Rogue Knight (Medieval Warriors Book 2)

by Walker, Regan

  Geoff grinned. “If the event involves food, Malet, you know I will be pleased to attend. I never miss a meal.”

  “Aye, well, Gil is back from his expedition to Durham. ’Twas a failure as we all suspected ’twould be.”

  Geoff thought of Alain’s prediction that Gilbert’s foray into the north would not go well. “”Twas likely lost from the beginning.”

  “Gil tells me a dense fog he attributes to St. Cuthbert cloaked the rebels and prevented his men from advancing.”

  Geoff pondered the idea. “’Tis said Cuthbert protects that city.”

  The sheriff shrugged. “Mayhap you are right. The ways of the saints are not for mortal man to understand. On a brighter note, FitzOsbern has returned from Winchester as well and Gil has decided to hold a feast in the new castle on Baille Hill before he opens it to the garrison.”

  “The men could use of bit of celebration,” said Geoff.

  “’Twill be only a small group. Gil has invited Helise and me and FitzOsbern, but he also mentioned wanting you to be one of his guests.”

  “Me?” Geoff would never have expected an invitation to join what would be a feast for the Norman nobles in York.

  “Aye, he thinks much of you and asked me to see to it. He’s also invited Archbishop Ealdred, seeking to make amends, I presume.”

  “Or, given the archbishop’s one time support for Edgar the Ætheling, it may be Gil wants to be certain Ealdred is with us. Our sire trusts no Anglo-Saxon, not even a man of the Church.”

  Malet seemed to ponder the suggestion. “I wonder if William put a word in Gilbert’s ear before he left. But no matter, it should be a merry group. It has been a long while since we have had a proper feast.”

  Geoff gazed across the river to the new wooden structure rising from a motte surrounded by a large bailey and palisade. “I did not realize the new castle was completed.”

  “’Tis finished, save a few final touches of the hammer. William insisted on haste, you will recall. This evening will be a celebration just for us. Gilbert has already moved in but tomorrow he opens it to the others.”

  “Will you move to the new castle?”

  “Nay. Helise and the boys prefer to stay in the original tower while we are here.”

  Geoff briefly pondered what Emma might think of the new, larger castle and, suddenly, he knew who he wanted by his side for the evening. When he wasn’t with her, he was thinking about her. Whether she knew it or not, whether she wanted it or not, Emma of York held his heart in her delicate hand.

  “As long as your wife and the English archbishop will be there, might I bring a lady of York as my guest?”

  A frown formed on Malet’s face. Given the women who frequented the hall—serving wenches and whores—Geoff understood.

  “She is a very proper lady, Malet… a virtuous young widow.”

  “Ah. In that case, I am certain Gil will be pleased to include her. Another citizen of York might put the archbishop at ease. Mayhap he knows of her. And Helise would be delighted to have the company of another woman. Yea, by all means, bring her. I will let Gil know to expect the two of you.”

  * * *

  The enticing smell of berries baking in a crust with honey, cinnamon, black pepper and cloves wafted through the air. It was all Emma could do to keep the twins occupied for she had promised they could share the first of the berry tarts when they were cool enough to eat.

  Inga, tired from her morning of picking flowers with Finna, was resting in their shared chamber above.

  A knock sounded on the door

  Reminding herself that Artur, who would normally greet visitors, was grooming her horse, Emma wiped her hands on a cloth. “I will see who has come.”

  Sigga nodded and handed the first of the treats into the twins’ open palms.

  Magnus, held in rapt attention by the sight of the freshly baked tarts disappearing into their mouths, whimpered.

  Emma chuckled at the three of them and headed toward the front door. Magnus was so fixed on the tarts he did not even notice her departure.

  She unlatched the door to see Sir Geoffroi standing there in his knight’s hauberk. Wisely, she supposed, the Normans rarely left the castle without the protection their chain mail afforded them. Since he wore no helm, his blond locks were in full view like spun gold around his head and his blue eyes were twinkling.

  “My lady,” he said, bowing. When he straightened, there was a grin on his face.

  “You seem happy today.”

  “I am rarely unhappy,” he replied.

  “You speak the truth.” And he did, for he was ever cheerful. It was one of the things she loved about him. And given he was a soldier, engaged in gruesome endeavors, she considered it remarkable. Glancing behind him, she saw no one. “Are you alone?”

  “I am. I had an errand that required haste. I did not want to wait for my men to break free from their swordplay.”

  She opened the door wide. “Come in.”

  “What is that heavenly smell?” he asked as he crossed the threshold.

  “Berry tarts. You will have to wrestle Ottar, Finna and Magnus for one or wait to share one with me.”

  He grinned and looked at her lips. “I will wait.”

  They walked into the kitchen where three mouths stained with berry juice greeted them.

  Sir Geoffroi laughed at the sight.

  “Sir Geoffroi!” the twins said at the same time, their words muffled by the sweet treats that filled their mouths.

  “We’ve plenty for all,” said Sigga with a nod to Sir Geoffroi, as she handed him a tart.

  “Did you make these, Sigga?” he asked. “They smell delicious.”

  “Thank you, Sir Geoffroi.” Then turning to Emma, “Will you have one, Mistress?”

  “Mayhap later, though they are very tempting, Sigga.”

  Sir Geoffroi took a large bite, closed his eyes and moaned. The sound was sensual to her ears. Did he make the same sound when he made love? She watched him chewing slowly, savoring every bite. “Oh, my,” he said, opening his eyes, his tongue running over his bottom lip. “’Tis food for angels.”

  Sigga looked pleased. “Artur likes them, too.” The servant looked down at Magnus who was licking the berry juice from his mouth and snatching any crumbs that fell to the floor. “And the hound.”

  The knight laughed at the sight of Magnus begging for more tart from Finna who could not say him nay but handed him a piece of her sweet.

  Curious to know what had brought the knight to her door, Emma could wait no longer to ask. “Why are you here, Sir Geoffroi? Surely you did not bring us more meat? We have not even plucked the fowl you brought us earlier.”

  He swallowed and wiped his mouth on the cloth Sigga handed him, then looked at Emma with a hint of uncertainty. “I have an invitation for you.”

  Thinking they might need to be private for this conversation, she said, “Come, you can finish your tart at the table.”

  Leaving the twins to their eating, they walked from the kitchen to the table where the family dined, the knight carrying the remains of his tart. Once they were seated, he licked the berry juice from his fingers before speaking. “The new castellan, Gilbert de Ghent, is hosting a feast tonight. I would ask you to attend as my guest.”

  She was about to decline, when he held up a hand. “Do not say nay until you hear who will be there. ’Tis a private meal. The castellan has invited William FitzOsbern, the Earl of Hereford, William Malet, the sheriff, Helise, his wife and Archbishop Ealdred. We will have the new hall to ourselves. ’Twould mean much for Helise to have the company of another woman with all the other guests being men.”

  Emma let out a sigh, feeling her brow furrow. “Except for the archbishop, ’tis a gathering of Normans. What place have I there?”

  “You have a place of honor at my side, Emma. It would please me much should you come. Will not you consider it?”

  He had done so much for them—for Ottar, Feigr, Magnus and her—and provided fo
od when they were hungry. How could she deny him what was obviously a matter of some importance? Her father would urge her to go, if only to learn of the new castle and its bailey. But this latter thought was not why she decided to accept his invitation. It was the look of hope on his face and the way it cheered her heart to see it. She wanted to be with him, to bring him joy. “I will do more than consider, sir knight. I will go, and gladly.”

  * * *

  Geoff came for Emma with Alain riding at his side. The Bear would not attend the dinner with them, but Alain had asked to accompany Geoff to her house, expressing his discomfort at Geoff’s riding alone through the darkened streets of York. Mayhap Alain had the right of it for the looks Geoff saw on the faces of the people reflected their continuing disdain.

  The sun was already setting when the two of them arrived at Emma’s door. Tied up in front of the house was a white mare.

  “A worthy bit of horseflesh,” Alain remarked as he dismounted and came around to stroke the horse’s neck.

  Geoff slid from his horse and joined Alain to examine the beautiful mare. “’Tis a woman’s saddle the horse bears. Emma of York is full of surprises.” A fine home and now a fine mare.

  The front door opened, the servant Artur appearing as if summoned.

  “’Tis my lady’s mare, Thyra,” he called to them. “Is she not a beauty?”

  Like her mistress, Geoff almost replied. At the sound of its name, the horse lifted its head and nickered. “An intelligent one,” Geoff said. The look in the horse’s eyes told him the mare was spirited. Also like her mistress.

  Geoff and Alain walked the short distance to the open door.

  Artur beckoned them to enter. “Please wait here,” he said, leaving them by the hearth. “My wife tells me her mistress is almost ready.”

  Geoff took off his gloves to warm his hands by the fire, his thoughts still on the white mare. He had no idea Emma could ride or that she had a horse, much less such a fine one. Mathieu had said nothing when he returned from stabling their horses on their prior visits. Most often, Emma walked in the city, like all the other citizens of York. Tonight, she would ride but not in his lap. Though he was disappointed, he supposed it was proper for a lady to have her own horse to travel to a feast.

  Artur had referred to her as his “lady” and Geoff recalled the servant had done so before. There was still much about her he did not know. Whether she was highborn. Who her husband had been. Whose large shoes he had seen. And whether she would look fondly upon a Norman knight who would pay her court. He did not believe she still harbored hatred for him. Normans yes, but not him, or Alain or Mathieu. She had made too many exceptions for them and had shown them too many kindnesses. But did she feel more than gratitude for what he had done?

  While he and Alain waited, Geoff stole glances up the stairs, anxious to see her. Minutes passed. Then, at the top of the stairs, he caught a glimmer of green silk edged in gold thread, the kind of gown he might have seen in London at William’s court. Slowly she descended the stairs, a smile curving her lips. The gown dipped in front and fitted tightly against her breasts and small waist. At her hips was a belt of green, black and gold brocade. Never before had he seen her so richly attired. Tonight she appeared like a Danish princess. Her pale hair, only partially covered by the headcloth, hung in two long plaits down the front of her gown.

  “My lady,” Geoff said, “You leave me without breath.”

  Alain bowed as well but said nothing. Geoff was certain the Bear had been rendered speechless in the face of Emma’s beauty so richly adorned.

  “You flatter me, Sir Geoffroi. But you must have known that I could hardly wear a plain tunic to a feast for nobility.” Then in a teasing manner, she added, “No matter they are French.”

  “Not all of them,” he said. “There is the archbishop.”

  “Thank God for that,” came her mumbled retort.

  He chuckled.

  Artur handed Geoff her cloak and he draped it over her shoulders.

  She fastened it with a round brooch of gold that looked Danish in design, a dark red carnelian stone at its center with carving all around. Facing Artur, she asked, “The others are fed?”

  “Yea, Sigga gave them an early supper. The twins are in their chamber with Magnus.”

  She nodded, lifted her hood over her headcloth and turned to Geoff. “I am ready.”

  He escorted her to the white mare and lifted her into the saddle. “I am surprised you ride; not many women do.”

  “The horse was a gift from my husband.”

  Geoff swung into his saddle, wondering at the wealth of the husband she spoke of, wondering, too, if she still loved him.

  He headed down the street toward the other side of the city, passing the other fine homes. Did the neighbors who had peered out their windows to watch the knights upon their arrival make ungracious comments to her about Normans paying her a visit? And if they did, what could she have told them?

  Chapter 8

  Emma endured the disapproving stares of the few people they passed on the streets as the three of them rode down Coppergate toward the new castle. They could have taken another route but this street was wider and allowed them easier passage. She knew some who saw her in the company of the knights would wonder about her. A few would think the worst.

  Sir Geoffroi had not worn a hauberk this eve. Instead, he had donned a fine tunic of blue wool, a shade darker than his eyes. The shoulders of his tunic were beautifully embroidered with silver thread making her wonder if a woman of Talisand had made it for him. His belt was fine leather studded with silver, one she had not seen before with a design carved into it, mayhap his family’s emblem. When she’d first seen him waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, he had appeared every bit the nobleman, not merely one of the Bastard’s knights.

  All three of them wore cloaks of dark wool so the people they passed could not observe how elegantly she and Sir Geoffroi were attired, nor did the people who stared at them know of the feast that was their destination. How could she explain to them that what she did was not improper or treacherous, that even her father, whom the people knew and respected, would have encouraged her to go? No, she could not expect them to understand what she only reluctantly admitted to herself, that not all Normans were alike and that Sir Geoffroi was, in all things, honorable.

  Yet she did not forget that he and his fellow knights had killed some of her people.

  She was relieved when they finally crossed over the moat, leaving the town and the stares of the people behind. But when they entered the bailey and the palisade walls of the Norman fortress surrounded her, it was fear, not relief that caused her to shudder. She had thought of the square wooden tower built a year ago as Lucifer’s den. If ’twas so, this new, mightier castle might be Hell.

  A few men-at-arms lingered in the wide open bailey, guards mostly, she assumed. Still, her presence was noted as their heads raised and work stopped, their eyes following her as she passed them. They could not see much of her, cloaked as she was, but they had to wonder at a woman escorted by two knights.

  Her gaze was drawn to the stables, larger than those built to support the knights garrisoned in the first tower. The other buildings she assumed were those typical of such castles: the armory, blacksmith and lodging for men who did not sleep in the hall. In one corner, a chapel was nearly finished. It was ironic, indeed, that those who came prepared to kill paid homage to God in building a chapel. Mayhap they thought of their deaths and wanted to be prepared. The archbishop had once told her that the Norman king came to England with the Pope’s blessing. She could hardly fathom it.

  A groom came to take their horses. Sir Geoffroi dismounted and helped her down, raising his hands to her waist to lift her from her saddle. His touch sent a wave of pleasure coursing through her as his hands slid inside her cloak and he lowered her to the ground. How could such a slight encounter leave her wanting? A flame she had thought long extinguished suddenly ignited within her. When
her feet touched the earth in the bailey, she raised her eyes to meet his, darkened with emotion. He, too, had been affected by their closeness.

  Sir Alain, still atop his horse, interrupted the moment. “I will return at the end of the eve to go with you when you take the lady home.”

  Sir Geoffroi inhaled deeply and nodded. Turning to her, he offered his arm. She had only to set her fingers upon his tunic and an unexpected shiver ran down her spine. He must have felt the attraction, for he turned his head to look at her and in his eyes she glimpsed intense interest as he led her toward the open door of the castle. It was not convenient, this attraction between them.

  Inside the great hall, a servant accepted their cloaks and Sir Geoffroi introduced their host as Gilbert de Ghent. His clothing and bearing suggested he was a nobleman, landed and wealthy. He had black hair and was not more than thirty, dressed in an emerald green tunic with an ornately jeweled belt. His stance conveyed arrogance and his dark eyes raked her body. Here is a man who expects women to fall at his feet.

  Gilbert bowed over her hand and gave her an admiring glance. “Had I but known a woman of your grace and beauty lived in York, I would have invited you myself.” Then with a wry smile aimed at Sir Geoffroi, their host said, “The Talisand knight is holding some secrets.”

  Sir Geoffroi reclaimed her hand and placed it on his forearm. “Beware the young rogues of Flanders, Emma. My father’s estate in Tournai might be in France, but ’tis close to Flanders. We know them well.”

  Gilbert laughed and strode off saying he would see them at the feast.

  For an instant, she entertained the possibility Sir Geoffroi might be jealous of the handsome Gilbert, but then she reconsidered, knowing he loved to tease. Likely the two knights exchanged barbs often.

  They walked farther into the hall. It smelled of new timber, herbed rushes and the dinner being prepared. The large timbered space was not unlike the one in the castle across the river, mayhap larger. Sconces full of candles cast a warm glow about the immense room. Servants hurried in and out with platters and trays, occasionally glancing in her direction. They were Northumbrians, after all. A young minstrel walked about strumming a lute while singing a French song. ’Twas the well-appointed den of her enemy. She had to remind herself she was still in York.