For King and Country (Battle Scars Book 2) Read online

  “You’d have tossed it into the flame and swept the ashes away.” Robin scowled.

  William set his tools down and hefted the chest, bulling past Robin out into the open air. Setting the chest on a long trestle laden with other pieces he’d been working on, he looked over his nose at Little John and Allan. By the barn, the two squires straightened as Robin called their names. William barely tipped his head to acknowledge Robin’s introduction.

  Stubborn as ever, Robin thought. Had he expected any less?

  William picked up a sanding block to smooth the chest’s edges. “You disobeyed me, Robin. That was always you though. Was there ever a day the two of us did not argue? You complained when I tried to apprentice you. Always off with your friends. Always showing off. I tried to make a better life for you, for all of us.” William shook his head, applying long strokes along the back of the lid. “We had such opportunity here after we’d left Barnsdale. My shop is successful. You could have had it all. And Linota. She was a fine match.”

  Robin cast him a scornful look. “You mean her father’s business would put you in good stead.”

  William didn’t disagree. “She is a good woman. She’d have loved you.”

  “She was a child.”

  “She would grow up. You would have come to know her. That is what marriage is for.”

  “I loved Marian. I wanted to marry her.”

  William smacked the sanding block on the chest. “Do you think I did not know?”

  “You knew?” Might he also suspect that Robert was his grandson?

  William nodded. “Your friends talked. At the festival before you left, I saw you speaking to her. Saw how you looked at her.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?” Robin strangled the urge to shout. His father’s words hurt like a betrayal. Certainly they’d never been close, but this? “You went behind my back to arrange a marriage when you knew how I felt.”

  “Marian was but a maid at his lordship's manor.”

  Robin scoffed. “And a maid is not good enough for the son of a carpenter?”

  “Does a king choose maids for his sons?” William asked.

  Robin stared at William. He wanted to laugh. “We are not royals.”

  “Yet we make the best arrangements for our families.” William took the sanding block to the wood with great vigor. “Secure what little we have so there is something left for our sons.”

  “You married a farmer’s daughter.”

  William stopped, glared at him. “A farmer who kept us in meat and eggs, who gave us wool to spin. Your mother, bless her, was a good woman.”

  Robin was speechless. He’d been five when his mother passed, and his memories were of a loving home, not something that sounded like an arranged marriage. “I cannot believe you saw her only as a way to—”

  “Believe what you will.”

  Two pairs of eyes peeked out from the side of the shop. William turned to them. “Come here.”

  The boys’ shyness disappeared the moment they stepped round the corner. One had a familiar curl to his mouth.

  “Boys, meet your brother Robin.”

  Brothers? Robin stared, trying to think. His father, married. With children. Robin had never been good at masking his feelings—not where his father was concerned—but he managed to hide his surprise.

  “This is Thomas and David,” William said. “Say hello.”

  Robin found a smile for them. Strange that they looked so different. Same height, to be sure, and both seemed to be about nine summers. But Thomas reminded Robin of a younger version of himself: hay-colored hair that flopped into blue eyes, dimpled cheeks, whereas David had pitch-black hair, brown eyes, a wide jaw, and thin lips.

  “David is Linota’s cousin. Lost his parents to the pestilence,” William said. “He’s a good apprentice.”

  “Linota?”

  “Thomas’ mother. My wife.”

  Robin winced, and then quickly squelched his reaction for the young boys’ sake. Married the woman he’d intended for me? A match for business? No matter. It was his father’s choice.

  William laughed. “That’s a first.”

  Robin cocked his head.

  “Robin Carpenter, no words slipping from that sharp tongue.”

  Robin whistled. “Congratulations, Father.” He turned to Thomas. “It is good to meet you, brother. And you, David,” he said, grasping the boy’s hand.

  David’s grip was firm. His hands were scratched, etched by the hazards of the carpenter’s trade. The boy’s tunic was blood-red, and Thomas wore a dark green one. Both looked new, belted with fine embossed leather bands. William’s business must be good despite the king’s taxes.

  “You look good in King Richard’s colors, David,” Robin said.

  “You’re a knight?” Thomas asked.

  “I am.”

  “Get no ideas in those heads of yours.” William clapped Thomas’ back. “No running off to fight the king’s battles. You can supply the bows and lances, the chests to pack their belongings. One son fighting for the king is one too many.” He directed a stern gaze at Robin. He started back to his work and then paused. “You will stay, share a meal with us?”

  Robin pointed to the corral. “Little John and Allan…”

  “Of course. They are welcome.”

  “Hello, Robin.”

  He turned to the unfamiliar feminine voice. Linota. She was a stranger to him. She’d have been twelve summers when he’d left home. He remembered a girl with straight brown, plaited hair. She played with dolls and liked puppies. She’d matured into a woman with large round breasts and ample curves.

  Robin bowed. “My lady.”

  Linota curtsied. “William never told me you had such high-born manners. But I am not a lady.” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “Just the daughter of a cooper.”

  Robin’s cheeks reddened. “If you overheard—”

  “Do not apologize, Robin. I had no desire to marry you either.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

  Women. Marian, now Linota. English women. In one day, he’d more trouble with the two of them than with dozens of others from Normandy to Outremer.

  *

  It turned out that Linota was an excellent cook. The pottage, thick with carrots, leeks, garlic, and a few small chunks of salted pork, was ladled onto their plates—wooden ones, carved by his father’s own hands. Their house was warm and inviting. Unlike their neighbors’ cottages, it had windows, with shutters thrown open to let the sun in. Embroidered tapestries covered the walls. Rushes laced the dirt floor and were strewn with dried rose petals and wildflowers. The roses reminded Robin of the garden across the way. How many times had he pilfered a flower or two to give to Marian?

  Everyone ate heartily, with Little John asking for thirds. There was little left when Thomas asked Robin how he’d come to serve the king.

  Robin stretched, and then flattened his palms against the table. “When I left—”

  William grunted and stood. “I’ve work to do. Ralf de Meleford arrives two days hence from Lincoln and expects delivery. We’ve no time for stories.”

  “Papa—” David protested as Robin straightened in his chair, his mouth tight.

  Linota captured William’s hand. “Robin will not be here long. Let his brothers come to know him.”

  “Listen to him brag?” William scoffed.

  “You won’t work past dark.” Linota looked at Robin. “Stay tonight. We can listen to your stories by candlelight.”

  “Please,” Thomas and David implored.

  William frowned.

  “Father is right,” Robin said. “He has a business to run, but if he does not mind, I will stay.”

  The boys’ eyes grew bright, but they knew better than to look too enthusiastic. Linota squeezed William’s hand. The older man’s face softened. The look tugged at Robin’s heart.

  “You and your squires can bed down in the barn,” William said. He strode towards the door. Without looking back, he called, “Thoma
s, David—to the workshop.”

  *

  That went better than expected, Robin reflected as Allan and Little John unsaddled the horses in the barn.

  “Do I recall being told I’d not be sleeping in a hayloft until we crossed the Narrow Sea again?” Allan asked.

  “Stop whining. I’m sleeping here, too.” Robin leaned against the barn door watching his father measure and mark a long beam. Thomas and David did the same with a second one. William checked their work. He ruffled both lads’ hair with a show of fondness that Robin couldn’t recall receiving when he was young. For the second time, he felt a pang of regret, of guilt. He had to turn away, his eyes settling on a familiar cottage, and then up the road. “The village does not look so well kept.”

  Little John had started to brush his horse down. “Was it like this when you left, Sir Robin?”

  Robin pointed to one of the dwellings. “My friend Milo lives there. His ma would bring herbs to my father from her garden. It is overgrown with weeds like it has not been tended in years.” Frowning at the weathered door and worn thatched roof, he heard approaching footsteps.

  “Is that Robin Carpenter?”

  Robin turned to the voice and then smiled. “Ailric? God’s blessings, old friend. Your family…?”

  “They are well.” Ailric gestured to the cottage. “You won’t find Milo. His da and young Joff both passed. Eularia is half out of her mind. Milo was caught stealing from the mill. He’s run off.”

  That did not sound like the Milo of Robin’s youth. He swallowed hard, fist opening and closing. “Surely Lord de Grey would see to repairs to keep the widow in good stead?”

  “The master keeps the roof over her head. He has little else to spare. The rest of us give her what we can.”

  Robin stared past Ailric’s shoulder at the sheep in the field. The herd was larger than he remembered. “There will be a good shearing season ahead.”

  Ailric caught his questioning look. “The more we have and the bigger our harvest, the less any of us sees. Including Lord de Grey.” He glanced at the lion on Robin’s surcoat. “The king’s taxes.”

  “We hear that Count John has been collecting the tax money for himself,” Robin said. “Fortifying his castles here.”

  Ailric’s gaze strayed to a building adjacent to the carpenter’s shop. Robin had noticed it on the way into the village, but little brothers and Linota had taken his mind elsewhere. The rectangular-shaped construction was near three times the size of the barn, made of timber, not wattle and daub like the cottages. The huge door looked thick like a castle gate and had a lock the size of Robin’s fist. What did the tiny village of Ringsthorpe need stored under lock and key?

  He and Ailric had been good friends, and the man sensed his question and drew close. “Be careful, Robin. The king’s brother holds Nottingham. He has friends in Lincoln and York.” He tapped Robin’s surcoat. “Mayhap Linota can lend you one of your father’s. You might not want to look so…so royal.”

  “I had hoped to impress my father,” he admitted, having purposefully donned the king’s colors after he’d left Greyton.

  “You know him better than that,” Ailric said with a wink. “God be with you, Robin.”

  “And with you, my friend.”

  A young child ran up to Ailric as he turned for home. Robin felt another pang of grief at missing Robert’s childhood.

  Robin strode up to the windowless storehouse and shook the lock. He circled the building, rounding the last corner as Allan and Little John came from the barn. “There’s no way in on the far side,” he told them.

  “Just the loft,” Allan said, pointing above their heads. “Want to give me a lift up?”

  Robin frowned. “Let me speak with my father before we attempt a break in.” He fingered his surcoat, recalling Queen Eleanor’s words. Trust no one. “Keep your eyes and ears open. We knew our enemies in the Holy Land, but it may be harder to tell friend from foe here.”

  He wheeled about, eyeing the pattern of wagon tracks on the road. They stopped at the workshop. None led to the storehouse. What could that mean? What did his father know?

  Worried, he blew out a breath and turned to Little John. “Go to Greyton. Tell Henry about the storehouse. Allan and I will have a look around. We’ll see you on the morrow.”

  Henry could have left the reeve to check the work in the fields, to visit each shop in the village. Mayhap it wasn’t the lord of the manor’s duty, but he found pleasure in it especially with Stephan riding beside him. Rounding a bend, a flock of bleating sheep greeted them and they reined in.

  A young shepherd trotted towards them. “Master Henry!” he called, his voice breaking with an odd-pitched squeak. He shooed sheep aside with a staff a head taller than himself. “Welcome home, Master Henry.”

  Henry scanned the pasture expectantly, and then turned back to the boy. “Where is Matthieu?”

  “My father died last summer, sir,” the young boy said. “I am Marcus FitzMatthieu.”

  Henry stared at the farthest edges of the field, suddenly feeling tired. He fisted his hands in the reins. “Another one,” he murmured. When they’d delivered his father’s message to the miller, he’d learned the old man’s wife had passed. Now his herdsman. How many others had died while he was on pilgrimage?

  “My da said you were a brave man. Fighting the infidels. We prayed for you,” Marcus said, “and for his lordship. Please tell him the new lambs are healthy and growing strong. Then he won’t grieve so much about the twenty head he sold to the monks.”

  Henry fought to keep a steady lip. “I’d known your father since I was half your size. I shall keep him in my prayers and welcome yours. My flocks are in good hands.” Waving a good day, he urged Soleil back towards the village. He tried to pretend he wasn’t upset, but gave into his frustration and cursed beneath his breath. “We’d been at the ledgers last night. He’d not said a word! Sold the sheep for what? To pay a debt?”

  “Your father did not want to spoil your first night home,” Stephan said.

  “Finding wagons with Count John’s Greek fire did that well enough.” Henry scoffed. He suspected Stephan was right, though that did nothing to ease his mind. “Fewer sheep, less wool, less silver. What more need I know? A bad harvest and people go hungry. Another round of plague and there might be no one left to till the fields, to tend the animals.” He shook his head. “I may have need of Allan’s talents with dice to raise the money we shall need to take care of everyone.”

  Stephan grinned. “You’ve had worse ideas. Shall we inspect the—”

  A loud wailing erupted through the open door of the village chapel. “Help me!” A priest stumbled into the road, frightening two horses tethered there. “Oh dear God above, they are taking everything.”

  As Henry and Stephan spurred their mounts, the priest Eustace recognized Henry and clasped his hands together in prayer. “In the chapel,” he cried as they reined in. “They have the chalice. They must not take it.” He rubbed the darkening bruise below his eye. Dirt streaked his brown linen cassock.

  “Thieves?” Stephan asked.

  “The queen’s agents,” Eustace growled as both knights swung from their saddles.

  Henry grabbed the hilt of his sword, but Stephan stopped him. “No swords. It is the queen’s business.”

  A loud crash reverberated from the chapel and the priest cried out as if in pain. Henry gave a stiff nod to Stephan. He charged forward, but stopped at the door, aghast. Benches overturned. Tapestries pulled from the walls. The altar lay barren. Tall candleholders to either side of it had been toppled. The two men were so intent on their work they didn’t see the knights.

  “Good sirs?” Henry called above the noise.

  Stephan strode towards the altar, spurs clinking on the wooden floor. “Gentlemen,” he shouted.

  Blanketed by Stephan’s shadow, the two men stared dumbstruck. Stephan was intimidating even without a sword in his hand. The agents were older, dressed in rich gold and green
silk surcoats over mail hauberks. Swords hung at their sides, but neither man reached for his weapon.

  Stephan greeted them politely with a crisp bow. “Sir Henry de Grey,” he said, gesturing to Henry, who remained by the doorway as if carved in stone. “You desecrate a place of God that his father, Lord de Grey, holds in his care.”

  The smells of incense and tallow candles stung Henry’s nose. But the stench of the agents’ actions was stronger.

  The men bowed to Henry. The older of the two rested his hand on his heart and said, “Sir Henry, we only seek what the queen’s justiciars have ordered.”

  “Queen Eleanor did not order the destruction of houses of worship. She would be appalled at your behavior. My father and I will not stand for this.” Henry’s tone resounded like thunder, and behind him, the priest’s ragged breaths cut the air.

  The agents shifted uncomfortably, their eyes straying to sacks on the floor. “The priest claimed he had no silver to give for the tithe. Lord de Grey did not make up the difference, and we were ordered to investigate.”

  Henry trod purposefully into the room, his face cold as a wintry day. Taxes had been hard on nobles, peasant, and the Church alike, and everyone would be required to give more, but surely the Church would not need to relinquish relics like a chalice that held the blood of the Savior. That certainly would not sit easy with the Faithful.

  “What is your name?” Henry asked.

  “I am Jocelin Linham, my lord, the queen’s agent from Winchester.”

  Henry took another step forward. Stephan laid his palm casually on the hilt of his sword. Linham’s accomplice lowered his eyes, hands trembling at his side.

  “Your seal?” Henry demanded.

  Linham held his hands out slowly, palms up. He reached inside the sleeve of his surcoat and retrieved a parchment. Stephan took the yellowed roll. He inspected it, gave Henry a subtle nod.

  “The bags,” Henry said, gesturing for Stephan to have a closer look.

  Rummaging through the sacks Stephan found the priest’s chalice. It was simple gold without decoration, and when he held it up, sunlight streaming through the open door danced across its face. He handed it to the priest, who murmured gratefully and held it to his heart.