Chapter 12
Emma anxiously paced as Artur stirred the hearth fire, grateful Inga watched the twins in their chamber.
Knowing the battle had been underway for some hours, she prayed for the safe deliverance of the men she loved, hearing in her mind her father’s words.
It will be a time of celebration, not mourning.
How could that be true when the two men she cared for most fought on opposite sides?
The people of York might celebrate a victory this night, but would she?
She had explained to Ottar and Finna what was happening as best she could. They knew of the fire, had seen the destruction on the walk they had taken with Emma after the conflagration had ended.
Finna had stared at the smoldering ruin of the Minster and wrinkled her little girl forehead. “What happened?”
How could she explain to a child that the place in which she was growing up—her home—was changing, that men fought and died to control it? None of the answers she had to give told the whole truth, nor could they, but she had tried all the same.
A pounding sounded on the door, scattering her thoughts.
Artur went to open it. To her shock, one of the men her father had left to guard her home stood with his knife pressed to the neck of Geoffroi’s squire.
The burly guard forced Mathieu through the door. The squire’s hazel eyes were wide with fear, his cheeks flushed. He had obviously ridden hard to get here. “This one says you know him, my lady. Claims he brings you an urgent message. Should I slay the Norman offal and be rid of him?”
“Nay! I do know him. Take your knife from his neck. He is a friend.”
The guard gave her a skeptical look but lowered his knife. “I have already removed his weapons, my lady.”
“You may leave us, sir,” she said, ignoring the guard’s incredulous look.
“Come Mathieu.” The squire looked bedraggled and frightened, his brown hair tangled around his face, his mail soiled. “Artur, get Mathieu some ale.”
Artur fetched the ale and the squire took a large swallow, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, then handed the tankard back.
She gazed at him with concern. “How goes the battle, Mathieu? I have had no word.”
“The Danes and the rebels have their victory, my lady, but at a terrible cost. Thousands of the king’s men lay dead, nearly the entire garrison of both castles.”
Emma was stricken, torn between the Northumbrians’ success and the stark reality of the slaughter that had secured it. “Sir Geoffroi?” she asked in a faint voice, almost afraid of the answer.
“He lives but mayhap not for long. That is why I have come. The rebels now in charge of the castle threaten his life and that of Sir Alain. I only escaped through the postern gate to seek your aid. I do not know if you can help but if you have any influence with their leaders, please come. The nobles they have taken prisoner, but the knights they intend to kill.”
Emma did not know who held the nobles, but certainly if not her father then Cospatric or Edgar. Even King Swein’s brother, Osbjorn, would know her. “I will go.” She turned to address Artur. “Call the guards and saddle Thyra.”
Her father’s guards were not happy to accede to her request. “The Danes are now controlling the city, my lady,” said the one in charge. “They may be allies but ’tis still dangerous. We cannot defend against so many.”
She knew what he meant. He was worried they might see her as an object of their lust. Dismissing the danger she could do nothing about, she said, “I must go. A man’s life is at stake.
” Glancing at the squire, she said, “Remove anything that shows you to be a Norman. Artur can give you a plain tunic. You will ride pillion with me.”
The guards did not like it but, in the end, two of them rode with her and Mathieu and two remained behind to guard her family.
Emma left the house with a word to Artur to keep Sigga, Inga and the children safe.
Magnus whimpered as they left, the look in his dark eyes telling her he wanted to go. She would not risk his life.
* * *
When they were surrounded by the rebels and their weapons taken, Geoff had placed himself in front of Malet and his family.
His arm was still bleeding but not badly.
Alain had taken a sword point in his shoulder and now dripped blood onto his mail.
Undaunted, the Bear stood in front of Gilbert and FitzOsbern.
The few other men who had been in the castle when Geoff had ordered the doors barred now huddled with the nobles.
Without their weapons they would be of little use but Geoff still thought of himself as a protector.
His death might at least delay that of the others.
He had not witnessed the end of the battle but he had heard the shouts of the great victory claimed by the rebels. He heaved a bitter sigh knowing the rest of his knights and men-at-arms must now be dead.
“Who is the tall one who gives the orders?” he whispered to FitzOsbern over his shoulder.
“Maerleswein,” he spit out, “the former Sheriff of Lincolnshire, a thegn who once swore allegiance to William. Beside him, the younger one with the dark hair is Earl Cospatric. He was once the Earl of Northumbria. Rebels both.”
“The leaders?”
“Aye, most likely, along with the Dane who just left.”
The one FitzOsbern had named Maerleswein pulled his long seax from its leather sheath at his waist and strolled toward Geoff and Alain. The tall Northumbrian was coated in dried blood, even his face and beard were streaked with it.
In Norman French, Maerleswein said, “You and the other knights are of no use to me.” Then he took a step toward Geoff and pressed the knife’s edge to his throat.
Geoff felt a trickle of blood course down his neck and both fear and resolve streaked down his spine.
He would not cower. If die he must, then die he would.
The blade was suddenly withdrawn and the rebel leader’s head jerked toward the front of the hall where a tall woman wearing a dark cloak ran through the door.
Geoff would have recognized her anywhere. Emma. Mon Dieu. What is she doing here? At her side was Mathieu, dressed as a Northumbrian, followed by two warriors, their swords drawn.
“Father!” she shouted, letting her hood drop and hurrying toward Maerleswein.
Father?
Maerleswein sheathed his blade. “Emma, why have you come? ’Tis not safe.”
Emma’s eyes were fierce as she shot Geoff a glance before drawing near to the man she had called father. Panting, she breathed out, “I come to save a friend.”
Maerleswein frowned at the guards behind Emma, his harsh glare chiding them for having failed in their duty. Facing his daughter, he demanded, “What friend could you find in a Norman castle?”
“These two knights and this squire you would slay,” she said to the blond giant she had claimed as her sire.
Geoff remembered the large shoes he had seen in the room where they had laid the sword-maker and his gaze shifted to Maerleswein’s feet.
Emma was his daughter? The leader of the rebels was her father?
Disbelief gave way to rising anger that settled into his gut.
All this time she had known her father plotted with the Danes to slaughter William’s knights, yet she had said not a word.
She had allowed Geoff to aid the family of the rebel leader, even feeding them.
For Christ sake, she had even welcomed him to her bed!
To betray me?
“Father, remember the Normans I spoke of who came to my rescue? The ones who helped Ottar, Feigr and Magnus?”
Maerleswein cast a glance at Geoff and Alain. “These are the French knights?”
Emma nodded. “The ones who stand before you, guarding the Norman nobles, and this squire who summoned me. I would ask you to spare them.”
Maerleswein’s face hardened into a scowl, his eyes narrowing as if he would deny her request.
“For my sake, Father,” she pleaded.
Maerleswein let out a breath and his countenance softened when he looked into his daughter’s anxious eyes. Geoff had experienced those same blue-green eyes turned on him. He did not doubt her father would relent.
“All right, Daughter. It will be as you say. They are not many and I suppose ’twill not hinder us.” Then to one of his soldiers, “Put the knights in the tower chambers and post guards at the doors. Malet, his wife and sons can take another chamber and FitzOsbern and Gilbert a third.”
“Aye, sir,” the warrior dipped his head, “it shall be done.”
“Thank you, Father,” said Emma, casting Geoff a glance that spoke of regret.
“Helise, I am sorry,” Emma said to the woman.
Malet’s wife regarded her coolly and looked away.
Geoff felt empty, sickened at the thought Emma could accept his kisses and his trust while carrying on a grand deception.
He had been well and truly deceived. Now, like the Valkyrie he had first imagined her, she would choose to give him life.
But for how long? He could not imagine they would keep him and the others alive when they had already slaughtered the garrisons.
Mayhap once she was gone, Maerleswein would see to their deaths as well.
Malet had been right the night of the feast when he had warned him.
Could she be a rebel spy? Geoff had not thought so then, but now the evidence was laid before him, too clear to deny.
Lured like a fish to the line, baited by her beauty and her winsome smiles, he had never considered Emma might be one of the rebels, much less the daughter of their leader.
He had believed her only a widow he could win. He had been wrong.
Geoff grew bitter remembering the hundreds of knights and men-at-arms the rebels and their Danish allies had slain.
Some had ridden with him from Talisand, good men and true.
Like him, they were younger sons who served the king hoping to gain lands of their own in England.
Now they were gone, their voices stilled forever.
* * *