Rogue Knight (Medieval Warriors Book 2) (9 page)

“My men took several deer and a boar this day,” said Sir
Geoffroi. “’Twill be no hardship to leave one of the deer with you.”

“How long will your king and his army remain in York?” It
was the question that had consumed her mind in recent days. She did not doubt
it was a question Inga thought of, too. Emma’s father would have wanted to know
had he been here. She was glad he was not. How could she introduce the knights
to her father, a leader of the rebels?

He set down his bread and took a drink of his mead. His
sun-streaked hair glistened in the candlelight. Her gaze shifted to his
chiseled jaw that softened when he laughed, which was often. She was so
absorbed in watching him, when he spoke he startled her.

“’Tis been a sennight since William arrived in York. Word in
the castle is that he will depart soon. The king would be in Winchester by
Easter.”

She picked at the vegetables in her stew, then raised her
gaze to meet his. “Who will he leave in charge? The same one as before, William
Malet?”

“Malet is still sheriff and helping with the castellan
duties but, because of recent events,” he shot a side-glance at his fellow
knight, “the king’s friend,
William FitzOsbern
, is now
charged with keeping the peace.”

How prudent of him not to describe the recent events.
“I do not know of him.”

“He has long been with the king, but I only met him last
year at Talisand.”

At the mention of the name she had heard him speak before,
she cast a glance at his companions. “Are you also from this place Sir Geoffroi
speaks of, this Talisand?”

“Yea, my lady,” said Sir Alain, taking another piece of
bread to dip into his stew.

Mathieu nodded and, looking at Inga, said, “’Tis a beautiful
place with its own river.”

Emma had purposely seated Inga across from young Mathieu,
who appeared to be a few years older than the sword-maker’s daughter, thinking
he would be less threatening than the knights. Happily, she was right. The
young squire was polite and solicitous of Inga, offering her bread and pouring
her wine when her goblet was empty, but speaking little. In some ways, he was
as shy as she was. Despite all she had endured, Inga responded to his gentle
nature, even offering him an occasional smile. Their exchanges encouraged Emma
to believe Inga would one day be able to put behind her the tragic events of
the recent days and eventually view men without terror.

When they finished their meal, the knights thanked her and
rose to leave. Emma was reluctant to bid Sir Geoffroi goodbye. It was a strange
feeling, knowing he was the enemy, yet she found it difficult to think of him
as such. His easy laughter and kindness made him seem less an enemy and more a
friend. She had not always had such laughter in her life. She had loved Halden,
but he had not been a man who laughed easily. Being with Sir Geoffroi was like
sitting next to a warm fire on a cold night.

“I am sorry to take your leave, my lady,” he said, “but the
hour grows late and we will be expected. Hopefully with the king’s departure,
we will not have to hunt so often, but I promise to keep your table in meat, so
you can confine that hound of yours to the house while he heals.”

Her gaze drifted to the hearth where Magnus was asleep on
his pallet. “Mayhap he has learned his lesson with snares.”

Ottar came to bid the knights and their squire good eve, his
eyes focused on their swords hanging at their sides. She worried he was a bit
too fascinated by the knights’ weapons. It had been the boy’s longing to see
the men fighting that had drawn him into the clearing that terrible day.

Finna gave Sir Geoffroi a small wave from where she stood
with Inga several feet from the men. The knight waved back. Sir Geoffroi and
Finna had made some kind of connection, just like he had with Magnus. He was
the only Norman that Magnus had ever warmed to. To most he was indifferent, to
others hostile. The knight’s two companions had certainly not drawn the hound’s
affection as Sir Geoffroi had. It was yet another sign of the knight’s being
unique.

Once Mathieu and Artur had brought the deer around to the
other side of the house for Artur to butcher, the Normans departed. Emma felt a
pang of regret as she watched them ride away. If she were honest, she would
have to admit Sir Geoffroi was becoming more than a friend.

She closed the door and, sending the twins to their chamber,
went to join Inga standing near the hearth. The girl was less pale than she had
been in the days following that horrible night. “How are you, Inga?”

“I am all right. He was kind.”

Emma knew Inga referred to the squire. “I wanted you to see
they are not all alike. Even I have had to learn that among those who would
kill and maim are those who would help and heal.”

Inga raised her eyes to Emma. In their gray depths, she
sensed confusion. “But how is one to know?”

“All men are known by their actions,” Emma counseled,
inwardly giving herself the same advice. “And observing those takes time. Even
with that, we can never forget the French knights are sworn to serve their
Norman king.”

Inga nodded and her gaze drifted up the stairs. “I think I
will look in on Papa. He was sleeping when I left him but he may have heard us
talking. He will want to know who was here.”

“He would like to see you,” said Emma, knowing the girl’s
father worried about her and did not like for them to be long separated.

“I do not think I will mention your guests were Normans,”
said Inga thoughtfully. “He would not be pleased to know that.”

“Yea, you speak truth. He might try to rise from his bed to
claim justice no matter these Normans were the ones who helped him.”

Inga nodded her acceptance and turned toward the stairs.

“I will see you in a short while,” said Emma. “I want to see
if Sigga needs any help and then I will make sure the children are in bed.”

Emma’s gaze followed her friend as she ascended the stairs
to the bedchamber Feigr occupied. Then Emma set about her nightly chores, all
the while thinking of Sir Geoffroi. In her mind, she saw the creases that formed
at the corner of his eyes when he laughed. She remembered his kiss, too, and it
sent warmth rippling through her. His gift of the deer would see them well fed.
’Twas unusual for a knight, hardened by war, to have such a tender side. She
thought of the wistful look on his face when his fellow knight and squire spoke
of Talisand. Could such a place exist where Normans and English lived together
in peace? Surely it was only a dream.

* * *

The next day, Geoff stood at the top of the motte, breathing
a sigh of relief at seeing the king’s procession pass through the gate.
William, apparently satisfied his new castle was rising sufficiently from
Baille Hill, left for Winchester with his army and FitzOsbern.

Gilbert de Ghent, the new castellan, departed shortly after
with his Flemish mercenaries in tow, bound for Durham. Far better they should
stalk armed rebels than the innocent maidens of York.

Once the two contingents of soldiers had gone, Geoff went to
the bailey where he was to meet his men.

“I was surprised to see Malet is still sheriff,” Geoff said
to Alain as they mounted their horses, preparing to leave on a hunt. Today they
would hunt wild boar, something they were becoming quite good at.

“Yea, William needs him. But the king is taking no chances
on another failure. I overheard him tell FitzOsbern that he is to return here
after Easter.”

Geoff signaled to his men and led them through the gate. He
did not worry overmuch about the comings and goings of William’s favorites.
There was still a garrison of knights that remained. He hoped the city would
soon come back to normal. He and his knights would hunt less often and mayhap
he could visit Emma more frequently. The last time he had been to her home had
given him hope she might one day entertain his suit. To have a summer wooing
the Northumbrian widow was a pleasant thought, bringing a smile to his face as
he and his men headed for the forest.

Jelling, Denmark

Maerleswein brushed the snow from his hair and cloak and
stepped into King Swein’s hall, its ancient timbers glistening with ice. He
knew many of the Danes that were gathered around the central hearth fire. He
raised his hand in greeting as he drew near to the fire to warm his hands. They
had to know why he came. Did they look forward to sailing their ships to
England once again?

He watched from that vantage as Cospatric and Edgar bowed
before the king, here to answer his questions about the aid they sought for
Northumbria.

The Danish king reclined in his throne chair. He was regally
attired in a crimson tunic with golden belt, his red-gold hair adorned with a
bejeweled crown. His long legs stretched out in front of him like a lion in
repose. Yet the king was anything but calm, for as he stroked his beard, his
brows drew together in a frown.

Edgar appeared like a young Adonis, his head of fair curls
and his wispy short beard reminding all of his youth. Still, he could have been
King of England after Harold Godwinson, save for the coming of the Norman
Bastard.

Beside Edgar was Cospatric, who still commanded the respect
of the Northumbrians, despite the fact he no longer held the title that gave
him authority over them. But Cospatric was still Earl of Bamburgh, his
ancestral home north of Durham.

King Swein’s restless stirrings shouted his growing
impatience. “Yea, your messages were received,” he said to the two men, “asking
for our ships and men. We are well aware of what you need.”

“The uprising will fail without your support,” explained
Cospatric.

The king hesitated. Did he fear the same fate that had
befallen his Norwegian ally, Harald Hardrada? Before William arrived in
England, the King of Norway had sailed to York to fight Harold of Wessex but
the Norwegian king never returned. King Swein had been there to witness
Hardrada’s death. And while Swein had survived, he now walked with a limp.

It had been three years since Maerleswein had seen the
Danish king. At fifty, he appeared to have aged a decade; his red beard was now
liberally laced with gray. Mayhap he no longer relished the fight. Maerleswein
was not young either, but his body was still that of a warrior and he eagerly
anticipated the battle that would set Northumbria free.

“King Edward promised us the throne of England,” Swein
informed them, “but we have heard he made the same promise to others. It is
his
fault England was left in so much confusion that at Harold Godwinson’s
death, the Norman Bastard was able to claim the throne. And now,” the king
looked at young Edgar, “you ask us to carve a kingdom out of what is left and
give it to this Ætheling?”

Edgar cringed.

Cospatric, looking aghast, took up the argument. “We ask
only for ships and men to free Yorkshire, My Lord.”

“The heart of the Danelaw, you mean,” said the king.

Maerleswein did not have to remind Swein that while they
might speak of Yorkshire and an independent Northumbria, William had claimed
all of England. It was on both their minds, for the two of them had shared a
private conversation before the public audience began.

“Maerleswein,” the king had said as they walked in the
falling snow, their cloaks dappled in white, “We like not installing a mere
youth in a seat of power with William’s unfettered ambition running wild.”

“Edgar will unite the people of England, Sire.” argued
Maerleswein, “and not just the Northumbrians. Rebellion spreads in the south.
Hereward, my fellow Lincolnshire thegn, has returned from Flanders, now a
soldier. He is appalled at what has happened to England in the years he has
been away.”

“Hereward has returned?”

“Aye. A Dane proficient with an axe.” Maerleswein was
certain he detected a glimmer of excitement in the king’s eyes at the news of
Hereward’s becoming involved. Both respected him.

After that, he and the king had walked together for a while,
sharing stories of Hereward. It was these Maerleswein was certain the king
pondered as he listened to the English nobles now arguing their case.

To Cospatric, King Swein said, “You would have young Edgar
standing before us named King of England?” The king’s eyes roved over the
young, fair-haired Saxon not even twenty yet heir to a throne that might never
be his, and then returned his gaze to Cospatric whose noble lineage was
apparent in his high forehead and firm jaw and the way he carried himself.
“Yea, we can see you do.” The king shrugged. “We are not opposed to such an
arrangement for the time being. Better you, Edgar, than the French Bastard.”

It was a large concession and boded well for the alliance
Maerleswein had sought. He was glad he’d spoken to the king privately
beforehand.

King Swein leaned forward. “What will you do if we agree to
send our ships?”

“Once we have your assurance,” said Cospatric, “we will go
to Scotland to seek allies in our cause, men who will fight with us, mayhap
even King Malcolm.”

King Swein’s gaze fell upon Maerleswein, his brows raised in
question.

Maerleswein stepped forward. “We have many allies there,” he
assured the king, “including Cospatric’s cousin, young Waltheof, Earl of
Huntingdon. King Malcolm, too, has been most encouraging.”

The king sat back, his chin in his hand as he rested his
elbow on the arm of his throne. “You shall have the ships you seek,” he said,
stroking his beard. “But I will not go.”

“Then who?” asked Cospatric in disbelief.

The king surveyed his hall, well decorated with weapons of
war and his many sons, fifteen in all but only one born in wedlock. His gaze
paused on a man with his same red-gold hair and beard, standing to the side. “I
will send my brother, Osbjorn, and my sons, Harald and Cnut, with enough men
and ships to assure we have our vengeance for the death of my warriors who
fought in King Harold’s war.”

Osbjorn stepped forward from the shadows, a lesser man than
the king in Maerleswein’s opinion, for he doubted the brother’s resolve. But
the two sons in their third decade, who came forward to stand before their
father, had his same appearance and were considered worthy fighters.
Maerleswein would have to content himself with three blood relatives of the
king to vouchsafe the strength of the alliance, though regrettably, the king
himself would not attend.

Osbjorn bowed. “It will be as you say, my brother.”

“Take with you Christian, the Bishop of Aarhus. He can pray
for your venture’s success.”

Before they left for Scotland, Maerleswein had the king’s
promise he would send at least two hundred ships by summer’s end that would
carry his Danish warriors and weapons to York.

“It will take that long to see so many built,” King Swein
had told him. “Longships of solid oak are not made in a day.”

Maerleswein departed with his companions, was pleased.
It
might just be enough to rid the North of the hated Normans.

* * *

York, England

Surrounded by a field of yellow and white flowers, Emma stood
with Inga on the hillside outside the city walls as the twins happily frolicked
nearby with Magnus.
Both Ottar and the hound had recovered from
their injuries and now wore no bandages. Magnus’ movements were as lithe as
before yet his leg bore a scar from the snare.

Emma relished the warmth of the morning sun on her face as
it rose above the trees of the distant forest like a great beacon. In the
distance lay pastures planted with new seed and the apple orchard that would
bear a rich bounty in the fall.

A soft breeze blew loose strands of her hair across her face
and she brushed them away to watch the flock of curlew birds circling overhead.
Spring had finally come to York.

It had rained last night and the ground was still wet. Emma
loved the smell of the damp earth and harvest time when that same earth brought
forth the life-sustaining grains and fruit. She was a creature of the land, she
admitted with a smile, not the sea as Halden had been, yet she had loved him
with a young girl’s passion.

In the far distance, Emma could see the ewes with their
lambs. Just that morning, her villein, Jack, had come to tell her of the new
lambs dropping each day. “’Tis a bountiful crop this year, m’lady.”

“We will pay you and your good wife a visit this afternoon
to see them,” she had told him. “They always bring the children great delight.”

Weeks had passed since the Norman king had left with his
army, raising the spirits of all in York. Yet despite the warm sun, the calm
meadow and the promise of seeing the lambs, a passing cloud brought Emma a
sense of foreboding, reminding her the peaceful respite could not last, not
with her father and Cospatric gathering forces to seize York. Not with the
people still chafing at the Norman rule, anxious to join him.

But today she was determined not to think of those things.

Finna, her basket in hand, left Ottar and Magnus and ran to
Inga, tugging on her arm. “Come pick flowers with me, Inga!”

It was clear Inga wanted to go but was reticent. She had
been particularly shy since the rape. But in some way Emma could not explain,
Finna understood Inga’s sadness and her need for some lighthearted revelry.

Inga looked to Emma as if seeking her assent. Emma nodded
enthusiastically. “Go! But beware, Finna will not be satisfied until you have
picked half the field!”

The two ran off together laughing and bent their heads to
the task. It cheered Emma to see Inga smiling again. Finna could make anyone
feel treasured by her little girl ways. Inga was not immune.

Feigr was recovering, now able to get around and attend his
shop, but he was bitter and angry. Inga, who still lived with Emma at Feigr’s
insistence and Emma’s happy agreement, was more fearful than angry. In time,
Emma hoped both could leave behind the memory of that horrible night. But she
had her doubts.

The church often forced a young woman such as Inga to marry
her rapist, but even if he knew, Emma did not believe the
archbishop
would force Inga to accept such a fate. Ealdred was too old and too weak for
the people to follow his advice in such matters. Half the town of York would
rise in protest if he even suggested such a thing. If all the maidens who had
been taken against their will were avenged, it would become another uprising,
mayhap one already in the making.

Emma looked behind her to where she could just
see the top of the square tower of the first Norman castle. The Bastard king
and his army might be gone but his garrison of knights remained, soon to be
spread between the old tower and the new castle that appeared to be nearly
finished. Yet in those hated castles dwelled one who was a bright light.

True to his word, Sir Geoffroi had kept them
supplied with meat even after the market had reopened and butchers once more
cried their wares from their stalls. Besides the boon of food, she liked seeing
him and his broad smile at her door more than she would admit. He made no
demands upon her, though sometimes she sensed he longed for more than the
tentative friendship that had grown between them. Did she, too, want more?

She had shared the meat he provided with her
neighbors who complained that Normans had brought it. If her father had not
been a leader of the rebels, a man all of York respected, they might have
protested more loudly, but as it was, they were happy to have the meat and
accepted her explanation she was about her father’s business. What could they
say to the daughter of the noble Dane whom King Harold had asked to govern
Northumbria after the victory at Stamford Bridge? Those days might be past, but
the citizens of York had not forgotten either her father or Cospatric who had
governed Northumbria for a brief time after her father.

Looking beyond Finna and Inga picking flowers
to the land that was hers, Emma remembered the time after Halden’s death. Her
father had helped her sell her husband’s two ships and the warehouse of goods
on the Humber River. With the proceeds, he had persuaded Cospatric, who then
had the authority as Earl of Northumbria, to sell to her some lands east of the
River Ouse, which she now kept in flax and barley. It gave her great joy to see
the churls tilling the fields, to watch the life-giving plants rise from the rich
earth. But if the Normans remained, she would not continue to own the lands.
The Norman king would take them to award to his followers.

Finna and Inga returned with a basket full of
flowers and smiles on their faces, eager to show her their prize takings.

Shaking off her troublesome thoughts, Emma
looked down at the yellow and white flowers filling the basket. “What wonderful
flowers! They will bring spring to our table.”

Finna leaped at the idea. “I have a clay jar
we could use to hold them!”

Emma looked beyond Inga and Finna and their
flowers to see Ottar and Magnus with their heads together bent over something
on the ground. “What is it that has captured Ottar’s attention?” she asked.

“Oh,” said Finna with a look of disgust, “’tis
just some old frog.”

With a grin, Emma reminded her, “I recall a
little girl who found frogs fascinating.”

Inga gave Finna a knowing grin. Likely Inga
also remembered the time.

“That was when I was small,” insisted Finna.
“I am ever so much bigger now.”

Emma and Inga both laughed at Finna’s
pronouncement and the innocence in her large brown eyes.

“But not so big you have lost your fondness
for berry tarts, hmm?” questioned Emma.

“I am very fond of berry tarts,” admitted
Finna.