Rogue Knight (Medieval Warriors Book 2)

by Walker, Regan

  * * *

  Maerleswein first stopped at Emma’s house, pleased to find it untouched by the fire as were all the homes in that section of the city, but many were empty, including Emma’s. He ordered his men to ride on, northeast of the city walls, to where he thought she might go—the cottage of Jack and Martha, two of her villeins. Emma was fond of the couple and he knew them to be trustworthy, loyal to his daughter.

  When they arrived, he was relieved to see the twins playing in front of the cottage. He dismounted, telling his men to wait.

  The twins rushed to greet him and he swept them into his arms.

  “Have you come to save us, Godfather?” asked Finna.

  “From the fire, you mean?”

  “It was awful,” interrupted Ottar. “The smoke burned my eyes.”

  “Mine, too,” added his sister in a small voice.

  “I have come to take you and Emma home, and to see you are safe. There now, is not that a fine thing?”

  The twins grinned. It brought joy to his heart to have cheered them. A fire sweeping through the city must have been terrifying to one so young. It would be terrifying to anyone.

  The door of the small thatched cottage opened. Emma appeared, her long flaxen plaits trailing down the front of the simple, brown tunic, one he thought she kept to work in her garden.

  “Father! I heard voices and wondered who it was the twins were speaking with. I am glad to see you.”

  He put the twins down, walked to his daughter and kissed her on the cheek. The twins ran at his side to keep up with his long strides. In truth, he was glad to see they were all here. He stopped in front of his daughter and studied her face. “You are well?”

  “Yea, Father. We escaped the fire as you can see, but we have watched the smoke and people fleeing tell us the city lies in ruins. Did you see my house?”

  Finna clung to Emma’s tunic and looked up at him.

  “Aye. It stands.” At that Emma’s face brightened, Finna’s did as well. “I have come to bring you home. Are Sigga and Artur with you?”

  “Sigga and Inga are in the cottage and Artur is helping Jack with the lambs.”

  “You must see them, Godfather,” urged Finna. “They are much bigger now.”

  “I will visit the lambs,” he agreed, not wanting to disappoint them. “Then we must go while we still have light.”

  “I see you do not come alone,” Emma remarked, her eyes taking in the five men who had come with him sitting atop their horses some distance away.

  “Nay, and not just these, four of which I will leave to guard you. The Danes have come with their many ships. They camp on the bank of the River Ouse along with the Northumbrians who have joined our cause. Cospatric and Edgar are with them. Think of it, Emma. Hundreds of ships and thousands of men. All of Northumbria has risen to fight the Normans.”

  “When does the fighting begin?” she asked anxiously.

  “We attack at first light.”

  * * *

  Geoff had spent the night preparing his men and his weapons. From the tower’s battlement, he had watched the hundreds of fires in the Danish camp on the bank of the river, wondering if fire would be the Danes’ chosen weapon. None in the tower castle had slept even after the campfires died down.

  Dawn broke in the cloud-streaked sky as he gazed toward the city. The flames still lingering in isolated places added to the hellish nature of what Geoff knew might be the place of his last battle. He had faced death many times and knew well the fear before a battle. But he could not recall a time when William’s forces had been so greatly outnumbered. Even so this was not the first time he had considered the day might be his last.

  He did not want to think he might never see Emma again. He wanted a life with her, one day even a child. He did not worry for her safety since she was a Northumbrian, but the Danes’ presence added an uncertain element. Would they seek to pillage what was left of the city? Will Emma and her family be safe?

  Geoff was standing at the top of the motte looking into the bailey when the Danes’ fierce war cries echoed through the air as they attacked the castle in a great rush. Their shrieks sent an icy chill snaking down his spine. He had fought for William in Maine and Normandy against the French, at Hastings and Exeter against the English and the year before in York at the side of the Red Wolf, but if he survived the day, he would never forget the shrieks of the Danes as they tasted blood they had yet to shed.

  Arrows flew from the castle battlements in a great whooshing sound. The Danes raised their shield walls where the arrows struck in the thickest part of their numbers. A few of the Danes fell but not many. The archers on the battlements of both castles fired another volley. Once he and his fellow knights engaged in close fighting, the arrows would no longer be of use.

  Geoff rushed down to the bailey and mounted his destrier Mathieu had waiting.

  “Dex Aie!” God aid us! Knights shouted as they poured forth from the castle to engage.

  “I want you and your knights with my own and those of FitzOsbern, Sir Geoffroi,” shouted Malet coming alongside Geoff.

  “As you wish,” Geoff said and signaled to his men to circle Malet’s and FitzOsbern’s guards. Protecting the two noblemen, Geoff and Alain led the knights into battle.

  Immediately they were confronted with the Danes’ axes and swords flying in all directions. With his long shield, Geoff blocked an attack from a blond, bearded warrior on one side of his horse, then with his sword sliced the neck of a dark bearded man on the other. The Danes screamed in exaltation and their victims grunted in pain. It was almost like Hastings where they had faced the elite huscarls of the Saxon army.

  Geoff and Alain fought side-by-side keeping the nobles protected from the most vicious attacks. Around them, the other knights sought to cut down the bearded rebels, but they swarmed like bees over the ground.

  What seemed like hours later, Geoff felt fatigue sapping his strength. He had lost track of the rebels that had fallen to his sword as the clash of steel with shields and blades gave way to the groans of wounded and dying men. He was coated in the blood of the slain. His own arm had suffered a gash and only now did he feel the pain.

  Finishing off one rebel, he surveyed the field of battle. While they had killed many of the Danes and their allies, too many French knights had fallen. Their mail-clad bodies littered the grass now soaked in blood. The knights protecting the nobles had dwindled to a precious few. Concerned he could no longer afford Malet and FitzOsbern the protection needed, he gave the order, “Fall back!”

  They managed to shield Malet and FitzOsbern as they retreated across the bridge to the palisade gate, fighting off Danes and rebels as they went. The nobles and the small group of knights plunged into the bailey, past the guards still holding the gate.

  “Into the tower,” he shouted to Malet and FitzOsbern, fearing it would only postpone the inevitable.

  They dismounted in the bailey where Mathieu met them. “Stable the horses, then follow us into the tower.”

  Mathieu nodded and took the reins of their horses.

  A short while later, Mathieu joined them in the hall. Geoff knew the squire was disappointed not to have seen his share of fighting but the battle was too intense for Geoff to allow it. He would not risk the Red Wolf’s faithful squire.

  “I need you here,” said Geoff, “but keep to the shadows. You may have need of escape.”

  “Aye, sir,” replied Mathieu.

  Minutes later, Geoff stood at the door of the great hall looking down into the bailey when the Danes broke through the line of knights defending the gate.

  “Bar the door!” he ordered the few men inside the tower. “Then fall back to guard the sheriff and the earl.”

  * * *

  Gripping his round shield in one hand and his spear in the other, Maerleswein and his men surged forward with their swords and spears to inflict a bloody assault on the Normans. Grudgingly, he admitted the French knights fought well but they were sorely outnumbered and
the people of Northumbria unforgiving in their revenge.

  No mercy was given, no quarter offered. They fought with a purpose, not for the love of battle like the Danes, but to take back their city and to thrust out the Normans who had viciously oppressed them.

  At one point, he crossed paths with Feigr, the sword-maker, wielding one of his silvered blades, crying aloud his vengeance as he slew a Norman knight. “This,” said Feigr, piercing the knight’s throat and thrusting his sword deep, “is for my daughter.” Maerleswein wondered how many men of York had come seeking reprisal for their daughters’ stolen virtue. Too many.

  He was surprised when some of the Normans left the protection of the walls of the new castle on Baille Hill, venturing forth on a sally, only to be cut down as they passed through the gate. Waltheof had placed himself there like a Nordic harbinger of death. As each Norman drew near, Waltheof let his giant axe fall in a move that could only be called an execution. In a steady stream, the severed heads of the French knights fell to the earth and rolled down the hill to form a large pile below. Even to Maerleswein, it was gruesome.

  The fighting went on for hours, battle lust carrying Maerleswein and his men forward until, with the Danes’ help, they had captured the castles and nearly every Norman lay dead. Hundreds of bodies were strewn about the baileys, at the base of the massive, square towers and on the banks of the rivers.

  Some Danes and Northumbrians had fallen to the long French swords and lances as they fought on the riverbanks, but their losses were few compared to the number of French knights slain. In such tight spaces the knights’ horses had not given them much of an advantage. And their numbers were not so many as the Danes.

  When the battle was theirs, Maerleswein’s men surged through the gate and broke down the door of the first castle built the year before, a hated symbol of Norman domination.

  Soon after, with Cospatric at his side, he strode into the great hall where his captain told him he could find the nobles they had taken prisoner: Gilbert de Ghent, who Osbjorn had brought over from the new castle where he’d been captured, William Malet, the Sheriff of Yorkshire and his family, and William FitzOsbern, Lord Hereford.

  He knew the three men from his time as Sheriff of Lincolnshire. And he could see from their faces, they remembered him.

  A small group of French knights surrounded the nobles, their stance oddly proud given they had just lost thousands of men and been stripped of their weapons.

  Osbjorn swaggered into the hall with Swein’s two sons and walked toward him, all three bearing wide grins. “We have won!”

  “Aye, so we have,” said Maerleswein.

  “We go to join the men,” said Osbjorn. “They seek their plunder and we would have our share. Even now Norman helms and swords lay on the ground for the taking. What do you have here?”

  “A few prisoners I must see to.”

  Osbjorn nodded and cast a glance at the nobles behind Maerleswein.

  “Go, then.” He waved the Dane off. “But take no booty except from the Normans and keep your men clear of the far northeast of the city where lies my daughter’s home, else your men will die by my sword.”

  “Of course,” Osbjorn said, tipping his head. “I will see you later when we return for the evening’s feast.”

  Maerleswein rolled his eyes at Cospatric. The Northumbrians might be there to take back their city, but the Danes were there to plunder its riches. King Swein would not have been so shortsighted.

  Swein’s brother and sons departed as Maerleswein’s captain approached. “What would you have me do with these?” He gestured toward the group of nobles and the knights who stood with them.

  “We will keep the nobles as prisoners. They may yet be useful to us. The rest we will slay.” Smiling at Cospatric, he said, “Mayhap Waltheof’s axe is not yet dull.”

  Chapter 12

  Emma anxiously paced as Artur stirred the hearth fire, grateful Inga watched the twins in their chamber. Knowing the battle had been underway for some hours, she prayed for the safe deliverance of the men she loved, hearing in her mind her father’s words. It will be a time of celebration, not mourning. How could that be true when the two men she cared for most fought on opposite sides? The people of York might celebrate a victory this night, but would she?

  She had explained to Ottar and Finna what was happening as best she could. They knew of the fire, had seen the destruction on the walk they had taken with Emma after the conflagration had ended.

  Finna had stared at the smoldering ruin of the Minster and wrinkled her little girl forehead. “What happened?”

  How could she explain to a child that the place in which she was growing up—her home—was changing, that men fought and died to control it? None of the answers she had to give told the whole truth, nor could they, but she had tried all the same.

  A pounding sounded on the door, scattering her thoughts.

  Artur went to open it. To her shock, one of the men her father had left to guard her home stood with his knife pressed to the neck of Geoffroi’s squire.

  The burly guard forced Mathieu through the door. The squire’s hazel eyes were wide with fear, his cheeks flushed. He had obviously ridden hard to get here. “This one says you know him, my lady. Claims he brings you an urgent message. Should I slay the Norman offal and be rid of him?”

  “Nay! I do know him. Take your knife from his neck. He is a friend.”

  The guard gave her a skeptical look but lowered his knife. “I have already removed his weapons, my lady.”

  “You may leave us, sir,” she said, ignoring the guard’s incredulous look.

  “Come Mathieu.” The squire looked bedraggled and frightened, his brown hair tangled around his face, his mail soiled. “Artur, get Mathieu some ale.”

  Artur fetched the ale and the squire took a large swallow, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, then handed the tankard back.

  She gazed at him with concern. “How goes the battle, Mathieu? I have had no word.”

  “The Danes and the rebels have their victory, my lady, but at a terrible cost. Thousands of the king’s men lay dead, nearly the entire garrison of both castles.”

  Emma was stricken, torn between the Northumbrians’ success and the stark reality of the slaughter that had secured it. “Sir Geoffroi?” she asked in a faint voice, almost afraid of the answer.

  “He lives but mayhap not for long. That is why I have come. The rebels now in charge of the castle threaten his life and that of Sir Alain. I only escaped through the postern gate to seek your aid. I do not know if you can help but if you have any influence with their leaders, please come. The nobles they have taken prisoner, but the knights they intend to kill.”

  Emma did not know who held the nobles, but certainly if not her father then Cospatric or Edgar. Even King Swein’s brother, Osbjorn, would know her. “I will go.” She turned to address Artur. “Call the guards and saddle Thyra.”

  Her father’s guards were not happy to accede to her request. “The Danes are now controlling the city, my lady,” said the one in charge. “They may be allies but ’tis still dangerous. We cannot defend against so many.”

  She knew what he meant. He was worried they might see her as an object of their lust. Dismissing the danger she could do nothing about, she said, “I must go. A man’s life is at stake.” Glancing at the squire, she said, “Remove anything that shows you to be a Norman. Artur can give you a plain tunic. You will ride pillion with me.”

  The guards did not like it but, in the end, two of them rode with her and Mathieu and two remained behind to guard her family. Emma left the house with a word to Artur to keep Sigga, Inga and the children safe. Magnus whimpered as they left, the look in his dark eyes telling her he wanted to go. She would not risk his life.

  * * *

  When they were surrounded by the rebels and their weapons taken, Geoff had placed himself in front of Malet and his family. His arm was still bleeding but not badly. Alain had taken a sword point in his shoulder
and now dripped blood onto his mail. Undaunted, the Bear stood in front of Gilbert and FitzOsbern. The few other men who had been in the castle when Geoff had ordered the doors barred now huddled with the nobles. Without their weapons they would be of little use but Geoff still thought of himself as a protector. His death might at least delay that of the others.

  He had not witnessed the end of the battle but he had heard the shouts of the great victory claimed by the rebels. He heaved a bitter sigh knowing the rest of his knights and men-at-arms must now be dead.

  “Who is the tall one who gives the orders?” he whispered to FitzOsbern over his shoulder.

  “Maerleswein,” he spit out, “the former Sheriff of Lincolnshire, a thegn who once swore allegiance to William. Beside him, the younger one with the dark hair is Earl Cospatric. He was once the Earl of Northumbria. Rebels both.”

  “The leaders?”

  “Aye, most likely, along with the Dane who just left.”

  The one FitzOsbern had named Maerleswein pulled his long seax from its leather sheath at his waist and strolled toward Geoff and Alain. The tall Northumbrian was coated in dried blood, even his face and beard were streaked with it.

  In Norman French, Maerleswein said, “You and the other knights are of no use to me.” Then he took a step toward Geoff and pressed the knife’s edge to his throat. Geoff felt a trickle of blood course down his neck and both fear and resolve streaked down his spine. He would not cower. If die he must, then die he would.

  The blade was suddenly withdrawn and the rebel leader’s head jerked toward the front of the hall where a tall woman wearing a dark cloak ran through the door.

  Geoff would have recognized her anywhere. Emma. Mon Dieu. What is she doing here? At her side was Mathieu, dressed as a Northumbrian, followed by two warriors, their swords drawn.

  “Father!” she shouted, letting her hood drop and hurrying toward Maerleswein.

  Father?

  Maerleswein sheathed his blade. “Emma, why have you come? ’Tis not safe.”