A Warrior's Heart

by Laurel O'Donnell

  “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 her 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.”

  “I once thought to do so,” said the archbishop, sinking deeper into his chair. His face was lined with sorrow. “But no more. I crowned William and now he is king. And king he will remain.”

  “Even of the North?” her father asked, his brows drawing together in a frown.

  “Yes, even here. The time has come for peace, Maerleswein. Do not fight what you cannot change. It will only lead to many deaths.”

  “We must fight,” her father insisted.

  “Many rise with us, Good Father,” Cospatric said, his expression hopeful. “Not just the Danes and others from Europe. All over England there are those who want an end to the Normans. People whose lands have been seized, who cannot pay his egregious taxes, people who refuse to become his serfs.”

  The archbishop looked troubled as he let out a deep sigh. “I feared it was so.”

  A long silence hung in the air. Emma thought the archbishop might fall asleep he appeared so weak, so weary.

  At last, her father spoke. “So you will not name Edgar king, even if we are victorious, as we are certain to be?”

  The archbishop let out a sorrowful breath. “Nay, I will not.”

  The two men rose and she with them. What more could they say? Her father and Cospatric said their goodbyes and turned on their heels to leave, disappointment clear on their faces.

  She told them she would join them shortly and remained with Ealdred. She had thought to seek his advice but seeing how frail and pale he was, she did not want to trouble him. “You do not look well, My Lord. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Nay, my daughter,” said the old man, patting her hand with his ancient, bony fingers. “I am old and it is time for me to leave this life for the next. I do not wish to see what will follow this day. But I will pray for you.”

  She gave him a small smile before taking her leave. “God bless you, Father, for the good you have done.”

  “And you my daughter,” came the feeble reply.

  Before she left the cathedral, Emma stopped at the altar and said a prayer for the man who had faithfully served God for so long.

  CHAPTER 11

  “Archbishop Ealdred has passed from this life,” Artur somberly announced as he stepped through the front door a few days later.

  “I am sorry,” Emma said, looking down at the golden tapestry stretched on the frame. She had been working on it for some months as a gift for the archbishop. It depicted him riding on a black horse, his head held high as he traveled through an English village. She had hoped it might bring him memories of happier days. It was finished. She rolled it up and rose from the bench, giving Artur a sympathetic smile. “This will keep for another day.”

  It was not just the passing of a good man but the ominous end of an era. She was sorry her father had left for the Humber and was not here to share the loss. She had known the archbishop was old and frail, yet she could not help wondering if he had died of a broken heart. The look of despair she had seen on his face when she had left the Minster a few days before spoke loudly of his sadness at having failed to persuade the people of York to submit to the Norman king. All his pleading had been for naught.

  A sigh escaped her lips as she took the tapestry to her chamber and placed it in a chest with some others. Mayhap it was best he had passed, for the city Ealdred had longed to see at peace would now see only war.

  She decided to go to her garden where Sigga was harvesting vegetables. It was September and harvest time for all of Emma’s fields, too.

  “’Tis a dark day,” said Sigga, patting down the dirt around the herbs from which she had taken cuttings.

  Emma joined her servant in the work, grateful for something to do that took her mind from more troubling thoughts.

  “The archbishop was a voice of reason,” murmured Sigga, glancing at Emma from where she was digging out a weed.

  Sitting back on her heels, Emma wiped her brow. “He was old, Sigga. His death was not unexpected. But you are right; such a faithful servant of God will be sorely missed.”

  They were watering the plants with the buckets they had carried from the well when an acrid smell rose in Emma’s nostrils. “Do you smell smoke?” Her eyes met Sigga’s. “Something is burning.”

  Alarmed, she sniffed the air and hurried through the kitchen and into the hearth room, detecting nothing amiss. But the faint smell of smoke persisted. Seeing no one, she shouted up the stairs, “Inga, where are the children?”

  “Here with me,” said Inga coming to the top of the stairs.

  Emma’s heart raced with fear as she threw open the front door. The bitter smell of burning wood was stronger. Fire was dangerous in a city made of timber, wattle and daub. Stirred by the wind, it could quickly leap from one structure to another, rapidly destroying an entire street, even the entire city.

  “Inga,” she shouted, “there is fire somewhere. Keep the children inside until I return.”

  Ottar appeared at the top of the stairs. “I want to see, too!”

  “You and Finna stay here with
Magnus until I learn what is happening.”

  The hound suddenly appeared next to Ottar to stare down at her. “You, too, Magnus.”

  Outside, she raced across the streets that lay between her house and the Minster. She arrived out of breath. Panting, she stood in front of the cathedral, looking south toward the castles, shielding her eyes as she stared into the distance. A huge cloud of black smoke rose high into the sky above where the castles stood. May God have mercy.

  Artur came to her side, his chest heaving from running after her. “My lady, is it the castles?”

  “I cannot say for certain, but its source must be near them.” Feeling the breeze on her face, she said, “The wind is coming this way. It will bring the fire to the Minster. It will bring the fire to us!” She faced her servant. “We must prepare to flee.”

  With haste born of fear, they ran back to the house.

  * * *

  “What in God’s name was Gilbert thinking!” shouted Geoff. He pointed to where the flames leapt from one thatched roof to another. “See there,” he said to FitzOsbern, standing beside him on the tower’s battlement, “the fire spreads beyond the houses he torched. It roars into the city.”

  “Aye, the wind carries the blaze north,” replied the earl in dismay. His lined face a mask of worry, he gazed north. “The Minster lies in its path.”

  “It has not rained for days. At the speed the dry wood will burn, it will no doubt reach the cathedral.” Geoff gritted his teeth, furious Gilbert’s men had not been more careful. It was just as he had feared. For a moment, he watched the flames engulf another house, disturbed at how fast the fire was spreading.

  It had been foolish for Gilbert to set fire to the homes. Surely destroying them would not prevent the rebels from finding sufficient timber to fill the moat. The forests of York were full of wood. But Gilbert had been intent on torching the homes nonetheless.

  Smoke filled Geoff’s nostrils until it made him cough and he had to cover his face with a cloth. Emma’s home lay in the path of the fire though some distance east of the Minster.

  “I must warn Emma,” he told FitzOsbern. He had to help her and her family escape the inferno.

  Minutes later, Geoff launched himself into the saddle and tore out of the gate and over the bridge with Alain following. Galloping through the smoke, they sped down one street, then another, avoiding the path of the fire, burning straight through the center of town.

  People scattered in all directions before the hooves of their powerful horses. Panicked by the spreading fire, they shouted to their families and serfs to help carry away their goods.

  Pulling rein in front of Emma’s house, he and Alain slid to the ground. Their horses’ coats were soaked with sweat and lather from the hard ride. “Can you stay with the horses?” he asked.

  “Aye.” Alain accepted the reins Geoff handed him.

  Geoff stormed to the door, preparing to knock, when it opened.

  “My lady is upstairs packing, sir,” said Artur.

  “’Tis well she does. The fire is headed this way.”

  “Are the castles burning?” the servant asked with a look of concern.

  “Nay, ’tis the homes around them but the fire has spread.” Geoff glanced up the stairs, anxious to see her, to assure himself she was safe and had a place to go. “Artur, I must speak with your mistress. Can you help Sir Alain with the horses? We ran them hard.”

  “Aye, I will take care of them.”

  The servant left and Geoff raced up the stairs.

  In her chamber he found Emma scurrying around, shoving things into a tapestry bag. The hound came to greet him, wagging its tail, unaware of the danger that had all of York on the run.

  Emma whirled around and her eyes lit up. “Geoffroi!” She ran into his arms and, for a moment, there was no fire, no threat, only the comfort he drew from knowing she was safe. Inhaling her fresh woman’s scent above the smell of smoke that permeated his clothing, he felt the tension in her body. Looking up at him, she said, “I was terrified to think the fire might be coming from the castle. That you might be in danger.”

  “Nay, my love, ’tis homes burning, torched to prevent their wood from being used to fill the moat. A witless idea. Now the whole city is threatened.”

  She pulled back from his arms, terror in her eyes. “I must finish packing. We are leaving.”

  “Where are the young ones?”

  “With Inga. They are helping her to pack.” She reached for some clothing on the bed and stuffed it into her bag.

  “Where will you go?” he asked, already knowing where he wanted her to go. Though taking her to the castle had its own risks.

  She reached for some jewelry, the gold glimmering in the dim light, and dropped a necklace into a small velvet bag. “In truth, I know not. I just want to be certain we are free of the fire. If need be, we can stay in the fields. There are those who will shelter us.”

  “Will you come to the castle? The wind blows away from it. You would be safe there.”

  She hesitated, her blue-green eyes speaking of her distress. “Nay. I would rather not be surrounded by so many of your knights. And Inga will not return there again. Besides, Feigr is on his way, bringing friends who will flee with us.”

  Geoff did not want to leave her but he knew he must. “I cannot stay but I will come tomorrow. Where will you be?”

  “If the fire is out and my house still stands, I will be here. Otherwise, I will be on the other side of the River Foss, among the crofts to the north.”

  Geoff had seen the cultivated fields to the north and east of the River Foss and remembered the cottages that dotted the countryside. “We can take you there. Alain is with me.”

  “Nay, there will be too many of us. I have Thyra and she can carry what we cannot.”

  He had always known she had courage. Now, intent on helping the others, she calmly accepted that she must flee her home. “All right, but please take care, Emma. And hurry.” Drawing her into his arms, he kissed her. It took all of his resolve to pull away. “I will come tomorrow or the next day. Keep the hound close.”

  Worry clouded her eyes as she stared up at him. “I will.”

  He patted the hound’s head as he departed. Geoff felt certain that his life was bound up with Emma’s. Somehow they had to be together, no matter the fire, no matter the Danes.

  As he and Alain rode back to the castle, the shouts of the people fleeing the onrushing flames echoed all around them. Not a few of them threw curses at “the Norman swine”.

  * * *

  Two days later, Maerleswein stood on the deck of the longship rolling beneath his feet, his eyes on the waters of the River Ouse as they sailed toward York. It was the same ship on which he had sailed to Denmark and Scotland, the same ship he had sailed to meet the Danes at the mouth of the Humber.

  Turning his head, he glimpsed Osbjorn and his nephews, Harald and Cnut, proudly standing on the deck of their dragon ship, sailing beside him, the square sail taut with the wind. The black raven on a red banner flying atop their ship’s mast was the symbol of the victory they believed would soon be theirs. Behind the two ships were hundreds more.

  Maerleswein’s spirits soared. Soon York would be theirs once again.

  They had left the mouth of the Humber the day before, accompanied by King Swein’s ships with their colorful round shields hanging from the side of the sleek hulls, their square sails billowing with wind. Marching apace along the riverbank were Northumbrians, rejoicing as they went. It was all he had asked for, save that Malcolm of Scotland had yet to appear. But he had the leaders he needed. He had the Danish ships and he had the men.

  Next to him, young Edgar braced his hands on the rail and gazed back at the hundreds of ships in their wake. “I have never seen such a sight.”

  “Nor I,” said Cospatric, standing next to the Saxon heir.

  “’Tis the Danes who will see us the victors,” said Maerleswein. “Swein does not come himself, but he has thrown the might of
his people into the fray.”

  “What is your plan?” asked Waltheof, the tall, blond Earl of Huntingdon, who appeared every bit the Dane as he leaned on his tall axe, his powerful legs swaying with the ship’s movements.

  “Unless Osbjorn has a better idea, I would make camp and attack at first light,” said Maerleswein.

  Waltheof nodded, a grin spreading across his face. “Your plan pleases me.”

  Another hour brought them within sight of the city. Gazing off the leeward side of the ship, Maerleswein stared in shock, for where there should have been the city, there were only tendrils of smoke rising from scorched ground. The only structures he could see above the blackened earth were the castles of the Norman king.

  “What goes here?” Cospatric asked, his face showing the shock Maerleswein felt.

  Anger such as he had never known surged through Maerleswein’s veins. “Have the Normans destroyed the city?”

  The crews rowed their ships to the bank of the river where a crowd so great he could not number it poured forth to greet them, shouting their welcome and joining the Northumbrians who had traveled the bank of the river all the way from the Humber.

  “You there!” Maerleswein shouted to one of the men coming to greet them, “What has happened to cause this devastation?”

  “’Tis the Norman scum’s doing,” said the man as his lip curled in a bitter scowl. “They thought to keep us from filling their ditches by burning the homes that ringed the castle. ’Twas bad enough they took so many homes, but then the fools let the fire escape.”

  “My God,” breathed out Cospatric.

  “I must see my daughter,” said Maerleswein. He gave orders to his men and soon tents began to rise on the bank of the River Ouse. “I leave you in charge, Cospatric, while I go in search of Emma.”

  “Do you think Emma is safe?” the earl asked, his face speaking his disquiet. It pleased Maerleswein to see the look of concern in the earl’s eyes. Mayhap he already considered Emma as a future wife.

  “Aye. You know as well as I, Emma is a resourceful woman. She would have fled the blaze. I but go to see for myself how she fares and to leave guards who will assure no Dane thinking to pillage comes close to her. I will return ere long.”