Chapter 11 #3
He did not want to think he might never see Emma again.
He wanted a life with her, one day even a child.
He did not worry for her safety since she was a Northumbrian, but the Danes’ presence added an uncertain element.
Would they seek to pillage what was left of the city? Will Emma and her family be safe?
Geoff was standing at the top of the motte looking into the bailey when the Danes’ fierce war cries echoed through the air as they attacked the castle in a great rush.
Their shrieks sent an icy chill snaking down his spine.
He had fought for William in Maine and Normandy against the French, at Hastings and Exeter against the English and the year before in York at the side of the Red Wolf, but if he survived the day, he would never forget the shrieks of the Danes as they tasted blood they had yet to shed.
Arrows flew from the castle battlements in a great whooshing sound.
The Danes raised their shield walls where the arrows struck in the thickest part of their numbers.
A few of the Danes fell but not many. The archers on the battlements of both castles fired another volley.
Once he and his fellow knights engaged in close fighting, the arrows would no longer be of use.
Geoff rushed down to the bailey and mounted his destrier Mathieu had waiting.
“Dex Aie!” God aid us! Knights shouted as they poured forth from the castle to engage.
“I want you and your knights with my own and those of FitzOsbern, Sir Geoffroi,” shouted Malet coming alongside Geoff.
“As you wish,” Geoff said and signaled to his men to circle Malet’s and FitzOsbern’s guards. Protecting the two noblemen, Geoff and Alain led the knights into battle.
Immediately they were confronted with the Danes’ axes and swords flying in all directions.
With his long shield, Geoff blocked an attack from a blond, bearded warrior on one side of his horse, then with his sword sliced the neck of a dark bearded man on the other.
The Danes screamed in exaltation and their victims grunted in pain.
It was almost like Hastings where they had faced the elite huscarls of the Saxon army.
Geoff and Alain fought side-by-side keeping the nobles protected from the most vicious attacks. Around them, the other knights sought to cut down the bearded rebels, but they swarmed like bees over the ground.
What seemed like hours later, Geoff felt fatigue sapping his strength.
He had lost track of the rebels that had fallen to his sword as the clash of steel with shields and blades gave way to the groans of wounded and dying men.
He was coated in the blood of the slain.
His own arm had suffered a gash and only now did he feel the pain.
Finishing off one rebel, he surveyed the field of battle.
While they had killed many of the Danes and their allies, too many French knights had fallen.
Their mail-clad bodies littered the grass now soaked in blood.
The knights protecting the nobles had dwindled to a precious few.
Concerned he could no longer afford Malet and FitzOsbern the protection needed, he gave the order, “Fall back!”
They managed to shield Malet and FitzOsbern as they retreated across the bridge to the palisade gate, fighting off Danes and rebels as they went. The nobles and the small group of knights plunged into the bailey, past the guards still holding the gate.
“Into the tower,” he shouted to Malet and FitzOsbern, fearing it would only postpone the inevitable.
They dismounted in the bailey where Mathieu met them. “Stable the horses, then follow us into the tower.”
Mathieu nodded and took the reins of their horses.
A short while later, Mathieu joined them in the hall. Geoff knew the squire was disappointed not to have seen his share of fighting but the battle was too intense for Geoff to allow it. He would not risk the Red Wolf’s faithful squire.
“I need you here,” said Geoff, “but keep to the shadows. You may have need of escape.”
“Aye, sir,” replied Mathieu.
Minutes later, Geoff stood at the door of the great hall looking down into the bailey when the Danes broke through the line of knights defending the gate.
“Bar the door!” he ordered the few men inside the tower. “Then fall back to guard the sheriff and the earl.”
* * *
Gripping his round shield in one hand and his spear in the other, Maerleswein and his men surged forward with their swords and spears to inflict a bloody assault on the Normans.
Grudgingly, he admitted the French knights fought well but they were sorely outnumbered and the people of Northumbria unforgiving in their revenge.
No mercy was given, no quarter offered. They fought with a purpose, not for the love of battle like the Danes, but to take back their city and to thrust out the Normans who had viciously oppressed them.
At one point, he crossed paths with Feigr, the sword-maker, wielding one of his silvered blades, crying aloud his vengeance as he slew a Norman knight.
“This,” said Feigr, piercing the knight’s throat and thrusting his sword deep, “is for my daughter.” Maerleswein wondered how many men of York had come seeking reprisal for their daughters’ stolen virtue. Too many.
He was surprised when some of the Normans left the protection of the walls of the new castle on Baille Hill, venturing forth on a sally, only to be cut down as they passed through the gate.
Waltheof had placed himself there like a Nordic harbinger of death.
As each Norman drew near, Waltheof let his giant axe fall in a move that could only be called an execution.
In a steady stream, the severed heads of the French knights fell to the earth and rolled down the hill to form a large pile below. Even to Maerleswein, it was gruesome.
The fighting went on for hours, battle lust carrying Maerleswein and his men forward until, with the Danes’ help, they had captured the castles and nearly every Norman lay dead.
Hundreds of bodies were strewn about the baileys, at the base of the massive, square towers and on the banks of the rivers.
Some Danes and Northumbrians had fallen to the long French swords and lances as they fought on the riverbanks, but their losses were few compared to the number of French knights slain.
In such tight spaces the knights’ horses had not given them much of an advantage.
And their numbers were not so many as the Danes.
When the battle was theirs, Maerleswein’s men surged through the gate and broke down the door of the first castle built the year before, a hated symbol of Norman domination.
Soon after, with Cospatric at his side, he strode into the great hall where his captain told him he could find the nobles they had taken prisoner: Gilbert de Ghent, whom Osbjorn had brought over from the new castle where he’d been captured, William Malet, the Sheriff of Yorkshire and his family, and William FitzOsbern, Lord Hereford.
He knew the three men from his time as Sheriff of Lincolnshire. And he could see from their faces, they remembered him.
A small group of French knights surrounded the nobles, their stance oddly proud given they had just lost thousands of men and been stripped of their weapons.
Osbjorn swaggered into the hall with Swein’s two sons and walked toward him, all three bearing wide grins. “We have won!”
“Aye, so we have,” said Maerleswein.
“We go to join the men,” said Osbjorn. “They seek their plunder and we would have our share. Even now Norman helms and swords lay on the ground for the taking. What do you have here?”
“A few prisoners I must see to.”
Osbjorn nodded and cast a glance at the nobles behind Maerleswein.
“Go, then.” He waved the Dane off. “But take no booty except from the Normans and keep your men clear of the far northeast of the city where lies my daughter’s home, else your men will die by my sword.”
“Of course,” Osbjorn said, tipping his head. “I will see you later when we return for the evening’s feast.”
Maerleswein rolled his eyes at Cospatric. The Northumbrians might be there to take back their city, but the Danes were there to plunder its riches. King Swein would not have been so shortsighted.
Swein’s brother and sons departed as Maerleswein’s captain approached. “What would you have me do with these?” He gestured toward the group of nobles and the knights who stood with them.
“We will keep the nobles as prisoners. They may yet be useful to us. The rest we will slay.” Smiling at Cospatric, he said, “Mayhap Waltheof’s axe is not yet dull.”