Chapter 10
Dunfermline, Scotland
A myriad of flickering candles and blazing torches lighted the great hall where Maerleswein joined the men and women feasting on roasted boar. To him it was a regathering of sorts, for they had all been there the year before, seeking refuge willingly offered by the Scottish monarch.
At the head table sat Malcolm Canmore, King of Scotland, nearly forty and still a vigorous man with a warrior’s body and a full head of long, brown hair to go with his mustache and well-kept beard.
Watching the king was his betrothed, the lovely Margaret of Wessex, who was nearly half his age.
Maerleswein had met her the year before, when she and her brother fled north.
Anyone who saw Margaret and Edgar AEtheling together would observe the resemblance.
The two shared their fair appearance, their blue-gray eyes and the same delicate features; Edgar’s only a masculine version of his sister’s.
The king had told Maerleswein that when Edgar, his mother and two sisters had landed in Scotland, Malcolm was there to greet them.
Maerleswein could well imagine the scene, the king’s eyes devouring young Margaret, as they did this night.
’Twas not surprising when, soon after they met, the king offered to make Margaret his wife.
Malcolm had fallen quickly, not just because of her royal Saxon lineage, the same lineage that the Norman Bastard would find disturbing when matched with a Scot, but because Margaret was so much more.
Her gentle spirit permeated the hall. He had heard it said in Dunfermline that she was persuaded to accept the king’s offer in order to accomplish a holy purpose, to direct Malcolm from his erring ways and increase God’s praise in the land.
Mayhap it was so, for, from his own observations, the Scottish people loved her, as did their king.
She did not say much, a word here, a nod there, allowing her betrothed to do the talking. While Malcolm spoke both Gaelic and Saxon, Margaret spoke only Saxon. Yet she did not need to speak for those attending to observe the sweetness of her nature.
With her long flaxen plaits and her pleasant expression, Margaret reminded Maerleswein of his wife, Julianna, at that age.
A wave of sadness swept over him. He had lost her so early and, even today, missed her far more than he would ever admit.
With a sigh, he shook off the longing for the past. He had his daughter to care for and she was the image of her mother.
He had named her for Emma of Normandy, Queen Consort of England, Denmark and Norway.
The name seemed fitting since both were strong of character and had overcome loss, though after the Bastard plundered England, mayhap the Norman’s connection to the name was best forgotten.
He gazed about the hall, decorated with shields and tapestries belonging to the Scottish royal family and proudly noted that the men sharing the meal with the king were nearly all Northumbrians, many related.
None was even thirty, yet much would be expected of them if they were to take back the North.
The Danes and their ships would not be enough without leaders like Waltheof, the Earl of Huntingdon, who looked like a Dane with his great height and pale hair.
And no wonder, for he was cousin to King Swein of Denmark.
As he thought of it, Waltheof was also cousin to Cospatric, the young Earl of Bamburgh.
Now there was a man who would make a fine husband for Emma.
Handsome by most women’s standards, and more importantly to Maerleswein, Cospatric was wealthy and titled, still powerful with his lands north of Durham.
Emma was too independent, too content with her made up family.
She needed children of her own. She’d had enough time to mourn Halden’s death.
Maerleswein had no intention of allowing his only daughter to remain a widow forever.
It was time for her to wed again. He was not pleased with this friendship with a French knight who had helped her with Ottar.
The look in her eyes when she spoke of the knight’s kindness displayed more than gratitude.
Emma had been alone with women, children and servants for too long. She needed a man, one her father approved of.
Hearing the men’s conversations, retelling the story of the Normans’ routing of the weak Northumbrian forces, reminded him of his mission.
He had come to Dunfermline not only to seek Malcolm’s aid, as he had King Swein’s, but to convince the Scot and the others to join the fight.
Even more than men and arms, they needed leaders with a firm resolve to accomplish their purpose.
He was still doubtful of Osbjorn’s ability to lead hundreds of ships and thousands of Danish warriors.
He knew William. The Norman Bastard was fierce and would not be stopped except by men with a tenacity to match his own.
“You are a quiet one this night, Maerleswein,” observed the king of the Scots, looking down the table to where Maerleswein sat.
“Aye. I have been contemplating all that must be done by summer’s end when we return to Yorkshire to meet King Swein’s ships. There is much to consider.”
“You are confident they will arrive?”
“I am. What Swein has promised, he will see done. While I was still in Jelling, he ordered the building of more longships.”
Cospatric set down his wine. “He was most eager to reclaim the heart of the old Danish lands.”
Malcolm leaned forward. “In that, Scotland may have an interest. We were planning to invade Yorkshire last year on Edgar’s behalf, but alas, the Norman got there first.”
“He has come and gone again from York,” Maerleswein informed the king, “leaving yet another of his castles and more of his French knights. While he is away is the time to strike.”
* * *
York, England
Emma gazed into Geoffroi’s face, as they lay together amidst the lavender flowers at the edge of the meadow that abutted the woods, content as she had never been. In the background she could hear the melodious song of the ruby-breasted linnet.
The world did not intrude into this part of the forest. It was a special place, theirs alone. It had not been easy for her to steal away unnoticed to meet him in the flower-filled meadow, but she had done so. And she came willingly, though not as often as either Geoffroi or she would have liked.
Sunlight filtered through the trees to fall across his straw-colored hair. One arm bent under her head for a pillow, she reached up with the other to touch his cheek, letting her fingers caress his now familiar face, relishing the weight of his body lying across hers.
He bent his head to kiss her, brushing his lips over hers. She heard him take a deep breath.
“I love your smell,” he said, nuzzling her neck, sending shivers down her spine and awakening other parts of her body. “I noticed it the first time you rode with me.”
His tongue slid over her skin and she turned into his caress.
“You taste like honey,” he murmured.
She turned her head to kiss his temple.
“Would that we could always be together like this,” he said, raising himself on one elbow to brush tendrils of hair from her brow. “Only I would prefer a bed,” he added with a grin, “and you naked. The times I have seen your lovely form have been too few.”
She smiled up at him, her hand curving around his chiseled jaw.
He turned his head to kiss her palm. The warmth of his lips sent an aching need coursing through her.
She loved the touch of this man. His hands were rough but his lovemaking tender.
Yet, at times, his passion had risen to take her in a furious storm.
She had reveled in his unleashed strength.
“’Tis a dream I, too, wish were real,” she murmured.
But she knew it was only a dream, one that would never be realized.
In this place she ignored the allegiances that would one day tear them apart.
She forgot the father she loved who led the rebels.
If this was all she had of her knight and his love, she would accept it and be grateful for the gift.
His face was mere inches from hers when he whispered, “I meant when I said I would have no other, Emma. Do me the honor of becoming my wife and when I return to Talisand, come with me.”
She let out a breath. How she wanted to go! Somehow she must find the words to tell him she could not. “My life is here, Geoffroi. The twins, my home, Inga.” My people, my father, my future.
“Bring Inga and the twins with you,” he said undaunted, sitting up to cast her a mischievous smile. “Even the hound! Talisand has room for all and I have a manor and land of my own. Even Artur and Sigga would find a home there with us.”
“If only….” She gazed into the depths of his blue eyes.
If only her father did not plot with the Danes to recapture York.
If only she was not a thegn’s daughter with all the attendant responsibilities to her station and to those who depended upon her.
If Geoffroi knew her father and his allies planned to send the Norman king running, he would have nothing to do with her.
His love might even turn to hate. If her father knew she had taken a Norman knight as her lover, he would kill that knight.
Torn between them, she could tell neither of the other.
“You need only say ‘Yes’, Emma.”
She sat up and began to brush the grass from her tunic, avoiding his eyes. “I cannot. Not… now.”
He was silent for a time and then he said, “I know it would mean an upheaval in your life, but I will give you time, Emma, as much as I have to give. It may be that at summer’s end I will return to the Lune River, to Talisand. I pray you will go with me. We belong together.”