Chapter 13 #3
As his taste for vengeance subsided, Geoff’s love for Emma returned.
Perhaps it had always been there, for Emma was too much a part of him.
Removed from his rage that day he’d discovered she was Maerleswein’s daughter, he could now see she had been caught between opposing forces, a father she loved and a man to whom she had freely given herself despite his being a French knight.
It was a position thrust upon her by circumstances not of her doing.
Circumstances that made them enemies from the beginning.
She had not lied, just never disclosed her noble lineage or that her father was chief among the rebels.
He could hardly blame her. And in the end, she had saved his life.
In his mind he heard Maugris’ words. You will find an ally where you least expect it.
The daughter of the rebel leader was an unexpected ally indeed.
He had once believed Emma was all that was good. But that conviction had disappeared at her betrayal. Now, that inner conviction of her goodness returned. I love her. I will always love her.
William’s war on the North had brought them together and then it had torn them apart. He had lost her.
With cheerless effort, they straggled on to York. Nearing the city, Geoff said to Alain, “I would rid myself of the blood that stains my mail and tunic. I find I crave a wash even more than food.”
The Bear chuckled. “Now that is a change all at Talisand would find amusing.”
“Aye, well, food will come after. I would have roast pork tonight and some of that hot bread dripping in butter. Surely they must have found a stray pig or a wild boar somewhere.” His mouth watered.
“And wine. Much wine.” He wanted to forget the horrible scenes he had witnessed in the past week and he wanted to forget the haunting image of Emma’s beautiful face that had never left him in the ride south to York.
“Do you think William would have brought a supply with him when he came to York?” asked Alain.
“I have never seen him travel without—”
“Look,” shouted Mathieu, “the castles!”
In the distance, Geoff saw what appeared to be new square towers rising from the snow-covered mottes. William’s new castles. “Dieu Merci,” he said on a sigh. “A place to sleep other than the cold ground.”
As they neared York, the tents of William’s encamped army filled every space of level land near the castles. Palisades circled the baileys, the wooden stakes repaired where they had been knocked down or burned.
Having destroyed his enemies, William was once again asserting his authority over York.
“I grow tired of the fighting,” Geoff said to Alain, “if that is what it was. ’Twas no even match with William’s ordering the slaying of mere serfs.”
“I could not find any honor in it,” said his friend, “and was glad when you steered us away from the burning of the cottages. I long for the peace of Talisand and Aethel and our babe.”
“Mayhap William will release us if the Danes do not return.”
With that happy thought, Geoff dismounted and left the horses to Mathieu, telling the squire they would see him at the evening meal.
Once Geoff and Alain had what sufficed for a bath, they donned the clothes and weapons supplied by their fellow knights, then took their places at the new trestle tables.
There was no head table as yet so the king sat among them, his half-brother on one side and Geoff on the other.
The hall smelled of new wood, the hearth fire and roasting meat.
Mathieu, along with the other squires, helped serve the king and his knights since there were few servants to be had.
Over a dinner of roast boar, Robert, who had returned from the Humber, told them of his encounter with the Danes.
“We kept a close watch on their ships where they were anchored on the north shore of the Humber. With us there in large numbers, they could not leave to forage for food.”
“Were the rebels supplying them?” asked William.
“Indeed,” said Robert taking a drink of his wine. “We found their camps in the marshes but we soon cut that line of supply.”
“Men cannot eat treasure,” said William. “They would soon grow desperate. But what of our nobles?”
“I sent a messenger,” said Robert, “asking to talk. Left with the prospect of a miserable existence and little food for so many men, their leader, Osbjorn, agreed. After much haggling, he was persuaded to accept your gold in exchange for our nobles’ return and the Danes departure at winter’s end.”
“We do not like leaving our nobles with the raiders for the winter,” said the king, “but ’tis not surprising they demanded it of you. Do you believe the pirates will keep their word?”
“Aye, I believe Osbjorn means to return them at winter’s end. He wants your gold and he did not seem to want to face your army.”
“They will not leave empty-handed,” William ruefully acknowledged. “In addition to our gold, their ships are full of treasure taken from East Anglia.”
“My men will remain,” said Robert, “allowing only food to pass to the ships. The Danes cannot endure the winter without a few hunting trips.”
“Then you have done all we could ask,” said the king.
Relieved to hear the Danes would not be returning to York when William and his half-brother took their leave, Geoff lifted his cup to Alain.
“To our soon return to Talisand!” While the thought pleased him, inside he was not all gladness, for he had never believed he would return to Talisand without Emma.
Their days in the meadow had convinced him she would finally agree to become his wife. How wrong he had been.
Later that evening, on his way to his chamber, William, who stood at one end of the hall with Robert, stopped him.
“We are determined to celebrate Christmas in York,” said the king, “no matter it will be amidst the Minster’s ashes. But after that, we ride to Cheshire. And you will accompany our army, Sir Geoffroi.”
Geoff bowed his head. “As you wish, Sire.”
“You will be pleased to hear that after Cheshire,” continued William, “since we will be near the Red Wolf’s den, you and your companions may be released. If all goes well, I might even pay our wolf a visit.”
Geoff watched the king stride away, thinking of the awful punishment he had inflicted upon the North, hoping to never see the likes of it again. In his mind echoed Maugris’ words.
William is a great king, but terrible in his wrath.