A Warrior's Heart

by Laurel O'Donnell

  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.

&nbs
p; “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.

  CHAPTER 13

  Something in Emma warned her they had little time. It was the same feeling she had when the sky grew dark just before a storm. And so it was with haste and a quickening pulse that she hurried about packing what they would need, what she must take should they not be able to return. Magnus lay on the floor, his intelligent eyes watching her every move. It seemed only days ago she had gathered the same things when the fire threatened their home.

  Finna walked into the chamber and stood next to the chest at the foot of Emma’s bed, gripping her poppet tightly to her small chest. She watched Emma stuff clothes into the familiar tapestry bag. “Emma,” she in her little girl voice, “are we going to Jack and Martha’s again?”

  Emma paused and came to kneel in front of the child. Taking her into her arms, she held Finna close, then kissed her on her forehead.

  “Yea, we will go to their cottage and then all of us will have an adventure in the forest.”

  “The forest?” Ottar asked from the open doorway where he’d been listening.

  “Aye,” said Emma. She stood and resumed her packing. “Do you remember the cave you found las
t summer?” she asked him.

  “It was a splendid cave,” he said.

  “Well, you can lead the way,” said Emma, “for that is where we are headed.”

  “It was dark,” said Finna, a frown forming on her face.

  “You need not worry, Finna. We shall make a warm fire and there will be candles for light.”

  Finna’s brown eyes were full of trust, but Emma sensed she was not as eager as her brother to take to the woods.

  “Do we go for the day?” Ottar asked, his tone revealing his growing excitement.

  “Yea, for the day. But we will also stay for a time.” She did not want to tell the twins they were fleeing the Normans, or that they might have to live in the cave for the winter with the ground covered with snow. For now the sun lingered in the trees and it was not so cold a cloak failed to provide adequate warmth.

  “Why not see if you can help Sigga and Artur pack the food we will take to make sure she includes your favorites?” The kitchen would be the best place for the twins. Inga was packing the twins’ clothes and those for the coming babe. She did not need the two children underfoot.

  Ottar, followed by Finna, raced from the chamber, Magnus on their heels, leaving Emma alone to gaze about the room, realizing how much she must leave behind, the chest of tapestries, the fine gowns she would not wear in the woods, her father’s things in his chamber, things too heavy to carry. She did not like the idea of leaving her home, of fleeing into the forest with her small family, but she would not ignore the warning. To do so would be folly. The Normans, even her lover, now considered her one of the rebels though she had yet to lift her seax against any of them. If the Normans returned, she and her family would be first on the list of those to be killed. Or, they might take them prisoners to use against her father.

  The two guards her father had left with her had not wanted to leave their post but it hardly served to guard an empty house. Still, she gave them a choice.