Rogue Knight (Medieval Warriors Book 2) (14 page)

* * *

Geoff had informed Malet’s wife that he and Alain were
available to accompany her and Emma to the new castle on Baille Hill, so he was
unsurprised when the summons came.

He was eager to undertake the task.

When Emma saw him waiting, her smile lit her face, setting
his heart pounding. He had missed her. Worried she might harbor resentment for
some friend killed in the recent skirmish, he was pleased to see she was
neither sullen nor angry. Her face radiated only joy at his coming.

Her hound trotted up to him and nuzzled his hand.

“Magnus, you beast. How are you?” He scratched the hound
behind the ears as the dog leaned into him.

“Shameless begging, Magnus,” Emma chided.

Helise Malet laughed. “You appear to have won a friend, Sir
Geoffroi.”

He grinned at Emma. “That was my intent.”

Together with a few other knights he had chosen, Geoff and
Alain accompanied the two women across the bridge to the opposite bank of the
Ouse River where the new castle rose on Baille Hill. The townspeople moved to
let them pass but their eyes followed the women closely. On a second glance it
seemed to Geoff their gazes followed only Emma.

Once they passed through the gate of the new castle, he left
the knights to wait, taking only Alain and Mathieu with him to follow Emma and
Helise to the far side of the bailey where a large area had been set apart and
protected by a short fence. The hound walked at Emma’s side.

Beyond the fence lay the tended earth of a new garden, one
large enough to produce sufficient vegetables to add to the food of the knights
garrisoned in both castles.

Helise led Emma through a gate in the fence and pointed to
one section of the garden where new plants rose from the soil, green and
thriving. “See how well the vegetables do?”

Geoff stood to one side with Magnus and Alain, watching as
Emma placed her hands on her hips and smiled at the garden’s progress. “Those
leafy turnip tops and squat radish leaves tell me the garden is doing very
well,” remarked Emma. “’Tis thriving, Helise!”

Geoff looked not at the plants but at Emma. Young and
beautiful with her long flaxen plaits hanging down the front of her gown, she
was enough to make any man smile. And he wanted to be that man.

“Over there,” Helise directed, “are the garlic and onion
plants. In time there will be cabbages and leeks, too.” Helise consulted her
diagram. “Oh, and I should not forget the herbs you suggested, Emma—parsley,
sage, chives, dill and marjoram. I agree with that selection. They will please
the cook.”

“The special ones?” asked Emma. “The chamomile, yarrow,
hemlock and wormwood?”

“Those are in that section, over there.” Helise pointed. “I
should have forgotten them had you not given me a list.”

Emma could read, write?
Geoff was surprised to learn
of it. Only noblewomen could read and few of them.

“You will need the special herbs to treat the wounds of your
knights,” Emma said with a side-glance in Geoff’s direction.

He chuckled. Aye, they had wounds. It was part of being a
knight. Chain mail did not prevent them.

Emma bent over the plants like they were young children in
need of encouragement. Her long hair fell onto the plants making him want to
wrap the flaxen braids around his hand and draw her near for another kiss. In
truth, he wanted more than a kiss. He missed the taste of her, the touch of
her. He wanted to slip his hands around her slim waist and draw her near, to
feel her womanly curves against him.

Magnus went to sniff at the plants Emma coddled and then
sneezed, making her laugh. He liked seeing her in good spirits. He wanted to make
her smile often.

He shifted his gaze from Emma to the garden she and Helise
had created, admiring it. He approved of the way it was ordered. The
rectangular wooden boxes, about four feet on a side, allowed the herbs to be
set apart from the vegetables and flowers. “Was it your design, Emma?”

Helise answered for her. “It was! And ’tis very clever with
the border of
marygolde
flowers, do you not agree, Sir Geoffroi?”

“I do. ’Tis a marvel,” he remarked, but he was looking at
Emma.
She
was the marvel.

“You will like it better when there is a harvest to be
reaped, sir knight,” she tossed back with a smile.

Helise pulled Emma toward a patch of dark, leafy greens.
“Over here is where you suggested we plant the kale. See how it grows?”

The women chatted about the plants, Emma providing
suggestions for helping them to grow. Geoff watched Emma with not just desire
but admiration to think she had conceived it. He inspected the short,
palisade-like fence that surrounded the large garden. It was sturdy enough to
keep out animals and children.

Where had she learned such a skill? And where had she
learned to read?

* * *

Emma was enjoying her time with Helise, particularly because
Sir Geoffroi was near. She did not have to look at him to feel his presence.
There was a tether between her and the blond knight, an invisible cord that
held her to him, a desire that flamed whenever he was near.

She did not even mind that the garden she had helped to
create would feed the Norman soldiers, for Sir Geoffroi would be one of them.

Seeing the plants rise from the rich soil gave her pride.
The garden was not unlike the one her mother had planted at their manor in
Lincolnshire, the largest of her father’s manors. She had lost her mother when
she was younger than Finna but she had fond memories of the woman with the
flaxen hair like hers. Her mother had taught her to read as well as embroider.
She wished she could have her mother with her now, but it was a comfort to have
a friendship with Helise Malet, who was the same age Emma’s mother would have
been had she lived.

To Emma, their time in the peaceful garden was like an
island of calm in a roiling sea. It could not last, but she was loath to
question the good that providence offered her, however short such a time might
be. She would enjoy the hours she and Sir Geoffroi spent together, for she knew
they would end all too soon.

As they made to leave, her gaze caught Sir Geoffroi’s and
for a moment neither looked away until Helise’s chatter distracted her.

“We can harvest the plants together,” the older woman
offered.

“That would be nice,” Emma agreed.

When they returned to the tower castle on the other side of
the river, Sir Geoffroi insisted on seeing her home. She was grateful their
goodbye would be delayed.

Even avoiding the well-traveled streets as they did, it was
a bit of a procession, her traveling with him and his knights and Magnus loping
beside them. People stopped to watch them pass. Some would have recognized
Magnus and questioned her being in the company of the knights. She was glad
when they arrived at her house without incident.

“Will you and Sir Alain come in?” she asked.

“Aye, gladly,” he replied.

“I will wait for you here with the men,” announced Sir
Alain.

When Sir Geoffroi nodded his acceptance, Emma addressed the
one called the Bear. “Then I will send ale for you and the other knights.”

Once inside, Magnus flopped on his pallet and Emma asked
Artur to take the waiting knights ale to refresh them. She hung her cloak on a
peg and went into the kitchen, as the servant poured ale and disappeared with a
tray of tankards for the knights.

Sigga was still at the market, leaving Emma alone with Sir
Geoffroi. She fetched him a berry tart and a tankard of ale. “I saved one for
you when I set aside two for the twins. They will have theirs with supper. Best
to eat yours now or Magnus will be begging for it.”

“Where are the children?”

“Inga was going to take them to a friend’s for play while I
was at the castle.”

She handed him the tart on her palm, the berry juice running
onto her fingers.

His eyes fastened on the juicy treat bulging with cooked
berries. “You have my thanks, my lady.” Swiftly, he engulfed the sweet and
washed it down with a swig of ale.

She laughed, seeing the berry juice dripping from his chin.
“You are a sight, Sir Geoffroi.” Reaching for a cloth, she was about to wipe
the juice from his face when he reached for her hand.

Taking the cloth, he set it on the worktable and brought her
fingertips to his mouth, licking the juice. The sensation of his warm tongue
stroking her fingertips stirred a heat deep within her. Involuntarily her lips
parted and she took in a quick breath, shivers making her nipples harden
beneath her tunic as his tongue moved over her fingers.

His blue gaze fixed on her. “You taste better than the tart
and I would have more.”

She regarded his rugged face, browned by his many days in
the summer sun. It made his blue eyes all the more striking. His lips curved in
a sensual smile, a spot of berry juice still on his mouth. She had the sudden
urge to lick it off but before she could do it, his tongue reached out and
lapped up the juice.

He pulled her into his chest and gazed intently into her
eyes. “Emma, I have longed to kiss you.”

“Then mayhap you should,” she whispered, wanting nothing
more.

He bent his head to take her mouth and she was lost in his
kiss, the warmth of his chest pressed against her, the taste of the berries on
his tongue sliding over hers, seducing her to his will. But it was her will,
too. She had wanted this from the first time she had seen him that morning,
mayhap for days before that. She tilted her head to allow him to kiss her more
deeply, entwining her fingers in the hair at the base of his neck.

Their breaths quickened, her heart raced and a pool of warm
liquid settled in her woman’s center.

Breaking the kiss, he pressed his forehead to hers. “Be my
lady, Emma. Let me have you and I promise I will never have another.”

She was not shocked at his request, but delighted in his
words. Their gazes met and for a time neither spoke. Still, there was much in
their eyes. For three years she had been without a man and had wanted none, but
she wanted him.

Without a word, she took his rough hand in hers and led him
out of the kitchen and up the stairs to her chamber, thinking all the while it
was meant to be. Once inside, she closed the door and turned to him. “Your
companions wait, so we do not have much time.”

“Let them wait,” he said, drawing her close to kiss her
neck, her face, then her lips. “I want you, Emma.”

If they’d had more time, mayhap they would have proceeded
more slowly but she did not think so. The passion between them was too intense
and had been building for too long. Instead, they tore at each other’s
clothing, frantic to be free of it, but all they managed before they fell to the
bed was to remove his hauberk and her woolen gown. Her headcloth had quickly
fallen to the floor on its own.

“Emma, Emma,” he murmured as his hands reached for her linen
shift, lifting it to her hips and running his palm down her quivering thigh.

Then he kissed her deeply, moving his hand to her breast. It
felt blessedly right.

The heavy weight of his sex pressed against her. She tugged
at his braies. He helped her slide them down leaving their bodies below the
waist touching, hot and ready, flamed by the heat coursing between them.

“Geoffroi, hurry.”

He rose up, positioned his sex at her welcoming folds and
plunged in more deeply than she could have imagined. “My love,” he murmured as
he stilled.

She raised her hips to take all of him, welcoming his hot flesh
into her tight sheath. It had been years since she had known a man, still she
could not remember ever experiencing such fullness, such wonder. There was no
ghost to greet her, no image of anyone but Geoffroi, his blue gaze intense when
she opened her eyes to see him staring at her.

“Is it well with you, my love?” he asked, concern in the
depths of his eyes.

“Yea, but ’twill be better when you begin to move.”

“I shall move,” he said, thrusting into her. “Oh yes, Emma,
I shall move.”

Then began a most wondrous coupling, a loving she would
never forget. Their bodies fit perfectly to each other, his sex gliding slowly
in and out of her welcoming flesh.

She raised her hips to move with him, as together they
strove to reach the peak of their passion. When their release came, it was a
joining that seemed so right, so destined, she felt no guilt. He had wanted her
to give herself to him and she had.

There was no turning back now.

Dunfermline, Scotland

A myriad of flickering candles and blazing torches lighted
the great hall where Maerleswein joined the men and women feasting on roasted
boar. To him it was a regathering of sorts, for they had all been there the
year before, seeking refuge willingly offered by the Scottish monarch.

At the head table sat Malcolm Canmore, King of Scotland,
nearly forty and still a vigorous man with a warrior’s body and a full head of
long, brown hair to go with his mustache and well-kept beard. Watching the king
was his betrothed, the lovely Margaret of Wessex, who was nearly half his age.
Maerleswein had met her the year before, when she and her brother fled north.
Anyone who saw Margaret and Edgar Ætheling together would observe the
resemblance. The two shared their fair appearance, their blue-gray eyes and the
same delicate features; Edgar’s only a masculine version of his sister’s.

The king had told Maerleswein that when Edgar, his mother
and two sisters had landed in Scotland, Malcolm was there to greet them.
Maerleswein could well imagine the scene, the king’s eyes devouring young
Margaret, as they did this night. ’Twas not surprising when, soon after they
met, the king offered to make Margaret his wife. Malcolm had fallen quickly,
not just because of her royal Saxon lineage, the same lineage that the Norman
Bastard would find disturbing when matched with a Scot, but because Margaret
was so much more.

Her gentle spirit permeated the hall. He had heard it said
in Dunfermline that she was persuaded to accept the king’s offer in order to
accomplish a holy purpose, to direct Malcolm from his erring ways and increase
God’s praise in the land. Mayhap it was so, for, from his own observations, the
Scottish people loved her, as did their king.

She did not say much, a word here, a nod there, allowing her
betrothed to do the talking. While Malcolm spoke both Gaelic and Saxon,
Margaret spoke only Saxon. Yet she did not need to speak for those attending to
observe the sweetness of her nature.

With her long flaxen plaits and her pleasant expression,
Margaret reminded Maerleswein of his wife, Julianna, at that age. A wave of
sadness swept over him. He had lost her so early and, even today, missed her
far more than he would ever admit. With a sigh, he shook off the longing for
the past. He had his daughter to care for and she was the image of her mother.
He had named her for Emma of Normandy, Queen Consort of England, Denmark and
Norway. The name seemed fitting since both were strong of character and had
overcome loss, though after the Bastard plundered England, mayhap the Norman’s
connection to the name was best forgotten.

He gazed about the hall, decorated with shields and
tapestries belonging to the Scottish royal family and proudly noted that the
men sharing the meal with the king were nearly all Northumbrians, many related.
None was even thirty, yet much would be expected of them if they were to take
back the North. The Danes and their ships would not be enough without leaders
like Waltheof, the Earl of Huntingdon, who looked like a Dane with his great
height and pale hair. And no wonder, for he was cousin to King Swein of
Denmark.

As he thought of it, Waltheof was also cousin to Cospatric,
the young Earl of Bamburgh. Now there was a man who would make a fine husband
for Emma. Handsome by most women’s standards, and more importantly to
Maerleswein, Cospatric was wealthy and titled, still powerful with his lands
north of Durham.

Emma was too independent, too content with her made up
family. She needed children of her own. She’d had enough time to mourn Halden’s
death. Maerleswein had no intention of allowing his only daughter to remain a
widow forever. It was time for her to wed again. He was not pleased with this
friendship with a French knight who had helped her with Ottar. The look in her
eyes when she spoke of the knight’s kindness displayed more than gratitude.

Emma had been alone with women, children and servants for
too long. She needed a man, one
her father
approved of.

Hearing the men’s conversations, retelling the story of the
Normans’ routing of the weak Northumbrian forces, reminded him of his mission.
He had come to Dunfermline not only to seek Malcolm’s aid, as he had King
Swein’s, but to convince the Scot and the others to join the fight. Even more
than men and arms, they needed leaders with a firm resolve to accomplish their
purpose. He was still doubtful of Osbjorn’s ability
to lead
hundreds of ships and thousands of Danish warriors. He knew William.
The
Norman Bastard was fierce and would not be stopped except by men with a
tenacity to match his own.

“You are a quiet one this night, Maerleswein,” observed the
king of the Scots, looking down the table to where Maerleswein sat.

“Aye. I have been contemplating all that must be done by
summer’s end when we return to Yorkshire to meet King Swein’s ships. There is
much to consider.”

“You are confident they will arrive?”

“I am. What Swein has promised, he will see done. While I
was still in Jelling, he ordered the building of more longships.”

Cospatric set down his wine. “He was most eager to reclaim
the heart of the old Danish lands.”

Malcolm leaned forward. “In that, Scotland may have an
interest. We were planning to invade Yorkshire last year on Edgar’s behalf, but
alas, the Norman got there first.”

“He has come and gone again from York,” Maerleswein informed
the king, “leaving yet another of his castles and more of his French knights.
While he is away is the time to strike.”

* * *

York, England

Emma gazed into Geoffroi’s face, as they lay together amidst
the lavender flowers at the edge of the meadow that abutted the woods, content
as she had never been. In the background she could hear the melodious song of
the ruby-breasted linnet.

The world did not intrude into this part of the forest. It
was a special place, theirs alone. It had not been easy for her to steal away
unnoticed to meet him in the flower-filled meadow, but she had done so. And she
came willingly, though not as often as either Geoffroi or she would have liked.

Sunlight filtered through the trees to fall across his
straw-colored hair. One arm bent under her head for a pillow, she reached up
with the other to touch his cheek, letting her fingers caress his now familiar
face, relishing the weight of his body lying across hers.

He bent his head to kiss her, brushing his lips over hers.
She heard him take a deep breath.

“I love your smell,” he said, nuzzling her neck, sending
shivers down her spine and awakening other parts of her body. “I noticed it the
first time you rode with me.”

His tongue slid over her skin and she turned into his
caress.

“You taste like honey,” he murmured.

She turned her head to kiss his temple.

“Would that we could always be together like this,” he said,
raising himself on one elbow to brush tendrils of hair from her brow. “Only I
would prefer a bed,” he added with a grin, “and you naked. The times I have
seen your lovely form have been too few.”

She smiled up at him, her hand curving around his chiseled
jaw. He turned his head to kiss her palm. The warmth of his lips sent an aching
need coursing through her. She loved the touch of this man. His hands were
rough but his lovemaking tender. Yet, at times, his passion had risen to take
her in a furious storm. She had reveled in his unleashed strength.

“’Tis a dream I, too, wish were real,” she murmured. But she
knew it was only a dream, one that would never be realized. In this place she
ignored the allegiances that would one day tear them apart. She forgot the
father she loved who led the rebels. If this was all she had of her knight and
his love, she would accept it and be grateful for the gift.

His face was mere inches from hers when he whispered, “I
meant when I said I would have no other, Emma. Do me the honor of becoming my
wife and when I return to Talisand, come with me.”

She let out a breath. How she wanted to go! Somehow she must
find the words to tell him she could not. “My life is here, Geoffroi. The
twins, my home, Inga.”
My people, my father, my future
.

“Bring Inga and the twins with you,” he said undaunted,
sitting up to cast her a mischievous smile. “Even the hound! Talisand has room
for all and I have a manor and land of my own. Even Artur and Sigga would find
a home there with us.”

“If only….” She gazed into the depths of his blue eyes. If
only her father did not plot with the Danes to recapture York. If only she was
not a thegn’s daughter with all the attendant responsibilities to her station
and to those who depended upon her. If Geoffroi knew her father and his allies
planned to send the Norman king running, he would have nothing to do with her.
His love might even turn to hate. If her father knew she had taken a Norman
knight as her lover, he would kill that knight. Torn between them, she could
tell neither of the other.

“You need only say ‘Yes’, Emma.”

She sat up and began to brush the grass from her tunic,
avoiding his eyes. “I cannot. Not… now.”

He was silent for a time and then he said, “I know it would
mean an upheaval in your life, but I will give you time, Emma, as much as I
have to give. It may be that at summer’s end I will return to the Lune River,
to Talisand. I pray you will go with me. We belong together.”

She felt a shiver run up her spine. At summer’s end, he and
the other Normans could be dead, slain by her fellow Northumbrians or their
Danish allies. Mayhap even her father
.
The weight of the knowledge she
bore crushed her. How could she tell him the battle for York was not over, as
he might believe, but had only just begun? How could she face the prospect of
losing him in that battle? Geoffroi could not die. No, he must live to return
to his beloved Talisand, even if it were without her.

He stood and helped her to rise, then kissed her. She
welcomed his kiss, desperately clinging to their few moments together. Each of
his kisses was precious, for she did not know how long she would have them.

They brushed the grass from their clothes and walked hand in
hand from the meadow, the ache of regret lodging deep within her heart for what
she knew could never be and for fear of what was coming.

* * *

’Twas the middle of August when Malet found Geoff in the
bailey where he had been speaking with Mathieu about the horses. The sun
overhead was warm, heating his mail and the skin beneath his tunic. He was
hoping for a cup of ale, but he could see by the sheriff’s face, set in stern
lines, he carried the weight of the world. The tankard of ale would have to
wait.

Sending Mathieu on his way with a wave of his hand, he
turned to Malet. “What is it?”

“A messenger has arrived from the king.”

“He is returning?” Geoff guessed. “I thought William was
hunting in Gloucestershire.”

“He was,” said Malet. “That is where the news reached him
that more than two hundred Danish ships have been sighted off Dover. Since
then, the Danes have attacked Ipswich and Norwich in East Anglia, destroying
William’s ships and plundering the towns.”

For a moment, Geoff was too shocked at the news to speak.
When he found his voice, he said, “The Danes are attacking England?”

“Aye, sailing north and pillaging along the way,” came
Malet’s grave reply.

Regaining control of his thoughts, Geoff raked his hand
through his hair, hardly believing that after three years the Danes would
choose to sail to England. “Why would they do that when William has taken
control of the land? Are they testing our defenses?”

“Mayhap they are. Think of it, Sir Geoffroi, more than two
hundred longships, their warriors plundering the coast and moving north.”

Staring into the distance, Geoff pictured the ships with
their red and white striped sails, the curved stems carved into dragon heads.
In his mind, he counted the warriors each would carry, some as many as a
hundred. All together it would be thousands more men than they had knights.

“Does William believe they are headed to York?” Even as he
asked, Geoff realized if the Danes were plundering the southeast of England,
they would not fail to come north with a treasure as rich as York in their
path.

Malet nodded.

“What are the king’s orders?” Geoff asked.

“He orders us to resist and asks how long we can hold out.”

“That will depend on whether the Northumbrians join them,”
said Geoff. “Remember, we are not so many compared with their greater numbers.
York is not a small city and the warriors they have would add greatly to the
Danes’ numbers and their fighting skills. Worse, the Danes would give the
rebels courage to fight on.”

“I believe we can hold out for a year were we to take in
sufficient food,” said the sheriff, “but FitzOsbern wants to discuss it. That
was my purpose in seeking you out. He has called for a meeting at the evening
meal.”

“I will be there,” said Geoff.

Malet strode away, mumbling about sending a page to tell
Gilbert of the meeting. In Geoff’s mind, he saw Emma.
I must warn her.

* * *

At the far end of the garden where Artur had built benches,
Emma sat telling the twins the tale of Beowulf, one she had told them many
times before but they had pleaded to hear it again. Beside her sat Inga, just
beginning to show her rounding belly. The twins, with their upturned faces,
were sitting cross-legged at Emma’s feet, Magnus between them. They had spent
many afternoons in such manner after their chores were done since the weather
was warm and the days long.

The children loved the tale, so she told them what she knew,
what her father had told her years ago, the tale of the great warrior who had
come to the aid of the Danish king to slay the monster Grendel and later a
dragon. The twins’ eyes grew large at the daring exploits she described.