For King and Country (Battle Scars Book 2) Page 3

  “You’ve done enough for today. I shall find it on my own. You may leave now.”

  “Thank you, Sir Allan.”

  Allan chuckled. “Just Allan.”

  Robert darted outside and up the road. The stable door creaked shut. One of the horses snorted. Allan turned and studied the cracks in the walls. “You can come out now.”

  Robin lifted the latch on the back door and stepped inside. “I have trained you well.”

  “I was an expert before I met you. Why do you think I never got caught thievin’?”

  Robin hadn’t stressed humility enough these last three years. He wasn’t very good at it himself. “Never? Remind me again how you came to be in Stephan’s service?”

  “Oh…”

  Robin laughed and grabbed Allan in a bear hug. “How goes Henry’s reunion with his family?”

  “We’ve not spoken with Lord de Grey, but Sir Henry looked none too happy inspecting the wagons. War provisions as you’d suspected, but bound for Nottingham.”

  “Nothing to be stored in Greyton?”

  “Not that I overheard.”

  Henry would be relieved about that, Robin thought. And it was good news for the queen. Her son and his friend Gerard de Camville, Sheriff of Lincolnshire, were not conspiring to supply Lincoln Castle.

  Robin nodded. “You’ve met Robert. What about Marian?”

  Allan shook his head. Robin considered asking Allan his impressions of Robert, but thought better of it.

  “Will you ask Robert to come with us—with you?” Allan asked.

  That thought hadn’t crossed Robin’s mind. Robert was only a year younger than Allan had been when they’d met, of an age when a baron’s son would be sent to train with a knight. Did he want his son to follow in his footsteps? But then, there was Marian. “His mother may not let me anywhere near the boy.”

  “But if he does come along, may I still serve as your squire?” Allan jutted his chin, steeled his jaw as if prepared to hear he’d be shunted aside.

  “Why would you think otherwise?” It had never occurred to Robin that Allan might worry he’d hold a lesser place in his heart. He felt so much more than friendship. He loved the young man. “You are like a son to me, Allan, and you always will be.”

  Allan drew to his full height, but his eyes misted. “If I could call any man ‘father’ it would be you.”

  Robin placed his hands on Allan’s shoulders. “I am proud of you, and expect to see King Richard knight you one day soon.”

  “I do not care about that. I am content to serve at your side.”

  Robin wanted that too, but Count John’s treachery and the possibility of civil war were very real. They’d have the next few days together. And then the queen’s orders would lead them in different directions. Stephan, Henry—nothing was certain.

  His eyes fixed on Allan’s face. “Will you have my back?”

  “Always, sir.”

  Robin glanced over his shoulder and swallowed hard. “I want to see Marian.”

  “I shall fetch you to the house when the time is right.”

  “Do not say a word.”

  “Me?” Allan laughed and headed out as the sun dipped low streaking the clouds red and orange.

  Mary had set out a fine feast in honor of his return, but Henry did not feel like celebrating. Sitting across from Stephan and Bea, he gaped at the chicken steaming in the milky gravy. Once a childhood favorite, the dish added to his sense of drowning beneath the tide of war provisions, Greek fire, and Count John. Bea’s voice sounded distant, lilting, without a trace of the harshness he’d heard earlier.

  Edward sloshed more sauce over the chicken on his trencher and a whiff of smoky onions and herbs rose from the dish. Henry suppressed a gag. Edward soaked a warm piece of bread in the broth and bit into it, eating heartily as if nothing was amiss.

  Bea would not let Henry turn the talk to the wagons even if he had wanted to. She insisted on stories of the knights’ journey, and when Stephan told her how the young thieves Allan and Little John came to serve two queens, she was near incredulous. “Allan teaching dice tricks to the Queen of England? You are teasing me.”

  Stephan laid his hand across his heart. “On my honor as a knight of King Richard it is the truth, my lady.”

  Henry finally smiled. He touched Stephan’s foot beneath the trestle. Stephan threw him a grin and winked, as if sharing a private joke. But Henry’s mind drifted back to wagons, weapons, and war, dragging his spirit down. Conversations droned on around him, but he did not hear them or notice when Mary and Sarah began to clear the table.

  Bea’s gentle laugh turned the dark tides of his thoughts. He noticed how the soft curls of her hair framed her face, the way candlelight glinted off her blue eyes. “What happened to the little sister I left behind?” he asked.

  “Little?” Bea smoothed her clothes with a fake indignation. The deep rich rose and golds of the silk added color to her pale, creamy skin. “I was seventeen summers when you left for Outremer.”

  “I missed the birth of your child. I did not even know you’d married.”

  It was strange that he’d not considered Bea would marry while he was gone. After all, he’d been plight trothed to Alys Weston when she was but fourteen. Bea was now twenty. Married. A mother.

  “Two years past,” she said.

  “And your husband? When shall I meet him?”

  Bea looked from Henry to Edward.

  Edward shrugged at Bea. “Our letters never reached your brother.”

  “Guilliame died before David was born.”

  There was not a trace of sadness in Bea’s voice, but Henry reached for her. “Dear God, Bea. I am sorry.”

  Mary muttered beneath her breath drawing a warning frown from Bea. “I will tell you about Guilliame another time,” Bea said, making him wonder what secret the two women shared. “I am happy at Cartholme now and can indulge my fondness for fine stallions. We’ve the wool trade, but the breeding and sale of horses help pay the king’s taxes.”

  Happy now? Pain mingled behind Bea’s words, but Henry would not harry her yet, even if he’d been able to utter a word before she grew animated describing the management of her household. Her voice took on the sound of the tough and stubborn girl he had raced with on the roads, the competitor who loosed arrows with him. Knowledgeable, she ran her estate efficiently and oversaw her son’s inheritance. She was a beautiful woman, and her attentiveness to Stephan was growing with each passing moment. If he did not know Stephan’s heart, he would be worried.

  Bea rested a finger on Stephan’s hand. “Do you play, Stephan?” She pointed at the chess table as an afterthought.

  Stephan did not blink an eye. “I do.”

  Edward rubbed his hands together conspiratorially, a gleam in his eye. “I should love a game with you myself.”

  “It would be a pleasure, my lord,” Stephan said.

  “Good, but our game shall have to wait. Henry and I should review the accounts. You and Bea enjoy a game.” Edward’s gaze flicked from Bea to Stephan. “My daughter is a good opponent.”

  “Good?” Bea cried, indignant.

  Rising, Edward confessed, “She beats me every time.”

  “You used to let her win,” Henry said.

  “When I was eleven,” Bea countered. “I recall besting you, brother. And do not tell me you let me win.”

  Stephan chuckled. “Henry never did play a great game. I even had Allan show him a trick or two. Would you say that helped?”

  “Between you and Allan I had no chance.” Henry stood and stretched. “I must warn you, Bea. Stephan is a shrewd player, one of the best. If you are not careful, he might win the clothes off your back.”

  Edward chastised Henry with a stern look, but Bea was amused. “And you know this from experience?” she asked.

  Henry felt himself grow warm. Before he could implicate himself further, Stephan said, “A chivalric knight never tells.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.�
� Bea studied the two knights. “It would be too bold of me to ask how soldiers entertain themselves, especially after a brutal day of fighting.”

  Edward sputtered on his wine and flushed. “Indeed it would.”

  Henry shifted uncomfortably. Bea had always been outspoken, but she sounded more worldly than he remembered.

  “Surely Bea must be thinking of the singing,” Stephan said.

  “That was not singing.” Henry grimaced, remembering how he cringed at Stephan and Robin’s off-key attempts at song.

  Conceding that point, Stephan nodded. “It is true. I cannot sing a note.”

  Bea’s eyes lit with amusement.

  “Don’t forget the praying,” Henry said. “Holy Sepulchre, save us. The public crier would rally us at night with that refrain and the men would join the cry.” Henry shuddered, the call resounding clearly in his mind as if he was in the Holy Land again.

  Bea leaned forward placing her hand atop his as if she realized he could still hear the chants. Stephan watched him, eyes veiled with concern, but Edward seemed not to notice, turned on his heels, and strode to the desk. “Henry, bring the wine. Let’s to the ledgers. Leave Stephan and Bea to their game.” It was Edward’s turn to be amused. “And good luck to you, Stephan. She does not like to lose.” Edward gave him a meaningful look.

  Henry smiled, pleased Bea and his father enjoyed Stephan’s company, but he scrutinized his sister. Mayhap she liked Stephan too much? Stephan was a skilled courtier who would never intentionally lead Bea to believe he would make a fine match.

  Henry swallowed the last of his drink, but he left the jug on the trestle. He needed no more that might loosen his tongue. And his father was largely sober at the moment. Henry wanted to keep him that way.

  The evening wore on. Henry’s eyes blurred at the ledger’s numbers and letters. He heard Bea or Stephan utter his name too many times to count. Stifling a yawn, he looked up and then called across the room, “You know, it is not proper to whisper stories about your brother.”

  Bea picked up a chess piece and tapped it on the table. “Especially when he is in the same room.” She laughed. “Oh, Henry, you have nothing to fear. Not yet.”

  “I suppose there are things that should be kept from an old man like me,” Edward said, his lip curling mischievously. “At least until the morrow.”

  Henry had not forgotten Bea’s sharp wit. She knew more about him than anyone, except for Stephan. And here was the father he remembered. Their parents had bantered like this on many a night as they sat in the hall. Father at his ledgers. Mother by the hearth. Henry could see her working on her embroidery, and Bea at her side, grudgingly attempting to make the needle obey.

  Hugh came in and shuttered the windows. “The night is cool, my lord. Shall I light the brazier in your room? I have laid out another woolen blanket.”

  “That will do.” Edward got to his feet. “Mayhap Bea…?”

  “A fire, yes,” Bea said, squeezing Edward’s hand when he kissed her cheek. “David manages to squirm from beneath even the heaviest blankets. His feet get cold.”

  “Takes after his uncle.” Stephan sucked in a breath. He avoided looking at Henry.

  Bea arched a brow. Her eyes lingered on her brother. Henry laughed unabashedly because anything he’d say might raise suspicions he and Stephan had done more than rub toes in their shared living quarters. Hopefully Bea would not know soldiers rarely crawled beneath a blanket without their boots on. He couldn’t count the nights he’d slept fully clothed, ready to fend off a Saracen raid.

  A shriek from upstairs caught every ear. “Speaking of my little one, it sounds like he has become a chore for Marian,” Bea said. “I’d best see to him and let Marian go home to her own boy.”

  Edward bid the men goodnight and led Bea up the stairs. When their voices faded behind closed doors Henry looked at Stephan, incredulous. “Cold feet?”

  “It just slipped out.”

  Henry wanted to smile, but could not. “I have never seen him like this.” His eyes strayed to Edward’s bedchamber.

  “He lost his wife. He did not know if you would return. But you are here now. Things will be better for him.”

  They fell silent at the sound of footsteps. Marian.

  Henry watched her tread downstairs. There would not be a better time to prepare her for news about Robin.

  Marian had changed little since Henry’s departure for the Holy Land. He’d not known of her liaison with Robin until he’d first met the knight in Tours. Great affection and remorse had filled Robin’s voice when he described the young woman he’d left behind. Her face round, eyes a deep brown, and a mark by her nose. And dark hair, Henry smiled, noting stray strands escaping Marian’s wimple. She always had a way of carrying herself that belied her station as a house servant. She was tall with the bearings of a royal, like Queen Joanna, the king’s younger sister who had befriended Henry in Acre.

  “I have news of an old friend for you, Marian.” Henry waved her to a chair. “Please join us.”

  Marian hesitated. “Welcome home, sir.” Her voice was respectful, but guarded.

  “You look well. And I saw Robert helping our squires with the horses,” Henry said as she sat. “He has grown since last I saw him.”

  “He is near twelve summers. Should you need anything he will be glad to be in your service. As am I.” When Henry introduced Stephan, she added, “If your room is not pleasing I shall count on you to tell me.”

  Marian had been their mother’s maid as well as having served Bea. Despite the difference in their ages and stations, the two young women had been like sisters.

  “I am surprised Bea did not steal you away to Cartholme.”

  Marian went rigid like a deer hearing the hunter. “Lord Cartholme had servants aplenty to tend to my Lady Bea’s needs.” Her eyes softened, but concern washed through them. “I am glad to serve your lord father. You’d left on pilgrimage and then your mother passed. It is not easy to be left by those you love.”

  Was that the cause of the changes Henry had seen in his father? And Marian. Did she still feel the ache of Robin’s leaving so long ago? How could she not think of him when her son—their son—had to remind her of what she had lost?

  Marian rested her hands in the folds of her light green kirtle. She finally smiled. “I enjoy the Lady Bea’s visits to Greyton. It is nice to hold a young babe in my arms again.”

  “Bea’s little one must keep you busy when they visit,” Stephan said, offering Marian a goblet of wine.

  She lifted it to toast both knights. “Praise be to God, you are safely home.” She drank and then set the cup down. “David is a good boy.” She paused, her cheeks coloring. “Much sweeter than his father.”

  Henry’s brows rose. “Oh? You’ve intrigued me.”

  “Forgive me. I speak out of turn.”

  “If you have watched out for Bea’s interest, I should like to know. I’m not so certain she will tell me.”

  “I think it would be best to let Lady Bea speak of such things. It is not my place.”

  Henry acknowledged her with a shrewd smile. “Very well. But we shall talk if I cannot loose her tongue.” Draining the wine from his goblet, he watched Marian closely. How can I tell her about Robin?

  Marian looked at him expectantly. “You’ve word for me? An old friend?” She exchanged a glance with Stephan and shifted anxiously on the chair.

  Stephan leaned forward to refill her goblet. Marian covered it with her palm, but Stephan nudged her hand away. “You may be in need of this.”

  Marian sipped at the wine. It was sweet and tasted of berries. Placing the goblet on the trestle, she focused on Henry again. She was only a few years older than him. If she’d had a brother, she’d wish for a man with such fine qualities. He was good, honest. Always thoughtful of others. Well, he had been when he’d left on pilgrimage three years past. Such a pity Lady de Grey could not see her son now. How proud she would be.

  Behind Marian, the latch on th
e door rattled and the hinges creaked as it opened.

  “Marian?”

  Marian knew that voice. She stood abruptly and turned. “Robin?” She grasped the edge of the table, felt the color drain from her face. “You…you…”

  “Marian…forgive me.” He stayed by the door, unmoving.

  “How can this be?” She looked to Henry and Stephan for an explanation, but both men remained silent. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Marian could hear the hurt in her own voice, but she quelled it, only to find anger in its place. “You let me think you were dead. You whore-son!”

  “Marian, please,” he said, hands extended, palms up, “let me explain.”

  “Explain? What is there to say?” Marian raised her chin. “Twelve years, Robin Carpenter. All this time…”

  Henry sank back into his chair. “I was just about to tell Marian you were alive.”

  Stephan strode across the room and handed Robin a mug near overflowing with wine. “A few minutes longer and we might have softened the blow. Good timing, my friend.”

  Robin swallowed down a mouthful of the drink as if to find courage there.

  Listening to their exchange, Marian was too shocked to speak. She had last seen Robin through a seventeen-year-old’s eyes. As a skilled archer, his chest and shoulders had always seemed strapping, but now they graced a man’s body. The sleeves of his tunic clung to powerfully-muscled arms. His squarish face remained handsome, but harder, scarred from battle, and his deep blue eyes were brilliant like a cloudless summer day. Robert’s eyes… She could hardly bear it.

  Robin stepped cautiously towards her. She shot out a hand to stop him, and then folded her arms across her chest and glared.

  “I could not stay here,” Robin said. “I could not face you. It would have hurt too much.”

  “You are making no sense. No sense at all. You left without a word. Do you know how that made me feel?”

  Henry cleared his throat and started to stand. “Stephan and I should leave.”

  “Sit down,” Marian ordered, forgetting her place. Her tone was biting. “I may ask you to throw him out before this is over.” Master Henry could punish her for speaking to him in that manner but she didn’t care.