Page 39
The youthful squire Morven hadn’t been with them long enough to make an impression, but if anything Hugh mourned him the more. Sir Ramsden had lived a full life and had died with a sword in his hand. Morven had been nothing but a lad, all gangly legs and jutting arms, and Hugh muttered, “I should have worked with him more.”
Dewey heard him, for he quickly replied, “Nothing could have saved him, my lord. Three seasoned knights attacked him. I tried to reach his side but was too late.”
“Three knights?” Hugh’s strides lengthened. “Why would they bother? The lad had nothing for them to steal.”
Sir Philip, new in Hugh’s troop but a seasoned warrior nonetheless, answered. “They attacked because he stung them like a persistent wasp, keeping them at bay when they would have taken your fallen carcass.”
Dewey turned on Sir Philip with a hiss, but the knight lifted his hand to silence him. “The lord had to know. He would mourn Morven more if he thought he had died a useless death than to know he died for love of Lord Roxford.”
Lord Roxford. That was he, although Hugh wanted to look around and see this lord of whom everyone spoke. He was new to this earl-homage and found it still staggered him on occasion.
“In sooth,” he said, “Sir Philip is right. It helps ease the grief of his death to know the lad died helping our cause.” Yet still he remembered Morven’s big worshiping eyes following him everywhere, and he wished he’d left the lad with his mother. True, there had been nothing but poverty and starvation ahead of them, but at least Morven wouldn’t now be rotting in the ground. “You did get him buried?”
“Aye, my lord. I took care of it myself,” Sir Philip answered.
Another lad trudged with them, and Hugh called to him. “How did you fare in the battle, Wynkyn?”
“’Twas magnificent, my lord.” His words were hardy but his tone faint.
Hugh lifted an eyebrow at Dewey.
“It made him vomit.” Dewey answered the unspoken question.
Intercepting the nasty glance Wynkyn sent Dewey, Hugh asked, “Is that all? In my first battle, I sweated so much from fear I lost my grip on the sword and almost slashed off my own leg.”
“I couldn’t sleep for nights after my first battle.” Sir Philip grimaced and smoothed his gray hair off his forehead. “I kept hearing the screams of the wounded, and I hated the crunch the horses’ hooves made when they stepped on the bodies.”
Hugh’s chief adviser, Sir Lyndon, had made his way to Hugh’s side, and he smiled with all his considerable charm. “Ah, to me it is the sweet sound of battle.”
“Really?” Hugh shuddered. “I still hate that.”
Wynkyn paled. “Does it get better? The abomination of it, I mean.”
Walking over to the lad, Hugh wrapped his arm around Wynkyn’s neck and tugged him off-balance while ruffling his hair. “It’s always dreadful, but somehow you get used to it. Unless it’s really a bloody battle, of course. Then you’re back puking your guts up.”
He released Wynkyn. The lad would do. His father, the earl of Covney, had been concerned that Wynkyn’s dreamy air would shatter at the first taste of combat, but Wynkyn had held up well and Hugh would send a letter of reassurance to the earl.
Forgetting Wynkyn, he looked at the looming fabric walls of his tent with fierce gratification. He had feared he’d lost it when he disappeared from the battlefield, but here it was. He’d seen chambers in a palace with less room than his tent, but on the frequent occasions when it rained and the wind blew cold, he hosted strategy sessions for his whole troop. He kept a table, camp stools, his camp bed, and trunks filled with blankets and clothes for the squires should they need them, which as boys they frequently did.
Sir Lyndon stepped beneath the black felt roof that protected the entrance and held the flap back invitingly. “Would you care to rest while you await the return of your bride?”
“Nay. I would have refreshment while you recount all you know of the battle past and give me your reports of our enemy’s movements.” Hugh needed to know, and besides, he couldn’t rest until he had Edlyn within his grasp again.
Sir Lyndon tied back the flap. “When you disappeared during the battle, we were discomfited, my lord, and I fear we failed to guard your possessions as we should. After the battle, marauders stole much from you, but I would offer my own camp bed for your comfort. It will be better than the hard floor.”
“My thanks, Sir Lyndon, but of what use is a narrow cot to a newly married man?” Hugh accepted a goblet of ale from Dewey and swallowed the liquid in one long gulp, ignoring Sir Lyndon’s lifted brow. He knew what Sir Lyndon thought—that a warrior should have better control over his wife. But while he had long treasured Sir Lyndon’s advice in battle or siege, he remembered the pale, beaten aspect of Sir Lyndon’s wife and the suspicious aspects of her death, and he dismissed any claim Sir Lyndon might make about domestic peace. “Dewey will instead make us a wide pad of skins and blankets on the floor.”
Sir Lyndon snapped his fingers and Dewey hurried to obey.
Hugh settled himself on a camp stool outside in the shade of his tent’s overhang. From here he could watch for Edlyn’s return. Around him, squires placed stools according to each knight’s rank and the confidence Hugh held in him, and his knights seated themselves.
There was a general clearing of throats, then Hugh, earl of Roxford, demanded an accounting of his men.
“They fought like demons, my lord, especially when they thought you were dead.” Sir Lyndon flexed his hand as if he recalled the agony of holding a sword for too long. “But actually, ’twas all to the good, for de Montfort’s men overextended themselves and we were able to divide the army and conquer those who didn’t flee.”
Hugh sipped from his refilled goblet and looked at Sir Philip. “We took hostages?”
“Aye, and shipped them off to the prince for justice after stripping them of their armor and horses.” Sir Philip smiled, well pleased with their haul. “We’ve distributed the wealth evenly, my lord, and left you what we thought you would desire. Should you decide differently, we’ll give up whatever you wish.”
