A Warrior's Heart

by Laurel O'Donnell

  At the sound of heavy footfalls on the snow-crusted ground, she jerked her head around, her heart pounding in her chest.

  A figure emerged from the trees, so close she could have touched him.

  She cringed. A Norman.

  A tall giant of a knight, his blood-splattered mail a dull gray in the weak winter sun, ripped off his silvered helm and expelled an oath as he surveyed the dozens of dead. The sword in his hand still dripped the blood of those he had slain. He was no youth this one, at least thirty. His fair appearance made her think of Lucifer, the fallen angel of light. A seasoned warrior of death who has taken many lives.

  Had he killed people she knew? Her heart raced as fear rose in her chest.

  Would she be next?

  The wind blew his straw-colored hair about his face as he turned from the field of bodies to stare at her.

  She backed away as their gazes met and a frown creased his forehead, a puzzled look flickering in his stark blue eyes. Was he surprised to find a living soul among the dead? Or was it because she was a woman?

  Beneath her cloak, her hand went to her seax, her mind screaming for retribution even as fear rose in her throat. Magnus came to her side but, to her surprise, did not growl at the threatening warrior.

  The knight’s eyes shifted to where her hand gripped the hilt of her knife. “Still your hand, lady. I mean you no harm.” He had spoken in English.

  Wiping his sword on his leg, he sheathed the weapon in a leather scabbard attached to his belt.

  “No harm?” she blurted out. Taking her hand from the hilt of her blade, she swept it in a wide arc over the bodies. “Is this not harm enough?” Her voice dripped with the sarcasm and hatred she felt for the Norman Bastard and his soldiers.

  “The rebels brought this on themselves.”

  Before she could answer, Magnus let out a sudden bark and bolted across the clearing to where a mere youth, blood spattered on his tunic, lay on the snow-covered ground. The hound licked the boy’s face and she heard the boy groan. A sudden dread came over her when she spotted the familiar tunic and sun-streaked hair. “Ottar!”

  She flew across the clearing and knelt beside him. Magnus pressed his nose to the boy’s cheek.

  “Ottar!”

  His eyes were closed and his face was as pale as the snow he lay upon. Desperation rose in her mind. Placing her ear on his chest, she heard the sound of a heartbeat. He lives!

  Ignoring the knight behind her, she gathered Ottar into her arms and tried to stand, anxious to take him home. But the lad was heavy and she faltered.

  The knight’s shadow fell across her. “I will carry him.”

  She reached her arm protectively over Ottar. “You’ll nay touch him, Norman scum.”

  “You have no choice but to allow me. ’Tis obvious you cannot bear his weight.”

  “Have you and your kind not done enough?”

  He bent and scooped up the boy. “Do not be foolish, woman. You have my word no harm will come to you or the lad.”

  What was the word of a Norman to her? She hesitated, hating to accept his help but there was the town to cross and she was not certain she could carry Ottar the distance she must. Nor could she leave him to freeze on the icy ground. “All right.”

  With her words, into the clearing stepped two Normans, one very large knight holding the reins of a great, gray horse. His dark hair and the scar on his face rendered his visage frightening. The other man was younger, his appearance almost boyish, but he held himself proud and erect. He led two horses, not as large as the gray. Both were black. A squire.

  The blond knight carried Ottar toward the larger Norman and signaled him to mount, then placed the boy in his arms. “You carry the lad, Alain. I’ll take the woman.”

  The large knight grunted his acceptance and cradled the boy in one arm, holding the reins in the other. Despite his frightening visage, he handled Ottar with a gentleness that belied his great size and appearance.

  To the younger one, the blond knight said, “Mathieu, check to see if any others are alive.”

  Emma was saddened by the deaths yet relieved not to have recognized any of the others who had fallen there. She was particularly glad not to have seen her father among the dead.

  Her attention focused on Ottar, she experienced a tremor of fear at seeing his eyes still closed. She was about to object to being separated from him when the blond knight mounted his black warhorse, brought it swiftly to her side and reached down to sweep her into his lap.

  She shrieked in protest. “Where are you taking us?”

  “Wherever you like, lady. Lead on.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief, anxious to get Ottar home. But what if her father were there? She dismissed the thought. It mattered little at this point. For whatever reason, this knight, this Lucifer wanted to help. She must see the boy to his bed, no matter it would be a Norman who brought him there. No matter what payment he might expect.

  The young one named Mathieu finished checking the bodies and called out to the blond knight, “The boy is the only one living, sir.”

  Grateful Ottar might survive and eager to get him home, once they were inside the city’s walls, Emma directed them down winding alleys and paths that were away from the main streets. She had no wish to encounter either Normans or the rebel fighters.

  CHAPTER 4

  Geoff guided his horse as the woman directed. The large hound trailed beside the destrier, the dog’s dark eyes anxiously watching its mistress. Geoff remembered the woman and her hound from the first day he’d entered York. He had never seen a more beautiful woman nor a dog so large. Even then, the image of them striding along together through the crowd had captured his attention. He was certain it was the same woman the hound stared at so intently. But this was not a day for her to be wandering outside of the city, even with such an escort. What had brought her to the clearing where a battle had raged? Mayhap she had been searching for the lad. Or a husband? Her headcloth told him she was married. Even so, it was foolishness for the woman to risk so much.

  She had the most incredible eyes he had ever seen, even when they flashed in anger. Blue-green like the waters of the River Lune on a sun-filled day. She sat before him, wisps of her pale hair, freed from its plait, blowing across his face like gentle rain. With his arms on either side of her, leaving his hands free to direct his difficult warhorse chafing at its bit, she was forced to sit with her back tight against his chest. Her scent was fresh, like delicate herbs, reminding him the Danes bathed often.

  He had not had a woman in his arms for a very long while, not since London in the days after the Conquest. Talisand had few wenches available for sport and Eawyn had never invited him to her bed. Now he had one of York’s women in his lap, her buttocks tight against his groin, her female scent rousing his senses and causing his loins to swell. A woman he should not be drawn to but was. There was beauty in her face and spirit in her heart but he saw hatred in her eyes.

  The city was quiet as they made their way through the back alleys and streets she directed him to take. The rebels that had survived William’s army would be lying low now that York was once again in Norman hands with more than a thousand knights to maintain order.

  They took a narrow passage between buildings that emptied onto a street of fine manor homes, much larger than the cottages he had seen elsewhere. “Stop here,” she said when he nearly passed a large, two-story home.

  “You live here?”

  “Yea.”

  It was not the home of a peasant or a common villager. This was a rich man’s home, on a street of rich men’s homes. “This is your husband’s?”

  “’Tis mine,” she said defiantly. “My husband is three years dead.”

  A widow. A beautiful, young widow. Was she, too, in love with her dead husband as Eawyn was?

  He dismounted and reached his arms to lift her from the saddle. Reluctantly, or so it appeared to him, she accepted his help, putting her hands on his shoulders. Once she was standi
ng, he took the lad from Alain and followed her to the front door.

  Alain and Mathieu dismounted.

  She knocked on the door. A man in his fourth decade answered and, by his simple tunic and leggings, Geoff judged him a servant. The man pulled the door wide and paled when his gaze fell upon Geoff standing behind the woman, holding the boy in his arms.

  “Praise God you are safe, Mistress, but what has happened to the boy?”

  Her voice wavering, she said, “Ottar is hurt. Prepare his bedchamber, Artur, and hurry.”

  The servant hastened to do her bidding.

  With the lad in his arms, Geoff turned to Mathieu and Alain. “Take care of the horses, Mathieu, then come inside. ’Tis too cold to remain out here.”

  “There is a stable in the back,” the woman said.

  The squire nodded and headed for the rear of the house, the horses in tow.

  To Alain, who stood silently waiting, Geoff said in a low voice, “’Twould be best if you, too, wait within.”

  Geoff followed the woman into the house and trudged up the stairs behind her and the hound to the upper floor where she led him to a chamber with two narrow beds. A small table was set between them, a chest at the end of each bed. It was simple in decoration but clean and the rushes, smelling of lavender, were fresh. Hanging on the wall were two tapestries picturing children in a field of flowers.

  “You can lay him here,” she directed, pointing to the bed with the cover turned back.

  The servant he had seen earlier added a piece of wood to the fire that burned in the brazier and stirred the glowing coals. “’Twill be warmer soon, Mistress.”

  The hound settled himself next to the source of warmth, resting his head on his paws.

  Once Geoff had laid the boy on the bed, he sat on its edge and began inspecting the boy for wounds.

  “What are you doing?” the woman asked, her beautiful eyes shouting her concern as she removed her cloak and set it aside. Beneath it, she wore a deep blue gown that fit snuggly to her breasts and hips. Despite the anger in her eyes, she was an alluring sight.

  He forced his attention back to the unconscious boy. “I am looking for wounds.” He had seen the blood splattered on the lad’s clothes, but no tear in the cloth. “The blood on his tunic is not his.” He began to examine the rest of the boy, beginning at the top of his head. An egg-sized lump protruded from the side and Geoff’s searching fingers found blood underneath the boy’s hair. “I believe he was hit by the broad side of a sword. See the dried blood there and the large bump?”

  She leaned closer and tenderly touched the spot. Turning to the servant, she said, “Artur, get me ice. It will be clean in the back of the house. And tell Sigga I will need water, salve and bandages.”

  “Aye, Mistress.” He dipped his head and departed.

  The woman began to undress the lad. When he was freed of the bloodstained garments, she threw them to the floor and walked to the chest at the end of the bed, drawing out a clean nightshirt. Seeing her intent, Geoff carefully lifted the boy’s shoulders so she could pull the shirt over his head.

  Her eyes flashed a protest but she did not stop him. He knew instinctively she would tolerate his presence, and his help, if only for the sake of the boy.

  “Why do you help a boy your fellow knights left for dead?”

  Why indeed? Had it been the woman? He might have noticed the lad was alive and taken him back to the castle, yet it was the woman he had rushed to help. “I would not see children die with men. He should not have been in the fighting.”

  “On that, at least, we agree.”

  A small girl peeked her head around the open doorway, a worried expression on her young face. “What is wrong with Ottar, Emma?”

  Ah, the young widow’s name is Emma.

  “Ottar has been hurt, Finna, and I am caring for him.” Her voice was much different when she addressed the child. It was the tender voice of a mother taking time to explain to her young daughter. But why did the child call her Emma and not Mama?

  The servant, Artur, returned with the items Emma had requested. The little girl followed him into the room, stopping to pat the head of the giant hound, unafraid. The hound licked at her hand.

  Bent to her work, Emma cleaned the boy’s wound of dried blood, applied salve from a clay jar and wrapped a bandage around his head. The little girl walked to the bed and took the boy’s hand in hers, her brow wrinkled in worry, a tear falling from her eye. The sweet gesture made him smile.

  Geoff stole a glance at Emma as she leaned over the boy, concentrating on the last wrap of the bandage. The glow from the brazier caused tendrils of her hair to glimmer a pale gold. Her skin was the color of cream, her full lips enticing. Her waist was narrow and her breasts rounded and full. He did not doubt she was lovely beneath the gown.

  She ignored him, occasionally shifting her gaze to the large hound as if she expected him to rise up and growl. But the hound lay content, not at all disturbed by Geoff being near her or the children. He had always liked animals and in his father’s demesne in Tournai, hounds abounded, but none as large as this one.

  Geoff was about to leave when the little girl came to stand beside him, her big brown eyes focused on his bloodstained hauberk. She glanced from his mail to his eyes, seemingly unafraid. “Are you the Norman Bastard Emma talks about?”

  He held back a laugh, but his lips curved into a smile, his eyes darting to Emma. She fumbled with the bandages in her lap, keeping her head down. Because of the innocence with which the question had been spoken, Geoff was not offended, not even for his king. “Nay, Finna, I am merely one of his knights.”

  “Oh,” she breathed, returning his smile. The child was charming.

  Emma shot him a glance, her expression stern. “You should leave.”

  He rose. Mayhap he had stayed overlong.

  She stood. Slowly she raised her head as if gathering her courage. “You have my thanks for bringing the boy home when I could not.” It was clear she had been raised a lady, and her breeding would not allow her to be ungracious to one who had rendered help, even if he were someone she hated. Still, her hostility made it easier to take his leave. Had his reception been otherwise, he might have been tempted to pursue her. A strange thought given he was not looking for such a woman.

  But he, too, could be gracious. He bowed before her. “Sir Geoffroi de Tournai at your service, my lady.” He took a few steps toward the door, then paused and looked back. “These are perilous times. Should you ever have need of me, remember my name.”

  He turned on his heels and strode through the door, his spurs sounding loud in his ears in the silence that filled the chamber as he left.

  * * *

  Emma took a deep drink of her mead and let out a sigh as she stared at the pot of stew Sigga stirred over the kitchen fire while humming a Nordic folk tune as she worked. In her mind, Emma saw only the tall, fair-haired knight. She had not expected kindness from a Norman. Perhaps he felt guilt for the children slain? Had her father been one of those he had slain that day? Might it have been her father’s blood on the knight’s mail?

  Sigga paused in her singing to dish out the stew.

  Emma spoke her thought aloud. “I am glad my father was not here.”

  “Aye,” agreed Sigga, her dark eyes shadowed by her head cloth, “’twould nay have been pleasant.”

  “But where is he? Many men from York have been killed and he has not returned.”

  “He will be fine, Mistress. Maerleswein is a strong man, good with a sword and a wise leader of men.”

  Emma stared at the shelves that held earthen vessels and baskets of herbs Sigga used in cooking, but she was thinking of her father. “Yea, and a leader of the rebellion, too,” she said. “He would have been in the front of the fighting.”

  Sigga glanced up from the bowls of stew set before her. “Have no worry, Mistress, you will see him ere long.”

  Emma drew comfort from Sigga’s words and idly looked around for Artur,
not having seen him since the Normans left some time ago. In the morning, he was often with his wife.

  Sigga’s gaze met hers. “Artur has gone to the Minster to see how the old archbishop fares.”

  “I had not thought to worry about a man of God. Might the Normans seek to harm him or the church?”

  “They will be taking vengeance wherever they can find it,” said Sigga. “The Minster is large and will draw their attention. And some of the rebels may seek sanctuary there. We are fortunate to be so far from the center of town.”

  Emma shuddered at the possibility of harm coming to the church and the archbishop. While there were other churches in the city, to the people, the Minster was the most significant, the focus of their daily lives and their hopes for the next life.

  Sigga offered her a bowl of the steaming stew. “Here, ’twill do you good. ’Tis cool enough to eat now.”

  Emma accepted the dish, warming her hands around it as she sat on a stool. Her strength was spent and the aroma of beef, thyme and coriander roused her hunger. It was the first food she had eaten all day.

  “I can take some broth to Ottar and a bowl of stew for Finna while you eat,” offered Sigga. “How is the lad?”

  Emma had remained by Ottar’s side until the boy roused. “He is awake but says little. No doubt his head pains him. Mayhap you can take him some willow bark tea with the broth. I will wait to question him until he is stronger.” She took a spoonful of the rich meaty stew into her mouth. “’Tis good, Sigga.”

  The servant smiled her thanks as she went about fixing the tea. “All the boy talked about yesterday was wanting to see Maerleswein and his men.”

  “I suspected it was so,” Emma murmured. “He must have followed my father to the battle outside the city walls. The lad admires him so. We will have to keep the twins from the streets. The Norman knights are everywhere now. I fear they are not done with their vengeance for the slaying of the noble.”