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 standing, 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.
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