way.”

  Henry nudged Sombre but the pickpocket had shot away. The soldier manoeuvred around the horses and picked up his pursuit.

  Roger twisted in his saddle to look after the chase. “If they capture him…”

  Henry shrugged nonchalantly. “He is a thief. Stealing is against God’s laws and civil law.”

  “They would cut off his hand?”

  “Or hang him.”

  Roger bit back a trembling lip. “He is just a child.”

  “Man or child, woman—should the law provide exception?” Henry crossed himself.

  Roger met Henry’s eyes, studied his master’s face thoughtfully. “You did that on purpose,” he said, his voice near a whisper.

  “Did what?”

  The whores whistled and blew kisses to Henry before Roger could respond. “Brave knight, brave knight,” the ladies chimed.

  Henry blushed, glad for the ladies’ distraction even though it meant they caught Roger’s roving eyes again. Still, Henry was glad to see him smile. The fishwife with her knife and the young thief might easily dampen his eagerness for this journey.

  Henry glanced from the ladies to Roger. Sheathing his sword, he said, “You are too young. And I am betrothed.”

  Roger sighed as Henry offered the ladies a salute and steered Sombre towards the sign of the Boar and Bear. No whores enticed customers to drop their hose and a coin or two there. It looked respectable, a refuge from temptation, and mayhap safer from the thieves and cutthroats on the street.

  From somewhere up the road a swell of voices shouted the battle cry, “For St. George!” Six knights on magnificent warhorses galloped through the town, waving swords to celebrate their impending departure for the Holy Land. The crowds joined their chorus. “For St. George,” they called, parting as the warriors passed.

  Henry straightened in the saddle and unsheathed his sword. He lifted his blade in homage to the knights and roared, “Save Jerusalem!”

  Exhilarated, Henry slid from Sombre. Behind him, Southampton Castle loomed on the motte, her banners flapping against the dark grey skies. The cool wind hinted that spring was no more than a dream but its bite bristled with anticipation, with hope. Pride swelled in Henry. He quickly quelled that feeling. God would not approve of prideful men.

  He handed Sombre’s reins to Roger. “Find a stable. Get a room. My bones ache. I am weary of the meager rations we’ve been eating.”

  They’d only two hot meals in six days, one a rabbit they’d caught, skinned and roasted. Mary, who ran the kitchen at his father’s manor, had packed plenty of dried meat for their travels. “I will buy you an ale, and we shall have a fine meal.” He glanced westward where the clouds grew darker still. “God willing, we’ll sail to Barfleur in a day or two.”

  Roger rubbed Sombre’s snout, stealing another peek at the ladies. Henry shook his head. There were some things mothers did not need to know about their sons’ education. “I will leave out Southampton’s gritty details when I write home.”

  Henry strode into the Boar and Bear. He halted inside the door, eyes sweeping the smoky room, nose irritated by rushes on the floor that might have been fresh-scented hours earlier but now reeked of spilled ale and sour vomit. Nearly everyone in the tavern turned to inspect the new visitor. Henry’s stomach knotted. Did he wear his inexperience like a halo? Grizzled older faces studied him but for a moment before returning to their business.

  Henry pressed through the crowded tavern to a trestle near the hearth. Glad for its light and warmth, comforted by the ale that soaked his dry throat, he was content to sit quietly while conversation hummed around him. A handful of customers were merchants or tradesmen, all easily distinguished from the knights in their surcoats emblazoned with fierce-looking beasts and swords hanging from their belts. They shared bawdy jokes and tales of war.

  “I fought with the king,” a knight at the opposite end of the hearth told eager companions. “Does my family in Yorkshire welcome me back? No. What did I find there? My father dead. My older brother said ‘be off.’ The bastard offered me one meal and one goblet of his wine. It was the most putrid—” He shook his head. “Is that how a war hero is honoured? To us, my friends.” The knight lifted his mug. His gaze caught Henry’s. “And to you, sir!”

  Intrigued by the knight, Henry nodded politely and sipped at his ale.

  The knight kept his eyes on Henry. Firelight caught the deep blue of them. “I was at Chinon. Stormed the castle at King Richard’s side. Fought with him from Toulouse to Maine, and was at Le Mans when we defeated his father. Queen Eleanor personally thanked me at Westminster last year. Four years I have been with my liege lord.”

  Henry wondered how much of the knight’s braggadocio was the drink speaking. He looked young, surely not more than a year or two older than himself.

  The knight’s companions grumbled their sympathy. “Well done, brave knight,” one called. They toasted him again.

  Across the dimly lit tavern Henry spotted Roger. He signaled to him. Amongst all these knights, he seemed just a boy. Is that how I look to these men? To my father?

  Henry moved his cloak, quirked his head at the empty chair.

  “Our room is passable, my lord,” Roger said.

  Henry nodded towards the brew on the table. “Sit. Drink up. I am sure the room will satisfy our needs.”

  Roger downed half his ale in one swig. A young maiden sashayed up to the table and placed a platter of meat and bread before them. She brushed the back of her hand against the blond fuzz sprouting on Roger’s jaw but her gaze fixed on Henry. Bending close, her full bosom nearly spilled into Henry’s lap. A blush crept up his neck. Roger’s eyes widened. The girls back home weren’t quite so blatant.


  “Will that do for you, my lord?”

  Henry swallowed hard. “It will.”

  “Are ye certain? I would be happy to—”

  “Nothing more.”

  The girl sighed deeply and wandered to the kitchen, squeezing past the bragging knight who shuffled unsteadily towards Henry.

  “The girls here can be accommodating.” The knight gestured at the men across the room and added, “Or so my friends say.”

  Swaying, the knight grabbed the edge of the trestle. Henry offered him a seat on the bench before he fell into their dinner.

  “I am Stephan l’Aigle. My father is…was Reynaud of Yorkshire,” the knight said.

  L’Aigle. The eagle. That explained the magnificent red bird of prey embroidered on Stephan’s surcoat. “Henry de Grey. From Lincolnshire.”

  “My friend Robin…” Stephan scanned the tavern, and then laughed. “He is not here, but you will like him. He is from near Lincoln. And you—why are you familiar to me, sir?”

  “We’ve not met, Sir Stephan. Mayhap you saw me at Westminster or in Poitiers.”

  Stephan pounded the table, rattling the trenchers. “At the coronation last year. That’s it. It was grand, was it not?”

  The intensity and passion in Stephan’s eyes startled Henry. “I have never seen such a spectacle” he said, wondering why this battle-seasoned knight had singled him out. A scar on Stephan’s jaw was visible through the dark blond stubble on his face. His hands bore signs that he’d been in many a scrape. And at King Richard’s side?

  “When were you in Poitou?” Stephan asked.

  “Five years past, with my father. I wanted to be a squire in Duke, er, King Richard’s household. My father had other plans. He felt I should return to Greyton to learn to manage our lands and the tenants’ petty squabbles.”

  “And now,” Stephan said, “you are answering the king’s call to join the pilgrimage to Jerusalem.” He pressed a finger to the patch of white cloth affixed to Henry’s Lincoln green woollen cloak. The red cross on it marked Henry as a crusader. His mother had sewn it on with a prayer on her lips and tears in her eyes. And his father had argued…