The Way Back

Chapter Thirteen

September 18th, 1193

"Are you looking for trouble?" protested Guy.

"Just feeling nostalgic, brother. After all, isn't this where we met?"

"Yes. And if you recall, we ended up with a noose around our necks. I'd like to avoid that happening again."

"It won't, not this time. We'll lay low, be out early tomorrow. No one will recognise us. Besides, it's my last chance for a while to find some feminine company. Are you with me?" Archer grinned. "Thought not...well, don't wait up."

"Best you take that off." Guy nodded to the tunic bearing the Archbishop's crest. "Given the reception Hubert got here, you might not want to have it seen."

"Good thinking," agreed Archer, shrugging out of the tunic and rummaging for a shirt.

When he was gone, Guy kicked off his boots and stretched out on the bed, one arm behind his head. York. The last place he'd have chosen to break their journey back, but Archer had a way of inveigling upon others that even he found difficult to avoid.

These nocturnal outings were different; Archer had given up. The invitation had been tossed out as a matter of habit, but Archer knew Guy would refuse. He had no interest in it. But with the memory of Meg's caresses, of their last night, still fresh in his mind, it didn't feel like abstinence; it felt like longing.

Guy groaned, and turned on his side. He'd just have to deal with it.

Four weeks. Most of a shire, through towns, villages, forests, meadows and heath-lands, along ill-kept and uneven roads; lodgings grabbed when possible in castles or manor houses, but sometimes billeted in parish homes, or sleeping rough in barns or fields. And at every location, the influence of the archbishop in securing accommodation, resolving disputes and maintaining morale; the capable Raff finding tasks or distractions before tempers could flare, cajoling from locals that extra keg of ale or bagged pheasant that would make the difference to the men's comfort at the end of a day's long ride.

Hubert Walter, Guy had discovered, was more soldier than clergyman. He'd even admitted, over an evening's ale, that despite the brutality and hardships of the Holy Land, part of him still regretted his crusading days were over. That, Guy couldn't understand.

'So, are we on dangerous territory now?" Hubert had asked quietly, detecting Guy's tightened grip on his goblet, and interpreting his silence correctly. "Come, speak man. You know no harm will come of it."

"Let's just say I have strong opinions about the – legitimacy – of this war."

"Ahhh... the merits or otherwise of an absent king..." Hubert sat a moment, considering his next words. "And are those the views that were compelling enough to turn a man against his sovereign? Or would you claim you were simply acting under orders?"

"Let me ask you something: do my actions make me more culpable than any man who took part in massacring those prisoners? What defence could a man make to himself, other than that the King had ordered him to participate?"

"You're right, Sir Guy – it's a thin line our conscience must draw. And yes, we could debate the nature and the rights or otherwise of those whom we obey, and consider personal and political motivations, but in the more immediate future it won't be our own conscience or even the Lord making such judgements. It will be King Richard." Hubert steepled his fingers, eyes narrowed as he considered Guy. "So, what then would be your answer to him?"

Guy met Hubert's gaze, debating how much or how little to say. This man held his future in his hands.

"What I would like to say, is to ask him if he plans to remain here; whether he's steward or leech to his people."