Page 12 of Rogue Knight (Medieval Warriors #2)
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.”
Emma’s eyes were fierce as she shot Geoff a glance before drawing near to the man she had called father. Panting, she breathed out, “I come to save a friend.”
Maerleswein frowned at the guards behind Emma, his harsh glare chiding them for having failed in their duty. Facing his daughter, he demanded, “What friend could you find in a Norman castle?”
“These two knights and this squire you would slay,” she said to the blond giant she had claimed as her sire.
Geoff remembered the large shoes he had seen in the room where they had laid the sword-maker and his gaze shifted to Maerleswein’s feet. Emma was his daughter? The leader of the rebels was her father ? Disbelief gave way to rising anger that settled into his gut. All this time she had known her father plotted with the Danes to slaughter William’s knights, yet she had said not a word. She had allowed Geoff to aid the family of the rebel leader, even feeding them. For Christ sake, she had even welcomed him to her bed!
To betray me?
“Father, remember the Normans I spoke of who came to my rescue? The ones who helped Ottar, Feigr and Magnus?”
Maerleswein cast a glance at Geoff and Alain. “ These are the French knights?”
Emma nodded. “The ones who stand before you, guarding the Norman nobles, and this squire who summoned me. I would ask you to spare them.”
Maerleswein’s face hardened into a scowl, his eyes narrowing as if he would deny her request.
“For my sake, Father,” she pleaded.
Maerleswein let out a breath and his countenance softened when he looked into his daughter’s anxious eyes. Geoff had experienced those same blue-green eyes turned on him. He did not doubt her father would relent.
“All right, Daughter. It will be as you say. They are not many and I suppose ’twill not hinder us.” Then to one of his soldiers, “Put the knights in the tower chambers and post guards at the doors. Malet, his wife and sons can take another chamber and FitzOsbern and Gilbert a third.”
“Aye, sir,” the warrior dipped his head, “it shall be done.”
“Thank you, Father,” said Emma, casting Geoff a glance that spoke of regret.
“Helise, I am sorry,” Emma said to the woman.
Malet’s wife regarded her coolly and looked away.
Geoff felt empty, sickened at the thought Emma could accept his kisses and his trust while carrying on a grand deception. He had been well and truly deceived. Now, like the Valkyrie he had first imagined her, she would choose to give him life. But for how long? He could not imagine they would keep him and the others alive when they had already slaughtered the garrisons. Mayhap once she was gone, Maerleswein would see to their deaths as well.
Malet had been right the night of the feast when he had warned him. Could she be a rebel spy? Geoff had not thought so then, but now the evidence was laid before him, too clear to deny. Lured like a fish to the line, baited by her beauty and her winsome smiles, he had never considered Emma might be one of the rebels, much less the daughter of their leader. He had believed her only a widow he could win. He had been wrong.
Geoff grew bitter remembering the hundreds of knights and men-at-arms the rebels and their Danish allies had slain. Some had ridden with him from Talisand, good men and true. Like him, they were younger sons who served the king hoping to gain lands of their own in England. Now they were gone, their voices stilled forever.
***
Riding Thyra back to her home, accompanied by her father’s guards, Emma carefully picked her way through the bodies and charred debris scattered over the streets of York. It was an unholy sight. The tension that had gripped her not knowing if she would be in time to save them ebbed with the relief that came, knowing her father would spare Geoffroi and his companions. But the look of hatred on Geoffroi’s face would haunt her forever.
She had never lied to him but she had not told him who her father was or that he had gone to the Danish king, who was his friend, to seek aid for the rebels in York. The revulsion she had glimpsed in the knight’s eyes was so unlike the warmth she had always seen there before it chilled her.
He held her responsible for what had transpired. But what could she have done? She loved her father and her people who suffered under the Norman yoke. Her own hatred for the French knights had been strong. Yet into her life had come one who was not like the others, one who showed her kindness at every turn. One whose laughter had brought joy into her life, even love. His kindness had softened her heart and made her want to love again.
But how could she have told him of the coming battle?
She had never believed Geoffroi would lose his life. To her he was invincible, destined to return to his beloved Talisand. And he had survived the battle while most of the Normans had died.
On her way to the castle, she had seen hundreds, mayhap thousands of bodies strewn about the streets and near the castles, Normans mostly by their clothing and long shields, but Northumbrians and Danes as well. Even horses had fallen.
Vultures circled overhead, some descending to the bodies to pick at the corpses. The stench that had drawn them made her want to vomit. She could never get used to war’s leavings and hoped to never see them again.
The victors were removing swords and knives from their victims and piling up the corpses to be burned.
Though some of the slain knights and men-at-arms had undoubtedly inflicted evil upon her people, treating the citizens despicably and defiling young women as if their virtue was of little consequence, the sight of so many dead was still horrible and one she had never seen before.
They rode down Coppergate, past the ruined stalls that had once been the shops owned by Feigr and Auki. Feigr’s forge had survived the flames, a blackened monument to a once prosperous business, but the rest of his shop was a mound of ashes. At least Feigr had fled before the flames destroyed the wooden structures. Even now, many of Feigr’s goods were stored in her home. Had he survived the battle? Inga would ask her.
Glancing at the two rough looking guards riding on either side of her, she was glad she had apologized to them for her part in their having to face her father’s wrath, but she would not change what she had done. She could not have left Geoffroi to die, not just because he had oft rescued her and those she loved, but because she cared for him .
Did she love the Norman? Yes, her heart told her, for she dreaded life without him, his cheerful presence, his tender touch. His smile and his love had been gifts she had never thought to have. Into her mind came the picture of his face as she had departed the castle. It had been twisted into a grimace, so harsh it had made her recoil. She had always known he was her enemy; now he knew she was his.
What would become of him and the other Normans her father held prisoner? Would they be ransomed? She hoped so. At least that way they would live.
Questions swirled in her mind as they neared her home. With the city reduced to a burned out shell and only a few structures still standing, where would the people go? The wealthy, she knew, could flee to other places. Mayhap they already had. But what of the shopkeepers, freemen and villeins? Would the Danes remain to defend them when the Norman king returned, as he surely must? Could the Northumbrian warriors hold York without them? From all her father had told her about the Norman king, she knew he meant to rule all of England.
She shuddered when she considered the ruthless methods he might employ to see it done. Surely when he heard the news of his forces’ defeat, he would seek vengeance.
***
Geoff peered out the small arrow slit in the chamber high in the tower where he, Alain and Mathieu had been confined. The fires from the Danes’ camp along the riverbank burned strong in the late September night as the sounds of their revelry drifted up to him and he remembered Emma as he had last seen her.
He had loved her, had even wanted her for his wife. But seeing her with her father cast a shadow on all they had shared. She was a beauty who had captured his heart and then tossed it at his feet. How long would Maerleswein keep his promise to her and allow them to live?
Hours had passed with no word. They had tended their wounds as best they could. Alain’s was worse than Geoff’s but they were finally able to stop the bleeding, clean the wound and make a bandage out of what cloth they had found in the chamber. If the Bear did not come down with a fever, he would heal.
Alain went to the door and pressed his ear to listen. “The sounds of celebration from the hall grow loud. Let us hope they have forgotten us in their feasting and drinking.”
“At least they have allowed the servants to bring us food,” said Mathieu, picking up a piece of bread from where it sat on the tray with cheese, fruit and a pitcher of wine.
Geoff sighed, his thoughts on the far side of the city where Emma might be sitting by her own hearth fire. How could she have betrayed him?
He felt Alain watching him. He was not surprised when he spoke words of advice. “Forget the widow. There will be other women.”
Geoff said nothing. It might be wise to forget her, but he was not so sanguine as to believe it was possible. There would be no other woman like Emma. He wanted to hate her for her treachery. Mayhap for long moments he had. But then he remembered their afternoons together in the meadow, her sweet response to his lovemaking, her kindness to the orphaned children, the girl Inga, even the hound, and his hatred turned into a longing, a desire for what he had lost. How could he still desire a woman who had sold him to the rebels?
Alain picked up his goblet of wine and threw back a large swallow. “’Tis our wine they give us, the last we shall see, at least for some time.”
“Aye,” said Geoff, helping himself to the French wine, hoping it would make him forget.
Alain stared at the goblet, turning it in his hand. “’Twill soon be October. Aethel’s babe was to be born in September.”
Geoff knew the big knight worried for his wife. Childbirth could mean the death of the mother or the child, or both. “She will be well, Alain. Did not Maugris see your little girl growing up with the Red Wolf’s son?”
“Aye. For that reason Aethel chose a name before I left.”
“What is it?” asked Mathieu from where he sat eating some of the cheese.
“Lora,” the Bear said with a smile that suggested a pleasant memory.
“’Tis a beautiful name,” Geoff remarked. Then seeing the wistful look on Alain’s face, he added, “You will see them, have no worry.” He had his doubts of their returning to Talisand, but he would not share them with his friend.
“When was Lady Serena’s babe expected?” asked Mathieu.
Geoff recalled Maugris’ words to Serena. “’Twas to be in the spring, April, I think. If all went well, as Maugris’ vision told him it would, she has been delivered of the Red Wolf’s cub, his heir.”
“They were to name him Alexander,” said Alain.
Geoff grinned thinking about the Red Wolf as a father. Missing his friend and wanting to cheer his companions, he lifted his goblet. “A toast! To Alexander and Lora and to our seeing them before this year is done.”
Alain and Mathieu lifted their goblets and the three drank in somber celebration in the midst of a castle where a clamorous revelry celebrating their defeat echoed from the hall below.
***
“Tonight the Norman hall rings with the sounds of our victory,” Maerleswein announced, lifting his goblet of mead to Cospatric and Edgar who sat on one side of him at the high table. Osbjorn, King Swein’s sons and Waltheof sat on his other side. “Tomorrow we will tear down these walls, these symbols of Norman tyranny.”
“Aye,” said Cospatric raising his goblet and taking a long drink.
“’Tis a long time in coming,” said Edgar.
The great hall glowed with torches and candles. Hundreds of Danes and Northumbrians sitting at the long trestle tables lifted their cups, goblets and tankards in toast to the victory they had won that day. When the fighting was over, they had bathed in the same river that had brought their dragon ships to York, washing themselves of the blood of their victims.
In the center of the room over the hearth fire, a side of beef roasted on a spit, a lad turning it often. Outside, other fires played host to roasting meat and other celebrations. The smell of beef and melting fat mixed with herbs filled the hall, making Maerleswein’s mouth water. No food had touched his lips since first light, and then only dried beef to sustain him.
Along with the beef, there was to be roast pork and several varieties of fish. The servants were already setting cooked vegetables from the castle gardens and bread and honey upon the tables. The serving wenches flitted about, obviously happy to be waiting upon the warriors who had freed their city. The Danes eyed the women with lusty gazes. The women were quick to offer sultry smiles in return. He was glad Emma was not here.
Osbjorn, who sat in the center of the high table with King Swein’s sons and Waltheof on his other side, filled his drinking horn with ale, then got to his feet and lifted it high. “To those in the hall,” he loudly proclaimed, “ we celebrate a great victory! York is once again ours!”
The Danish warriors and the men of Northumbria stood and raised their drinking cups, echoing Osbjorn’s pronouncement before downing their mead.
Lowering his hand, Osbjorn made the sign of the cross over his drinking horn, as was tradition. It was Thor’s hammer and not the Christian cross Osbjorn paid tribute to, while Bishop Christian of Aarhus, who King Swein had insisted come with them, sat on the far end of the high table. It did not surprise Maerleswein. The Christian God had come to the Danes decades before, and though most were now Christians, some still observed the old ways.
The men were in high spirits as they downed their mead. Maerleswein was pleased. How could they not be happy? They had taken back York and slain the Norman usurpers. But as Waltheof’s Icelandic skald lifted his lyre and took his place before the dais to sing his lord’s praises, Maerleswein reflected on what was to come, knowing the battle for York was not yet over. William would not easily accede to their rule in the North.
***
The next day, Geoff and the other prisoners were moved from the older castle to the Danish longships. He, Alain and Mathieu were put in chains and guarded by Danes armed with axes and swords.
Malet and his family, together with Gilbert, FitzOsbern and their few remaining guards, were consigned to other ships. He could not imagine the valuable noble prisoners being kept in chains. Guarded yes, but Maerleswein had once considered them colleagues. And Malet was half Saxon. At one time, the two men might have been friends. Geoff could not see the prisoners once they were taken to the other ships, so he did not know for certain if they received different treatment. He could only wonder at their fate.
What followed next did not surprise Geoff. Standing at one end of the deck of the dragon ship where he and the others were confined, he watched as the rebels attacked the castles with hammers and axes. The sounds of vicious pounding and the splitting of wood echoed in the autumn air from morning through afternoon.
The next day, what the army of Danes and Northumbrians had not torn down, they burned .
They spared the stables, but the smoke caused the horses to rear and scream in fright so they led them away until the fire died down. Most of the smoke was carried north into the city, but the bitter smell was everywhere. Charred wood floated in the air, landing on the longships anchored in the river and falling into the slow moving water like a storm of gray snow.
Mathieu stared at the castles, now reduced to rubble. “What will be left for them to defend with the castles gone?”
“’Tis a reasonable question,” said Geoff. “Their actions may appear foolish to us with the city nearly destroyed and nowhere but the ships and their camps to take shelter, but you have to remember, to them, the castles represent our sire and his claim to York.”
In the days that followed, Geoff and his two companions were moved again, this time to an abandoned home that had not been destroyed in the fire. He did not know what became of his other knights or the noble prisoners.
The Danes shoved them into a large chamber on the first floor of the house, then boarded up the windows. A few cracks allowed shafts of light through. Geoff and his companions also had candles, which they used sparingly, not knowing how long they would have to last. The chains they still wore chafed their hands and feet, but Geoff did not complain. At least they were alive.
Before they lost the outside light, Geoff studied the chamber. Like Emma’s home, it was well appointed with tapestries hung on whitewashed walls. It had once been the dwelling of a leading citizen of York.
“Could be worse,” said Alain the next day as they sat pondering their circumstances. “We have pallets to sleep on and each other for company.”
“Aye, we have a roof against the night’s chill and the Danes feed us,” said Geoff, “but I can tell by their glares and the ribald jesting we hear through the walls, they would sooner run us through.”
“Mayhap the lady’s pleas to her father protect us still,” said Mathieu.
Geoff said nothing. Dreams of Emma cursed his nights. He did not want to remember her beautiful eyes, her smile nor the feel of her skin beneath his hands. Likely Mathieu was right, but Geoff could hardly feel gratitude for the time her guilt had bought them. Who knew how long they would live?
** *
Emma sat by the hearth fire as night settled in around her small family, drawing her lap robe over her legs, happy for the warmth it provided. The chill that had come with November told her winter would soon be at their door. She had done what she could to provide for her family. The garden’s vegetables had been harvested and they had a supply of the apples produced from the orchard, stored in an alcove off the kitchen. Added to those were the dried beef and salted fish and the walnuts from this year’s crop. Even without the market, they would eat.
The city was still mostly in ruins though on her infrequent excursions, accompanied by the guards, she had noted some rebuilding had occurred in the months before on Coppergate.
She let out a sigh as she threaded the needle for the border of flowers she embroidered on the small, linen tunic Sigga had made for Inga’s babe. Inga sat nearby on a bench near the hearth. With one hand on her large belly, she silently stared into the fire.
If all went well, the babe would come before Christmastide. Her villein, Martha, had said she would help deliver the child. For that, Emma was grateful for it was with sadness she reflected that she had never experienced a birth herself. Some days when she had allowed her mind to wander, she had thought of a fair-haired child that might have been hers one day, a child born of her love for a French knight. She shook off the thought. That was a dream best forgotten.
Emma’s father had told her that Feigr had survived the battle and was with the Northumbrians camped on the banks of the River Ouse. Having gained a reputation among the Danes for being a superb craftsman, he was kept busy repairing their swords. Inga was happy for him.
At Emma’s feet, the twins sat cross-legged, playing a game with her father who was stretched out on a fur laid on the floor. He was teaching them the game of hnefa-tafl , King’s Table, a game played on a wooden board inlaid with walrus ivory and carved soapstone pieces that each player tried to capture from the other.
Ottar pointed to the dark pieces. “Why are the king and his men outnumbered by the ones attacking them?”
“It has always been so,” answered her father. “But remember, the king has an advantage. He can only be captured when he is surrounded on all sides.”
Emma thought of the Norman king, curious if he knew the castles he had built now lay in ruins. She had tried not to think of Geoffroi but she had failed. His face was ever before her. She knew he was being held somewhere in the city. Her thoughts often returned to the summer days they had spent together. When she asked about him, her father had assured her the prisoners were being well cared for. She had stubbornly tended the garden she and Helise had planted, which had survived the destruction of the castle on Baille Hill. When she and Sigga had harvested the vegetables, she made sure the guards saw that some were given to the prisoners.
Finna sat on the floor observing the play of the game. In one hand, she clutched a new poppet, the cloth plaything that Maerleswein had given her that was Finna’s very image in a red tunic with long plaits made out of yarn. The child’s other hand rested on Magnus, curled up at her side with his head on his paws. Tucked in next to Ottar was his new wooden sword, a gift from her father, who had said it was time the boy learned. She supposed he was right though it pained her to see Ottar, only ten, training to one day take his place with the warriors.
Maerleswein looked up at her. “Osbjorn wants to winter on the Humber where his men will be fed by the Northumbrians in the marshes.”
“Will you leave with them?”
“Aye, ’twould be wise for me to keep an eye on them since Cospatric, Edgar and Waltheof want to winter in the north closer to Bamburgh. Someone must watch Osbjorn. He is not constant.” Her brow furrowed and he added, “You need not worry. The city will be left with the Northumbrians who remain. And the guards will stay to see no stray man comes near the house.”
“We will miss you.”
She studied the faces of the children. They loved their godfather who, years ago, had taken the place of their own father who had died.
“I will not be so far I cannot check on you now and then, weather allowing. Now that the Danes are gone, I will leave you two guards. When the winter is over, the Danes and I will return.”
***
She stood on the shore of the great North Sea, watching the twins frolic in the shallows, dipping their toes into the white sea foam brought to shore by the rushing waters. The sun at her back cast her shadow onto the warm golden sand. Without warning, the waters suddenly pulled far out to sea and a wave taller than any castle rose in the distance towering above them, turning the sky dark. As she stared, unable to move, the great wave came toward them. “Run!” she shouted, even as she realized with sudden dread, it was too late.
Emma startled awake, every nerve on end, her heart racing as she blinked, then stared into the darkness of her bedchamber. The images persisted causing her to shiver even though she was nestled under the bedcover. At her side, Inga slept. The fire in the brazier, banked when they had retired, provided little light. The terror of the dream, for that is what it was, would not leave her. It was too vivid, too real. Dread encircled her like a heavy black cloak. What could it mean?
The few dreams she had experienced in her life had always portended some coming disaster. Those in the last few years, though rare, had been no different. The dream of a ship swirling in the ocean as it was pulled into the depths only days before Halden was lost, the dream of the bodies in the clearing… and now this.
Unable to sleep and wanting to fill her mind with other, more normal images, she slipped from her bed, donned her clothes and redid her long plaits. Magnus followed her out of the room and down the stairs to the kitchen.
As she entered the warm space, Sigga looked up from where she was stirring gruel over the fire. “You are pale, my lady. Is aught amiss?”
Emma sat on a tall stool, still trying to calm her heart pounding in her chest. “I have had a dream…”
“Oh, no.” Sigga stopped stirring and removed the kettle from the fire. She knew Emma’s dreams to be omens of ill and had come to trust the warnings.
“Aye. And I fear what it portends. Something dreadful is about to descend upon us, Sigga.”
Emma’s gaze locked with the servant’s. Both spoke at the same time. “The Norman king.”
Silence hung in the air as Emma faced the one thing that had occurred to both of them. She could think of nothing more terrifying. “Aye, the Norman king and his army, they will come and none in York will be safe.”
“We must be prepared to flee, Mistress.”
“Yea,” she said on a sigh, “but I wish it was not winter we were facing. The Humber is too far and the fields too open to go there. This time it will have to be the forest, where the dense stands of trees can provide shelter and Magnus can hunt. ”
“What about that cave the twins discovered last summer?” Sigga asked. “It was in the forest.”
Her gaze met Sigga’s. “I had forgotten about that. Yea, it might serve. We must take the villeins, Jack and Martha, with us. And we must prepare for bitter cold, for winter is nearly upon us.”
Sigga’s brows furrowed. “What about Inga?”
“We will go slow and she can ride Thyra. I will make her a soft pillow to sit upon. But Sigga, we must tell her the truth of it. It may be that her babe, like the Christ child, will be born in a cave.”
***
Geoff awoke to a silence he had not known since they were taken captive. Always there had been the sounds of the Danes coming and going, drinking or loudly speaking in their harsh tongue. In the gray light of dawn filtering in through the boards across the window, a thought came to him and he whispered it aloud. “They are gone.”
“Who has gone?” Alain asked in a sleep-filled voice that told Geoff the Bear was not quite awake. He had recovered from his wound, as had Geoff from his, in the many weeks they were held prisoner.
“Our captors.” He stood up from his pallet and crossed the room to shake the still sleeping Mathieu, the rustling of Geoff’s chains sounding loud in the stillness of the early morning.
They had slept in their clothes since the day of the battle so he did not need to dress. Their mail had been taken from them long ago. By now, what they wore smelled rank, some of it bloodstained. He walked to the door the Danes had kept barred. He tried the latch and it opened.
In the main room, the hearth fire had been allowed to die. The front door stood ajar. “Aye, they have left, mayhap in a hurry.”
“Why?” Alain said, approaching with Mathieu.
“I know not why they have gone, but the better question is why we still live. They could not hate us too much for they have left us our lives. And the keys,” he added, seeing on the table the ring of keys he had seen one of their guards carry.
After several tries, he managed to get the key into the lock. Once he was free of the heavy chains, he quickly unlocked those that bound his companions, the metal rings slipping from their hands and feet.
Alain rubbed his bruised wrists. “Mayhap your widow’s pleas did not go unheeded.”
Geoff shrugged. He did not want to think about Emma. She was gone, most likely with her rebel father.
He strode through the main room to the kitchen of the well-appointed home just off Coppergate where they had been kept prisoner. They needed to eat. “Food!” he exclaimed when he saw the remnants of a meal scattered about the kitchen.
Alain picked up the bread on the worktable and broke off a piece. “They must have left in a hurry and could not take it all.” He brought the hunk of bread to his mouth and chewed. “Not old either.”
“Mayhap they did not think to need this food,” suggested Geoff.
“Looks like they had roast chicken last night,” observed Mathieu, looking at a half-eaten fowl sitting on a side table. “’Tis not what they served us.”
“Well, ’tis ours now. Might as well eat while we can,” urged Geoff, even as he realized food no longer appealed as it once had. The long days of imprisonment with only the memories of the slaughtered garrison and Emma’s betrayal to haunt him had robbed him of his desire for food. But they had to eat to survive and survive he would. “We can carry enough for the next meal while we search the city.”
He ate some of the chicken but his own smell was ruining what little appetite he had. “I want out of these bloodstained clothes. Mayhap they left us water to wash. Mathieu, when you have finished, take a look at the chests in the chambers above. See if there are any clothes we can wear. Since we have not shaved and our hair has grown long, we look more like Northumbrians than Normans.”
“With your fair hair, you could pass for one of the Danes,” said Alain, piling a plate with food.
“The Danes might have difficulty understanding me,” said Geoff with a grin, “and you know I would have difficulty keeping silent. Besides, I suspect the Danes are gone, at least for a time. If we wear the Northumbrians’ clothing, mayhap we can go among them unnoticed. I doubt the city is deserted.”
“We will need weapons,” said Alain.
“We might find some knives here in the kitchen,” Geoff suggested and began looking on the shelves. In a basket on a shelf next to some clay jars, he found a supply of knives. “Ah, just what we need. And a sharpening tool!” Geoff had never been so happy to see such crude weapons and idly wondered who was wearing his fine steel sword.
An hour later, cleaned up and garbed in the clothes Mathieu had found in the chambers above, they cautiously stepped from the house. Each had a knife tucked into his leather belt. With their fine woolen tunics and leggings, and cloaks fastened around their shoulders with metal brooches, they appeared like good citizens of York, save for their more powerful builds that, to a discerning person, would identify them as warriors.
Dark clouds told Geoff rain would soon fall. They ambled down Coppergate, trying to appear as unthreatening as possible. The street was not empty but many structures lay in ruin. Only a few people now had reason to traverse the street that had once been home to many shops and homes. In a few places, he observed new buildings had risen from the rubble.
The tower castle, or what was left of it, was not far, but it was not Geoff’s destination. He wanted to see if the dragon ships still occupied the River Ouse.
They reached the bank of the river and he peered down its course as far as he could see. Nothing. “’Tis as I suspected. The Danes have deserted York. I wonder why.”
“Mayhap they have what they came for,” Alain suggested, his voice dripping sarcasm. “They took much plunder in Ipswich and Norwich and a horde of armor from the knights they killed here in York, horses as well.”
“Whatever the reason, I am glad to be rid of them,” said Geoff.
“’Tis as if every man went to his own home,” observed Mathieu staring at the river with nary a ship on it. “…the Danes to their ships and the Northumbrians to their woods.”
And where has Emma gone? Geoff wondered.