Rogue Knight (Medieval Warriors Book 2)

by Walker, Regan

  Malet nodded.

  “What are the king’s orders?” Geoff asked.

  “He orders us to resist and asks how long we can hold out.”

  “That will depend on whether the Northumbrians join them,” said Geoff. “Remember, we are not so many compared with their greater numbers. York is not a small city and the warriors they have would add greatly to the Danes’ numbers and their fighting skills. Worse, the Danes would give the rebels courage to fight on.”

  “I believe we can hold out for a year were we to take in sufficient food,” said the sheriff, “but FitzOsbern wants to discuss it. That was my purpose in seeking you out. He has called for a meeting at the evening meal.”

  “I will be there,” said Geoff.

  Malet strode away, mumbling about sending a page to tell Gilbert of the meeting. In Geoff’s mind, he saw Emma. I must warn her.

  * * *

  At the far end of the garden where Artur had built benches, Emma sat telling the twins the tale of Beowulf, one she had told them many times before but they had pleaded to hear it again. Beside her sat Inga, just beginning to show her rounding belly. The twins, with their upturned faces, were sitting cross-legged at Emma’s feet, Magnus between them. They had spent many afternoons in such manner after their chores were done since the weather was warm and the days long.

  The children loved the tale, so she told them what she knew, what her father had told her years ago, the tale of the great warrior who had come to the aid of the Danish king to slay the monster Grendel and later a dragon. The twins’ eyes grew large at the daring exploits she described.

  Inga, sitting next to her, looked at the twins with an amused expression. Her friend showed great patience with the children, making Emma think she would make a good mother.

  “He lived to slay the dragon only to fall, fatally wounded in battle,” Emma told the twins. “’Twas a crushing blow.”

  “I do not want him to die,” said Finna mournfully.

  “Ah, but ’tis the way of warriors,” said Emma, tapping Finna’s small nose.

  “A great warrior expects to die in battle,” Ottar sternly informed his sister as if he were an authority on great warriors and intended to become one himself. She supposed he did. His fascination with the knights had not diminished with the battle he had witnessed. The twins had just turned ten the week before and she regretted that the innocence of their childhood was being cut short by the times in which they lived.

  “’Tis best to avoid battles, Ottar, and live in peace,” she chided. Even as she said it she knew one sometimes had to fight for what was important and to defend one’s home, one’s honor. To live peaceably sometimes meant playing the coward. She would not want that for Ottar.

  Artur strode into the garden. “Mistress, the squire has come on a matter he says is urgent.”

  “Squire?” It took her a moment to realize he meant Geoffroi’s squire. “Oh, yea… Mathieu. I will come.” She rose. “Inga, can you tell them another tale? Mayhap the tale of Cnut the Great?”

  “Of course,” said Inga, smiling at the children.

  The twins settled down to hear more and Magnus left his place between them to follow Emma into the house.

  The squire stood next to the hearth, his young face somber.

  “Will you have something to drink?” she asked.

  “Nay, my lady. I come in haste and must return. Sir Geoffroi sent me to warn you. We have word the Danes are sailing north towards York with hundreds of ships, mayhap only weeks away from the Humber.”

  She let out a sigh. So it begins. Thank God Geoffroi knows. She thought of the danger for him and her family on different sides of a fight that was surely coming. Would they survive such an onslaught?

  “Please tell Sir Geoffroi I am grateful that he sent you, however unwelcome the news may be.”

  “Aye, my lady.” With that, he bowed and departed.

  She did not move but stayed next to the hearth, listening to the pounding of the horse’s hooves as the squire galloped down the street to return to his master, her Norman lover. From the open door leading to the kitchen and the garden beyond, she could hear the twins’ chatter.

  Magnus nuzzled her hand with his cold nose. She patted his neck, having nearly forgotten he was there. Inhaling deeply, she steeled herself for what must be faced in the days ahead.

  * * *

  “How did she take it?” Geoff asked Mathieu, regretting he could not have gone himself to see Emma, to embrace her, to love her. It had been days since he had been able to get away and he sorely missed the woman who had become the light of his life.

  “It was odd, sir. She did not faint or cry, as I dreaded she might. She was calm, saying little. Just thanked you for the warning. It was almost as if…” His brow wrinkled. “… as if she expected to hear what I had to say.”

  “Many of us have been expecting the Northumbrians to muster another attack. I have often spoken to her of my concern. But I never mentioned the Danes. I would have thought they were gone with Hardrada’s defeat three years ago. But Emma is a strong woman. Mayhap she was trying to be strong for the children.”

  The meeting that evening was boisterous, each man having a different opinion.

  “We must let William know we need more men and soon,” urged Gilbert.

  “The Danes are experienced warriors,” said FitzOsbern, the gray in his dark hair suddenly speaking loudly of his years at William’s side. “One wonders why they waited so long.” He had fought them before, Geoff knew. “Why do they come now?” FitzOsbern’s need to understand the why of it was not unlike Geoff’s own but there was little to gain by pondering the Danes’ motives at this late point. They were coming.

  “No one knows,” Geoff said, “but it hardly matters now.”

  “William asks how long we can hold out,” said Malet, bringing them back to the message from the king. “Mayhap he means to send us more knights.” The sheriff sent a hopeful glance in Geoff’s direction.

  “We must begin immediately to take in food stores and water,” argued Gilbert. “I have room in the new castle’s bailey for pigs and cattle enough to see us through a long siege.”

  “We must do that, of course,” said Geoff, “but food and water will not be our only concerns. With one torch, the Danes could set the castles ablaze. And then there is the very real possibility the Northumbrians will aid the Danes by filling up the moats to ease their crossing.”

  “Aye,” said Malet, “they might use timber from the houses that ring the castles. What do you suggest, Gil?”

  “I would burn the houses that surround the castles,” replied the castellan.

  “Fire is a dangerous tool in our hands as well as the enemy’s,” warned Geoff. “Be careful what you do.” He did not see how burning one row of homes would prevent others from being torn down, their timbers used to fill the moats. And he liked not using fire in such a way.

  They argued for some time, but in the end, Malet decided to send the king word they could hold out for a year, as he believed. Geoff thought it unlikely. He would have asked the king for more men at once.

  In keeping with his idea, Gilbert was dispatched by FitzOsbern to see to the firing of the homes near the castles.

  “You do intend to warn the residents of York who live in those houses?” Geoff asked Fitz.

  “For all we know they may succor rebels,” insisted FitzOsbern. The Earl of Hereford’s reputation was that of a harsh overlord, so the suggestion did not surprise Geoff. If it were left up to FitzOsbern, the people would have no warning at all.

  “Fitz, there are women and children in those homes,” argued Geoff. “They should at least be allowed to leave with what they can carry.”

  “Very well,” FitzOsbern conceded. “We have time yet. You take a group of knights to warn the people in those homes, Sir Geoffroi.” To Gilbert, he said, “We will give them five days to get out before you set the torch.”

  Geoff did not relish the task of telling people
they were about to lose their homes, but he would see it done. Better he risked his men to warn the citizens of York who were threatened than allow innocents to die in the flames.

  * * *

  Maerleswein rapped on his daughter’s door, anxious to tell her of all that would take place. Already he tasted victory on his tongue, knowing thousands of Northumbrians would join the Danes when they arrived at the mouth of the Humber.

  The door opened and Emma stood there, smiling, but he sensed an underlying tension that spoke of worry. In her eyes he saw something else, mayhap fear.

  “Father,” she said, as he entered, “from whence do you come?”

  He kissed her on the forehead. “The Humber most directly, where my army assembles. ’Tis where Swein’s ships will meet us and soon, but before that I was in Scotland with Cospatric and Edgar.”

  She beckoned him to sit. “Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

  “’Tis a warm day. Some ale would be welcome.”

  She fetched the drink herself and when she had returned and he sat on the bench, she pulled up the stool she always sat upon.

  He took a drink of his ale and wiped his mouth.

  “I have heard the Danes are coming,” she said, “plundering their way north.”

  “I expect they are; you know they love their plunder, Emma. But how did you learn of this?”

  “The Normans know, Father. Their king sent them word.”

  “Did you hear this from the Norman knight you spoke of?”

  “Yea, he meant to warn me. He knows nothing of you.”

  “As I would have it. If they knew you were the daughter of the thegn who once ruled the North for King Harold, and now leads the uprising, they would as soon see you dead.”

  “Some of them, mayhap.” She looked down at her hands entwined in her lap.

  When he recalled her friendship with the French knight, his forehead creased with concern. He brushed it off, knowing the man would soon be dead. Glancing about the room, he suddenly realized how quiet it was. “Where is your brood, your hound, your servants?”

  “Artur took Thyra to the blacksmith to have a loose shoe tightened. Sigga went with him to shop in the market—we want to have as much food on hand as we can—and the twins are in the garden with Inga and Magnus, tending the new plants. Why?”

  “’Twould be best if you stayed close to home for the next fortnight. Thank God the house is far from the center of town. The Danes and our allies know to stay away from this street but with thousands of men, I cannot guarantee they will abide by their orders. I will post guards on every side and come to you when I can.”

  A shadow crossed her face.

  “Do you worry still?” he asked.

  “For you and my family, yes.” Then looking up at him, “And for my friends in the city. Even for the Normans who have shown me kindness.”

  “Friends among the Normans?”

  “You know the ones I have spoken of… the ones who brought Ottar home, who rescued Feigr and Magnus. I owe them much, Father.”

  “No matter, the Normans must go. We would again see an English king in the North.”

  Emma sighed and looked away. “I wish they would leave without all the killing.”

  “’Twill never happen, Emma. William wants Yorkshire as he wants all of England. To think we can stop him without a fight is to want something that can never be.”

  “Aye, I know it well,” she said.

  Seeing her sad face, he thought to cheer her. “Cospatric asks after you, Daughter.”

  She turned her beautiful eyes on him, the eyes of her mother. But her expression was not one of gladness as he had hoped. “The earl is a nice man,” she said with no great enthusiasm. “Please give him my best.”

  “I am certain you will see more of Cospatric once York is again ours. We stopped at his estate at Bamburgh on our way sailing south from Scotland. ’Tis a grand place.”

  “Would you like to see the twins?” she asked, changing the subject. “They miss you.”

  He heaved his large frame off the bench. “Aye, let me at the little mischief makers.” He would have to speak of Cospatric another time.

  * * *

  Emma was happy her father was home, at least for a time, but she was restless and unable to gain any peace for her anxiety over the battle that grew ever closer, like a great, roaring beast stalking its prey.

  Who would live and who would die? Should she and her little family flee or should she trust her father to guard them? He had many Northumbrians at his command. Surely they would protect her and the children, but what of Sir Geoffroi? And her friend, Helise Malet, and her sons?

  When her father suggested they visit the old archbishop together, she leaped at the chance. Mayhap he would have words of wisdom to share.

  “Can we go, too?” Ottar asked.

  Inga looked up from where she sat on the bench at the end of the garden, the children and hound at her feet. “You and Finna can stay with me, Ottar,” she said, seeing Emma’s shake of her head when the boy wanted to go. “I do not think Emma will take Magnus either.”

  “Nay,” said Emma’s father, “the beast stays. We go to the Minster on business. I doubt the archbishop would want the hound sniffing around his sacred relics.”

  “You can go with me to Mass, Ottar,” said Finna. “’Tis not as if you never go to the Minster.”

  “Oh, all right,” the boy reluctantly agreed. “I would rather hear another tale anyway.”

  Emma tousled his hair with her fingers. Then thinking of how young, how vulnerable they still were, she took them into her arms and held them close. “I will be back soon and then we can make some more berry tarts.”

  The twins exchanged eager glances and, placated by the promise of tarts, settled down to listen to Inga as she began a tale of a Danish warrior of long ago.

  Emma and her father walked to the Minster. They were far enough from the castles where the knights congregated that she felt confident her father was safe from recognition by any, save for his friends.

  The sun was bright in the cloudless sky and the day so warm she needed no cloak. Since they went to see the archbishop, she wore a gown of dark green linen finely woven and a belt of cloth embroidered with golden thread. Halden had traded for much fine cloth and she had a store of gowns saved for special days and feasts.

  People passed them on the streets, going about their business. Some recognized her father and bid him welcome. He was well liked in York.

  “’Tis odd to think that these streets, filled with people plying their trades and shopping for their families, will soon have to deal with thousands of Danes,” said Emma.

  “The people will see them as coming to their aid. The Northumbrians and the men of York will join the Danes to defeat the Normans. The people will rejoice at the victory the Danes will allow them.”

  When they were nearly to the Minster, it occurred to her to ask, “Why do you want to see the archbishop? Do you seek Ealdred’s blessing?”

  “Nay, though I would have it if he offers. My purpose in coming is quite different. Cospatric will meet us at the Minster. We want the archbishop to agree to crown Edgar king, if not of England, then at least of Northumbria.”

  Emma knew the archbishop well enough that she did not think he would agree. After all, it had been he who had crowned the Norman king three years before. And it had been the archbishop who had warned against further rebellion.

  They ascended the steps of the great cathedral and Cospatric pulled away from the shadows to greet them.

  “My lady,” he said taking her hand and bowing over her fingers, “I was hoping Maerleswein would persuade you to come.”

  She recognized the noble countenance and the handsome face of the Earl of Bamburgh. She had not seen him since winter but she had long known him. “Earl Cospatric, how good to see you.” Was that interest she detected in his brown eyes? There was certainly something new in his gaze. She believed Cospatric to be a fine man, but she had given he
r affection to a certain French knight. Once her heart was given, she would not change.

  They strolled into the cathedral. Cospatric’s guards waited at the door.

  “Do you share my father’s confidence for the outcome of the uprising?” she asked the earl.

  “The outcome is not in doubt, my lady. The Danes sail with their hundreds of ships and, not only them, but others have joined our cause from Poland, Frisia and Saxony, even Lithuania—men-at-arms, ready to fight.”

  “I have long wanted the Normans and their castles gone from York,” she said, “but I shudder to think what it may cost us to see it done.”

  Before he could answer, the archbishop’s assistant approached. “His Lordship is expecting you. Please follow me.”

  Her father raised a brow to Cospatric.

  “I made certain he was available to see us,” explained the earl.

  The monk led them to a room behind the nave near the great library. He opened the door and bid them enter.

  In a carved chair set to one side, the archbishop sat clothed in a fine, white linen tunic belted at the waist. His countenance was drawn and pale. His body slumped against one side of the chair. He did not look well.

  Her father introduced Cospatric, though he was known to the archbishop.

  When her turn came, Emma greeted him as “My Lord Archbishop” as was her custom, yet he had never insisted anyone call him more than “Father”.

  With a frail hand he bade them sit. Then he waited, studying their faces.

  “Do you know why we have come?” asked her father.

  “I know that Danish ships sail toward York. FitzOsbern has told me.”

  “Yea, ’tis true. And soon we will meet Edgar.”

  “So, the Ætheling returns from Scotland,” the archbishop said with a sigh. “I do not think it wise.”

  “But he is the rightful king of England,” protested Cospatric. “We would have you crown him as such.”