Rogue Knight (Medieval Warriors Book 2) (18 page)

Maerleswein rolled his eyes at Cospatric. The Northumbrians
might be there to take back their city, but the Danes were there to plunder its
riches. King Swein would not have been so shortsighted.

Swein’s brother and sons departed as Maerleswein’s captain
approached. “What would you have me do with these?” He gestured toward the
group of nobles and the knights who stood with them.

“We will keep the nobles as prisoners. They may yet be
useful to us. The rest we will slay.” Smiling at Cospatric, he said, “Mayhap
Waltheof’s axe is not yet dull.”

Emma anxiously paced as Artur stirred the hearth fire,
grateful Inga watched the twins in their chamber. Knowing the battle had been
underway for some hours, she prayed for the safe deliverance of the men she
loved, hearing in her mind her father’s words.
It will be a time of
celebration, not mourning
. How could that be true when the two men she
cared for most fought on opposite sides? The people of York might celebrate a
victory this night, but would she?

She had explained to Ottar and Finna what was happening as
best she could. They knew of the fire, had seen the destruction on the walk
they had taken with Emma after the conflagration had ended.

Finna had stared at the smoldering ruin of the Minster and
wrinkled her little girl forehead. “What happened?”

How could she explain to a child that the place in which she
was growing up—her home—was changing, that men fought and died to control it?
None of the answers she had to give told the whole truth, nor could they, but
she had tried all the same.

A pounding sounded on the door, scattering her thoughts.

Artur went to open it. To her shock, one of the men her
father had left to guard her home stood with his knife pressed to the neck of
Geoffroi’s squire.

The burly guard forced Mathieu through the door. The
squire’s hazel eyes were wide with fear, his cheeks flushed. He had obviously
ridden hard to get here. “This one says you know him, my lady. Claims he brings
you an urgent message. Should I slay the Norman offal and be rid of him?”

“Nay! I do know him. Take your knife from his neck. He is a
friend.”

The guard gave her a skeptical look but lowered his knife.
“I have already removed his weapons, my lady.”

“You may leave us, sir,” she said, ignoring the guard’s
incredulous look.

“Come Mathieu.” The squire looked bedraggled and frightened,
his brown hair tangled around his face, his mail soiled. “Artur, get Mathieu
some ale.”

Artur fetched the ale and the squire took a large swallow,
wiping his mouth with his sleeve, then handed the tankard back.

She gazed at him with concern. “How goes the battle,
Mathieu? I have had no word.”

“The Danes and the rebels have their victory, my lady, but
at a terrible cost. Thousands of the king’s men lay dead, nearly the entire
garrison of both castles.”

Emma was stricken, torn between the Northumbrians’ success
and the stark reality of the slaughter that had secured it. “Sir Geoffroi?” she
asked in a faint voice, almost afraid of the answer.

“He lives but mayhap not for long. That is why I have come.
The rebels now in charge of the castle threaten his life and that of Sir Alain.
I only escaped through the postern gate to seek your aid. I do not know if you
can help but if you have any influence with their leaders, please come. The
nobles they have taken prisoner, but the knights they intend to kill.”

Emma did not know who held the nobles, but certainly if not
her father then Cospatric or Edgar. Even King Swein’s brother, Osbjorn, would
know her. “I will go.” She turned to address Artur. “Call the guards and saddle
Thyra.”

Her father’s guards were not happy to accede to her request.
“The Danes are now controlling the city, my lady,” said the one in charge.
“They may be allies but ’tis still dangerous. We cannot defend against so
many.”

She knew what he meant. He was worried they might see her as
an object of their lust. Dismissing the danger she could do nothing about, she
said, “I must go. A man’s life is at stake.” Glancing at the squire, she said,
“Remove anything that shows you to be a Norman. Artur can give you a plain
tunic. You will ride pillion with me.”

The guards did not like it but, in the end, two of them rode
with her and Mathieu and two remained behind to guard her family. Emma left the
house with a word to Artur to keep Sigga, Inga and the children safe. Magnus
whimpered as they left, the look in his dark eyes telling her he wanted to go.
She would not risk his life.

* * *

When they were surrounded by the rebels and their weapons
taken, Geoff had placed himself in front of Malet and his family. His arm was
still bleeding but not badly. Alain had taken a sword point in his shoulder and
now dripped blood onto his mail. Undaunted, the Bear stood in front of Gilbert
and FitzOsbern. The few other men who had been in the castle when Geoff had
ordered the doors barred now huddled with the nobles. Without their weapons
they would be of little use but Geoff still thought of himself as a protector.
His death might at least delay that of the others.

He had not witnessed the end of the battle but he had heard
the shouts of the great victory claimed by the rebels. He heaved a bitter sigh
knowing the rest of his knights and men-at-arms must now be dead.

“Who is the tall one who gives the orders?” he whispered to
FitzOsbern over his shoulder.

“Maerleswein,” he spit out, “the former Sheriff of
Lincolnshire, a thegn who once swore allegiance to William. Beside him, the
younger one with the dark hair is Earl Cospatric. He was once the Earl of
Northumbria. Rebels both.”

“The leaders?”

“Aye, most likely, along with the Dane who just left.”

The one FitzOsbern had named Maerleswein pulled his long
seax from its leather sheath at his waist and strolled toward Geoff and Alain.
The tall Northumbrian was coated in dried blood, even his face and beard were
streaked with it.

In Norman French, Maerleswein said, “You and the other
knights are of no use to me.” Then he took a step toward Geoff and pressed the
knife’s edge to his throat. Geoff felt a trickle of blood course down his neck
and both fear and resolve streaked down his spine. He would not cower. If die
he must, then die he would.

The blade was suddenly withdrawn and the rebel leader’s head
jerked toward the front of the hall where a tall woman wearing a dark cloak ran
through the door.

Geoff would have recognized her anywhere.
Emma.
Mon
Dieu.
What is she doing here?
At her side was Mathieu, dressed as a
Northumbrian, followed by two warriors, their swords drawn.

“Father!” she shouted, letting her hood drop and hurrying
toward Maerleswein.

Father?

Maerleswein sheathed his blade. “Emma, why have you come?
’Tis not safe.”

Emma’s eyes were fierce as she shot Geoff a glance before
drawing near to the man she had called father. Panting, she breathed out, “I
come to save a friend.”

Maerleswein frowned at the guards behind Emma, his harsh
glare chiding them for having failed in their duty. Facing his daughter, he
demanded, “What friend could you find in a Norman castle?”

“These two knights and this squire you would slay,” she said
to the blond giant she had claimed as her sire.

Geoff remembered the large shoes he had seen in the room
where they had laid the sword-maker and his gaze shifted to Maerleswein’s feet.
Emma was his daughter? The leader of the rebels was her
father
?
Disbelief gave way to rising anger that settled into his gut. All this time she
had known her father plotted with the Danes to slaughter William’s knights, yet
she had said not a word. She had allowed Geoff to aid the family of the rebel
leader, even feeding them. For Christ sake, she had even welcomed him to her
bed!

To betray me?

“Father, remember the Normans I spoke of who came to my
rescue? The ones who helped Ottar, Feigr and Magnus?”

Maerleswein cast a glance at Geoff and Alain. “
These
are the French knights?”

Emma nodded. “The ones who stand before you, guarding the
Norman nobles, and this squire who summoned me. I would ask you to spare them.”

Maerleswein’s face hardened into a scowl, his eyes narrowing
as if he would deny her request.

“For
my
sake, Father,” she pleaded.

Maerleswein let out a breath and his countenance softened
when he looked into his daughter’s anxious eyes. Geoff had experienced those
same blue-green eyes turned on him. He did not doubt her father would relent.

“All right, Daughter. It will be as you say. They are not
many and I suppose it ’twill not hinder us.” Then to one of his soldiers, “Put
the knights in the tower chambers and post guards at the doors. Malet, his wife
and sons can take another chamber and FitzOsbern and Gilbert a third.”

“Aye, sir,” the warrior dipped his head, “it shall be done.”

“Thank you, Father,” said Emma, casting Geoff a glance that
spoke of regret.

“Helise, I am sorry,” Emma said to the woman.

Malet’s wife regarded her coolly and looked away.

Geoff felt empty, sickened at the thought Emma could accept
his kisses and his trust while carrying on a grand deception. He had been well
and truly deceived. Now, like the Valkyrie he had first imagined her, she would
choose to give him life.
But for how long?
He could not imagine they
would keep him and the others alive when they had already slaughtered the
garrisons. Mayhap once she was gone, Maerleswein would see to their deaths as
well.

Malet had been right the night of the feast when he had
warned him.
Could she be a rebel spy?
Geoff had not thought so then, but
now the evidence was laid before him, too clear to deny. Lured like a fish to
the line, baited by her beauty and her winsome smiles, he had never considered
Emma might be one of the rebels, much less the daughter of their leader. He had
believed her only a widow he could win. He had been wrong.

Geoff grew bitter remembering the hundreds of knights and
men-at-arms the rebels and their Danish allies had slain. Some had ridden with
him from Talisand, good men and true. Like him, they were younger sons who
served the king hoping to gain lands of their own in England. Now they were
gone, their voices stilled forever.

* * *

Riding Thyra back to her home, accompanied by her father’s
guards, Emma carefully picked her way through the bodies and charred debris
scattered over the streets of York. It was an unholy sight. The tension that
had gripped her not knowing if she would be in time to save them ebbed with the
relief that came, knowing her father would spare Geoffroi and his companions.
But the look of hatred on Geoffroi’s face would haunt her forever.

She had never lied to him but she had not told him who her
father was or that he had gone to the Danish king, who was his friend, to seek
aid for the rebels in York. The revulsion she had glimpsed in the knight’s eyes
was so unlike the warmth she had always seen there before it chilled her.

He held her responsible for what had transpired. But what
could she have done? She loved her father and her people who suffered under the
Norman yoke. Her own hatred for the French knights had been strong. Yet into
her life had come one who was not like the others, one who showed her kindness
at every turn. One whose laughter had brought joy into her life, even love. His
kindness had softened her heart and made her want to love again.

But how could she have told him of the coming battle?

She had never believed Geoffroi would lose his life. To her
he was invincible, destined to return to his beloved Talisand. And he
had
survived the battle while most of the Normans had died.

On her way to the castle, she had seen hundreds, mayhap
thousands of bodies strewn about the streets and near the castles, Normans mostly
by their clothing and long shields, but Northumbrians and Danes as well. Even
horses had fallen.

Vultures circled overhead, some descending to the bodies to
pick at the corpses. The stench that had drawn them made her want to vomit. She
could never get used to war’s leavings and hoped to never see them again.

The victors were removing swords and knives from their
victims and piling up the corpses to be burned.

Though some of the slain knights and men-at-arms had
undoubtedly inflicted evil upon her people, treating the citizens despicably
and defiling young women as if their virtue was of little consequence, the
sight of so many dead was still horrible and one she had never seen before.

They rode down Coppergate, past the ruined stalls that had
once been the shops owned by Feigr and Auki. Feigr’s forge had survived the
flames, a blackened monument to a once prosperous business, but the rest of his
shop was a mound of ashes. At least Feigr had fled before the flames destroyed
the wooden structures. Even now, many of Feigr’s goods were stored in her home.
Had he survived the battle?
Inga would ask her.

Glancing at the two rough looking guards riding on either
side of her, she was glad she had apologized to them for her part in their
having to face her father’s wrath, but she would not change what she had done.
She could not have left Geoffroi to die, not just because he had oft rescued
her and those she loved, but because she cared for him.

Did she love the Norman? Yes, her heart told her, for she
dreaded life without him, his cheerful presence, his tender touch. His smile
and his love had been gifts she had never thought to have. Into her mind came
the picture of his face as she had departed the castle. It had been twisted
into a grimace, so harsh it had made her recoil. She had always known he was
her enemy; now he knew she was his.

What would become of him and the other Normans her father
held prisoner? Would they be ransomed? She hoped so. At least that way they
would live.

Questions swirled in her mind as they neared her home. With
the city reduced to a burned out shell and only a few structures still
standing, where would the people go? The wealthy, she knew, could flee to other
places. Mayhap they already had. But what of the shopkeepers, freemen and villeins?
Would the Danes remain to defend them when the Norman king returned, as he
surely must? Could the Northumbrian warriors hold York without them? From all
her father had told her about the Norman king, she knew he meant to rule all of
England.