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

A servant set a trencher before Serena, but she must have
been thinking of her husband, for she only picked at her food.

“What news from the messenger, my lady?” asked Geoff, eager
to hear. “Did your husband happen to say?”

“Yea, but I would have him tell you himself. When you finish
your meal, he will likely be ready for you and Maugris. Just now his bandage is
being changed and he’s snarling like the wolf whose name he bears. The leg
pains him greatly but he tries to hide it.”

Geoff finished his stew quickly, knowing the other knights
would soon be coming in for the midday meal. Since the king had left a
contingent of knights and men-at-arms with them, it was always crowded in the
hall at meals. Rising, he bowed to Serena, “With your permission—”

She waved him off. “Go. He will be shouting for you soon
enough.”

“Come, wise one,” said Geoff turning to Maugris. “Your
counsel will surely be needed.”

“Do not be in such haste to hear unpleasant news,” chided
the old one as he slowly rose from the table, the folds of his dark woolen
tunic loose about his thin frame.

“I did not need your visions to know it would be
unpleasant,” Geoff protested. “When I saw the messenger ride in through the
gate, the hair stood up on the back of my neck. Things around her have too long
been quiet.”

Together they crossed the hall and entered the bedchamber
sometimes used for visiting nobles. The king himself had stayed there only last
year. At one end of the chamber was a large velvet-curtained bed where the Red
Wolf was propped up on a mound of pillows, staring out the unshuttered window,
frowning.

“Ren?”

The Red Wolf turned his glower on Geoff. “’Tis a dark day
that has brought me news from Durham. It will take you back to York, my
friend.”

“York?” blurted Geoff. “It has not been a year since we were
there and William built his castle. What has happened in Durham that would take
me back to York?”

Ren lifted himself onto the pillows, wincing. His chestnut
hair fell over his forehead as he slowly let out a breath. “It was as I
suspected when we left York last year. The Northumbrians slinked away into the
forests, taking their will to rebel with them.”

“Have they returned?” asked Geoff.

“Not to York as far as I know but I believe ’twill be soon.
When William replaced Cospatric with Robert de Comines as Earl of Northumbria,
it appears our sire made a bad choice.”

“He is a Fleming,” muttered Geoff. “We have seen what the
Flemish mercenaries did in the South. They came not to settle as we did, but to
pillage.”

“Aye, ’twould seem Robert de Comines’ men were of the same
cloth,” declared Ren. “A fortnight ago, the new earl and his mercenaries cut a
swath of misery and death on their way north to Durham.”

“
Mon Dieu
,” Geoff hissed. “Northumbria will again be
in turmoil.”

“The news is worse.” Ren’s frown deepened. “When the word of
Comines’ ravaging the countryside reached the men of Durham, they thought to
flee but a heavy snow blocked their retreat, forcing them to fight. They set
fire to the house where Comines was staying. Those of the earl’s retinue that
did not perish in the blaze died by the sword—including the earl.”

“
Merde
!” Geoff cursed. “What a fool Comines was to
let his mercenaries loose on the town. ’Tis no surprise the people rose against
him.”

“The messenger hinted of rumors that have spread following
the uprising. Edgar the Ætheling, the one the English consider heir to the
throne, is on the move. Word has it he has left his refuge in Scotland,
accompanied by Cospatric and that rich Dane, Maerleswein. I suppose they are
encouraged by what happened in Durham.”

“Did the messenger say where they were headed?”

“The rumors say York.”

Maugris, who had been silently listening, spoke, his wizened
voice sounding like a harbinger of doom. “Ancient enemies have come together to
rise against a common foe.”

“So it would seem,” Geoff murmured in resigned acceptance.
“And we Frenchmen are the foe.”

“As you might expect,” said Ren, “William summons us to
York, along with his knights and men-at-arms we shelter. You must lead them,
Geoff, for I cannot.”

Regret flickered in the eyes of his friend. Geoff recognized
it for he would have felt the same had he been forced to stay behind. “I will
gladly go in your stead.”

The Red Wolf nodded his acceptance of what he could not
change. “Do you remember William Malet, my old friend who fought with us at
Hastings?”

“Aye, I remember him,” replied Geoff. “William appointed him
Sheriff of York just as we left the city last year.”

“No doubt he will be pleased to see you with what he is
facing.” Ren stared into space once again, seeing something Geoff did not. “His
hands will be full if the Northumbrians rise under Edgar’s banner. The thegns
of York have been waiting for the young Ætheling to return. He will draw many
to their cause.”

“William will stand for no king in England save himself,”
Geoff insisted.

Ren shook his head in dismay. “Yea, and York is important to
our sovereign. The messenger said William already marches north. He will have a
battle on his hands when he gets there. I thought it a possibility when his
victory at York last year came too easily. The Northumbrians with their Danish
connections may yet hope to carve out a northern kingdom as they did in the
past.”

“If that be true, the people of York have much to fear,”
replied Geoff. “It will not be pleasant for them when William arrives to exact
his revenge. Does Lady Serena know?”

“Aye, she knows, and is none too pleased that the people of
York are threatened by William’s army. You know well how she feels about our
sire.”

From behind Geoff, Maugris spoke. “William is a great king,
but terrible in his wrath. He cares more for his crown and his treasures than
the people he would rule. I fear for him on Judgment Day when the Master of the
Heavens holds him accountable for his cruelty and his slaying of little ones.”

“Little ones?”  Geoff protested. “I have yet to see
William’s knights raise their swords against children.”

Maugris’ eyes fixed on some unknown point as he gazed out
the window. “In my visions I have seen it. And though horrible, it did not
surprise me. When defied, William can become a great destroyer, ripping off
limbs, blinding eyes and laying waste to all in his path. This time, William
will show the people of York no mercy.”

Geoff knew Maugris saw things the rest of them did not, but
he remembered the mercy William had shown the year before when he entered York
and left behind a castle and a garrison of knights. “I hope such can be
avoided.”

“I have seen a great wasteland,” Maugris intoned, “where
nothing grows.” As he spoke, the old man appeared taller, his voice enduing him
with power. “Vacant land strewn with the dead, both young ones and old.”

“For once, wise one, I hope your vision is wrong,” said the
Red Wolf.

Troubled by Maugris’ ominous words, Geoff gripped the hilt
of his sword. “I will prepare to ride.”

“Tomorrow is soon enough,” Ren insisted. “Take Mathieu along
as your squire. He is nearly a knight and grows impatient for action.”

“Yea, I will.” Geoff was happy to have Mathieu join his
company, for the squire had served the Red Wolf well. “His sword arm is strong.
I welcome his service.”

“With me limping around, you’d best leave my few knights,
save Alain. The Bear will guard your back as he has guarded mine, though he
will not be anxious to return to York where he got that scar that adorns his
jaw.”

Geoff remembered the fight the year before when the knight,
dubbed “the Bear” for his size, had taken a blade across his jaw. “I would
gladly have Alain with me. What about the others?”

“Take all the knights William has quartered here. Serena
will be glad to see them go. She nearly sank an arrow into one for grabbing a
servant girl, and that in
her
condition!”

Geoff chuckled at the picture of Lady Serena, heavy with
child, wielding a bow and arrow. Her state would not stop her from defending
the maidens of Talisand. “I will do as you say, Ren. Rest if you can bring
yourself to do so. We want you in the practice yard again.”

“Godspeed,” said Ren as they left the chamber. Geoff heard
concern in his voice but there was nothing for it. They must heed the king’s
summons.

Early the next day, a good meal under his belt, Geoff
mounted Athos, his chestnut stallion. The air was chilled even though the pale
sun was shining on the winter landscape. He was glad it was not raining. His
helm and shield tied to his saddle, Geoff gave the signal to ride.

Mathieu followed on his palfrey, leading Geoff’s black
destrier, the squire’s brown hair blowing about his face. A few years in Ren’s
service had given him a proud bearing and a confident look, more like a knight
than a squire.

Behind Mathieu rode Alain and the long line of William’s
knights who would accompany them to York.

Geoff guided Athos toward the gate, but before he could pass
through the wide opening, Maugris called him back.

“Sir Geoffroi!”

Geoff brought the column to a halt and circled back to the
old man whose face bore an expression more serious than his normal mien.

Looking up at Geoff, Maugris said, “I have had another vision…”

Geoff swallowed and waited, his stomach tightening into a
knot as he anticipated what the seer’s vision might have told him.

“You will have to face the fear you have carried from your
youth, the one you keep hidden even from the Red Wolf that has nothing to do
with battle. But mayhap you will find these words encouraging: You will give
help to those who would otherwise fall and you will find an ally where you
least expect it. But if need be, you must have courage to stand alone.”

From atop his horse, Geoff stared down at the wise one,
wondering at the cryptic message. How could the old man know of something Geoff
had shared with no one?

“I do not suppose you would care to elaborate?”

“All will be clear in time,” Maugris assured him with a
knowing grin.

So the old man’s remarks were to remain a mystery. “All
right,” he reluctantly agreed. “I shall try to do as you say. Take care of the
earl and his lady.”

As Geoff turned his horse, he glimpsed the Red Wolf standing
in the open doorway of the old manor in the bailey, his arm around Serena’s
shoulders, whether in affection or for support Geoff could not tell. Mayhap
both, for Ren loved his lady and his stance told Geoff he was favoring his
wounded leg. That he had managed to walk given the pain he was in was a tribute
to both his strength and his resolve.

Geoff tipped his head to him and, as he did, noted Serena
looking around the bailey, searching, he knew, for her friend, Eawyn. Ren’s
wife had hoped Geoff would one day wed the beautiful widow. He was relieved to
see Eawyn had stayed away. She had not warmed to his advances as he had hoped.
What he had thought was a growing affection had turned out to be merely a
friendship on her part. She was still in love with her dead English husband.
Mayhap she always would be.

When he returned, he would have to make it clear to Serena
there was no hope for the match.

A look of frustration crossed Ren’s face as he raised a hand
to Geoff in farewell. Geoff knew its source. It was the first time the Red Wolf
had failed to heed the call of his sire.

The first time Geoff rode alone.

By the light from the fire in the hearth, Emma sat bent over
her embroidery, lost in her thoughts. A loud pounding on the front door made
her start. She thrust the needle into the linen and stood.

Magnus clambered up from where he’d been lounging next to
the hearth and trotted to the door, reaching it before her. She was glad for
his presence. An unwelcome visitor would think twice before forcing entry. But
this time the hound’s prodigious tail wagged furiously, telling her the visitor
was most welcome indeed.

She unlatched the door to see Maerleswein, her tall, proud
father, standing there grinning, his golden hair loose about his shoulders, his
mustache and beard neatly trimmed.

“Daughter!”

She had not seen him for nearly a year. “Father, you look
well.” She reached out to embrace him. “It has been too long.”

Before she could say more, he gave her a quick hug, planted
a kiss on her forehead and strode over the threshold, crushing the rushes under
his large feet. Behind him was a man she recognized from many past meetings,
Cospatric, the handsome Earl of Bamburgh. Unlike most Danish and English men,
he was clean-shaven and his dark brown hair extended only to the base of his
neck.

“My lady,” Cospatric bowed, his brown eyes twinkling.
Straightening, he took her hand and brought it to his lips. “You are beautiful
as ever and a most welcome sight.”

“And you, my lord, are too kind. Do come in.” He walked past
her and she closed the door. Emma smiled to herself.  The charming nobleman who
had once been the Earl of Northumbria had always been wont to flatter her.

Magnus followed the two men into the room. It was large
enough to provide seating for several people around the fire burning in the central
hearth where smoke ascended to a hole in the roof. Firelight illuminated the
tapestries gracing the whitewashed walls, tapestries that had been in her
family for generations.

Artur, her manservant, and his wife Sigga, hurried in from
the kitchen door at the far end of the room on the other side of the table
where the family dined. “Welcome, my lord,” said Artur, taking the cloaks of
the two men and hanging them on pegs near the door.

“Greetings, to you, Artur, Sigga,” replied her father. “As
you see, I come with a guest, Earl Cospatric. You might recall him from the
last time I was in York.”

“Aye, I do,” said Artur. “My lord.” He bowed to Cospatric.
At Artur’s side, Sigga curtsied.

Magnus sniffed Cospatric as he would anyone coming with her
father.

“May I bring you something to drink?” asked Sigga, looking
at her father.

“Aye, ’tis cold with more snow coming,” observed
Maerleswein, reaching his hands to the hearth fire.

“Best warm the mead, Sigga,” instructed Emma.

“Yea, mistress.” Sigga dipped her head and retreated toward
the kitchen along with her husband. They had been with Emma a long time and
knew her preference to make guests feel welcome as soon as they entered.

“I see that great beast I gave you has grown,” remarked her
father. “His chest deepens.”

As if knowing he was the topic of discussion, Magnus rose
from where he had been sitting, nuzzled her father’s hand and wagged his
considerable tail. Her father patted the coarse fur of the hound’s head without
having to stoop, for the dog was that tall.

“He remembers you from when he was only a whelp,” she said.

With an answering chuckle, her father scratched Magnus
behind the ears. “Wise hound. Does he yet hunt?”

“Oh, indeed,” she confirmed, smiling at Cospatric who
watched, amused. “But the hares he brings to my door often arrive a bit
mangled.”

Her father laughed, a deep belly laugh, his voice resonating
through the house.

Ottar bounded into the room from the kitchen. While not her
natural son, Ottar and his sister, Finna, nine-year-old twins, might have been
for all the love she gave them. Orphaned three years ago at the same time she
had miscarried her own child upon hearing the news of her husband’s death,
she’d taken them in. They had brought each other comfort during that painful
time and now they were a family.

“Godfather!” shouted Ottar hugging Maerleswein about his
hips.

“Aye, ’tis me,” he teased, wrapping his powerful arms around
the boy’s shoulders and mussing his hair. “Is that your sister I see?”

Peeking into the room from the doorway to the kitchen, Finna
gave Emma’s father a shy smile. She was a beautiful child and, like her
brother, her brown hair was streaked with sunlight, but whereas her brother had
dark gray eyes, hers were a soft brown.

“Greetings to you, Godfather,” she said, coming slowly
forward. When she got close, Maerleswein snaked his arm out to draw her to him
to hug her in turn.

“And this,” explained her father, gesturing to Cospatric,
“is my friend the Earl of Bamburgh.”

Ottar bowed and Finna did a small curtsy as Emma had taught
her.

“I remember you, sir,” Finna shyly admitted.

Cospatric looked pleased.

The twins returned their attention to Emma’s father, who
they adored. Once the Sheriff of Lincolnshire, a man of wealth with eight
manors, he had been stripped of his title and his lands once he joined the
rebellion. The cursed Norman invader had given those to one of his loyal
followers. But her father still had his noble Danish blood and much of his
wealth. And he still had the love of the people of York.

“Come sit.” Emma gestured to the benches near the hearth
fire. “’Tis certain you are tired.”

The men sat on one of the benches and Magnus settled himself
on the floor at her father’s feet.

Finna and Ottar, detecting an adult conversation about to
commence, retreated to the kitchen where Sigga was preparing their meal. The
smell of the spices Sigga added to the mead, cinnamon and cloves, wafted from
the kitchen.

Emma sat on the bench opposite the men and directed her
question to her father. “Not that I am not pleased to see you and Earl
Cospatric, but why have you left Scotland? Is it safe with the Conqueror’s
knights still garrisoned in York?”

“Then you have not heard,” said her father.

“Heard what?”

“The news from the North,” Cospatric finished.

Emma looked at them, puzzled.

Sigga returned with tankards of heated mead and Emma
accepted the one offered her. “Drink your mead,” said Emma, “but tell me what
has happened.”

She waited until her father and Cospatric had downed some of
the honeyed wine, then with eager anticipation, asked, “Well?”

Holding his tankard between his two large hands, her father
leaned forward. “Durham has been retaken by the Northumbrians.” He sat back,
grinning. “William’s latest earl, Comines, was slain along with his hundreds of
raiding mercenaries. Good riddance, I say.”

Emma looked from her father to Cospatric whose countenance
had suddenly grown serious. “What can it mean for
us
?” she asked.

Cospatric shifted his gaze to her father.

A confident smile crossed her father’s face. She had not
seen him so pleased since before the Norman Bastard had come to England. “A
chance to regain the North, Emma.”

“Can it be true?” she asked, afraid to hope.

Cospatric nodded, apparently sharing her father’s favorable
outlook.

It was her most fervent desire, and that of the people of
York, to see the city freed of the Norman yoke, but it seemed only a dream when
the Norman Bastard had thousands of knights at his disposal. While York had
thousands of people living within its city walls, they were unarmed and mostly
merchants, craftsmen and shopkeepers, along with the people they served, the
freemen, farmers and villeins—not warriors.

“Yea, for we do not come alone, Emma. Earl Cospatric brings
with him the Northumbrians from the House of Bamburgh.”

“And the sons of Karli of the Danes of York,” added the
earl.

“But the sons of Karli are your enemies,” Emma protested.

“Ah, they
were
,” said the dark-haired Cospatric with
a slow smile spreading on his face.

“The enemies of our enemy have become our friends,” her
father explained.

“Ah, I see.” She was surprised that after so many years of
feuding, the great families of the North had banded together. Mayhap her father
was right and there was hope. “But will that be enough with so many French
knights and soldiers at the Norman king’s disposal?”

“We have sent word to King Swein of Denmark, asking for his
aid.”

“The Danes…” Her voice trailed off as she pondered the
possibility of the powerful warriors and their dragon ships sailing to York.
“Will he come?”

“I cannot imagine he will not,” said her father. “He could
hardly give up what was once the capital of the Danelaw to a French bastard,
now could he?”

Cospatric took a deep breath and let it out. “The question
is
when
he might come, not
if
, Emma. Your father and I are
prepared to go to Denmark to plead our cause to King Swein if we must.”

She turned to her father. “What will it mean for the people
of York if you are successful? They have experienced so much loss already.”

“Freedom from the yoke of the Normans, I trust,” her father
boldly stated.

Emma observed the two men were pleased with the plans they
were making. She only hoped their confidence was not misplaced. She, too, hated
the Normans and their garrison of knights, but like any woman, she worried
about the death the battles would bring, worried about Finna and Ottar and the
children of York.

* * *

It should have taken Geoff and his knights two days to reach
York but, much to his dismay, the winter storms slowed their pace. Freezing
rain sliced through their clothing as their horses slogged through the deep
mud. Nights on the cold ground were often sleepless. At the end of the third
day, they arrived at the castle, cold, tired and covered with mud.

Followed by his men, Geoff rode his horse toward the bridge
that led over the moat to the timbered castle at the junction of the Rivers
Ouse and Foss.

The citizens of York, who had been milling about outside the
castle moat, stopped and watched. The men with their long hair and full beards
looked askance at the newly arriving knights. As Geoff’s procession passed by,
the people began to mutter amongst themselves, their voices rising in anger and
their expressions dour.

Geoff drew his brows together, puzzling over the people’s
reaction to their arrival. He would have thought by now they would be used to
Normans in their city. Mayhap they had heard of Robert de Comines’ ravaging of
Durham. Whatever it was, this reception did not bode well.

Just as he was about to cross the bridge, his eye was drawn
to a cloaked figure moving swiftly through the crowd and a huge dark gray dog
striding apace. The gown showing beneath the cloak told him it was a woman. A
sudden gust of wind threw back her hood to reveal flaxen hair and a nearly
perfect face marred only by a scowl directed at him and his knights. The image
of a Valkyrie arose in his mind, a handmaiden of the Norse god Odin tasked with
choosing which warriors would live and which would die. ’Twas a tale he had
once heard around the hearth fire.

Captivated by the strength the woman exuded, he paused to
watch her and the hound before turning away to proceed into the bailey crowded
with knights and men-at-arms.

Buildings he did not recall from the year before were
scattered around the periphery of the palisade fence of wooden stakes that
surrounded the large bailey. No doubt the new buildings served the hundreds of
knights and men-at-arms now garrisoned here. There would be workshops, an
armory, a blacksmith and stables and possibly a chapel. He hoped it had a good
kitchen and a good cook.

He dismounted, pulling off his gloves to stroke Athos’ neck.
The chestnut stallion nickered and tossed its head. “You did well, my boy.” At
Mathieu’s approach, Geoff handed the stallion’s reins to the squire. “Mathieu,
see that Athos gets some extra oats while I find the castellan to let him know
we have arrived.”

“Yea, sir,” said Mathieu and, with Geoff’s two horses and
Mathieu’s own in tow, the squire headed toward what appeared to be stables at
the far edge of the bailey.

Turning to Alain, who was sliding from his great horse,
Geoff said, “Best see the men are settled.” He glanced at the sky. “Gloaming is
not far off. The men may be relegated to pallets in the castle’s hall or they
may be accommodated in shelters in the bailey. Whichever the case, I will meet
you in the castle. I go to seek out the castellan, FitzRichard.”

Alain nodded and set off about the task, his stride slower
than normal. The large knight was weary. All of them were tired and hungry
after three days on the road eating cold fare and enduring the freezing rain
that had turned to snow as they traveled east. They would welcome dry clothing,
hot food and a fire.

Geoff walked through the melting snow toward the stairs
leading up to the castle that sat atop the motte, the mound of dirt nearly
thirty feet tall. Snorting horses, knights in conversation and others
brandishing swords in a practice yard set to one side of the bailey made for a
noisy place. The bailey was like a small town and, after the quiet of the
countryside, loud with the clash of arms and the hoarse voices of men.

“Ho! Sir Geoffroi!” The shout came from behind him just as
he reached the base of the stairs. Geoff turned to see William Malet striding
toward him and was struck again by the man’s fair appearance. Older than Geoff
by more than a decade, Malet was half-Saxon and related to the former King
Harold by marriage. Still, the man had fought with William at Hastings and was
now in a position of trust. More importantly to Geoff, the Red Wolf counted him
a friend.