“Sir Geoffroi!”
Geoff brought the column to a halt and circled back to the old man whose face bore an expression more serious than his normal mien.
Looking up at Geoff, Maugris said, “I have had another vision…”
Geoff swallowed and waited, his stomach tightening into a knot as he anticipated what the seer’s vision might have told him.
“You will have to face the fear you have carried from your youth, the one you keep hidden even from the Red Wolf that has nothing to do with battle. But mayhap you will find these words encouraging: You will give help to those who would otherwise fall and you will find an ally where you least expect it. But if need be, you must have courage to stand alone.”
From atop his horse, Geoff stared down at the wise one, wondering at the cryptic message. How could the old man know of something Geoff had shared with no one?
“I do not suppose you would care to elaborate?”
“All will be clear in time,” Maugris assured him with a knowing grin.
So the old man’s remarks were to remain a mystery. “All right,” he reluctantly agreed. “I shall try to do as you say. Take care of the earl and his lady.”
As Geoff turned his horse, he glimpsed the Red Wolf standing in the open doorway of the old manor in the bailey, his arm around Serena’s shoulders, whether in affection or for support Geoff could not tell. Mayhap both, for Ren loved his lady and his stance told Geoff he was favoring his wounded leg. That he had managed to walk given the pain he was in was a tribute to both his strength and his resolve.
Geoff tipped his head to him and, as he did, noted Serena looking around the bailey, searching, he knew, for her friend, Eawyn. Ren’s wife had hoped Geoff would one day wed the beautiful widow. He was relieved to see Eawyn had stayed away. She had not warmed to his advances as he had hoped. What he had thought was a growing affection had turned out to be merely a friendship on her part. She was still in love with her dead English husband. Mayhap she always would be.
When he returned, he would have to make it clear to Serena there was no hope for the match.
A look of frustration crossed Ren’s face as he raised a hand to Geoff in farewell. Geoff knew its source. It was the first time the Red Wolf had failed to heed the call of his sire.
The first time Geoff rode alone.
CHAPTER 2
By the light from the fire in the hearth, Emma sat bent over her embroidery, lost in her thoughts. A loud pounding on the front door made her start. She thrust the needle into the linen and stood.
Magnus clambered up from where he’d been lounging next to the hearth and trotted to the door, reaching it before her. She was glad for his presence. An unwelcome visitor would think twice before forcing entry. But this time the hound’s prodigious tail wagged furiously, telling her the visitor was most welcome indeed.
She unlatched the door to see Maerleswein, her tall, proud father, standing there grinning, his golden hair loose about his shoulders, his mustache and beard neatly trimmed.
“Daughter!”
She had not seen him for nearly a year. “Father, you look well.” She reached out to embrace him. “It has been too long.”
Before she could say more, he gave her a quick hug, planted a kiss on her forehead and strode over the threshold, crushing the rushes under his large feet. Behind him was a man she recognized from many past meetings, Cospatric, the handsome Earl of Bamburgh. Unlike most Danish and English men, he was clean-shaven and his dark brown hair extended only to the base of his neck.
“My lady,” Cospatric bowed, his brown eyes twinkling. Straightening, he took her hand and brought it to his lips. “You are beautiful as ever and a most welcome sight.”
“And you, my lord, are too kind. Do come in.” He walked past her and she closed the door. Emma smiled to herself. The charming nobleman who had once been the Earl of Northumbria had always been wont to flatter her.
Magnus followed the two men into the room. It was large enough to provide seating for several people around the fire burning in the central hearth where smoke ascended to a hole in the roof. Firelight illuminated the tapestries gracing the whitewashed walls, tapestries that had been in her family for generations.
Artur, her manservant, and his wife Sigga, hurried in from the kitchen door at the far end of the room on the other side of the table where the family dined. “Welcome, my lord,” said Artur, taking the cloaks of the two men and hanging them on pegs near the door.
“Greetings, to you, Artur, Sigga,” replied her father. “As you see, I come with a guest, Earl Cospatric. You might recall him from the last time I was in York.”
“Aye, I do,” said Artur. “My lord.” He bowed to Cospatric. At Artur’s side, Sigga curtsied.
Magnus sniffed Cospatric as he would anyone coming with her father.
“May I bring you something to drink?” asked Sigga, looking at her father.
“Aye, ’tis cold with more snow coming,” observed Maerleswein, reaching his hands to the hearth fire.
“Best warm the mead, Sigga,” instructed Emma.
“Yea, mistress.” Sigga dipped her head and retreated toward the kitchen along with her husband. They had been with Emma a long time and knew her preference to make guests feel welcome as soon as they entered.
“I see that great beast I gave you has grown,” remarked her father. “His chest deepens.”
As if knowing he was the topic of discussion, Magnus rose from where he had been sitting, nuzzled her father’s hand and wagged his considerable tail. Her father patted the coarse fur of the hound’s head without having to stoop, for the dog was that tall.
“He remembers you from when he was only a whelp,” she said.
With an answering chuckle, her father scratched Magnus behind the ears. “Wise hound. Does he yet hunt?”
“Oh, indeed,” she confirmed, smiling at Cospatric who watched, amused. “But the hares he brings to my door often arrive a bit mangled.”
Her father laughed, a deep belly laugh, his voice resonating through the house.
Ottar bounded into the room from the kitchen. While not her natural son, Ottar and his sister, Finna, nine-year-old twins, might have been for all the love she gave them. Orphaned three years ago at the same time she had miscarried her own child upon hearing the news of her husband’s death, she’d taken them in. They had brought each other comfort during that painful time and now they were a family.
“Godfather!” shouted Ottar hugging Maerleswein about his hips.
“Aye, ’tis me,” he teased, wrapping his powerful arms around the boy’s shoulders and mussing his hair. “Is that your sister I see?”
Peeking into the room from the doorway to the kitchen, Finna gave Emma’s father a shy smile. She was a beautiful child and, like her brother, her brown hair was streaked with sunlight, but whereas her brother had dark gray eyes, hers were a soft brown.
“Greetings to you, Godfather,” she said, coming slowly forward. When she got close, Maerleswein snaked his arm out to draw her to him to hug her in turn.
“And this,” explained her father, gesturing to Cospatric, “is my friend the Earl of Bamburgh.”
Ottar bowed and Finna did a small curtsy as Emma had taught her.
“I remember you, sir,” Finna shyly admitted.
Cospatric looked pleased.
The twins returned their attention to Emma’s father, whom they adored. Once the Sheriff of Lincolnshire, a man of wealth with eight manors, he had been stripped of his title and his lands once he joined the rebellion. The cursed Norman invader had given those to one of his loyal followers. But her father still had his noble Danish blood and much of his wealth. And he still had the love of the people of York.
“Come sit.” Emma gestured to the benches near the hearth fire. “’Tis certain you are tired.”
The men sat on one of the benches and Magnus settled himself on the floor at her father’s feet.
Finna and Ottar, detecting an adult conversation about to commenc
e, retreated to the kitchen where Sigga was preparing their meal. The smell of the spices Sigga added to the mead, cinnamon and cloves, wafted from the kitchen.
Emma sat on the bench opposite the men and directed her question to her father. “Not that I am not pleased to see you and Earl Cospatric, but why have you left Scotland? Is it safe with the Conqueror’s knights still garrisoned in York?”
“Then you have not heard,” said her father.
“Heard what?”
“The news from the North,” Cospatric finished.
Emma looked at them, puzzled.
Sigga returned with tankards of heated mead and Emma accepted the one offered her. “Drink your mead,” said Emma, “but tell me what has happened.”
She waited until her father and Cospatric had downed some of the honeyed wine, then with eager anticipation, asked, “Well?”
Holding his tankard between his two large hands, her father leaned forward. “Durham has been retaken by the Northumbrians.” He sat back, grinning. “William’s latest earl, Comines, was slain along with his hundreds of raiding mercenaries. Good riddance, I say.”
Emma looked from her father to Cospatric whose countenance had suddenly grown serious. “What can it mean for us?” she asked.
Cospatric shifted his gaze to her father.
A confident smile crossed her father’s face. She had not seen him so pleased since before the Norman Bastard had come to England. “A chance to regain the North, Emma.”
“Can it be true?” she asked, afraid to hope.
Cospatric nodded, apparently sharing her father’s favorable outlook.
It was her most fervent desire, and that of the people of York, to see the city freed of the Norman yoke, but it seemed only a dream when the Norman Bastard had thousands of knights at his disposal. While York had thousands of people living within its city walls, they were unarmed and mostly merchants, craftsmen and shopkeepers, along with the people they served, the freemen, farmers and villeins—not warriors.
“Yea, for we do not come alone, Emma. Earl Cospatric brings with him the Northumbrians from the House of Bamburgh.”
“And the sons of Karli of the Danes of York,” added the earl.
“But the sons of Karli are your enemies,” Emma protested.
“Ah, they were,” said the dark-haired Cospatric with a slow smile spreading on his face.
“The enemies of our enemy have become our friends,” her father explained.
“Ah, I see.” She was surprised that after so many years of feuding, the great families of the North had banded together. Mayhap her father was right and there was hope. “But will that be enough with so many French knights and soldiers at the Norman king’s disposal?”
“We have sent word to King Swein of Denmark, asking for his aid.”
“The Danes…” Her voice trailed off as she pondered the possibility of the powerful warriors and their dragon ships sailing to York. “Will he come?”
“I cannot imagine he will not,” said her father. “He could hardly give up what was once the capital of the Danelaw to a French bastard, now could he?”
Cospatric took a deep breath and let it out. “The question is when he might come, not if, Emma. Your father and I are prepared to go to Denmark to plead our cause to King Swein if we must.”
She turned to her father. “What will it mean for the people of York if you are successful? They have experienced so much loss already.”
“Freedom from the yoke of the Normans, I trust,” her father boldly stated.
Emma observed the two men were pleased with the plans they were making. She only hoped their confidence was not misplaced. She, too, hated the Normans and their garrison of knights, but like any woman, she worried about the death the battles would bring, worried about Finna and Ottar and the children of York.
* * *
It should have taken Geoff and his knights two days to reach York but, much to his dismay, the winter storms slowed their pace. Freezing rain sliced through their clothing as their horses slogged through the deep mud. Nights on the cold ground were often sleepless. At the end of the third day, they arrived at the castle, cold, tired and covered with mud.
Followed by his men, Geoff rode his horse toward the bridge that led over the moat to the timbered castle at the junction of the Rivers Ouse and Foss.
The citizens of York, who had been milling about outside the castle moat, stopped and watched. The men with their long hair and full beards looked askance at the newly arriving knights. As Geoff’s procession passed by, the people began to mutter amongst themselves, their voices rising in anger and their expressions dour.
Geoff drew his brows together, puzzling over the people’s reaction to their arrival. He would have thought by now they would be used to Normans in their city. Mayhap they had heard of Robert de Comines’ ravaging of Durham. Whatever it was, this reception did not bode well.
Just as he was about to cross the bridge, his eye was drawn to a cloaked figure moving swiftly through the crowd and a huge dark gray dog striding apace. The gown showing beneath the cloak told him it was a woman. A sudden gust of wind threw back her hood to reveal flaxen hair and a nearly perfect face marred only by a scowl directed at him and his knights. The image of a Valkyrie arose in his mind, a handmaiden of the Norse god Odin tasked with choosing which warriors would live and which would die. ’Twas a tale he had once heard around the hearth fire.
Captivated by the strength the woman exuded, he paused to watch her and the hound before turning away to proceed into the bailey crowded with knights and men-at-arms.
Buildings he did not recall from the year before were scattered around the periphery of the palisade fence of wooden stakes that surrounded the large bailey. No doubt the new buildings served the hundreds of knights and men-at-arms now garrisoned here. There would be workshops, an armory, a blacksmith and stables and possibly a chapel. He hoped it had a good kitchen and a good cook.
He dismounted, pulling off his gloves to stroke Athos’ neck. The chestnut stallion nickered and tossed its head. “You did well, my boy.” At Mathieu’s approach, Geoff handed the stallion’s reins to the squire. “Mathieu, see that Athos gets some extra oats while I find the castellan to let him know we have arrived.”
“Yea, sir,” said Mathieu and, with Geoff’s two horses and Mathieu’s own in tow, the squire headed toward what appeared to be stables at the far edge of the bailey.
Turning to Alain, who was sliding from his great horse, Geoff said, “Best see the men are settled.” He glanced at the sky. “Gloaming is not far off. The men may be relegated to pallets in the castle’s hall or they may be accommodated in shelters in the bailey. Whichever the case, I will meet you in the castle. I go to seek out the castellan, FitzRichard.”
Alain nodded and set off about the task, his stride slower than normal. The large knight was weary. All of them were tired and hungry after three days on the road eating cold fare and enduring the freezing rain that had turned to snow as they traveled east. They would welcome dry clothing, hot food and a fire.
Geoff walked through the melting snow toward the stairs leading up to the castle that sat atop the motte, the mound of dirt nearly thirty feet tall. Snorting horses, knights in conversation and others brandishing swords in a practice yard set to one side of the bailey made for a noisy place. The bailey was like a small town and, after the quiet of the countryside, loud with the clash of arms and the hoarse voices of men.
“Ho! Sir Geoffroi!” The shout came from behind him just as he reached the base of the stairs. Geoff turned to see William Malet striding toward him and was struck again by the man’s fair appearance. Older than Geoff by more than a decade, Malet was half-Saxon and related to the former King Harold by marriage. Still, the man had fought with William at Hastings and was now in a position of trust. More importantly to Geoff, the Red Wolf counted him a friend.
“Judging by your appearance,” remarked Malet, “I would say you traveled the same roads I did.”
Geoff laughed. Admittedly his condition was foul and Malet fared no better. “Aye, I am surprised you recognized me under all this mud.”
Malet’s seeking gaze reached behind Geoff. “Where is the Earl of Talisand?”
“Recovering from a fall and a bad gash in his leg. He was most disappointed not to be able to rise to William’s summons.”
“We could use his sword arm for what I fear may be coming.”
“So I hear.”
Malet paused and looked toward the open gate. “I assume you noticed the discontent of the locals as you entered the city.”
Geoff remembered the hostile looks the men of York had given them. “I did. Angrier faces I have not seen before.”
“The situation is worse than when I left,” advised Malet. “York is like a kettle of stew left too long on the fire.” At Geoff’s raised brows, the sheriff added, “There will be time to speak of it over the evening meal. In the meantime, we could both use a bath if one can be found in this throng.”
“From whence did you come?” Geoff inquired.
“I was in the south of Yorkshire and most recently in my lands in Holderness, east of York. I have returned to see about matters in York. Helise and my two sons are with me. But I am thinking mayhap I should have left them in Holderness. I have concerns about FitzRichard’s ability to control William’s men garrisoned here. The city is rife with discontent. And now this trouble in Durham…”
“I did not know about FitzRichard but I observed for myself the unhappy state of the people. While I was still at Talisand, a messenger came with news of the slaying of Earl Robert.”
“A conversation best shared over good French wine. Walk with me. The servants are local serfs and continually overtaxed as you might suppose, but since we will be housed in the tower, as soon as we find our chambers, we’ll have our baths.”
Geoff followed Malet up the stairs that led from the bailey to the top of the motte, his spurs jangling on the steps. At the top, a great square tower rose three stories into the air, providing a strategic view of the surrounding countryside and the forest beyond.
A Warrior's Heart Page 3