“We can harvest the plants together,” the older woman offered.
“That would be nice,” Emma agreed.
When they returned to the tower castle on the other side of the river, Sir Geoffroi insisted on seeing her home. She was grateful their goodbye would be delayed.
Even avoiding the well-traveled streets as they did, it was a bit of a procession, her traveling with him and his knights and Magnus loping beside them. People stopped to watch them pass. Some would have recognized Magnus and questioned her being in the company of the knights. She was glad when they arrived at her house without incident.
“Will you and Sir Alain come in?” she asked.
“Aye, gladly,” he replied.
“I will wait for you here with the men,” announced Sir Alain.
When Sir Geoffroi nodded his acceptance, Emma addressed the one called the Bear. “Then I will send ale for you and the other knights.”
Once inside, Magnus flopped on his pallet and Emma asked Artur to take the waiting knights ale to refresh them. She hung her cloak on a peg and went into the kitchen, as the servant poured ale and disappeared with a tray of tankards for the knights.
Sigga was still at the market, leaving Emma alone with Sir Geoffroi. She fetched him a berry tart and a tankard of ale. “I saved one for you when I set aside two for the twins. They will have theirs with supper. Best to eat yours now or Magnus will be begging for it.”
“Where are the children?”
“Inga was going to take them to a friend’s for play while I was at the castle.”
She handed him the tart on her palm, the berry juice running onto her fingers.
His eyes fastened on the juicy treat bulging with cooked berries. “You have my thanks, my lady.” Swiftly, he engulfed the sweet and washed it down with a swig of ale.
She laughed, seeing the berry juice dripping from his chin. “You are a sight, Sir Geoffroi.” Reaching for a cloth, she was about to wipe the juice from his face when he reached for her hand.
Taking the cloth, he set it on the worktable and brought her fingertips to his mouth, licking the juice. The sensation of his warm tongue stroking her fingertips stirred a heat deep within her. Involuntarily her lips parted and she took in a quick breath, shivers making her nipples harden beneath her tunic as his tongue moved over her fingers.
His blue gaze fixed on her. “You taste better than the tart and I would have more.”
She regarded his rugged face, browned by his many days in the summer sun. It made his blue eyes all the more striking. His lips curved in a sensual smile, a spot of berry juice still on his mouth. She had the sudden urge to lick it off but before she could do it, his tongue reached out and lapped up the juice.
He pulled her into his chest and gazed intently into her eyes. “Emma, I have longed to kiss you.”
“Then mayhap you should,” she whispered, wanting nothing more.
He bent his head to take her mouth and she was lost in his kiss, the warmth of his chest pressed against her, the taste of the berries on his tongue sliding over hers, seducing her to his will. But it was her will, too. She had wanted this from the first time she had seen him that morning, mayhap for days before that. She tilted her head to allow him to kiss her more deeply, entwining her fingers in the hair at the base of his neck.
Their breaths quickened, her heart raced and a pool of warm liquid settled in her woman’s center.
Breaking the kiss, he pressed his forehead to hers. “Be my lady, Emma. Let me have you and I promise I will never have another.”
She was not shocked at his request, but delighted in his words. Their gazes met and for a time neither spoke. Still, there was much in their eyes. For three years she had been without a man and had wanted none, but she wanted him.
Without a word, she took his rough hand in hers and led him out of the kitchen and up the stairs to her chamber, thinking all the while it was meant to be. Once inside, she closed the door and turned to him. “Your companions wait, so we do not have much time.”
“Let them wait,” he said, drawing her close to kiss her neck, her face, then her lips. “I want you, Emma.”
If they’d had more time, mayhap they would have proceeded more slowly but she did not think so. The passion between them was too intense and had been building for too long. Instead, they tore at each other’s clothing, frantic to be free of it, but all they managed before they fell to the bed was to remove his hauberk and her woolen gown. Her headcloth had quickly fallen to the floor on its own.
“Emma, Emma,” he murmured as his hands reached for her linen shift, lifting it to her hips and running his palm down her quivering thigh.
Then he kissed her deeply, moving his hand to her breast. It felt blessedly right.
The heavy weight of his sex pressed against her. She tugged at his braies. He helped her slide them down leaving their bodies below the waist touching, hot and ready, flamed by the heat coursing between them.
“Geoffroi, hurry.”
He rose up, positioned his sex at her welcoming folds and plunged in more deeply than she could have imagined. “My love,” he murmured as he stilled.
She raised her hips to take all of him, welcoming his hot flesh into her tight sheath. It had been years since she had known a man, still she could not remember ever experiencing such fullness, such wonder. There was no ghost to greet her, no image of anyone but Geoffroi, his blue gaze intense when she opened her eyes to see him staring at her.
“Is it well with you, my love?” he asked, concern in the depths of his eyes.
“Yea, but ’twill be better when you begin to move.”
“I shall move,” he said, thrusting into her. “Oh yes, Emma, I shall move.”
Then began a most wondrous coupling, a loving she would never forget. Their bodies fit perfectly to each other, his sex gliding slowly in and out of her welcoming flesh.
She raised her hips to move with him, as together they strove to reach the peak of their passion. When their release came, it was a joining that seemed so right, so destined, she felt no guilt. He had wanted her to give herself to him and she had.
There was no turning back now.
Chapter 10
Dunfermline, Scotland
A myriad of flickering candles and blazing torches lighted the great hall where Maerleswein joined the men and women feasting on roasted boar. To him it was a regathering of sorts, for they had all been there the year before, seeking refuge willingly offered by the Scottish monarch.
At the head table sat Malcolm Canmore, King of Scotland, nearly forty and still a vigorous man with a warrior’s body and a full head of long, brown hair to go with his mustache and well-kept beard. Watching the king was his betrothed, the lovely Margaret of Wessex, who was nearly half his age. Maerleswein had met her the year before, when she and her brother fled north. Anyone who saw Margaret and Edgar Ætheling together would observe the resemblance. The two shared their fair appearance, their blue-gray eyes and the same delicate features; Edgar’s only a masculine version of his sister’s.
The king had told Maerleswein that when Edgar, his mother and two sisters had landed in Scotland, Malcolm was there to greet them. Maerleswein could well imagine the scene, the king’s eyes devouring young Margaret, as they did this night. ’Twas not surprising when, soon after they met, the king offered to make Margaret his wife. Malcolm had fallen quickly, not just because of her royal Saxon lineage, the same lineage that the Norman Bastard would find disturbing when matched with a Scot, but because Margaret was so much more.
Her gentle spirit permeated the hall. He had heard it said in Dunfermline that she was persuaded to accept the king’s offer in order to accomplish a holy purpose, to direct Malcolm from his erring ways and increase God’s praise in the land. Mayhap it was so, for, from his own observations, the Scottish people loved her, as did their king.
She did not say much, a word here, a nod there, allowing her betrothed to do the talking. While Malcolm spoke both Gaeli
c and Saxon, Margaret spoke only Saxon. Yet she did not need to speak for those attending to observe the sweetness of her nature.
With her long flaxen plaits and her pleasant expression, Margaret reminded Maerleswein of his wife, Julianna, at that age. A wave of sadness swept over him. He had lost her so early and, even today, missed her far more than he would ever admit. With a sigh, he shook off the longing for the past. He had his daughter to care for and she was the image of her mother. He had named her for Emma of Normandy, Queen Consort of England, Denmark and Norway. The name seemed fitting since both were strong of character and had overcome loss, though after the Bastard plundered England, mayhap the Norman’s connection to the name was best forgotten.
He gazed about the hall, decorated with shields and tapestries belonging to the Scottish royal family and proudly noted that the men sharing the meal with the king were nearly all Northumbrians, many related. None was even thirty, yet much would be expected of them if they were to take back the North. The Danes and their ships would not be enough without leaders like Waltheof, the Earl of Huntingdon, who looked like a Dane with his great height and pale hair. And no wonder, for he was cousin to King Swein of Denmark.
As he thought of it, Waltheof was also cousin to Cospatric, the young Earl of Bamburgh. Now there was a man who would make a fine husband for Emma. Handsome by most women’s standards, and more importantly to Maerleswein, Cospatric was wealthy and titled, still powerful with his lands north of Durham.
Emma was too independent, too content with her made up family. She needed children of her own. She’d had enough time to mourn Halden’s death. Maerleswein had no intention of allowing his only daughter to remain a widow forever. It was time for her to wed again. He was not pleased with this friendship with a French knight who had helped her with Ottar. The look in her eyes when she spoke of the knight’s kindness displayed more than gratitude.
Emma had been alone with women, children and servants for too long. She needed a man, one her father approved of.
Hearing the men’s conversations, retelling the story of the Normans’ routing of the weak Northumbrian forces, reminded him of his mission. He had come to Dunfermline not only to seek Malcolm’s aid, as he had King Swein’s, but to convince the Scot and the others to join the fight. Even more than men and arms, they needed leaders with a firm resolve to accomplish their purpose. He was still doubtful of Osbjorn’s ability to lead hundreds of ships and thousands of Danish warriors. He knew William. The Norman Bastard was fierce and would not be stopped except by men with a tenacity to match his own.
“You are a quiet one this night, Maerleswein,” observed the king of the Scots, looking down the table to where Maerleswein sat.
“Aye. I have been contemplating all that must be done by summer’s end when we return to Yorkshire to meet King Swein’s ships. There is much to consider.”
“You are confident they will arrive?”
“I am. What Swein has promised, he will see done. While I was still in Jelling, he ordered the building of more longships.”
Cospatric set down his wine. “He was most eager to reclaim the heart of the old Danish lands.”
Malcolm leaned forward. “In that, Scotland may have an interest. We were planning to invade Yorkshire last year on Edgar’s behalf, but alas, the Norman got there first.”
“He has come and gone again from York,” Maerleswein informed the king, “leaving yet another of his castles and more of his French knights. While he is away is the time to strike.”
* * *
York, England
Emma gazed into Geoffroi’s face, as they lay together amidst the lavender flowers at the edge of the meadow that abutted the woods, content as she had never been. In the background she could hear the melodious song of the ruby-breasted linnet.
The world did not intrude into this part of the forest. It was a special place, theirs alone. It had not been easy for her to steal away unnoticed to meet him in the flower-filled meadow, but she had done so. And she came willingly, though not as often as either Geoffroi or she would have liked.
Sunlight filtered through the trees to fall across his straw-colored hair. One arm bent under her head for a pillow, she reached up with the other to touch his cheek, letting her fingers caress his now familiar face, relishing the weight of his body lying across hers.
He bent his head to kiss her, brushing his lips over hers. She heard him take a deep breath.
“I love your smell,” he said, nuzzling her neck, sending shivers down her spine and awakening other parts of her body. “I noticed it the first time you rode with me.”
His tongue slid over her skin and she turned into his caress.
“You taste like honey,” he murmured.
She turned her head to kiss his temple.
“Would that we could always be together like this,” he said, raising himself on one elbow to brush tendrils of hair from her brow. “Only I would prefer a bed,” he added with a grin, “and you naked. The times I have seen your lovely form have been too few.”
She smiled up at him, her hand curving around his chiseled jaw. He turned his head to kiss her palm. The warmth of his lips sent an aching need coursing through her. She loved the touch of this man. His hands were rough but his lovemaking tender. Yet, at times, his passion had risen to take her in a furious storm. She had reveled in his unleashed strength.
“’Tis a dream I, too, wish were real,” she murmured. But she knew it was only a dream, one that would never be realized. In this place she ignored the allegiances that would one day tear them apart. She forgot the father she loved who led the rebels. If this was all she had of her knight and his love, she would accept it and be grateful for the gift.
His face was mere inches from hers when he whispered, “I meant when I said I would have no other, Emma. Do me the honor of becoming my wife and when I return to Talisand, come with me.”
She let out a breath. How she wanted to go! Somehow she must find the words to tell him she could not. “My life is here, Geoffroi. The twins, my home, Inga.” My people, my father, my future.
“Bring Inga and the twins with you,” he said undaunted, sitting up to cast her a mischievous smile. “Even the hound! Talisand has room for all and I have a manor and land of my own. Even Artur and Sigga would find a home there with us.”
“If only….” She gazed into the depths of his blue eyes. If only her father did not plot with the Danes to recapture York. If only she was not a thegn’s daughter with all the attendant responsibilities to her station and to those who depended upon her. If Geoffroi knew her father and his allies planned to send the Norman king running, he would have nothing to do with her. His love might even turn to hate. If her father knew she had taken a Norman knight as her lover, he would kill that knight. Torn between them, she could tell neither of the other.
“You need only say ‘Yes’, Emma.”
She sat up and began to brush the grass from her tunic, avoiding his eyes. “I cannot. Not… now.”
He was silent for a time and then he said, “I know it would mean an upheaval in your life, but I will give you time, Emma, as much as I have to give. It may be that at summer’s end I will return to the Lune River, to Talisand. I pray you will go with me. We belong together.”
She felt a shiver run up her spine. At summer’s end, he and the other Normans could be dead, slain by her fellow Northumbrians or their Danish allies. Mayhap even her father. The weight of the knowledge she bore crushed her. How could she tell him the battle for York was not over, as he might believe, but had only just begun? How could she face the prospect of losing him in that battle? Geoffroi could not die. No, he must live to return to his beloved Talisand, even if it were without her.
He stood and helped her to rise, then kissed her. She welcomed his kiss, desperately clinging to their few moments together. Each of his kisses was precious, for she did not know how long she would have them.
They brushed the grass from their clothes and walked hand
in hand from the meadow, the ache of regret lodging deep within her heart for what she knew could never be and for fear of what was coming.
* * *
’Twas the middle of August when Malet found Geoff in the bailey where he had been speaking with Mathieu about the horses. The sun overhead was warm, heating his mail and the skin beneath his tunic. He was hoping for a cup of ale, but he could see by the sheriff’s face, set in stern lines, he carried the weight of the world. The tankard of ale would have to wait.
Sending Mathieu on his way with a wave of his hand, he turned to Malet. “What is it?”
“A messenger has arrived from the king.”
“He is returning?” Geoff guessed. “I thought William was hunting in Gloucestershire.”
“He was,” said Malet. “That is where the news reached him that more than two hundred Danish ships have been sighted off Dover. Since then, the Danes have attacked Ipswich and Norwich in East Anglia, destroying William’s ships and plundering the towns.”
For a moment, Geoff was too shocked at the news to speak. When he found his voice, he said, “The Danes are attacking England?”
“Aye, sailing north and pillaging along the way,” came Malet’s grave reply.
Regaining control of his thoughts, Geoff raked his hand through his hair, hardly believing that after three years the Danes would choose to sail to England. “Why would they do that when William has taken control of the land? Are they testing our defenses?”
“Mayhap they are. Think of it, Sir Geoffroi, more than two hundred longships, their warriors plundering the coast and moving north.”
Staring into the distance, Geoff pictured the ships with their red and white striped sails, the curved stems carved into dragon heads. In his mind, he counted the warriors each would carry, some as many as a hundred. All together it would be thousands more men than they had knights.
“Does William believe they are headed to York?” Even as he asked, Geoff realized if the Danes were plundering the southeast of England, they would not fail to come north with a treasure as rich as York in their path.
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