Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
Jelling, Denmark
Maerleswein brushed the snow from his hair and cloak and stepped into King Swein’s hall, its ancient timbers glistening with ice. He knew many of the Danes that were gathered around the central hearth fire. He raised his hand in greeting as he drew near to the fire to warm his hands. They had to know why he came. Did they look forward to sailing their ships to England once again?
He watched from that vantage as Cospatric and Edgar bowed before the king, here to answer his questions about the aid they sought for Northumbria.
The Danish king reclined in his throne chair. He was regally attired in a crimson tunic with golden belt, his red-gold hair adorned with a bejeweled crown. His long legs stretched out in front of him like a lion in repose. Yet the king was anything but calm, for as he stroked his beard, his brows drew together in a frown.
Edgar appeared like a young Adonis, his head of fair curls and his wispy short beard reminding all of his youth. Still, he could have been King of England after Harold Godwinson, save for the coming of the Norman Bastard.
Beside Edgar was Cospatric, who still commanded the respect of the Northumbrians, despite the fact he no longer held the title that gave him authority over them. But Cospatric was still Earl of Bamburgh, his ancestral home north of Durham .
King Swein’s restless stirrings shouted his growing impatience. “Yea, your messages were received,” he said to the two men, “asking for our ships and men. We are well aware of what you need.”
“The uprising will fail without your support,” explained Cospatric.
The king hesitated. Did he fear the same fate that had befallen his Norwegian ally, Harald Hardrada? Before William arrived in England, the King of Norway had sailed to York to fight Harold of Wessex but the Norwegian king never returned. King Swein had been there to witness Hardrada’s death. And while Swein had survived, he now walked with a limp.
It had been three years since Maerleswein had seen the Danish king. At fifty, he appeared to have aged a decade; his red beard was now liberally laced with gray. Mayhap he no longer relished the fight. Maerleswein was not young either, but his body was still that of a warrior and he eagerly anticipated the battle that would set Northumbria free.
“King Edward promised us the throne of England,” Swein informed them, “but we have heard he made the same promise to others. It is his fault England was left in so much confusion that at Harold Godwinson’s death, the Norman Bastard was able to claim the throne. And now,” the king looked at young Edgar, “you ask us to carve a kingdom out of what is left and give it to this ?theling?”
Edgar cringed.
Cospatric, looking aghast, took up the argument. “We ask only for ships and men to free Yorkshire, My Lord.”
“The heart of the Danelaw, you mean,” said the king.
Maerleswein did not have to remind Swein that while they might speak of Yorkshire and an independent Northumbria, William had claimed all of England. It was on both their minds, for the two of them had shared a private conversation before the public audience began.
“Maerleswein,” the king had said as they walked in the falling snow, their cloaks dappled in white, “We like not installing a mere youth in a seat of power with William’s unfettered ambition running wild.”
“Edgar will unite the people of England, Sire,” argued Maerleswein, “and not just the Northumbrians. Rebellion spreads in the south. Hereward, my fellow Lincolnshire thegn, has returned from Flanders, now a soldier. He is appalled at what has happened to England in the years he has been away.”
“Hereward has returned? ”
“Aye. A Dane proficient with an axe.” Maerleswein was certain he detected a glimmer of excitement in the king’s eyes at the news of Hereward’s becoming involved. Both respected him.
After that, he and the king had walked together for a while, sharing stories of Hereward. It was these Maerleswein was certain the king pondered as he listened to the English nobles now arguing their case.
To Cospatric, King Swein said, “You would have young Edgar standing before us named King of England?” The king’s eyes roved over the young, fair-haired Saxon not even twenty yet heir to a throne that might never be his, and then returned his gaze to Cospatric whose noble lineage was apparent in his high forehead and firm jaw and the way he carried himself. “Yea, we can see you do.” The king shrugged. “We are not opposed to such an arrangement for the time being. Better you, Edgar, than the French Bastard.”
It was a large concession and boded well for the alliance Maerleswein had sought. He was glad he’d spoken to the king privately beforehand.
King Swein leaned forward. “What will you do if we agree to send our ships?”
“Once we have your assurance,” said Cospatric, “we will go to Scotland to seek allies in our cause, men who will fight with us, mayhap even King Malcolm.”
King Swein’s gaze fell upon Maerleswein, his brows raised in question.
Maerleswein stepped forward. “We have many allies there,” he assured the king, “including Cospatric’s cousin, young Waltheof, Earl of Huntingdon. King Malcolm, too, has been most encouraging.”
The king sat back, his chin in his hand as he rested his elbow on the arm of his throne. “You shall have the ships you seek,” he said, stroking his beard. “But I will not go.”
“Then who?” asked Cospatric in disbelief.
The king surveyed his hall, well decorated with weapons of war and his many sons, fifteen in all but only one born in wedlock. His gaze paused on a man with his same red-gold hair and beard, standing to the side. “I will send my brother, Osbjorn, and my sons, Harald and Cnut, with enough men and ships to assure we have our vengeance for the death of my warriors who fought in King Harold’s war.”
Osbjorn stepped forward from the shadows, a lesser man than the king in Maerleswein’s opinion, for he doubted the brother’s resolve. But the two sons in their third decade, who came forward to stand before their father, had his same appearance and were considered worthy fighters. Maerleswein would have to content himself with three blood relatives of the king to vouchsafe the strength of the alliance, though regrettably, the king himself would not attend.
Osbjorn bowed. “It will be as you say, my brother.”
“Take with you Christian, the Bishop of Aarhus. He can pray for your venture’s success.”
Before they left for Scotland, Maerleswein had the king’s promise he would send at least two hundred ships by summer’s end that would carry his Danish warriors and weapons to York.
“It will take that long to see so many built,” King Swein had told him. “Longships of solid oak are not made in a day.”
Maerleswein departed with his companions, pleased. It might just be enough to rid the North of the hated Normans.
***
York, England
Surrounded by a field of yellow and white flowers, Emma stood with Inga on the hillside outside the city walls as the twins happily frolicked nearby with Magnus. Both Ottar and the hound had recovered from their injuries and now wore no bandages. Magnus’ movements were as lithe as before yet his leg bore a scar from the snare.
Emma relished the warmth of the morning sun on her face as it rose above the trees of the distant forest like a great beacon. In the distance lay pastures planted with new seed and the apple orchard that would bear a rich bounty in the fall.
A soft breeze blew loose strands of her hair across her face and she brushed them away to watch the flock of curlew birds circling overhead. Spring had finally come to York.
It had rained last night and the ground was still wet. Emma loved the smell of the damp earth and harvest time when that same earth brought forth the life-sustaining grains and fruit. She was a creature of the land, she admitted with a smile, not the sea as Halden had been, yet she had loved him with a young girl’s passion.
In the far distance, Emma could see the ewes with their lambs. Just that morning, her villein, Jack, had come to tell her of the new lambs dropping each day. “’Tis a bountiful crop this year, m’lady. ”
“We will pay you and your good wife a visit this afternoon to see them,” she had told him. “They always bring the children great delight.”
Weeks had passed since the Norman king had left with his army, raising the spirits of all in York. Yet despite the warm sun, the calm meadow and the promise of seeing the lambs, a passing cloud brought Emma a sense of foreboding, reminding her the peaceful respite could not last, not with her father and Cospatric gathering forces to seize York. Not with the people still chafing at the Norman rule, anxious to join him.
But today she was determined not to think of those things.
Finna, her basket in hand, left Ottar and Magnus and ran to Inga, tugging on her arm. “Come pick flowers with me, Inga!”
It was clear Inga wanted to go but was reticent. She had been particularly shy since the rape. But in some way Emma could not explain, Finna understood Inga’s sadness and her need for some lighthearted revelry.
Inga looked to Emma as if seeking her assent. Emma nodded enthusiastically. “Go! But beware, Finna will not be satisfied until you have picked half the field!”
The two ran off together laughing and bent their heads to the task. It cheered Emma to see Inga smiling again. Finna could make anyone feel treasured by her little girl ways. Inga was not immune.
Feigr was recovering, now able to get around and attend his shop, but he was bitter and angry. Inga, who still lived with Emma at Feigr’s insistence and Emma’s happy agreement, was more fearful than angry. In time, Emma hoped both could leave behind the memory of that horrible night. But she had her doubts.
The church often forced a young woman such as Inga to marry her rapist, but even if he knew, Emma did not believe the archbishop would force Inga to accept such a fate. Ealdred was too old and too weak for the people to follow his advice in such matters. Half the town of York would rise in protest if he even suggested such a thing. If all the maidens who had been taken against their will were avenged, it would become another uprising, mayhap one already in the making.
Emma looked behind her to where she could just see the top of the square tower of the first Norman castle. The Bastard king and his army might be gone but his garrison of knights remained, soon to be spread between the old tower and the new castle that appeared to be nearly finished. Yet in those hated castles dwelled one who was a bright light.
True to his word, Sir Geoffroi had kept them supplied with meat even after the market had reopened and butchers once more cried their wares from their stalls. Besides the boon of food, she liked seeing him and his broad smile at her door more than she would admit. He made no demands upon her, though sometimes she sensed he longed for more than the tentative friendship that had grown between them. Did she, too, want more?
She had shared the meat he provided with her neighbors who complained that Normans had brought it. If her father had not been a leader of the rebels, a man all of York respected, they might have protested more loudly, but as it was, they were happy to have the meat and accepted her explanation she was about her father’s business. What could they say to the daughter of the noble Dane whom King Harold had asked to govern Northumbria after the victory at Stamford Bridge? Those days might be past, but the citizens of York had not forgotten either her father or Cospatric who had governed Northumbria for a brief time after her father.
Looking beyond Finna and Inga picking flowers to the land that was hers, Emma remembered the time after Halden’s death. Her father had helped her sell her husband’s two ships and the warehouse of goods on the Humber River. With the proceeds, he had persuaded Cospatric, who then had the authority as Earl of Northumbria, to sell to her some lands east of the River Ouse, which she now kept in flax and barley. It gave her great joy to see the churls tilling the fields, to watch the life-giving plants rise from the rich earth. But if the Normans remained, she would not continue to own the lands. The Norman king would take them to award to his followers.
Finna and Inga returned with a basket full of flowers and smiles on their faces, eager to show her their prize takings.
Shaking off her troublesome thoughts, Emma looked down at the yellow and white flowers filling the basket. “What wonderful flowers! They will bring spring to our table.”
Finna leaped at the idea. “I have a clay jar we could use to hold them!”
Emma looked beyond Inga and Finna and their flowers to see Ottar and Magnus with their heads together bent over something on the ground. “What is it that has captured Ottar’s attention?” she asked.
“Oh,” said Finna with a look of disgust, “’tis just some old frog.”
With a grin, Emma reminded her, “I recall a little girl who found frogs fascinating.”
Inga gave Finna a knowing grin. Likely Inga also remembered the time.
“That was when I was small,” insisted Finna. “I am ever so much bigger now.”
Emma and Inga both laughed at Finna’s pronouncement and the innocence in her large brown eyes.
“But not so big you have lost your fondness for berry tarts, hmm?” questioned Emma.
“I am very fond of berry tarts,” admitted Finna.
“Well, I know where to find some berries for Sigga to turn into tarts.”
“Tarts!” shouted Finna.
Ottar’s head lifted from where he was crouched. “Tarts?”
Emma and Inga shared a laugh at the twins’ enthusiasm for the sweet treats.
Once Ottar learned of their plans, he was persuaded to leave his frog for the promise of the sweet confection and a visit to see the lambs.
Emma guided her small family to the place where she had seen the red berries growing, Magnus bounding along beside them.
The day was once again golden.
***
“Sir Geoffroi!”
At the sound of the familiar voice, Geoff turned from where he was speaking with his men in the bailey to see William Malet striding toward him wearing a broad smile.
“You appear in a jovial mood, my lord sheriff.” Mayhap the last few weeks had given Malet reason to believe his position was secure notwithstanding William’s earlier displeasure. Geoff had to wonder why Malet would care. He was a nobleman with both title and lands in Normandy; he did not need more in England. But the king had given him manors and lands aplenty. Mayhap his new lands in England meant more to the sheriff than his holdings in Normandy.
“Indeed I am in a good mood. I have an invitation for you. Might you be persuaded to join me and a few others for the evening meal?”
Geoff grinned. “If the event involves food, Malet, you know I will be pleased to attend. I never miss a meal.”
“Aye, well, Gil is back from his expedition to Durham. ’Twas a failure as we all suspected ’twould be. ”
Geoff thought of Alain’s prediction that Gilbert’s foray into the north would not go well. “’Twas likely lost from the beginning.”
“Gil tells me a dense fog he attributes to St. Cuthbert cloaked the rebels and prevented his men from advancing.”
Geoff pondered the idea. “’Tis said Cuthbert protects that city.”
The sheriff shrugged. “Mayhap you are right. The ways of the saints are not for mortal man to understand. On a brighter note, FitzOsbern has returned from Winchester as well and Gil has decided to hold a feast in the new castle on Baille Hill before he opens it to the garrison.”
“The men could use a bit of celebration,” said Geoff.
“’Twill be only a small group. Gil has invited Helise and me and FitzOsbern, but he also mentioned wanting you to be one of his guests.”
“Me?” Geoff would never have expected an invitation to join what would be a feast for the Norman nobles in York.
“Aye, he thinks much of you and asked me to see to it. He’s also invited Archbishop Ealdred, seeking to make amends, I presume.”
“Or, given the archbishop’s one time support for Edgar the ?theling, it may be Gil wants to be certain Ealdred is with us. Our sire trusts no Anglo-Saxon, not even a man of the Church.”
Malet seemed to ponder the suggestion. “I wonder if William put a word in Gilbert’s ear before he left. But no matter, it should be a merry group. It has been a long while since we have had a proper feast.”
Geoff gazed across the river to the new wooden structure rising from a motte surrounded by a large bailey and palisade. “I did not realize the new castle was completed.”
“’Tis finished, save a few final touches of the hammer. William insisted on haste, you will recall. This evening will be a celebration just for us. Gilbert has already moved in but tomorrow he opens it to the others.”
“Will you move to the new castle?”
“Nay. Helise and the boys prefer to stay in the original tower while we are here.”
Geoff briefly pondered what Emma might think of the new, larger castle and, suddenly, he knew who he wanted by his side for the evening. When he wasn’t with her, he was thinking about her. Whether she knew it or not, whether she wanted it or not, Emma of York held his heart in her delicate hand.
“As long as your wife and the English archbishop will be there, might I bring a lady of York as my guest? ”
A frown formed on Malet’s face. Given the women who frequented the hall—serving wenches and whores—Geoff understood.
“She is a very proper lady, Malet… a virtuous young widow.”
“Ah. In that case, I am certain Gil will be pleased to include her. Another citizen of York might put the archbishop at ease. Mayhap he knows of her. And Helise would be delighted to have the company of another woman. Yea, by all means, bring her. I will let Gil know to expect the two of you.”
***
The enticing smell of berries baking in a crust with honey, cinnamon, black pepper and cloves wafted through the air. It was all Emma could do to keep the twins occupied for she had promised they could share the first of the berry tarts when they were cool enough to eat.
Inga, tired from her morning of picking flowers with Finna, was resting in their shared chamber above.
A knock sounded on the door.
Reminding herself that Artur, who would normally greet visitors, was grooming her horse, Emma wiped her hands on a cloth. “I will see who has come.”
Sigga nodded and handed the first of the treats into the twins’ open palms.
Magnus, held in rapt attention by the sight of the freshly baked tarts disappearing into their mouths, whimpered.
Emma chuckled at the three of them and headed toward the front door. Magnus was so fixed on the tarts he did not even notice her departure.
She unlatched the door to see Sir Geoffroi standing there in his knight’s hauberk. Wisely, she supposed, the Normans rarely left the castle without the protection their chain mail afforded them. Since he wore no helm, his blond locks were in full view like spun gold around his head and his blue eyes were twinkling.
“My lady,” he said, bowing. When he straightened, there was a grin on his face.
“You seem happy today.”
“I am rarely unhappy,” he replied.
“You speak the truth.” And he did, for he was ever cheerful. It was one of the things she loved about him. And given he was a soldier, engaged in gruesome endeavors, she considered it remarkable. Glancing behind him, she saw no one. “Are you alone?”
“I am. I had an errand that required haste. I did not want to wait for my men to break free from their swordplay.”
She opened the door wide. “Come in.”
“What is that heavenly smell?” he asked as he crossed the threshold.
“Berry tarts. You will have to wrestle Ottar, Finna and Magnus for one or wait to share one with me.”
He grinned and looked at her lips. “I will wait.”
They walked into the kitchen where three mouths stained with berry juice greeted them.
Sir Geoffroi laughed at the sight.
“Sir Geoffroi!” the twins said at the same time, their words muffled by the sweet treats that filled their mouths.
“We’ve plenty for all,” said Sigga with a nod to Sir Geoffroi, as she handed him a tart.
“Did you make these, Sigga?” he asked. “They smell delicious.”
“Thank you, Sir Geoffroi.” Then turning to Emma, “Will you have one, Mistress?”
“Mayhap later, though they are very tempting, Sigga.”
Sir Geoffroi took a large bite, closed his eyes and moaned. The sound was sensual to her ears. Did he make the same sound when he made love? She watched him chewing slowly, savoring every bite. “Oh, my,” he said, opening his eyes, his tongue running over his bottom lip. “’Tis food for angels.”
Sigga looked pleased. “Artur likes them, too.” The servant looked down at Magnus who was licking the berry juice from his mouth and snatching any crumbs that fell to the floor. “And the hound.”
The knight laughed at the sight of Magnus begging for more tart from Finna who could not say him nay but handed him a piece of her sweet.
Curious to know what had brought the knight to her door, Emma could wait no longer to ask. “Why are you here, Sir Geoffroi? Surely you did not bring us more meat? We have not even plucked the fowl you brought us earlier.”
He swallowed and wiped his mouth on the cloth Sigga handed him, then looked at Emma with a hint of uncertainty. “I have an invitation for you. ”
Thinking they might need to be private for this conversation, she said, “Come, you can finish your tart at the table.”
Leaving the twins to their eating, they walked from the kitchen to the table where the family dined, the knight carrying the remains of his tart. Once they were seated, he licked the berry juice from his fingers before speaking. “The new castellan, Gilbert de Ghent, is hosting a feast tonight. I would ask you to attend as my guest.”
She was about to decline, when he held up a hand. “Do not say nay until you hear who will be there. ’Tis a private meal. The castellan has invited William FitzOsbern, the Earl of Hereford, William Malet, the sheriff, Helise, his wife and Archbishop Ealdred. We will have the new hall to ourselves. ’Twould mean much for Helise to have the company of another woman with all the other guests being men.”
Emma let out a sigh, feeling her brow furrow. “Except for the archbishop, ’tis a gathering of Normans. What place have I there?”
“You have a place of honor at my side, Emma. It would please me much should you come. Will not you consider it?”
He had done so much for them—for Ottar, Feigr, Magnus and her—and provided food when they were hungry. How could she deny him what was obviously a matter of some importance? Her father would urge her to go, if only to learn of the new castle and its bailey. But this latter thought was not why she decided to accept his invitation. It was the look of hope on his face and the way it cheered her heart to see it. She wanted to be with him, to bring him joy. “I will do more than consider, sir knight. I will go, and gladly.”
***
Geoff came for Emma with Alain riding at his side. The Bear would not attend the dinner with them, but Alain had asked to accompany Geoff to her house, expressing his discomfort at Geoff’s riding alone through the darkened streets of York. Mayhap Alain had the right of it for the looks Geoff saw on the faces of the people reflected their continuing disdain.
The sun was already setting when the two of them arrived at Emma’s door. Tied up in front of the house was a white mare.
“A worthy bit of horseflesh,” Alain remarked as he dismounted and came around to stroke the horse’s neck.
Geoff slid from his horse and joined Alain to examine the beautiful mare. “’Tis a woman’s saddle the horse bears. Emma of York is full of surprises.” A fine home and now a fine mare.
The front door opened, the servant Artur appearing as if summoned.
“’Tis my lady’s mare, Thyra,” he called to them. “Is she not a beauty?”
Like her mistress , Geoff almost replied. At the sound of its name, the horse lifted its head and nickered. “An intelligent one,” Geoff said. The look in the horse’s eyes told him the mare was spirited. Also like her mistress.
Geoff and Alain walked the short distance to the open door.
Artur beckoned them to enter. “Please wait here,” he said, leaving them by the hearth. “My wife tells me her mistress is almost ready.”
Geoff took off his gloves to warm his hands by the fire, his thoughts still on the white mare. He had no idea Emma could ride or that she had a horse, much less such a fine one. Mathieu had said nothing when he returned from stabling their horses on their prior visits. Most often, Emma walked in the city, like all the other citizens of York. Tonight, she would ride but not in his lap. Though he was disappointed, he supposed it was proper for a lady to have her own horse to travel to a feast.
Artur had referred to her as his “lady” and Geoff recalled the servant had done so before. There was still much about her he did not know. Whether she was highborn. Who her husband had been. Whose large shoes he had seen. And whether she would look fondly upon a Norman knight who would pay her court. He did not believe she still harbored hatred for him. Normans yes, but not him, or Alain or Mathieu. She had made too many exceptions for them and had shown them too many kindnesses. But did she feel more than gratitude for what he had done?
While he and Alain waited, Geoff stole glances up the stairs, anxious to see her. Minutes passed. Then, at the top of the stairs, he caught a glimmer of green silk edged in gold thread, the kind of gown he might have seen in London at William’s court. Slowly she descended the stairs, a smile curving her lips. The gown dipped in front and fitted tightly against her breasts and small waist. At her hips was a belt of green, black and gold brocade. Never before had he seen her so richly attired. Tonight she appeared like a Danish princess. Her pale hair, only partially covered by the headcloth, hung in two long plaits down the front of her gown.
“My lady,” Geoff said, “You leave me without breath.”
Alain bowed as well but said nothing. Geoff was certain the Bear had been rendered speechless in the face of Emma’s beauty so richly adorned .
“You flatter me, Sir Geoffroi. But you must have known that I could hardly wear a plain tunic to a feast for nobility.” Then in a teasing manner, she added, “No matter they are French.”
“Not all of them,” he said. “There is the archbishop.”
“Thank God for that,” came her mumbled retort.
He chuckled.
Artur handed Geoff her cloak and he draped it over her shoulders.
She fastened it with a round brooch of gold that looked Danish in design, a dark red carnelian stone at its center with carving all around. Facing Artur, she asked, “The others are fed?”
“Yea, Sigga gave them an early supper. The twins are in their chamber with Magnus.”
She nodded, lifted her hood over her headcloth and turned to Geoff. “I am ready.”
He escorted her to the white mare and lifted her into the saddle. “I am surprised you ride; not many women do.”
“The horse was a gift from my husband.”
Geoff swung into his saddle, wondering at the wealth of the husband she spoke of, wondering, too, if she still loved him.
He headed down the street toward the other side of the city, passing the other fine homes. Did the neighbors who had peered out their windows to watch the knights upon their arrival make ungracious comments to her about Normans paying her a visit? And if they did, what could she have told them?