Rogue Knight (Medieval Warriors Book 2) (19 page)

She shuddered when she considered the ruthless methods he
might employ to see it done. Surely when he heard the news of his forces’
defeat, he would seek vengeance.

* * *

Geoff peered out the small arrow slit in the chamber high in
the tower where he, Alain and Mathieu had been confined. The fires from the
Danes’ camp along the riverbank burned strong in the late September night as
the sounds of their revelry drifted up to him and he remembered Emma as he had
last seen her.

He had loved her, had even wanted her for his wife. But
seeing her with her father cast a shadow on all they had shared. She was a
beauty who had captured his heart and then tossed it at his feet. How long
would Maerleswein keep his promise to her and allow them to live?

Hours had passed with no word. They had tended their wounds
as best they could. Alain’s was worse than Geoff’s but they were finally able
to stop the bleeding, clean the wound and make a bandage out of what cloth they
had found in the chamber. If the Bear did not come down with a fever, he would
heal.

Alain went to the door and pressed his ear to listen. “The
sounds of celebration from the hall grow loud. Let us hope they have forgotten
us in their feasting and drinking.”

“At least they have allowed the servants to bring us food,” said
Mathieu, picking up a piece of bread from where it sat on the tray with cheese,
fruit and a pitcher of wine.

Geoff sighed, his thoughts on the far side of the city where
Emma might be sitting by her own hearth fire. How could she have betrayed him?

He felt Alain watching him. He was not surprised when he
spoke words of advice. “Forget the widow. There will be other women.”

Geoff said nothing. It might be wise to forget her, but he
was not so sanguine as to believe it was possible. There would be no other
woman like Emma. He wanted to hate her for her treachery. Mayhap for long
moments he had. But then he remembered their afternoons together in the meadow,
her sweet response to his lovemaking, her kindness to the orphaned children,
the girl Inga, even the hound, and his hatred turned into a longing, a desire
for what he had lost. How could he still desire a woman who had sold him to the
rebels?

Alain picked up his goblet of wine and threw back a large
swallow. “’Tis our wine they give us, the last we shall see, at least for some
time.”

“Aye,” said Geoff, helping himself to the French wine,
hoping it would make him forget.

Alain stared at the goblet, turning it in his hand. “’Twill
soon be October. Aethel’s babe was to be born in September.”

Geoff knew the big knight worried for his wife. Childbirth
could mean the death of the mother or the child, or both. “She will be well,
Alain. Did not Maugris see your little girl growing up with the Red Wolf’s
son?”

“Aye. For that reason Aethel chose a name before I left.”

“What is it?” asked Mathieu from where he sat eating some of
the cheese.

“Lora,” the Bear said with a smile that suggested a pleasant
memory.

“’Tis a beautiful name,” Geoff remarked. Then seeing the
wistful look on Alain’s face, he added, “You will see them, have no worry.” He
had his doubts of their returning to Talisand, but he would not share them with
his friend.

“When was Lady Serena’s babe expected?” asked Mathieu.

Geoff recalled Maugris’ words to Serena. “’Twas to be in the
spring, April, I think. If all went well, as Maugris’ vision told him it would,
she has been delivered of the Red Wolf’s cub, his heir.”

“They were to name him Alexander,” said Alain.

Geoff grinned thinking about the Red Wolf as a father.
Missing his friend and wanting to cheer his companions, he lifted his goblet.
“A toast! To Alexander and Lora and to our seeing them before this year is
done.”

Alain and Mathieu lifted their goblets and the three drank
in somber celebration in the midst of a castle where a clamorous revelry celebrating
their defeat echoed from the hall below.

* * *

“Tonight the Norman hall rings with the sounds of our
victory,” Maerleswein announced, lifting his goblet of mead to Cospatric and
Edgar who sat on one side of him at the high table. Osbjorn, King Swein’s sons
and Waltheof sat on his other side. “Tomorrow we will tear down these walls,
these symbols of Norman tyranny.”

“Aye,” said Cospatric raising his goblet and taking a long
drink.

“’Tis a long time in coming,” said Edgar.

The great hall glowed with torches and candles. Hundreds of
Danes and Northumbrians sitting at the long trestle tables lifted their cups,
goblets and tankards in toast to the victory they had won that day. When the
fighting was over, they had bathed in the same river that had brought their
dragon ships to York, washing themselves of the blood of their victims.

In the center of the room over the hearth fire, a side of
beef roasted on a spit, a lad turning it often. Outside, other fires played
host to roasting meat and other celebrations. The smell of beef and melting fat
mixed with herbs filled the hall, making Maerleswein’s mouth water. No food had
touched his lips since first light, and then only dried beef to sustain him.

Along with the beef, there was to be roast pork and several
varieties of fish. The servants were already setting cooked vegetables from the
castle gardens and bread and honey upon the tables. The serving wenches flitted
about, obviously happy to be waiting upon the warriors who had freed their
city. The Danes eyed the women with lusty gazes. The women were quick to offer
sultry smiles in return. He was glad Emma was not here.

Osbjorn, who sat in the center of the high table with King
Swein’s sons and Waltheof on his other side, filled his drinking horn with ale,
then got to his feet and lifted it high. “To those in the hall,” he loudly
proclaimed, “we celebrate a great victory! York is once again ours!”

The Danish warriors and the men of Northumbria stood and
raised their drinking cups, echoing Osbjorn’s pronouncement before downing
their mead.

Lowering his hand, Osbjorn made the sign of the cross over
his drinking horn, as was tradition. It was Thor’s hammer and not the Christian
cross Osbjorn paid tribute to, while Bishop Christian of Aarhus, who King Swein
had insisted come with them, sat on the far end of the high table. It did not
surprise Maerleswein. The Christian God had come to the Danes decades before,
and though most were now Christians, some still observed the old ways.

The men were in high spirits as they downed their mead.
Maerleswein was pleased. How could they not be happy? They had taken back York
and slain the Norman usurpers. But as Waltheof’s Icelandic skald lifted his
lyre and took his place before the dais to sing his lord’s praises, Maerleswein
reflected on what was to come, knowing the battle for York was not yet over.
William would not easily accede to their rule in the North.

* * *

The next day, Geoff and the other prisoners were moved from
the older castle to the Danish longships. He, Alain and Mathieu were put in
chains and guarded by Danes armed with axes and swords.

Malet and his family, together with Gilbert, FitzOsbern and
their few remaining guards, were consigned to other ships. He could not imagine
the valuable noble prisoners being kept in chains. Guarded yes, but Maerleswein
had once considered them colleagues. And Malet was half Saxon. At one time, the
two men might have been friends. Geoff could not see the prisoners once they
were taken to the other ships, so he did not know for certain if they received
different treatment. He could only wonder at their fate.

What followed next did not surprise Geoff. Standing at one
end of the deck of the dragon ship where he and the others were confined, he
watched as the rebels attacked the castles with hammers and axes. The sounds of
vicious pounding and the splitting of wood echoed in the autumn air from
morning through afternoon.

The next day, what the army of Danes and Northumbrians had
not torn down, they burned.

They spared the stables, but the smoke caused the horses to
rear and scream in fright so they led them away until the fire died down. Most
of the smoke was carried north into the city, but the bitter smell was
everywhere. Charred wood floated in the air, landing on the longships anchored
in the river and falling into the slow moving water like a storm of gray snow.

Mathieu stared at the castles, now reduced to rubble. “What
will be left for them to defend with the castles gone?”

“’Tis a reasonable question,” said Geoff. “Their actions may
appear foolish to us with the city nearly destroyed and nowhere but the ships
and their camps to take shelter, but you have to remember, to them, the castles
represent our sire and his claim to York.”

In the days that followed, Geoff and his two companions were
moved again, this time to an abandoned home that had not been destroyed in the
fire. He did not know what became of his other knights or the noble prisoners.

The Danes shoved them into a large chamber on the first
floor of the house, then boarded up the windows. A few cracks allowed shafts of
light through. Geoff and his companions also had candles, which they used
sparingly, not knowing how long they would have to last. The chains they still
wore chafed their hands and feet, but Geoff did not complain. At least they
were alive.

Before they lost the outside light, Geoff studied the
chamber. Like Emma’s home, it was well appointed with tapestries hung on
whitewashed walls. It had once been the dwelling of a leading citizen of York.

“Could be worse,” said Alain the next day as they sat
pondering their circumstances. “We have pallets to sleep on and each other for
company.”

“Aye, we have a roof against the night’s chill and the Danes
feed us,” said Geoff, “but I can tell by their glares and the ribald jesting we
hear through the walls, they would sooner run us through.”

“Mayhap the lady’s pleas to her father protect us still,”
said Mathieu.

Geoff said nothing. Dreams of Emma cursed his nights. He did
not want to remember her beautiful eyes, her smile nor the feel of her skin
beneath his hands. Likely Mathieu was right, but Geoff could hardly feel
gratitude for the time her guilt had bought them. Who knew how long they would
live?

* * *

Emma sat by the hearth fire as night settled in around her
small family, drawing her lap robe over her legs, happy for the warmth it
provided. The chill that had come with November told her winter would soon be
at their door. She had done what she could to provide for her family. The
garden’s vegetables had been harvested and they had a supply of the apples
produced from the orchard, stored in an alcove off the kitchen. Added to those
were the dried beef and salted fish and the walnuts from this year’s crop. Even
without the market, they would eat.

The city was still mostly in ruins though on her infrequent
excursions, accompanied by the guards, she had noted some rebuilding had
occurred in the months before on Coppergate.

She let out a sigh as she threaded the needle for the border
of flowers she embroidered on the small, linen tunic Sigga had made for Inga’s
babe. Inga sat nearby on a bench near the hearth. With one hand on her large
belly, she silently stared into the fire.

If all went well, the babe would come before Christmastide.
Her villein, Martha, had said she would help deliver the child. For that, Emma
was grateful for it was with sadness she reflected that she had never
experienced a birth herself. Some days when she had allowed her mind to wander,
she had thought of a fair-haired child that might have been hers one day, a
child born of her love for a French knight. She shook off the thought. That was
a dream best forgotten.

Emma’s father had told her that Feigr had survived the
battle and was with the Northumbrians camped on the banks of the River Ouse.
Having gained a reputation among the Danes for being a superb craftsman, he was
kept busy repairing their swords. Inga was happy for him.

At Emma’s feet, the twins sat cross-legged, playing a game
with her father who was stretched out on a fur laid on the floor. He was
teaching them the game of
hnefa-tafl
, King's Table, a game played on a
wooden board inlaid with walrus ivory and carved soapstone pieces that each
player tried to capture from the other.

Ottar pointed to the dark pieces. “Why are the king and his
men outnumbered by the ones attacking them?”

“It has always been so,” answered her father. “But remember,
the king has an advantage. He can only be captured when he is surrounded on all
sides.”

Emma thought of the Norman king, curious if he knew the
castles he had built now lay in ruins. She had tried not to think of Geoffroi
but she had failed. His face was ever before her. She knew he was being held
somewhere in the city. Her thoughts often returned to the summer days they had
spent together. When she asked about him, her father had assured her the
prisoners were being well cared for. She had stubbornly tended the garden she
and Helise had planted, which had survived the destruction of the castle on
Baille Hill. When she and Sigga had harvested the vegetables, she made sure the
guards saw that some were given to the prisoners.

Finna sat on the floor observing the play of the game. In
one hand, she clutched a new poppet, the cloth plaything that Maerleswein had
given her that was Finna’s very image in a red tunic with long plaits made out
of yarn. The child’s other hand rested on Magnus, curled up at her side with
his head on his paws. Tucked in next to Ottar was his new wooden sword, a gift
from her father, who had said it was time the boy learned. She supposed he was
right though it pained her to see Ottar, only ten, training to one day take his
place with the warriors.