For King and Country (Battle Scars Book 2) Page 4

  Henry remained calm. “This is between you and Robin.”

  “I agree, Marian,” Robin said.

  “You have no say in this, Robin Carpenter,” Marian spat. “You’ve not wanted to be part of my life these last twelve years. I have been making choices without you, and I will continue to do so.” She sat down hard and took a long drink from her wine. “Leave then,” she said. “Take him with you.”

  “Hear him out,” Henry said, giving her a reproving look. She didn’t protest when he crossed the hall. Stephan gave Robin a sympathetic pat on the back and followed Henry up the stairs.

  Robin remained standing as if facing the king. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

  “Go on then. Tell me.” Marian clasped her hands to keep from trembling. Why did his presence unnerve her? Why, Robin, why?

  Under her scrutiny Robin rubbed his temple, shifted nervously. “I have been in the king’s service more than ten years.”

  “You told me you loved me.”

  “I did…I do love you. I never stopped loving you.”

  Marian straightened in the chair. “It appears you love the king more.” Tears threatened to blur her vision, but she refused to cry. She’d cried plenty when he first left Greyton, but now she just wanted to be angry.

  “You stayed away. You never sent word.” Blood pounded in her ears. She clenched her fists, knuckles whitening. “How can I believe you once cared for me?” she asked.

  Robin’s shoulders drooped, his voice growing quiet. “I never lie. Not to my men, not to you. And you are right.” Contrite, he met her eyes. “I should have written to you, but I did not want to give you hope. I saw too many men die in battle. I feared I might not return. How could I let you give up the chance for a life with someone who could love you the way you should be loved?”

  “When Lord de Grey had visitors I would listen,” she said as Robin slumped into a chair across from her. “I hoped, prayed, that someone might mention your name. When no word came, I had to believe God had taken you from this earth.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “You keep saying that, Robin, but do you know what my life has been these twelve years?”

  He flinched. “Only what Henry told me.”

  “I left Greyton. Left my family. I did not speak with them for three years. I came back when my mother passed. I lived a lie, Robin. For what?” Her voice shook. “For a man who left without word, for a man I loved, who I thought loved me.” She stiffened her back, bit her lip to keep the tears at bay. “Robert thinks his father is dead. Were it not for the good graces of Lord de Grey, I would have nothing. No one, except for my son.”

  At the mention of Robert, Robin’s eyes lit up. “I have seen the boy. I would like to get to know him.”

  Marian sprang to her feet, jarring the trestle. “He is my son. Don’t you dare think anything else.” Her breaths grew short. No tears! “I will not let you tell him you are his father.”

  She clenched her fists at her side and then ran to the door and out into the night.

  *

  Robin stared at the door as it groaned closed. Seeing Marian again, being so close—his love and desire for her had not waned. She was not the young girl he’d left. She’d been feisty then, but now…she was a strong woman who knew her mind and her heart.

  Mayhap Marian was right. It might have been better if he’d stayed away.

  No! He could not accept that. He needed Marian. Somehow, he would make her see. He knew it would be the toughest battle of his life.

  He bolted outside. Marian had not gone far. She stood by the fence at the stables as if waiting for him. The light of the full moon shone on her pale face, her dark eyes fixed on some distant point.

  Robin drew up beside her. “Do you know how often I have thought of you? If I’d known about my son—”

  “Do not call him that.” She stepped out of his reach. “You have no right to call him that.”

  He saw Marian’s torment and knew she was right to protect Robert. She didn’t deserve this life he’d left her to. Will I only bring her more heartache? He had been selfish. What a mess he’d made. If only she would let him give his heart to the two of them.

  “He is from us,” Robin said quietly.

  “And you were dead.” There was an edge to her voice, sharp as a blade.

  From the trees behind the manor a barn owl shrieked, agreeing with Marian. Another answered, mocking Robin.

  “Let me tell you why I left. Please, Marian.”

  She clutched the fence.

  “Do you remember the last time we were together?” Robin wanted to take her hand, but did not. “You wore a shift of emerald green. Small white flowers shimmered like stars in your hair.”

  “You are not impressing me.”

  Sarcastic, yet…he might get through to her.

  “We walked to that spot near the river. Our special place. Took a picnic of herbed bread and cheese and strawberries from your mother’s garden. I told you I loved you. I wanted us to marry.”

  “I returned to that cove many times, hoping to see you stretched out on the bank.” Marian’s voice trembled, but her gaze turned fierce. “You never showed up.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were carrying our child?” he asked.

  “Would that have made any difference?”

  “I’d have taken you with me.”

  “I did not know, Robin. It was too soon.”

  Robin buried his head in his hands.

  Marian kicked the fence so hard that it rattled. “Why did you leave?”

  “When I went home after our picnic, I found my father and Thomas the cooper had come to agree on a dowry and expected me to marry his daughter Linota. I told Father you were to be my wife. He said I must marry Linota, else I would be dead to him, like an outlaw, never to set foot in his house again.” Anger bled into his voice. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her face and let his gaze fall to her hands. “I could only think to leave and feared you’d not come away with me. I had no money, no place to offer you shelter.”

  “Robin Carpenter never let fear stand in his way.”

  “I was a coward. I should have stood up to him. Should have gone to you straight away. I know that now.”

  “Yet had you known I carried your child?”

  He looked up sharply. “That is different.”

  Marian reddened, her expression sour. “You had no faith in me. No faith in the love we shared.” Her lower lip trembled. “And you ran away.”

  Her words hurt, but didn’t cut near as much as seeing the grief on her face. “I am such a fool.”

  “Yes, you are.” Marian scoffed, her torment replaced with frustration. “When Robert asks about his father, I lie to him. See what you have made me become? I pray to God to forgive me—”

  “You need no forgiveness for protecting Robert. God knows I have made you suffer.” Robin took her hand. “I will leave if that is what you desire.”

  Marian closed her eyes and to his relief, she didn’t pull away. He savored the touch of her warm skin, to feel her hand in his after so long.

  “I am afraid,” Marian said. “I…do not know.”

  Robin felt a spark of hope. “When the king returns you must come to Louviers with me. You and Robert. I have land there.”

  “Where?” Marian said, wrenching her hand from his. “What? And bid you off to war with the king every morning? Is that the life you want for me? Train my son to be a knight? To fight? To die?”

  Robin knew the minute his words came out it had been the wrong thing to say. They were at an impasse. Marian had lowered the portcullis, held him back like a stone curtain wall.

  He shook his head. “In truth, I cannot say what might happen. I will stand by the king and see the current conflict through.” Robin pressed his mouth into a tight line. “I must return to Winchester in a few days. May I talk to Robert before I leave?”

  Marian gave him a sharp look, and then turned to watch clouds trip across the moon,
her face in shadows. “You will not tell him.”

  “Not until you say I may.”

  She tilted her head, studying him thoughtfully, and nodded.

  He met Marian’s dark eyes. “And I must see you again. Mayhap you will never find the feelings we once shared and I will have to live with that. In these troubled days I can only tell you that I will spend whatever time I have with you, with Robert, if you will let me. I do not know what the morrow might bring. But I do know that should John usurp King Richard’s throne, nothing is certain.” He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. “I will be here if it is within my power.”

  Marian scrutinized him like a mother who wanted to believe a wayward child. “You need convince me to trust you again. I can promise you one thing. It will not be easy.”

  Henry tried to shut out Marian and Robin’s voices as he and Stephan left. The wooden stairs creaked beneath their feet. At the landing, Henry heard Hugh settling his father for the night. Edward’s muffled laugh sounded, familiar and comforting, reminiscent of days long past.

  Candlelight flickered beneath Bea’s door. She was singing softly, a verse their mother taught them and sang to lull her restless children to sleep.

  Henry eased the door open to get a glimpse of his nephew. Bea sat near the brazier rocking David in her arms. She looked up as he peeked into the room.

  “Is he not yet asleep?” Henry asked.

  “Almost.”

  Henry tiptoed into the room. He smiled down at the babe, gently touched his nose and forehead. He turned, trying to coax Stephan closer. “His skin is so soft.”

  Stephan nodded from the door. He looked somber, but then his eyes grew soft and a hint of a smile curved his lips. He looked at Bea. “Goodnight, my lady,” he said and headed for Henry’s bedchamber.

  Henry stroked the dark tuft of hair on David’s head. He needed to ask Bea about her late husband, the one whose name drew scowls every time he’d heard it mentioned. And then there was their father…and Stephan. But Bea looked so content and happy, he saw no need to spoil the night.

  He wandered to the window and opened the shutters. Clouds trailed across the moon, bathing the guards’ tents in eerie shadows. At the sight of the tents he shuddered, drew in a ragged breath. Knees suddenly weak, he plastered his hands to the wall either side of the window.

  “Henry, what is it? What’s wrong?” Bea asked.

  He stared into the courtyard. “The tents, the Holy Land, so much blood…” He clenched his fist, drawing it to his chest. “I try to remember I am home now.”

  “Is it helpful to speak of it?”

  “I will not burden you with the horrors I saw, the things I did. Stephan listens to me. That is all I need.”

  Bea placed David in his cradle. She smoothed her silk sleeping gown and drew up to Henry, slipping her arms around his waist. “I am your sister. I love you. I will listen, help you, any way I can.”

  “I know.”

  Bea rested her cheek against his arm. “Stephan will be gone soon. I will be here for you.”

  Henry’s throat tightened and he fought back a tide of grief. He held Bea tightly and tried to forget the day Stephan would leave. But Bea was right. That day would come all too soon.

  *

  Henry stared at the blood. His blood. It soaked his hose, pooled on the ground. Bile filled his throat and he choked, struggling for a breath.

  “Henry!” Stephan shouted.

  Henry sat up. Pain shot through his body. Swords clanged just beyond his sight. The Saracen fighting Stephan cried, “Allah huwah Akbar.”

  Must help…

  Henry forced himself to his feet. Sweat ran down his face and stung his eyes, blinding him. Trembling, he gripped his long blade and limped along the cliff wall. His leg…God’s wounds, it burned. His knees buckled and he fell against the stone, wincing, steadying himself. He managed another step.

  Swords crashed. Hold on, Stephan. I’m almost there.

  Steel on steel, blows echoed off the cliff wall. The two fighters grunted, cursed.

  Henry rounded the corner. Then he heard it, saw it…

  Steel penetrating flesh.

  Stephan looked at the Saracen. Looked past him at Henry. Blood dribbled from his mouth. “Henry…”

  “No!” Henry cried.

  The Saracen slid his sword from Stephan’s side and shoved him to the ground. He turned on Henry.

  “No!” Henry screamed. He thrashed violently, nearly shoving Stephan from the bed. “Stephan!”

  “I am here. It’s just a bad dream.” Stephan stroked Henry’s brow. “You are home. England. No Saracens.”

  Henry’s breaths came hard. “The fight near Arsuf…he struck you down.”

  “No, you saved me.” Stephan twined his fingers through Henry’s. He leaned closer and kissed his forehead. “We are fine. Forget the war,” he whispered. “Sleep. You are safe here.” Stephan repeated the calming words, his fingers trailing along Henry’s forehead, his cheeks.

  It did not take long until Henry’s breathing slowed. Henry’s hand felt warm and strong in his, but these nightmares took their toll. Stephan wished he could erase Henry’s pain, wish it on himself. But he could do no more than be here, hoping his presence would be a comfort. He pressed his lips to Henry’s, and wondered what Henry would do after he’d gone.

  A movement by the door startled him. Bea. How long had she been there?

  “I heard Henry cry out,” she said.

  “Nightmares,” he said, glancing back to look at her. “From the war.”

  Bea wrapped her arms around herself. She nodded and closed the door, her soft footsteps retreating to her bedchamber.

  Stephan laid his arm across Henry protectively. He pressed his head into the curve of Henry’s shoulder. He remembered nothing else until he felt Henry’s groin pressed to his arse. His naked arse. Henry’s hand caressed his buttocks. That explained how he’d lost his braies. Warm lips brushed his shoulder, tickled his ear. Stephan smiled, then bolted upright in bed. “What are you doing?”

  Henry touched Stephan’s back lightly. “What do you think?”

  “With your father and sister down the hall?” Stephan whispered. “Bea heard you cry out. She may have seen me kiss you.”

  Mayhap it was the hour, but Henry seemed unconcerned. “You helped me past that wretched nightmare. She’ll think it was nothing more than brotherly compassion.” He raked his fingers down Stephan’s spine. “No one is awake yet.”

  Outside, a rooster crowed. Henry scowled. “I think I shall tell Mary to cook that bird. That will teach it not to wake the house at this hour.” He ran his hand beneath Stephan’s tunic and forced him back on the bed. Stephan started to complain, but Henry said, “Shh…” and found his lips. His tongue swept down Stephan’s neck and chest, back to his mouth.

  Stephan suppressed a moan. We should not do this…

  Henry’s passion swept through Stephan like a tide rushing to shore. It could sweep him away, and for a moment he drifted with the current.

  Henry broke the kiss and rolled on top of him.

  Blood surged to Stephan’s hardening groin. “You are incorrigible,” he said.

  “I love you,” Henry protested, “and yes. Yes, I am.”

  Henry had his soul. Stephan gave it gladly and would give it again and again for all his days. Henry took his body. Slow, and then deep thrusts. In the quiet of the morning, Henry carried him towards the horizon, floating…floating…on the crest of waves tipped golden by the rising sun.

  When Henry woke later that morn, he heard the sound of feet treading up the stairs. The space beside him in the bed was cold. The pallet on the floor looked slept in, the blanket in a crumpled heap. Stephan had slipped away before the rest of the house had stirred. At the knock on the door, Henry threw his legs over the side of the bed. He grabbed the tunic Hugh had laid out on the chest the night before. “Come,” he called.

  “Good morrow, Master Henry.” Hugh crossed the room and
opened the shutters, letting in the soft morning light. A breeze tickled the tapestries on the wall. “Your lord father said you would inspect the villages this morn. Robert is saddling the horses and Sir Stephan is waiting for you at the stables.”

  “And what of the wagons?”

  “Packing their gear as we speak.”

  Henry tugged on his hose. There had been no time to properly greet his villeins yesterday, but he could make up for that today. Hugh retrieved his boots and knelt at his feet to help. Henry watched how the older man struggled to stand when he’d finished.

  “Shall you wear your hauberk, master?” Hugh asked. “I noticed a few broken links.”

  “From the fighting in Kent.” Henry shivered. It had been cold and rainy that March morning two months past. He’d seen the Flemish ships break the fog, watched fireballs light the dawn. Count John’s mercenaries stormed ashore to fight Queen Eleanor’s loyal fyrd, men like him recently returned from the Holy Land, nobles from across England, and local gentry and peasants. Blood spilt, but the traitors were routed.

  “We’ve seen no swords crossed at Greyton.” Hugh’s mouth ticked nervously.

  Henry said nothing. His scabbard hung from a peg by the window. When he saw light catch on the hilt of his sword, his imagination whirled with the sound of clashing blades and the rip of siege engines. His fists clenched, damp with sweat. He exhaled wearily, drying his hands on his tunic.

  “Let us plan to keep it that way,” Henry said, noticing the quiet worry in Hugh’s eyes. “But just in case…”

  “I shall have the smith fix those links like new,” Hugh agreed emphatically.

  Henry donned his surcoat. He took his swordbelt from Hugh and girded it round his waist as he sprinted from the room and down the stairs.

  The smells from the kitchen revived him, calming his spirit. He called out, “Good morrow to you, Mary.”

  Mary pointed to bread and cheese on her worktable. “Plenty of dried meat, more cheese, and fruits with your squires, Master Henry.”