Men of the Cross (Battle Scars 1) by Charlene Newcomb

Author:Charlene Newcomb [Newcomb, Charlene]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction, Historical, Romance, Medieval, Historical Fiction, Historical Romance
Amazon: B00K0TPEBG
Publisher: Blue X Entertainment
Published: 2014-04-27T22:00:00+00:00

THE ARMY HAD MADE camp for the day. Others might be unpacking their belongings, but Stephan was not off duty yet, having been assigned to scout the road south. He tramped through the maze of tents. Sword, long dagger, arrow staves in his belt. Bow case slung over his shoulder. Approaching the corrals, he nearly stumbled on the uneven terrain, kicking up a shower of pebbles that added to the dust on his boots.

Rounding a corner, he jerked to a stop. “You?”

Henry acknowledged him with a nod. He hung his bow case on a hook on Sombre’s saddle. “You are late.”

The two horses were saddled, tied to one of the wagons that formed a makeshift corral. Henry grabbed Sombre’s reins and mounted.

Stephan strode forward, ignoring the jibe. Acre lay three weeks and some sixty miles behind them. The distance had not soothed Henry’s coolness.

Untangling Hawk’s reins, Stephan wrapped them around his hand and swung up onto the horse’s back.

Damn Robin. The man had an evil streak, assigning him to this scouting mission with Henry. Stephan wondered if Henry felt the same way. It was hard to tell because Henry would hardly meet his eyes these days. Now he perched atop his horse—did he just feign indifference? He looked too serious, too formal. Like a haughty noble. His hauberk did not show a speck of dust from the day’s march. It would probably gleam in the moonlight, Stephan thought. As for his own, dirt covering his mail chausses made them look more brown than grey. His white cloak was streaked with grime and the tunic he wore beneath his gambeson and hauberk was torn. Stephan swiped at his chausses and then spurred Hawk after Henry.

Clouds cast shadows on the reed-covered coastline where they rode, and they were forced to slow to a walk. The reeds were sharp, reminding Stephan of Henry’s stinging words. Try as he might, he couldn’t banish the hurt from his heart. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to hate Henry. No matter what the man said or didn’t say, Stephan still loved him. That was what hurt most of all. He would never love again. He was certain of that. The thought of being with anyone else, even to satisfy his physical needs, made him gasp for air. How could he lie with another man knowing what he felt, what he’d had so briefly with Henry?

Stephan’s thoughts were broken abruptly when Henry reined in and said, “This way is treacherous.” Here, less than a mile south of the army’s camp, the coastal road turned marshy. It narrowed to a wagon’s width, the sea to their right and a cliff wall rising on their left.

Stephan shook off his misery. “The wagons will never get through,” he said.

Backtracking, they turned inland and entered the Forest of Arsuf. It was thickly wooded, a mile deep and at least ten times that long. Rumours had spread through the camp that Saladin would set the forest ablaze if the army marched through. Or that his soldiers would hide amongst the oaks and strike out.

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