A Warrior's Heart

by Laurel O'Donnell

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  The blade was suddenly withdrawn and the rebel leader’s head jerked toward the front of the hall where a tall woman wearing a dark cloak ran through the door.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