Rogue Knight (Medieval Warriors Book 2)

by Walker, Regan

  “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.

  Chapter 7

  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 captu
red 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.

  “Well, I know where to find some berries for Sigga to turn into tarts.”

  “Tarts!” shouted Finna.

  Ottar’s head lifted from where he was crouched. “Tarts?”

  Emma and Inga shared a laugh at the twins’ enthusiasm for the sweet treats.

  Once Ottar learned of their plans, he was persuaded to leave his frog for the promise of the sweet confection and a visit to see the lambs.

  Emma guided her small family to the place where she had seen the red berries growing, Magnus bounding along beside them.

  The day was once again golden.

  * * *

  “Sir Geoffroi!”

  At the sound of the familiar voice, Geoff turned from where he was speaking with his men in the bailey to see William Malet striding toward him wearing a broad smile.

  “You appear in a jovial mood, my lord sheriff.” Mayhap the last few weeks had given Malet reason to believe his position was secure notwithstanding William’s earlier displeasure. Geoff had to wonder why Malet would care. He was a nobleman with both title and lands in Normandy; he did not need more in England. But the king had given him manors and lands aplenty. Mayhap his new lands in England meant more to the sheriff than his holdings in Normandy.

  “Indeed I am in a good mood. I have an invitation for you. Might you be persuaded to join me and a few others for the evening meal?”