Rogue Knight (Medieval Warriors Book 2) (11 page)

“Yea, Sigga gave them an early supper. The twins are in
their chamber with Magnus.”

She nodded, lifted her hood over her headcloth and turned to
Geoff. “I am ready.”

He escorted her to the white mare and lifted her into the
saddle. “I am surprised you ride; not many women do.”

“The horse was a gift from my husband.”

Geoff swung into his saddle, wondering at the wealth of the
husband she spoke of, wondering, too, if she still loved him.

He headed down the street toward the other side of the city,
passing the other fine homes. Did the neighbors who had peered out their
windows to watch the knights upon their arrival make ungracious comments to her
about Normans paying her a visit? And if they did, what could she have told
them?

Emma endured the disapproving stares of the few people they
passed on the streets as the three of them rode down Coppergate toward the new
castle. They could have taken another route but this street was wider and
allowed them easier passage. She knew some who saw her in the company of the
knights would wonder about her. A few would think the worst.

Sir Geoffroi had not worn a hauberk this eve. Instead, he
had donned a fine tunic of blue wool, a shade darker than his eyes. The
shoulders of his tunic were beautifully embroidered with silver thread making
her wonder if a woman of Talisand had made it for him. His belt was fine
leather studded with silver, one she had not seen before with a design carved
into it, mayhap his family’s emblem. When she’d first seen him waiting for her
at the bottom of the stairs, he had appeared every bit the nobleman, not merely
one of the Bastard’s knights.

All three of them wore cloaks of dark wool so the people
they passed could not observe how elegantly she and Sir Geoffroi were attired,
nor did the people who stared at them know of the feast that was their
destination. How could she explain to them that what she did was not improper
or treacherous, that even her father, whom the people knew and respected, would
have encouraged her to go? No, she could not expect them to understand what she
only reluctantly admitted to herself, that not all Normans were alike and that
Sir Geoffroi was, in all things, honorable.

Yet she did not forget that he and his fellow knights had
killed some of her people.

She was relieved when they finally crossed over the moat,
leaving the town and the stares of the people behind. But when they entered the
bailey and the palisade walls of the Norman fortress surrounded her, it was
fear, not relief that caused her to shudder. She had thought of the square
wooden tower built a year ago as Lucifer’s den. If ’twas so, this new, mightier
castle might be Hell.

A few men-at-arms lingered in the wide open bailey, guards
mostly, she assumed. Still, her presence was noted as their heads raised and
work stopped, their eyes following her as she passed them. They could not see
much of her, cloaked as she was, but they had to wonder at a woman escorted by
two knights.

Her gaze was drawn to the stables, larger than those built
to support the knights garrisoned in the first tower. The other buildings she
assumed were those typical of such castles: the armory, blacksmith and lodging
for men who did not sleep in the hall. In one corner, a chapel was nearly
finished. It was ironic, indeed, that those who came prepared to kill paid
homage to God in building a chapel. Mayhap they thought of their deaths and
wanted to be prepared. The archbishop had once told her that the Norman king
came to England with the Pope’s blessing. She could hardly fathom it.

A groom came to take their horses. Sir Geoffroi dismounted
and helped her down, raising his hands to her waist to lift her from her
saddle. His touch sent a wave of pleasure coursing through her as his hands
slid inside her cloak and he lowered her to the ground. How could such a slight
encounter leave her wanting? A flame she had thought long extinguished suddenly
ignited within her. When her feet touched the earth in the bailey, she raised
her eyes to meet his, darkened with emotion. He, too, had been affected by
their closeness.

Sir Alain, still atop his horse, interrupted the moment. “I
will return at the end of the eve to go with you when you take the lady home.”

Sir Geoffroi inhaled deeply and nodded. Turning to her, he
offered his arm. She had only to set her fingers upon his tunic and an
unexpected shiver ran down her spine. He must have felt the attraction, for he
turned his head to look at her and in his eyes she glimpsed intense interest as
he led her toward the open door of the castle. It was not convenient, this
attraction between them.

Inside the great hall, a servant accepted their cloaks and
Sir Geoffroi introduced their host as Gilbert de Ghent. His clothing and
bearing suggested he was a nobleman, landed and wealthy. He had black hair and
was not more than thirty, dressed in an emerald green tunic with an ornately
jeweled belt. His stance conveyed arrogance and his dark eyes raked her body.
Here
is a man who expects women to fall at his feet
.

Gilbert bowed over her hand and gave her an admiring glance.
“Had I but known a woman of your grace and beauty lived in York, I would have
invited you myself.” Then with a wry smile aimed at Sir Geoffroi, their host
said, “The Talisand knight is holding some secrets.”

Sir Geoffroi reclaimed her hand and placed it on his
forearm. “Beware the young rogues of Flanders, Emma. My father’s estate in
Tournai might be in France, but ’tis close to Flanders. We know them well.”

Gilbert laughed and strode off saying he would see them at
the feast.

For an instant, she entertained the possibility Sir Geoffroi
might be jealous of the handsome Gilbert, but then she reconsidered, knowing he
loved to tease. Likely the two knights exchanged barbs often.

They walked farther into the hall. It smelled of new timber,
herbed rushes and the dinner being prepared. The large timbered space was not
unlike the one in the castle across the river, mayhap larger. Sconces full of
candles cast a warm glow about the immense room. Servants hurried in and out
with platters and trays, occasionally glancing in her direction. They were
Northumbrians, after all. A young minstrel walked about strumming a lute while
singing a French song. ’Twas the well-appointed den of her enemy. She had to
remind herself she was still in York.

Ahead of them a man and a woman stood together, watching
them approach. The faces of the couple bore looks of curiosity as if they had
not expected Sir Geoffroi to be accompanied by a woman. Like the others, they
were richly clothed in fine velvet embroidered with silver and gold, the woman
in a dark red gown, the man in a tunic the color of cloves.

When they reached the couple, Sir Geoffroi said, “Allow me
to introduce Emma of York.”

Emma curtsied as she had been taught as a young girl in
Lincolnshire, the same way she had curtsied before the Saxon King Harold.

“Emma, these are my friends, William Malet, our sheriff, and
his wife, Helise.”

“Welcome Emma,” said Helise Malet, “I am delighted you are
here.”

Emma returned the smile the woman gave her. Malet’s wife was
a woman of some years but despite the gray strands in her dark hair, Helise was
probably not yet forty. She had a kind face and when she returned Emma’s smile,
it occurred to her that the woman was, indeed, happy to have another woman to
talk to. There were no other women in the hall save the servants.

Emma acknowledged Helise’s husband with a nod. His red hair
was fair, almost Saxon in appearance. His chin bore a short, well-trimmed tuft
of the same red hair. His expression was jovial.

“My lady.” He bowed before her.

Malet could not know of her noble Danish blood, nor of her
highborn father and mother, so she assumed his use of the title was mere
courtesy. She wanted no one to know she was the daughter of a Danish thegn,
much less Maerleswein, now a rebel leader. It worried her that the archbishop
might inadvertently disclose her identity.

Another man, who looked to be near fifty, confidently strode
to Sir Geoffroi and introduced himself to her as William FitzOsbern, the Earl
of Hereford. His lined face and gray-streaked dark hair made her think he had
seen many battles and his heavy mustache gave him a harsh look. She recalled
her father once mentioning that FitzOsbern was a friend of the Norman king.

“My lord,” she said curtseying before him. Her father would
be amazed at her audacity in joining the Normans in their feasting, but he
would also have encouraged her for the information it might provide him.

FitzOsbern smiled at her as she rose and facing Sir
Geoffroi, said, “Hiding so lovely a flower from us, Sir Geoffroi? ’Tis brave of
you to bring her as your guest, knowing neither Gil nor I have a wife.”

The offhanded compliment did not endear him to Emma.

Sir Geoffroi laid his hand over hers where it rested on his
arm. “Have no misconceptions, Fitz, the lady is with me.”

“Aye, I can see that,” FitzOsbern said with an amused
expression. “I wish you both a happy feast.” Tipping his head to her, he took
his leave, saying he had to greet a late arriving guest.

Left alone for the moment, Sir Geoffroi led her toward the
place where they would dine.

“Should I be flattered by FitzOsbern’s words or would he say
the same to any woman?” she asked as they walked toward the table.

“Fitz meant it as a compliment, Emma, but truthfully, there
are too few women in England for William’s thousands of knights. And none like
you.”

“Are you teasing me again? You pay me too high a
compliment.”

“Nay, I do not.” Guiding her toward the table, he explained
that the table arrangement would be different than she might have expected.
Instead of a raised dais set at a right angle to long trestle tables, because
there were so few guests, there was a U-shaped table covered with a linen cloth
and set around the stone-ringed hearth fire.

Servants had begun setting platters of food and trenchers on
the table for the guests. Candles illuminated the many dishes that were sending
smells of spices and roast meat into the air.

“Suddenly I am hungry for what should be a memorable meal,”
said Sir Geoffroi. “Come, Gil urges us to take our seats.”

They were about to sit when she spotted FitzOsbern coming
toward them with the archbishop at his side.

“Do you know the archbishop?” Sir Geoffroi inquired in a
whisper. “I had not thought to ask before.”

“I do,” she said, smiling at the elderly man of God in rich
vestments who slowly ambled toward them as if the effort pained him. His hair
was white now and very thin but his beard was still full. He wore a surcoat of
rich purple velvet and over his shoulders was a white, fur-trimmed robe, the
brooch fastener bejeweled.
Here is the one who crowned both Harold of Wessex
and William, Duke of Normandy.

When FitzOsbern and the archbishop reached them, before
anyone could introduce her, she curtsied. “My Lord Archbishop.”

“Emma,” he said, as she stood. “I was delighted when I was
told you would be in attendance.” She was relieved he had not called her “Lady
Emma”. “I’ve not seen you at Mass in recent weeks.”

Her cheeks flushed at the reminder. “I have been remiss.”

The archbishop sighed. “’Tis not unexpected. These have not
been normal times, so we must make allowances. The Good Lord will surely
understand. One need not be in a church to pray.”

“You are most understanding, My Lord,” she replied, grateful
he had not said more. He was a kind man, more like a father to the people of
York than another archbishop might have been.

FitzOsbern then introduced Sir Geoffroi and the archbishop
welcomed the knight to York. “Do come to Mass when you can.”

“I will do that,” said Sir Geoffroi, smiling. Shooting a
glance at Emma, he added, “Mayhap Emma will come with me.”

With that, the group took their seats. On one leg of the
U-shaped table, sat William Malet and his wife, Helise. Across from them were Sir
Geoffroi, Emma and the archbishop. She was happy to be seated next to Sir
Geoffroi though the attraction she felt for him made his closeness somewhat
disturbing.

The middle leg of the U-shaped table, which for the evening
was essentially the head table, was where Gilbert and FitzOsbern took their
seats. The arrangement was such that all the guests could easily converse with
each other.

As the servants poured the red wine and the men filled the
trenchers from the platters the servants brought, Emma let her gaze drift
around the hall, surprised at the lovely tapestries gracing the walls. In a
knights’ fortress she would not have expected so much civility. Some were so
finely woven they appeared to be made of silk. Others, she was certain, were
made of wool and pictured trees, deer and birds in blue, green and crimson
thread. Raised in Lincolnshire, where her father had many manors, Emma had been
taught to weave and embroider as a young girl before her mother had died. The
scenes depicted in these tapestries were different than the ones her mother had
made for her father, yet Emma still admired the skill of the weavers.

“Do you enjoy the tapestries?” The question had come from
Gilbert, their host.

“They are beautiful.” She would not tell him of the others
with which she was familiar for it would reveal too much. “And fine work.”

“In Flanders, where I come from, we have many makers of
tapestry. Not a few of those I’ve displayed here are made of your fine English
wool. I brought some with me to remind me of home.”

She forced a smile. Before the Bastard had come to England,
trade had prospered. Her husband, Halden, had been among those merchants who
sold English wool to the Flemish weavers and then sold the tapestries they made
back to the English. Tucked away in a chest in her home, there were many.

Emma glanced at the archbishop on her left, hoping he would
say nothing about her parentage or her donations of tapestries to the Minster.
He must have caught her meaning for his next words did not give away her
identity. “The Minster has been given some fine ones by the wealthier families
of York.”

“I trust the Minster has recovered from the trouble of a few
months ago?” offered FitzOsbern.

The old archbishop let out a sigh. “The Minster has been
cleansed, blessed and restored to its proper role, thank the Almighty.”

Emma detected regret in his voice and remembered the shame
the Minster had suffered when the Normans took their revenge on the rebels. It
was all she could do not to say something, particularly when FitzOsbern leaned
over to Gilbert and in French made a remark about the “good people” of York
needing a lesson and the Minster served well enough.