Chapter 12 #2
Riding Thyra back to her home, accompanied by her father’s guards, Emma carefully picked her way through the bodies and charred debris scattered over the streets of York.
It was an unholy sight. The tension that had gripped her not knowing if she would be in time to save them ebbed with the relief that came, knowing her father would spare Geoffroi and his companions.
But the look of hatred on Geoffroi’s face would haunt her forever.
She had never lied to him but she had not told him who her father was or that he had gone to the Danish king, who was his friend, to seek aid for the rebels in York. The revulsion she had glimpsed in the knight’s eyes was so unlike the warmth she had always seen there before it chilled her.
He held her responsible for what had transpired.
But what could she have done? She loved her father and her people who suffered under the Norman yoke.
Her own hatred for the French knights had been strong.
Yet into her life had come one who was not like the others, one who showed her kindness at every turn.
One whose laughter had brought joy into her life, even love.
His kindness had softened her heart and made her want to love again.
But how could she have told him of the coming battle?
She had never believed Geoffroi would lose his life. To her he was invincible, destined to return to his beloved Talisand. And he had survived the battle while most of the Normans had died.
On her way to the castle, she had seen hundreds, mayhap thousands of bodies strewn about the streets and near the castles, Normans mostly by their clothing and long shields, but Northumbrians and Danes as well. Even horses had fallen.
Vultures circled overhead, some descending to the bodies to pick at the corpses. The stench that had drawn them made her want to vomit. She could never get used to war’s leavings and hoped to never see them again.
The victors were removing swords and knives from their victims and piling up the corpses to be burned.
Though some of the slain knights and men-at-arms had undoubtedly inflicted evil upon her people, treating the citizens despicably and defiling young women as if their virtue was of little consequence, the sight of so many dead was still horrible and one she had never seen before.
They rode down Coppergate, past the ruined stalls that had once been the shops owned by Feigr and Auki.
Feigr’s forge had survived the flames, a blackened monument to a once prosperous business, but the rest of his shop was a mound of ashes.
At least Feigr had fled before the flames destroyed the wooden structures.
Even now, many of Feigr’s goods were stored in her home.
Had he survived the battle? Inga would ask her.
Glancing at the two rough looking guards riding on either side of her, she was glad she had apologized to them for her part in their having to face her father’s wrath, but she would not change what she had done.
She could not have left Geoffroi to die, not just because he had oft rescued her and those she loved, but because she cared for him.
Did she love the Norman? Yes, her heart told her, for she dreaded life without him, his cheerful presence, his tender touch.
His smile and his love had been gifts she had never thought to have.
Into her mind came the picture of his face as she had departed the castle.
It had been twisted into a grimace, so harsh it had made her recoil.
She had always known he was her enemy; now he knew she was his.
What would become of him and the other Normans her father held prisoner? Would they be ransomed? She hoped so. At least that way they would live.
Questions swirled in her mind as they neared her home.
With the city reduced to a burned out shell and only a few structures still standing, where would the people go?
The wealthy, she knew, could flee to other places.
Mayhap they already had. But what of the shopkeepers, freemen and villeins?
Would the Danes remain to defend them when the Norman king returned, as he surely must?
Could the Northumbrian warriors hold York without them?
From all her father had told her about the Norman king, she knew he meant to rule all of England.
She shuddered when she considered the ruthless methods he might employ to see it done. Surely when he heard the news of his forces’ defeat, he would seek vengeance.
* * *
Geoff peered out the small arrow slit in the chamber high in the tower where he, Alain and Mathieu had been confined.
The fires from the Danes’ camp along the riverbank burned strong in the late September night as the sounds of their revelry drifted up to him and he remembered Emma as he had last seen her.
He had loved her, had even wanted her for his wife. But seeing her with her father cast a shadow on all they had shared. She was a beauty who had captured his heart and then tossed it at his feet. How long would Maerleswein keep his promise to her and allow them to live?
Hours had passed with no word. They had tended their wounds as best they could.
Alain’s was worse than Geoff’s but they were finally able to stop the bleeding, clean the wound and make a bandage out of what cloth they had found in the chamber.
If the Bear did not come down with a fever, he would heal.
Alain went to the door and pressed his ear to listen. “The sounds of celebration from the hall grow loud. Let us hope they have forgotten us in their feasting and drinking.”
“At least they have allowed the servants to bring us food,” said Mathieu, picking up a piece of bread from where it sat on the tray with cheese, fruit and a pitcher of wine.
Geoff sighed, his thoughts on the far side of the city where Emma might be sitting by her own hearth fire. How could she have betrayed him?
He felt Alain watching him. He was not surprised when he spoke words of advice. “Forget the widow. There will be other women.”
Geoff said nothing. It might be wise to forget her, but he was not so sanguine as to believe it was possible.
There would be no other woman like Emma.
He wanted to hate her for her treachery.
Mayhap for long moments he had. But then he remembered their afternoons together in the meadow, her sweet response to his lovemaking, her kindness to the orphaned children, the girl Inga, even the hound, and his hatred turned into a longing, a desire for what he had lost. How could he still desire a woman who had sold him to the rebels?
Alain picked up his goblet of wine and threw back a large swallow. “’Tis our wine they give us, the last we shall see, at least for some time.”
“Aye,” said Geoff, helping himself to the French wine, hoping it would make him forget.
Alain stared at the goblet, turning it in his hand. “’Twill soon be October. Aethel’s babe was to be born in September.”
Geoff knew the big knight worried for his wife. Childbirth could mean the death of the mother or the child, or both. “She will be well, Alain. Did not Maugris see your little girl growing up with the Red Wolf’s son?”
“Aye. For that reason Aethel chose a name before I left.”
“What is it?” asked Mathieu from where he sat eating some of the cheese.
“Lora,” the Bear said with a smile that suggested a pleasant memory.
“’Tis a beautiful name,” Geoff remarked. Then seeing the wistful look on Alain’s face, he added, “You will see them, have no worry.” He had his doubts of their returning to Talisand, but he would not share them with his friend.
“When was Lady Serena’s babe expected?” asked Mathieu.
Geoff recalled Maugris’ words to Serena. “’Twas to be in the spring, April, I think. If all went well, as Maugris’ vision told him it would, she has been delivered of the Red Wolf’s cub, his heir.”
“They were to name him Alexander,” said Alain.
Geoff grinned thinking about the Red Wolf as a father. Missing his friend and wanting to cheer his companions, he lifted his goblet. “A toast! To Alexander and Lora and to our seeing them before this year is done.”
Alain and Mathieu lifted their goblets and the three drank in somber celebration in the midst of a castle where a clamorous revelry celebrating their defeat echoed from the hall below.
* * *
“Tonight the Norman hall rings with the sounds of our victory,” Maerleswein announced, lifting his goblet of mead to Cospatric and Edgar who sat on one side of him at the high table.
Osbjorn, King Swein’s sons and Waltheof sat on his other side.
“Tomorrow we will tear down these walls, these symbols of Norman tyranny.”
“Aye,” said Cospatric raising his goblet and taking a long drink.
“’Tis a long time in coming,” said Edgar.
The great hall glowed with torches and candles.
Hundreds of Danes and Northumbrians sitting at the long trestle tables lifted their cups, goblets and tankards in toast to the victory they had won that day.
When the fighting was over, they had bathed in the same river that had brought their dragon ships to York, washing themselves of the blood of their victims.
In the center of the room over the hearth fire, a side of beef roasted on a spit, a lad turning it often.
Outside, other fires played host to roasting meat and other celebrations.
The smell of beef and melting fat mixed with herbs filled the hall, making Maerleswein’s mouth water.
No food had touched his lips since first light, and then only dried beef to sustain him.