Rogue Knight (Medieval Warriors Book 2) (3 page)

“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.

Once inside the tower, FitzRichard came to greet them in the
main hall. “Welcome, Sir Geoffroi. ’Tis glad I am to see you. Has Malet told
you the news?”

“Yea, and unwelcome news it is.”

“We can talk after you are settled in your chambers. You and
Malet are housed on this level.” To Malet he said, “Your lady wife awaits you.”
Then taking a long perusal of them, he added, “By the look of you, a bath is in
order. I shall see each of you has one, but best to be quick. Supper will soon
be served.”

Geoff and Malet thanked FitzRichard for his hospitality and
followed the summoned servants who showed them to their chambers.

Geoff was relieved to shut the door on the confusion of the
main hall. He unbuckled his sword belt, laid the scabbard on the small table
and slumped onto the bench by the brazier that warmed the chamber. He
unfastened his spurs and pulled off his short leather boots, shaking off the
mud.

A knock sounded and he rose and opened the door to see two
servants carrying a large copper tub, followed by lads carrying buckets, steam
rising from the water. A bath was a rare privilege and he would not fail to
avail himself of it after days of slogging through mud.

When the servants had gone, he stripped off his clothes and
sank into the hot water, leaning his head against the metal edge. He closed his
eyes with a sigh. As he did, the faces of the people of York returned to his
mind, one beautiful woman’s in particular.

Angry faces all.

She floated above the forest, the sounds of battle ringing
in her ears. In a clearing below her, men fought, their swords clashing then
sliding against each other, the sound of metal against metal loud in her ears.
Grunts and moans filled the air as sword points encountered unmailed chests and
necks and sank into vulnerable flesh. Flashes of red streaked across her
vision. Blood. So much blood. Bright crimson against white snow. Flashes of
light laced with blue sliced through the air. When the bright light was gone
and the sounds died away, all that remained were corpses carelessly strewn
about the clearing. Wind stirred in the surrounding trees, sounding like souls
ascending to Heaven.

Loud shouts roused Emma from her dream. She woke startled,
her heart pounding in her chest as she tried to clear her mind. For a moment,
she stared at the roof, listening, as she forced her heart to calm and the
terrifying images faded. But the shouts did not.

Fully awake, she sat up and gazed about her chamber. Light
seeped around the edges of the hide that covered the window, telling her it was
morning although the sun rose later in the winter months. The air was chilled,
the coals in the brazier, having been banked, gave little warmth. Throwing off
the cover, she reached for her fur-lined robe and slipped on her leather shoes.
As she stood, Magnus roused from the floor at the foot of her bed and came to
greet her, his tail wagging, his large eyes gazing at her expectantly.

She pulled on her robe, looking down at the hound. “Do not
look at me as if I know what is causing the clamor outside. I do not.”

Hurriedly, she left her bedchamber and descended the stairs
with Magnus close on her heels. The hearth fire was already a steady blaze.
Near the door, her father was strapping on his sword belt.

“What is it, Father? What is happening?”

“It sounds like the thegns mean to start the uprising
without me. My men, along with those of Cospatric and Edgar, are camped outside
the city, but from the sounds of it, the men of York have had enough of the
Normans. Or mayhap the men from Durham have arrived.” He shrugged. “Either way,
it has begun. I would have waited for the Danes, but it was not to be.” He gave
her a kiss on her forehead and unlatched the door.

He stepped through the doorway. The din was louder but she
could not see any men in the street.

“I will be back as soon as I can,” he assured her.

With that, he was gone.

Emma let Magnus out and waited for him to return, shivering
as she stood in the open doorway, listening to the shouting coming from the
center of town. She drew her robe more tightly around her, relieved when the
hound quickly returned. She shut the door behind him and paced before the
hearth fire, considering what to do. She was anxious to see for herself what
was happening in the city. But there were Ottar and Finna to worry about. She
would check on the children first.

She ascended the stairs to her chamber, hurriedly donning a
linen shift, blue woolen gown, warm stockings and her soft leather half boots.
With Magnus by her side, she hastened to the twins’ chamber. Soundlessly, she
pulled open the door. In one bed Finna slept with her little fist curled under
her chin. Emma’s eyes shifted to the next bed. The cover was tossed aside, the
bed empty. She quickly scanned the room but Ottar was not there. Her father had
said nothing about the boy when he left. Mayhap he woke hungry and went to the
kitchen for bread and honey.

She rushed downstairs, passing the hearth and the large
table, as she headed toward the kitchen. Ottar was nowhere in sight. Worry was
beginning to creep into her thoughts when she knocked on the servants’
bedchamber door on the other side of the kitchen. How they had slept through
the tumult in the streets, she did not know.

The door creaked open and Artur’s bleary-eyed face appeared,
his brown hair tousled. “M’lady?”

“Do you not hear it, Artur? There is a great uproar in the
city. My father has gone to see the cause of it for himself. He believes an
uprising has begun. Do you know where Ottar is?”

His face took on a puzzled expression.

“No, I can see you do not. I wonder if he may have followed
my father into the streets.”

Now more awake, Artur mumbled, “You know he is always
wanting to be with the men, my lady.”

“This is not a day for him to be out there alone, especially
if my father has no idea Ottar may be trailing him.”

“Should I go in search of him?” asked Artur.

“Nay. I will go myself but you must keep Finna safe while I
am gone.”

His forehead creased with worry as he came fully awake. “My
lady, no! If there is trouble in the city, the streets will not be safe for a…
a… gentlewoman such as you.”

“Then the streets are not safe for a child. I cannot sit
around wondering where Ottar might be.”

She was gratified to see the look of resignation on his
face.

“You will take Magnus with you?” he asked.

“I will. Do not worry.” Knowing that he would, she added, “I
will stay away from the fray.”

“Come, Magnus,” she commanded the hound as she walked to the
front door and reached for her cloak. “We must find Ottar.”

The sky was a pale blue when she stepped into the street
coated with fresh snow and headed toward the source of the rising noise.

Several streets from her house, Emma encountered large
numbers of York men, carrying spears and swords, moving from all parts of the
city in one direction: toward the Norman castle. Hugging the buildings, she
moved in the same direction, near enough to the crowd to observe, but not so
close as to become embroiled in any fighting. All the while, she desperately
searched for Ottar, but did not see him among the men.

Following the crowd, she drew near to the mass of rioters
waving their weapons in front of the Norman edifice.

A shout rose above the din. “Kill the castellan!”

In the distance, ahead of the crowd, a mounted Norman,
richly attired, tried to control his panicked horse. A small group of mounted
knights surrounded him, attempting to force the crowd away from the noble. The
press of the mob caused the knights’ horses to rear. One knight drew his sword
to slash at a man on the ground, but as he did, another man ran the knight
through with a spear. When the knight fell, his throat was slit, blood
spattering the crowd.

Emma was stunned by how suddenly death had come to the
Norman.

The mass of shouting men engulfed the other Normans. She
heard the knights’ cries as they were pulled from their horses, followed by
mockery from the rebels as they hacked at the bodies, taking their vengeance.

The richly attired Norman was the last to be pulled from his
horse as the bloodthirsty crowd closed in on him. She did not see his end.
Hearing his cries had been enough.

Emma turned away, shocked at the violence, her stomach
sickened by the sight of so much blood. She understood the anger that had led
to the scene she had witnessed. But she could not love it and hoped with all
her heart Ottar had not seen the slaying of the noble and the knights. She
shuddered to think of the Normans’ revenge that would surely come in its wake.

* * *

Geoff stood in the great hall of the castle as chaos ensued
following the killing of the castellan. Knights reached for weapons. Captains
roared orders to their men-at-arms. Geoff looked for Malet. Spotting the
sheriff across the room, he headed in that direction when Alain came to tell him
the men were prepared for battle and awaited him in the bailey.

“I will join you as soon as I can,” he assured Alain and
continued his path toward the table where Malet sat with some of his knights.

“Fool!” Malet exclaimed, pounding his fist on the table,
causing tankards of ale to dance, their contents splashing onto the wood.
“Whatever compelled FitzRichard to leave the castle at first light? He was
aware of the angry mood of the people yesterday. What could he have been
thinking?”

“He paid for his rash move with his life,” admonished Geoff.
“No need to find fault with him now.” Roused from his bed by the shouts outside
the castle, Geoff had witnessed the slaughter himself. None, save the foolish
castellan and his personal guard of knights, had ventured out of the gates. Why
they had done so no one knew. If FitzRichard had set forth with hundreds of
knights instead of a few, the loss could have been avoided.

In the aftermath of FitzRichard’s slaying, men prepared for
battle as servants hurriedly set about lighting candles on the table where
Geoff and a small group of knights now gathered with Malet in the great hall.

“I want the gates kept shut until the king arrives!” Malet
ordered. The sheriff’s senior knight moved to obey. Malet raised a hand.
“Wait!”

The knight paused and turned toward Malet with a questioning
look.

“Send two men out the postern gate to ride south and warn
the king of the rebels’ action,” ordered the sheriff.

“Yea, my lord.” The knight bowed and departed.

“William cannot be far,” Geoff assured Malet. “We received
word he was marching north before I left Talisand.”

“Nay, not far,” Malet murmured as he anxiously chewed his
bottom lip. “Knowing William as I do, he will be most displeased when he
arrives for I have failed to keep the peace.”

“’Tis not clear any could,” said Geoff. “The Northumbrians
will not easily accept a king they do not see as theirs.”

“You know the king as well as I. He will make them accept
him no matter the lengths he must go to in order to see it done.”

Maugris’ words echoed in Geoff’s mind.
William is a great
king, but terrible in his wrath.

* * *

That afternoon, from the top of the tower Geoff stared into
the distance as the large army flowed over the land toward the castle like
locusts out of season covering the winter landscape. William had arrived and
was mowing down the rebels outside the walls of York.

Once the king’s forces were in sight, the main gate was
thrown open. Geoff tore down the stairs from the motte to the bailey, anxious
to be engaged in the fight. Too long he had been relegated to swordplay with
his own men.

Mathieu handed him his helm and waited until Geoff mounted
his destrier, then passed him his shield and lance. Geoff and his knights were
among the first to leave the confines of the castle, their horses’ hooves
sending up a great clatter as they raced over the bridge that spanned the moat.
Alain was at his back, followed by the knights from Talisand. They formed a
formidable force to meet the rebels fleeing William’s army back toward the city.

Northumbrians wielding spears, pikes and swords scattered in
all directions at the thundering hooves of the knights’ warhorses. But some
stood and fought. Caught between William’s army moving north and the knights
from York moving south, the rebels had not a chance. They were slain by the
hundreds.

Geoff turned his destrier to confront a spear-wielding
rebel, his sword raised for a crushing blow. A glint of metal at his side
caught his eye. With a quick change in his aim, he sliced first at the man
coming alongside his horse, a long seax gripped in the rebel’s fist. Blood
splashed onto Geoff’s leggings, the crimson liquid dripping onto his leather
boots. With a quick turn, he directed his horse toward the rebel with the
spear. The destrier knocked the man to the side, allowing Geoff a swift slash
to his throat. Blood splattered onto his mail. The man’s shocked eyes stared at
him for a moment before he crashed to the ground.

The sounds of battle surrounded him as plunged into the
throng of fighting men. He did his share of killing, cutting down all who faced
his sword, uncaring of the blood splashing onto his hauberk.

The youngest of seven sons, he had fought for all he had
ever claimed as his. A page at seven, a squire at fourteen and a knight at
seventeen, he had proved to all he could take his place with the best of Duke
William’s knights. It made up for his youth in which he had ever borne the
brunt of his brothers’ taunts. Before he had gained his height, they had
thought him a weakling. Mayhap their merciless harassment had made him who he
was. Even before he had sailed for England, years of fighting in Normandy at
the Red Wolf’s side had honed his skills to a sharp edge. The Northumbrians,
untrained and undisciplined, were no match for the experienced knights.

At his back, Alain fought with a strength few men possessed,
like the vicious bear that had gained him his name.

When they had dispatched the last rebel, Geoff glimpsed
William’s banner waving in the distance, two golden leopards on a field of red.
He took off his helm and wiped the sweat from his brow. Putting it back on, he
raised his arm to gesture his knights toward the king.

William sat atop his dark bay warhorse, the Iberian stallion
he had ridden at the Battle of Hastings when they had first assaulted England’s
shores. Surrounding the king was his guard and behind them, his army.

Geoff brought his knights to a halt and walked his horse
toward the king.

“Sire,” he bowed his head. “’Tis Sir Geoffroi of Talisand.
Your presence is most welcome.”

Beneath his conical helm graced by a golden crown, the
breeze stirred the king’s short brown hair. “We can see that it is, sir knight.
We are pleased we were able to surprise the rebels south of the city.” Then in
a harsh tone, “But what of our castellan FitzRichard and Malet, our sheriff—and
our hundreds of knights? Why have they not kept the peace?”

“FitzRichard fell to the rebels this morning, sire, cruelly
murdered. Malet is well, as far as I know. I left him in the castle ere I came
to join you. As for the knights, based on what I have seen, I cannot say
whether they have helped or hurt the peace of the city. I have not been here
long enough to rightly judge.”