Rogue Knight (Medieval Warriors Book 2)

by Walker, Regan

  She ascended the stairs to her chamber, hurriedly donning a linen shift, blue woolen gown, warm stockings and her soft leather half boots. With Magnus by her side, she hastened to the twins’ chamber. Soundlessly, she pulled open the door. In one bed Finna slept with her little fist curled under her chin. Emma’s eyes shifted to the next bed. The cover was tossed aside, the bed empty. She quickly scanned the room but Ottar was not there. Her father had said nothing about the boy when he left. Mayhap he woke hungry and went to the kitchen for bread and honey.

  She rushed downstairs, passing the hearth and the large table, as she headed toward the kitchen. Ottar was nowhere in sight. Worry was beginning to creep into her thoughts when she knocked on the servants’ bedchamber door on the other side of the kitchen. How they had slept through the tumult in the streets, she did not know.

  The door creaked open and Artur’s bleary-eyed face appeared, his brown hair tousled. “M’lady?”

  “Do you not hear it, Artur? There is a great uproar in the city. My father has gone to see the cause of it for himself. He believes an uprising has begun. Do you know where Ottar is?”

  His face took on a puzzled expression.

  “No, I can see you do not. I wonder if he may have followed my father into the streets.”

  Now more awake, Artur mumbled, “You know he is always wanting to be with the men, my lady.”

  “This is not a day for him to be out there alone, especially if my father has no idea Ottar may be trailing him.”

  “Should I go in search of him?” asked Artur.

  “Nay. I will go myself but you must keep Finna safe while I am gone.”

  His forehead creased with worry as he came fully awake. “My lady, no! If there is trouble in the city, the streets will not be safe for a… a… gentlewoman such as you.”

  “Then the streets are not safe for a child. I cannot sit around wondering where Ottar might be.”

  She was gratified to see the look of resignation on his face.

  “You will take Magnus with you?” he asked.

  “I will. Do not worry.” Knowing that he would, she added, “I will stay away from the fray.”

  “Come, Magnus,” she commanded the hound as she walked to the front door and reached for her cloak. “We must find Ottar.”

  The sky was a pale blue when she stepped into the street coated with fresh snow and headed toward the source of the rising noise.

  Several streets from her house, Emma encountered large numbers of York men, carrying spears and swords, moving from all parts of the city in one direction: toward the Norman castle. Hugging the buildings, she moved in the same direction, near enough to the crowd to observe, but not so close as to become embroiled in any fighting. All the while, she desperately searched for Ottar, but did not see him among the men.

  Following the crowd, she drew near to the mass of rioters waving their weapons in front of the Norman edifice.

  A shout rose above the din. “Kill the castellan!”

  In the distance, ahead of the crowd, a mounted Norman, richly attired, tried to control his panicked horse. A small group of mounted knights surrounded him, attempting to force the crowd away from the noble. The press of the mob caused the knights’ horses to rear. One knight drew his sword to slash at a man on the ground, but as he did, another man ran the knight through with a spear. When the knight fell, his throat was slit, blood spattering the crowd.

  Emma was stunned by how suddenly death had come to the Norman.

  The mass of shouting men engulfed the other Normans. She heard the knights’ cries as they were pulled from their horses, followed by mockery from the rebels as they hacked at the bodies, taking their vengeance.

  The richly attired Norman was the last to be pulled from his horse as the bloodthirsty crowd closed in on him. She did not see his end. Hearing his cries had been enough.

  Emma turned away, shocked at the violence, her stomach sickened by the sight of so much blood. She understood the anger that had led to the scene she had witnessed. But she could not love it and hoped with all her heart Ottar had not seen the slaying of the noble and the knights. She shuddered to think of the Normans’ revenge that would surely come in its wake.

  * * *

  Geoff stood in the great hall of the castle as chaos ensued following the killing of the castellan. Knights reached for weapons. Captains roared orders to their men-at-arms. Geoff looked for Malet. Spotting the sheriff across the room, he headed in that direction when Alain came to tell him the men were prepared for battle and awaited him in the bailey.

  “I will join you as soon as I can,” he assured Alain and continued his path toward the table where Malet sat with some of his knights.

  “Fool!” Malet exclaimed, pounding his fist on the table, causing tankards of ale to dance, their contents splashing onto the wood. “Whatever compelled FitzRichard to leave the castle at first light? He was aware of the angry mood of the people yesterday. What could he have been thinking?”

  “He paid for his rash move with his life,” admonished Geoff. “No need to find fault with him now.” Roused from his bed by the shouts outside the castle, Geoff had witnessed the slaughter himself. None, save the foolish castellan and his personal guard of knights, had ventured out of the gates. Why they had done so no one knew. If FitzRichard had set forth with hundreds of knights instead of a few, the loss could have been avoided.

  In the aftermath of FitzRichard’s slaying, men prepared for battle as servants hurriedly set about lighting candles on the table where Geoff and a small group of knights now gathered with Malet in the great hall.

  “I want the gates kept shut until the king arrives!” Malet ordered. The sheriff’s senior knight moved to obey. Malet raised a hand. “Wait!”

  The knight paused and turned toward Malet with a questioning look.

  “Send two men out the postern gate to ride south and warn the king of the rebels’ action,” ordered the sheriff.

  “Yea, my lord.” The knight bowed and departed.

  “William cannot be far,” Geoff assured Malet. “We received word he was marching north before I left Talisand.”

  “Nay, not far,” Malet murmured as he anxiously chewed his bottom lip. “Knowing William as I do, he will be most displeased when he arrives for I have failed to keep the peace.”

  “’Tis not clear any could,” said Geoff. “The Northumbrians will not easily accept a king they do not see as theirs.”

  “You know the king as well as I. He will make them accept him no matter the lengths he must go to in order to see it done.”

  Maugris’ words echoed in Geoff’s mind. William is a great king, but terrible in his wrath.

  * * *

  That afternoon, from the top of the tower Geoff stared into the distance as the large army flowed over the land toward the castle like locusts out of season covering the winter landscape. William had arrived and was mowing down the rebels outside the walls of York.

  Once the king’s forces were in sight, the main gate was thrown open. Geoff tore down the stairs from the motte to the bailey, anxious to be engaged in the fight. Too long he had been relegated to swordplay with his own men.

  Mathieu handed him his helm and waited until Geoff mounted his destrier, then passed him his shield and lance. Geoff and his knights were among the first to leave the confines of the castle, their horses’ hooves sending up a great clatter as they raced over the bridge that spanned the moat. Alain was at his back, followed by the knights from Talisand. They formed a formidable force to meet the rebels fleeing William’s army back toward the city.

  Northumbrians wielding spears, pikes and swords scattered in all directions at the thundering hooves of the knights’ warhorses. But some stood and fought. Caught between William’s army moving north and the knights from York moving south, the rebels had not a chance. They were slain by the hundreds.

  Geoff turned his destrier to confront a spear-wielding rebel, his sword raised for a crushing blow. A glint of met
al at his side caught his eye. With a quick change in his aim, he sliced first at the man coming alongside his horse, a long seax gripped in the rebel’s fist. Blood splashed onto Geoff’s leggings, the crimson liquid dripping onto his leather boots. With a quick turn, he directed his horse toward the rebel with the spear. The destrier knocked the man to the side, allowing Geoff a swift slash to his throat. Blood splattered onto his mail. The man’s shocked eyes stared at him for a moment before he crashed to the ground.

  The sounds of battle surrounded him as plunged into the throng of fighting men. He did his share of killing, cutting down all who faced his sword, uncaring of the blood splashing onto his hauberk.

  The youngest of seven sons, he had fought for all he had ever claimed as his. A page at seven, a squire at fourteen and a knight at seventeen, he had proved to all he could take his place with the best of Duke William’s knights. It made up for his youth in which he had ever borne the brunt of his brothers’ taunts. Before he had gained his height, they had thought him a weakling. Mayhap their merciless harassment had made him who he was. Even before he had sailed for England, years of fighting in Normandy at the Red Wolf’s side had honed his skills to a sharp edge. The Northumbrians, untrained and undisciplined, were no match for the experienced knights.

  At his back, Alain fought with a strength few men possessed, like the vicious bear that had gained him his name.

  When they had dispatched the last rebel, Geoff glimpsed William’s banner waving in the distance, two golden leopards on a field of red. He took off his helm and wiped the sweat from his brow. Putting it back on, he raised his arm to gesture his knights toward the king.

  William sat atop his dark bay warhorse, the Iberian stallion he had ridden at the Battle of Hastings when they had first assaulted England’s shores. Surrounding the king was his guard and behind them, his army.

  Geoff brought his knights to a halt and walked his horse toward the king.

  “Sire,” he bowed his head. “’Tis Sir Geoffroi of Talisand. Your presence is most welcome.”

  Beneath his conical helm graced by a golden crown, the breeze stirred the king’s short brown hair. “We can see that it is, sir knight. We are pleased we were able to surprise the rebels south of the city.” Then in a harsh tone, “But what of our castellan FitzRichard and Malet, our sheriff—and our hundreds of knights? Why have they not kept the peace?”

  “FitzRichard fell to the rebels this morning, sire, cruelly murdered. Malet is well, as far as I know. I left him in the castle ere I came to join you. As for the knights, based on what I have seen, I cannot say whether they have helped or hurt the peace of the city. I have not been here long enough to rightly judge.”

  “Malet has much to account for.”

  In the face of William’s ire Geoff remained silent.

  “And what of our wolf? Where is he?”

  “Recovering in Talisand from a grievous wound, My Lord. He was most disappointed to be forced to remain behind.”

  The king frowned, then raised his brow. “He will recover?”

  “Yea, My Lord. His lady tends him.”

  William nodded, apparently satisfied. “I remember well the beautiful archer who guards our wolf. A bit too free with her arrows, we think.”

  Geoff smiled at the king’s recollection of the Lady Serena. It was true Serena would fight any who threatened one she loved. He turned his horse in a circle to take his place next to the king as the two of them proceeded to walk their horses toward York.

  The Talisand knights circled their horses to join William’s army behind the king’s guard.

  Slain Northumbrians and Normans lay on either side of their path. The king gave them scant attention. “Have you captured many of the rebels?”

  “Some, My Lord, but many fled when confronted with our longer swords.”

  “We suspect the leaders have slipped through our net once again,” said the king with narrowed brows. “That apostate, Earl Cospatric, is likely one of them. Any word of the Ætheling?”

  Geoff saw the worry in the king’s face and knew William feared a rebel plan to have the young Edgar crowned king here in York. Archbishop Ealdred of York certainly had the authority. “Nay, sire.”

  They were almost to the castle when the king paused and looked up at the tower. “We are of a mind to build a second castle in York to remind the populace we reign here as we do in the rest of England.”

  Given William’s propensity toward building the symbols of his domination, Geoff was unsurprised. “Might I take my leave of you here, sire? I’d like to scout the countryside for rebel stragglers and wounded before returning.”

  “Go, Sir Geoffroi. Leave none to escape. We will see you at the evening meal.”

  At Geoff’s signal, Alain and Mathieu peeled off from William’s army and followed him into the forest. He could only wonder what he might find.

  * * *

  Emma emerged from the dense stand of trees, shocked by the tragic scene before her. Despite her search, she had not found Ottar and, disbelieving what was shouted in the streets, had come to see for herself. But not even her dream had prepared her for the slaughter that had awaited her here.

  Dear God.

  She crossed herself and covered her mouth, fighting the urge to spew at the sight of so much blood and so many bodies strewn about the clearing, blood congealed on their clothing, their vacant eyes staring into space. Some of the blood had pooled on the ground to catch the rays of the sun. The metallic scent of it, carried by the wind, rose in her nostrils.

  At her side, the hound whimpered.

  So many.

  Until the Normans had come, Yorkshire had been a place of gentle hills, forests and thatched cottages circling a glistening jewel of a city set between two winding rivers. A place of children’s voices at play, some of those voices now silenced forever, for among the bodies lying on the cold ground were mere boys, their corpses cast aside like broken playthings.

  At the sound of heavy footfalls on the snow-crusted ground, she jerked her head around, her heart pounding in her chest.

  A figure emerged from the trees, so close she could have touched him.

  She cringed. A Norman.

  A tall giant of a knight, his blood-splattered mail a dull gray in the weak winter sun, ripped off his silvered helm and expelled an oath as he surveyed the dozens of dead. The sword in his hand still dripped the blood of those he had slain. He was no youth this one, at least thirty. His fair appearance made her think of Lucifer, the fallen angel of light. A seasoned warrior of death who has taken many lives.

  Had he killed people she knew? Her heart raced as fear rose in her chest.

  Would she be next?

  The wind blew his straw-colored hair about his face as he turned from the field of bodies to stare at her.

  She backed away as their gazes met and a frown creased his forehead, a puzzled look flickering in his stark blue eyes. Was he surprised to find a living soul among the dead? Or was it because she was a woman?

  Beneath her cloak, her hand went to her seax, her mind screaming for retribution even as fear rose in her throat. Magnus came to her side but, to her surprise, did not growl at the threatening warrior.

  The knight’s eyes shifted to where her hand gripped the hilt of her knife. “Still your hand, lady. I mean you no harm.” He had spoken in English.

  Wiping his sword on his leg, he sheathed the weapon in a leather scabbard attached to his belt.

  “No harm?” she blurted out. Taking her hand from the hilt of her blade, she swept it in a wide arc over the bodies. “Is this not harm enough?” Her voice dripped with the sarcasm and hatred she felt for the Norman Bastard and his soldiers.

  “The rebels brought this on themselves.”

  Before she could answer, Magnus let out a sudden bark and bolted across the clearing to where a mere youth, blood spattered on his tunic, lay on the snow-covered ground. The hound licked the boy’s face and she heard the boy groan. A sudden dread came over her
when she spotted the familiar tunic and sun-streaked hair. “Ottar!”

  She flew across the clearing and knelt beside him. Magnus pressed his nose to the boy’s cheek.

  “Ottar!”

  His eyes were closed and his face was as pale as the snow he lay upon. Desperation rose in her mind. Placing her ear on his chest, she heard the sound of a heartbeat. He lives!

  Ignoring the knight behind her, she gathered Ottar into her arms and tried to stand, anxious to take him home. But the lad was heavy and she faltered.

  The knight’s shadow fell across her. “I will carry him.”

  She reached her arm protectively over Ottar. “You’ll nay touch him, Norman scum.”

  “You have no choice but to allow me. ’Tis obvious you cannot bear his weight.”

  “Have you and your kind not done enough?”

  He bent and scooped up the boy. “Do not be foolish, woman. You have my word no harm will come to you or the lad.”

  What was the word of a Norman to her? She hesitated, hating to accept his help but there was the town to cross and she was not certain she could carry Ottar the distance she must. Nor could she leave him to freeze on the icy ground. “All right.”

  With her words, into the clearing stepped two Normans, one very large knight holding the reins of a great, gray horse. His dark hair and the scar on his face rendered his visage frightening. The other man was younger, his appearance almost boyish, but he held himself proud and erect. He led two horses, not as large as the gray. Both were black. A squire.

  The blond knight carried Ottar toward the larger Norman and signaled him to mount, then placed the boy in his arms. “You carry the lad, Alain. I’ll take the woman.”