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

  Stephan dumped the remaining contents of the sacks on the floor. Candles, linens, a paten, and pieces of priest’s clothing. Linham and his accomplice stared at their feet.

  Henry’s glare could cut flesh. “All this, Linham? Taking the cleric’s clothing and Church vestments? You have overstepped your charge. I should hate to tell Queen Eleanor I have dismissed you for your insolence. Take the candleholders, leave the rest. Clean up this mess, and then be gone.”

  Linham bowed lower, not meeting Henry’s gaze. “Thank you, Sir Henry.”

  Stephan and Henry left behind the clangs and clatter of furniture being righted and the chapel straightened. Once out of the agents’ hearing, Stephan said, “That won’t be the last you see of them.”

  Henry’s anger simmered, but he tried to put that nightmare to the back of his mind. His gaze swept the land, not like the young man who’d missed home, but like the landowner. Wheat in two fields, oats in a third, the grains planted in ridge and furrow strips. A fourth field lay fallow. A small herd of cows grazed there and a breeze carried the sounds of peasants singing. This was home as it should be.

  *

  The sun blazed high overhead as Henry urged his horse down the wooded trail along the Witham. At the river’s edge the knights dismounted and sat on the grassy bank. Henry unfolded a cloth with dried beef Mary had packed. A second one had bread and a jar of honey.

  Stephan bit into the meat, savoring the smoky taste. Henry slathered a chunk of bread with honey and devoured it, getting more honey on himself than in his mouth. Stephan laughed, thumbing a bit off Henry’s upper lip. He leaned close to kiss those honeyed lips, but Henry’s mind was elsewhere. “Did you see the granary?” he asked.

  “The miller said the damage was caused by a storm,” Stephan said, licking honey from his finger.

  “Two years past!” Henry punched the ground with his fist. “My father always had such pride in Greyton. Are we so poor that he lets it languish in that state?” He flung his hand in the direction of the bridge they’d inspected before their rest. “What of the stone work on the bridge? It might collapse at any moment.”

  Stephan chewed on a piece of meat. “Only under the pounding of an army. We must hope John’s mercenaries never have need to cross it.” He stopped mid-chew as if he wished he’d said nothing.

  Henry felt ill. He could only think of the wagons laden with provisions for war. “Nottingham is less than a day’s ride on a fast horse. Who is to say John’s men won’t plunder everything between here and there?”

  Stephan touched Henry’s sleeve gently. “Let us do what Queen Eleanor ordered. Get the lay of the land, identify friend and foe.” He broke off a bit of cheese, popped it into his mouth, and lay back on the bank.

  “I have been home less than a day and have heard an earful from tanner, smith, fuller, and priest.” Sheep bleated in the distance. “Even from the shepherd boy.”

  “And from your father,” Stephan said.

  Henry planted his face in his hands. Being the queen’s eyes had become more than identifying King Richard’s enemies. He must learn the extent of his father’s involvement.

  “It’s a good thing unkind words are no proof of disloyalty,” Stephan said.

  Henry jerked his head at Stephan. “Mayhap Father speaks to appease John’s spies.”

  “Of course.” Stephan reached for Henry again, letting his hand linger on his arm. “I know what you are feeling. What if I find my own brother supports Count John?”

  “You do not have to live at l’Aigle,” Henry spat, and regretted it immediately. “Sorry.”

  “No, you are right. Gil and I have never been close, but civil war might mean father against son, brother against brother.” He shivered. “I would never wish this on anyone.”

  Henry swallowed hard. Stephan rarely spoke of Gilbert l’Aigle, and now, his voice held a hint of fear. Henry had heard worry there before, but fear? As far as he knew, Gil had pledged fealty to Richard. But in the face of John’s threats, was he Richard’s loyal servant?

  Before Henry’s mind drifted to darker places, Stephan said, “Will you still visit Boston, and go with me to York?”

  “Father insists I inspect the shop.” He was glad to think of spending the time on the road with Stephan, but knew there was queen’s work to do in Boston. “It gives us a reason for being there. Should we accidentally stumble across a cache of Greek fire…” He shrugged, leaving the rest of the thought unspoken.

  Stephan twirled a twig in his fingers and stared at the tree branches rustling overhead. “My father sent me off with our steward many times. I was quite adept at the accounts. Rollo praised me one too many times.”

  “A show-off even when you were a young boy, eh?” Henry teased.

  Stephan tossed the twig at Henry. “My brother was jealous. Had me banned from those excursions. I couldn’t help that I was good with figures, could ride better, was better with bow. And my mother said I was most handsome.”

  Henry snorted. “Count John must feel like Gilbert. In his brother’s shadow.”

  Stretching out on the grass, Stephan laughed and closed his eyes. Henry pushed up on his elbows and watched light and shadow dapple Stephan’s face. He liked how his nose wrinkled, how he squinted against the sun. Laying his head on Stephan’s chest, he caught the hint of lavender from the morning’s wash basin and felt the beat of his heart. He moved closer, brushing Stephan’s lips with a kiss.

  So little time together, alone, like this. Henry could hardly stand the thought that Stephan would leave far too soon. An ache sharp as a dagger’s blade stabbed his heart and he kissed Stephan deeply.

  Stephan responded with a low moan at the back of this throat. Eyes sparking, he abruptly twisted and shoved Henry to his back and returned his kisses with a passion that left them both breathless. He combed through Henry’s hair, traced a path along the corded muscles of his neck, over collarbone, down his chest to his taut belly. Henry’s groin pulsed with heat as Stephan fingered the drawstring of his chausses. He loosed them and found flesh. Henry’s breath caught, his face buried in the rough stubble of Stephan’s jaw. Stephan’s cock was hard against his hip. He grasped Stephan, tugging him up so they were pressed chest to chest. Henry’s hands slid beneath Stephan’s tunic and gripped his buttocks. Strong muscles trembled beneath his touch and set his mind afire. Their mouths collided, two hungry souls who knew their world was changing.

  The flush of Henry’s skin had faded, but he’d no need to worry his father might notice. When he and Stephan returned to the manor well past midday, Hugh informed him Edward and Bea had ridden to Grantham. Henry was in good spirits after being in Stephan’s arms, even better when Hugh strung a thick curtain across the back corner of the kitchen and set a hot, steaming bath for him.

  Submerged up to his neck in the soapy lavender water, Henry could almost forget he’d returned to an England on the brink of civil war. Eyes closed, he listened to Mary humming, to her soup ladle rattling in a kettle over the fire. He lathered his aching arms and face with the sweet-scented cake, feeling much older than his three and twenty summers. His fingers brushed the puckered scar on his thigh and he exhaled sharply. Count John could not be trusted. The truce meant nothing, the stench of John’s betrayal so strong, he scrubbed his face hard to be rid of it. The storm may have calmed, but England rocked, thick with traitors.

  And what of his father?

  Floor rushes laced with rose petals and the aromas from Mary’s cauldron should have been soothing, but Henry raked his fingers roughly through his thick dark hair. He stared through the unshuttered window. Down the road the mill wheel groaned and the hammer on steel from the smith’s forge sounded. The noise grew to a clamor. Henry shuddered. The drums… Every memory of the Holy Land rekindled. Saracen warriors charged to an unrelenting drumbeat. The slings of siege engines ripped the air. Boulders smashed into the city wall whipping rock and dirt towards an azure sky. An arrow whooshed past his head.

  Henry cradled hi
s face in his hands.

  Stephan barged around the curtain. “Will there be a drop of hot water left for me?”

  Henry sat up, startled. Arms trembling, he gripped the sides of the bath.

  Water sloshed on to the floor, but Stephan ignored it. He knelt, gripping Henry’s shoulder. “You are home now.”

  Henry drew in rasping breaths. This England hardly felt like home when the sights and sounds of war haunted him. At least he could find calm in Stephan’s deep blue eyes.

  “I am fine.” He smoothed loose strands of hair away from his face. “It is the king’s brother.”

  Stephan wasn’t fooled. He traced his thumb along Henry’s jaw. “We shall look after John and his friends. But I know you, Henry. What else is on your mind?”

  Henry relaxed, soothed by Stephan’s gentle voice. He banished politics and war from his mind. “If only I could forget that you must leave,” he whispered. Drawing Stephan close, he kissed him gently and caressed his cheek with a soapy palm.

  Stephan moaned, the sound buried beneath Mary’s toiling on the other side of the curtain. Looking over his shoulder, he wrapped his arms around Henry. “Try not to worry for what might come.” His breath was warm against Henry’s ear. “No matter what happens, know that I love you.”

  A noise like a hammer smacking wood rattled the trestle in the kitchen. “What took you so long, Sarah?” Mary asked. “I need help here. The master and Lady Bea will be home any moment.”

  “I—I—”

  Henry released Stephan reluctantly. Stephan wandered to the window to inspect the wooded hillside behind the manor as Mary issued tasks to the younger servant. Henry watched Stephan smooth his tunic, his heart thumping like a mill wheel. The man might only wear a grain sack and still turn heads. Best not to admit that aloud else he’d never hear the end of it.

  A commotion erupted from the hall. Hugh was greeting Bea, little David was fussing. Bea and the nurse tried to soothe the child, their voices fading as they padded up the stairs.

  “Where is my son?” Edward bellowed.

  “My father—” Henry looked frantically for his clothes. “Toss me the towel.”

  Stephan chuckled. “Not until you stand.”

  “Stephan, it’s best I not give you any ideas.”

  “I do not need to see you naked to dream.” Stephan smiled.

  Henry stood slowly. Water glistened on his carved muscles. War had made him strong. But it had also nearly killed him—body and soul. Stephan had saved him in more ways than one.

  “The towel?” he asked, hearing purposeful footfalls in the kitchen.

  Stephan tossed the linen cloth, grinning mischievously when it flew over Henry’s head. He turned to retrieve the towel, the dark hairs on his backside dripping with water.

  “Henry,” Edward cried, throwing aside the curtain. His eyes darted from the naked buttocks greeting him to Stephan and then back to Henry.

  Sarah’s eyes widened with pleasure. She stared, entranced, until Mary tapped her arm. Lowering her head, Sarah took the cutting knife slowly to the fruit on the trestle.

  Henry stepped from the tub, water pooling at his feet. Naked. Weaponless. He might well still look a child in his father’s eyes.

  Edward stepped back, caught his breath. The scars of war crisscrossed Henry's body. Cuts on his upper arms, a jagged one near his wrist, another on his cheek. The darkened, disfigured spot on his upper thigh held Edward’s gaze.

  “Might this wait until I dress, Father?” Henry wrapped the coarse cloth round his waist.

  “I have seen you naked more times than I can count. But dear God, not like this.” Edward crossed himself. “Blessed be our good Lord who brought you back to us. Your mother—never a day passed that she did not pray for you. If she saw these scars you bear…”

  “I cannot believe I’ll not see her again,” Henry said, choking on the words.

  Edward cleared his throat and looked to Stephan. “I do not believe I thanked you. You brought my son home. I am in your debt.” He didn’t give Stephan a chance to respond, but laid his hand on Henry’s shoulder. “You’ll tell me of your day. But smell that? Mary’s chicken has simmered in wine and herbs.”

  Looking at the men impatiently, Mary said, “I shall serve it straight away, my lord.”

  Edward winked at her. “We shall not hear the end of it if we do not get our arses to the hall.”

  With a nod to Mary, Henry grinned at Stephan. “Best listen to Father.” As Edward strode away, Henry closed the curtain. He pressed his forehead to the rough oak of the wall ignoring the women’s chatter.

  Stephan slid his arms around Henry’s waist.

  “Give me strength.” Henry took a long, slow breath and gripped Stephan’s hand. "In the Holy Land, I had sword and shield and King Richard’s knights around me. I need more than that here. To face my father.” He turned, rested his forehead against Stephan’s cheek, and spoke softly. “To watch you leave.”

  Stephan’s fingers raked his hair. Henry met his eyes and took comfort in the tenderness and warmth he saw there. It was a sin they couldn’t shout out their love for each other.

  “Get out of that bath before I come dress you myself, Master Henry,” Mary called from the other side of the room.

  “Would she?” Stephan asked.

  Henry laughed, nodding. “You do not want to see Mary in a rage.”

  “I heard that,” Mary said to the whack of a wooden spoon against a kettle.

  Stephan started to pull away, but Henry held him fast. He covered his mouth with a deep kiss. Stephan uttered a low moan. “You expect me to sit at your father’s table after that?”

  Henry laughed again, releasing his hold on Stephan. He found his clothes and started to dress when he heard the back door open.

  “Good day to you, Mary.” It was Little John.

  Henry turned to Stephan, surprised. Had Robin’s reunion with his father turned sour as the knight suspected it might?

  “Another mouth I did not expect to feed,” Mary said.

  “The carpenter’s wife fed us well. I’ll need nothing more.”

  “It’s all right, young squire. I was merely teasing. You and Sarah can clear the trestle later and then you help yourself to what’s left.”

  “That’s most kind of you. I need to speak with Sir Henry.”

  “Here,” Henry said, coming around the curtain. “You’ve returned from Ringsthorpe?”

  Stephan peered past Little John. “Where is Robin? Is he still alive?” he joked.

  A grin lit Little John’s broad face and sent a sparkle to his dark eyes. That look could chase the gloom from any room. “Sir Robin will stay the night with his family.”

  “Then that meeting went well,” Henry said.

  “It was a good start if I was to judge by their conversation, but that was thanks to Linota.”

  “Who?” Stephan asked.

  “William Carpenter’s second wife,” Henry said.

  “And a good woman she is,” Mary offered. She hefted a platter of steaming chicken and cocked her head toward the hall. “Your father awaits his meal.”

  “I’ve news from Robin,” Little John said looking from Henry to Mary and back again.

  Mary tapped her foot. She eyed the food in her hands.

  Henry stepped aside so she might pass. “We shall be there in a moment.”

  When Mary left, Little John said, “Robin sent me back to tell you there is a large storehouse in Ringsthorpe. It’s locked tight to keep the curious away. He intends to break into it tonight.”

  Henry could hear his sister in the hall, his father calling for Hugh to pour wine. Their voices grated on his ears like the rumble of wagons.

  A caravan of Greek fire headed to Nottingham. A locked storehouse.

  The drums of war resounded in his mind.

  The day’s work done, the carpenter’s shop had been swept and tidied for the morrow. With a mug of ale in his hands, Robin sat cross-legged on the floor of his childhood ho
me between Thomas and David. Tallow candles lit the eager faces of the two boys. William Carpenter took his place in a high-backed chair closest to the central hearth with Linota beside him. Neighbors stood at the door and outside the unshuttered windows.

  “When you were a boy, people gathered to watch you split an arrow on a target.” William harrumphed, eyes tracing around the room. “You still have an audience.”

  “I blame you, Father,” Robin said. “You are the best bowyer from Nottingham to York.” He looked at Ailric who was leaning on the doorframe. “Am I right?”

  “It is a well-known truth,” Ailric replied to the nods of others.

  Robin met his father’s gaze. “You gave me my first bow. You would watch me loose arrows even after you called me to the shop. You’d chastise my tardiness, my sloppy work, and tell me not to waste my time with bow. But you watched.”

  William’s expression softened.

  Thomas bounced like he was sitting atop a trotting stallion. “You won the prize at Lord de Grey’s fair,” he said, beaming.

  “How could you know that? You weren’t even born,” Robin said.

  “I saw you do it,” one villager chimed. “Everyone knows it. Archers from Lincoln and Nottinghamshire came to win the silver coin. But the carpenter’s boy beat them all.”

  William ignored the villagers’ smiles and praises. He fixed his eyes on Robin as if there was no one else in the room. He had not forgotten that day. “I was proud of you.”

  “You never told me.” That had been the day they’d argued about Linota. The day Robin had left without a word. Linota knew the story, but Robin imagined his father had not told a soul they’d fought over an arranged marriage.

  “I could never be a carpenter. I did not have your skill or your patience. But you put a bow in my hand.”

  “Is it true you’ve been to the Holy Land? Fought for King Richard?” another villager asked.

  Linota sat up proudly. “Robin is a knight.”

  “Just walked up to Lincoln Castle and knocked on the gate. Said ‘I’m here to be a knight,’ did you?” Ailric asked to loud guffaws from a man peering in through the window.