A Warrior's Heart Page 2

  “You would only put yourself in their sights, my lady, were you to do aught. Feigr will protect her, and see, now the townspeople have stopped to watch.”

  Keeping her hand on Magnus, Emma turned toward the gathering crowd, a frown on every face. It was not the first time the people of York had seen the Normans seize what was not theirs. Since the garrison of knights had come earlier in the year, fear rode the streets of York like an ever-present phantom. But this time there was more than fear in the eyes of the people. There was outrage.

  Reaching his stall, Inga’s father stepped between his sobbing daughter and the knight, breaking the man’s hold on her arm. Though smaller than the knight in stature, long years of working with metal had given Feigr brawny shoulders and arms. He faced the knight, his bearded chin raised in defiance, his stance sure.

  The knight clenched his fists and leaned into Feigr, touching the sword-maker’s chest with his own, a threat apparent to all.

  Emma tensed, worried for Feigr should the three knights attack him together. At her side, Magnus resumed his low growl. Removing her hand from her seax, she stroked the rough fur on his neck to calm him.

  The murmurs of the townspeople grew boisterous as they stared at the unfolding drama, their gazes condemning the effrontery of the French knight who dared lay hands on a maiden of York.

  One of the knights turned to look at the crowd, then strode to his companion who was confronting Feigr. Placing his hand on the knight’s shoulder, he whispered something in his companion’s ear.

  The knight jerked his shoulder away. “What is one of them to so many of us?” he challenged.

  “A crowd gathers. The wench will keep, Eude. We are expected back at the castle.”

  With a speaking glance at Inga that sent a shiver of fear through Emma, the knight called Eude shrugged and joined his fellow Normans.

  As the three of them swaggered away from the stall, Eude made a rude gesture that caused his fellow knights to bellow their laughter.

  Rage choked Emma. Had they planned the whole affair taking the sword to lure Feigr away from his shop?

  As the French knights sauntered down the street, relief replaced Emma’s anger. She was thankful for the crowd of townspeople that had come. Their show of strength had no doubt kept the knights from doing worse.

  “Thank God I did not bring Finna and Ottar,” she muttered beneath her breath. The last thing she wanted was for the two young orphans who lived under her protection to have witnessed the assault on her friend.

  The crowd dispersed, shaking their heads.

  With Magnus at her side, Emma rushed across the street to where Inga’s father comforted his daughter. Both were clearly shaken by what had happened.

  “Oh, Inga. I am so sorry. Are you all right?”

  Gray eyes, wide with fear, looked up at Emma. Barely sixteen, Inga had shouldered much since her mother’s death two winters before, helping her father with his shop as well as their home. Emma, seven years older, had lost her own mother at a young age and knew well the emptiness it left. She tried to look after the younger woman, for there was no son to help Feigr, no other child.

  Not knowing what to say, Emma reached her hand to touch Inga’s arm in solace. The gesture brought little comfort, for Inga turned her face into her father’s broad chest and sobbed.

  Feigr’s eyes glared his hatred as his gaze followed the French knights disappearing down the street.

  In the distance the tall square tower of the Norman castle loomed over the city like a great vulture’s nest.

  * * *

  Talisand, Lune River Valley, northwest England, February 1069

  “’Tis enough!” Sir Geoffroi de Tournai called as he sheathed his sword and strode from the practice yard outside the palisade fence. Passing through the gate, he entered the bailey, heading toward the stairs leading up to the timbered castle, his sweat chilled by the frigid winter air. Having seen the king’s messenger ride in through the gate, he was anxious to know what that ominous arrival portended.

  Geoff stepped into the great hall where sunlight sifted through the shuttered windows to cast pale streams of light onto the herbed rushes strewn on the floor. Built less than a year before, it still smelled of new wood. But stronger was the spicy aroma of mutton stew. His mouth watered as he imagined tender chunks of meat in rich sauce and butter dripping from a thick slice of bread. Suddenly he was starving.

  “I suppose ye have a yearning for some of me stew after all yer swordplay,” observed Maggie coming toward him, a twinkle in her green eyes.

  As Talisand’s cook, the plump Maggie held a special place in his heart. When he and the Red Wolf had arrived to claim Talisand the year before, Maggie was the first of the English to accept them, mayhap the only one at the beginning. That her husband was the blacksmith rendered the pair indispensable. To knights who wore chain mail, fought with blades of steel and rode iron-shod warhorses, the blacksmith was most valuable, a good one, like Maggie’s husband, highly prized.

  “A picture of your stew has been with me all morn, Maggie, but I must see the Red Wolf before I eat.” Sir Renaud de Pierrepont was the Earl of Talisand by King William’s decree, but Geoff still thought of him as he’d known him years before, the knight named for the beast he had slain with his bare hands.

  Before Geoff could head toward the Red Wolf’s chamber, Maugris approached, his ancient blue eyes shining out of his weathered face framed by gray hair that was ever in disarray. A Norman, who had come with them to England more than two years before, Maugris was neither a soldier nor a servant, nor the wizard the people of Talisand had at first thought him. He was a wise man and a seer who directed his own fate. It struck Geoff then, as it always did, how nimble the old man was in both mind and body. Maugris had been the first of them to learn the English tongue.

  Geoff’s gaze shifted to the door of the bedchamber where the Red Wolf lay.

  “Lady Serena is with the earl just now,” Maugris informed him. “’Twould be best to eat first.”

  “I suppose you speak wisdom,” Geoff muttered as he stretched his hands toward the hearth fire.

  “Why not join me at the table?” Maugris suggested.

  Though anxious to see his friend, Geoff grunted his agreement and headed for the high table.

  “Sit yerself down,” insisted Maggie, “and I’ll see ye both have some stew.”

  He and Maugris took their seats.

  “How is he, Maggie?” Geoff inquired, his brow furrowed in worry as he again looked toward the bedchamber where Renaud was recovering from a wound all were concerned could lead to a deadly fever.

  “None too pleased, I expect. ’Twas worse than he pretended. He is already growling at being so confined, but Lady Serena rightly insists he stay abed.”

  Maggie disappeared into the kitchen and a servant brought trenchers with bowls of stew and bread and butter to join the pitchers of ale already on the table.

  Geoff speared a piece of mutton from his stew with his knife.

  Maugris reached for the bread. “The Red Wolf is not used to being injured or mayhap I should say he is unused to acknowledging his injuries. Lady Serena has forced him to do so.”

  “’Twas a bad riding accident that,” muttered Geoff, remembering the fall Renaud had taken from his stallion a few days before when the horse had stepped into a hole and fallen. “His Spanish stallion is none the better for it, either.”

  “Belasco will recover, as will his master.”

  “Have you seen that in one of your visions?” Geoff asked, only slightly amused, for he desperately wanted assurance Ren would be well.

  Maugris took a sip of his ale. “Nay, but I know the Red Wolf and his Spanish stallion. Both will recover in time.”

  Knowing Maugris was never wrong, Geoff’s spirits lifted. “And I will be thanking God when that day arrives.”

  He cut a large piece of bread with his knife and slathered it with butter. It was nearly to his mouth when, out of the corner of his
eye, he glimpsed Serena, Countess of Talisand, coming toward them from the chamber at the base of the stairs, her flaxen hair covered now that she was wed. Beneath the headcloth were two long plaits trailing down the front of her violet gown.

  Round with the child she would deliver in the spring, Serena walked slowly to the dais. “Good day to you both.”

  Geoff set down his bread and he and Maugris rose as one and bowed.

  “My lady,” Geoff said, helping her to her seat.

  Once settled, Serena rested a hand on the mound of her belly. “’Tis fortuitous my lord cannot climb the stairs and must be confined to the lower chamber as I will soon be unable to climb them myself.”

  “’Twill not be long now,” observed Maugris. “The coming of April will see the Red Wolf with his first cub.”

  “I look forward to the day he arrives, Maugris,” she returned, casting the old man a kindly glance. “I cannot sleep for this babe’s kicking in the night.”

  A servant set a trencher before Serena, but she must have been thinking of her husband, for she only picked at her food.

  “What news from the messenger, my lady?” asked Geoff, eager to hear. “Did your husband happen to say?”

  “Yea, but I would have him tell you himself. When you finish your meal, he will likely be ready for you and Maugris. Just now his bandage is being changed and he’s snarling like the wolf whose name he bears. The leg pains him greatly but he tries to hide it.”

  Geoff finished his stew quickly, knowing the other knights would soon be coming in for the midday meal. Since the king had left a contingent of knights and men-at-arms with them, it was always crowded in the hall at meals. Rising, he bowed to Serena, “With your permission—”

  She waved him off. “Go. He will be shouting for you soon enough.”

  “Come, wise one,” said Geoff turning to Maugris. “Your counsel will surely be needed.”

  “Do not be in such haste to hear unpleasant news,” chided the old one as he slowly rose from the table, the folds of his dark woolen tunic loose about his thin frame.

  “I did not need your visions to know it would be unpleasant,” Geoff protested. “When I saw the messenger ride in through the gate, the hair stood up on the back of my neck. Things around here have too long been quiet.”

  Together they crossed the hall and entered the bedchamber sometimes used for visiting nobles. The king himself had stayed there only last year. At one end of the chamber was a large velvet-curtained bed where the Red Wolf was propped up on a mound of pillows, staring out the unshuttered window, frowning.

  “Ren?”

  The Red Wolf turned his glower on Geoff. “’Tis a dark day that has brought me news from Durham. It will take you back to York, my friend.”

  “York?” blurted Geoff. “It has not been a year since we were there and William built his castle. What has happened in Durham that would take me back to York?”

  Ren lifted himself onto the pillows, wincing. His chestnut hair fell over his forehead as he slowly let out a breath. “It was as I suspected when we left York last year. The Northumbrians slinked away into the forests, taking their will to rebel with them.”

  “Have they returned?” asked Geoff.

  “Not to York as far as I know but I believe ’twill be soon. When William replaced Cospatric with Robert de Comines as Earl of Northumbria, it appears our sire made a bad choice.”

  “He is a Fleming,” muttered Geoff. “We have seen what the Flemish mercenaries did in the South. They came not to settle as we did, but to pillage.”

  “Aye, ’twould seem Robert de Comines’ men were of the same cloth,” declared Ren. “A fortnight ago, the new earl and his mercenaries cut a swath of misery and death on their way north to Durham.”

  “Mon Dieu,” Geoff hissed. “Northumbria will again be in turmoil.”

  “The news is worse.” Ren’s frown deepened. “When the word of Comines’ ravaging the countryside reached the men of Durham, they thought to flee but a heavy snow blocked their retreat, forcing them to fight. They set fire to the house where Comines was staying. Those of the earl’s retinue that did not perish in the blaze died by the sword—including the earl.”

  “Merde!” Geoff cursed. “What a fool Comines was to let his mercenaries loose on the town. ’Tis no surprise the people rose against him.”

  “The messenger hinted of rumors that have spread following the uprising. Edgar Ætheling, the man the English consider heir to the throne, is on the move. Word has it he has left his refuge in Scotland, accompanied by Cospatric and that rich Dane, Maerleswein.” Ren shook his head. “I suppose they are encouraged by what happened in Durham.”

  “Did the messenger say where they were headed?”

  “The rumors say York.”

  Maugris, who had been silently listening, spoke, his wizened voice sounding like a harbinger of doom. “Ancient enemies have come together to rise against a common foe.”

  “So it would seem,” Geoff murmured in resigned acceptance. “And we Frenchmen are the foe.”

  “As you might expect,” said Ren, “William summons us to York, along with his knights and men-at-arms we shelter. You must lead them, Geoff, for I cannot.”

  Regret flickered in the eyes of his friend. Geoff recognized it for he would have felt the same had he been forced to stay behind. “I will gladly go in your stead.”

  The Red Wolf nodded his acceptance of what he could not change. “Do you remember William Malet, my old friend who fought with us at Hastings?”

  “Aye, I remember him,” replied Geoff. “William appointed him Sheriff of York just as we left the city last year.”

  “No doubt he will be pleased to see you with what he is facing.” Ren stared into space once again, seeing something Geoff did not. “His hands will be full if the Northumbrians rise under Edgar’s banner. The thegns of York have been waiting for the young Ætheling to return. He will draw many to their cause.”

  “William will stand for no king in England save himself,” Geoff insisted.

  Ren shook his head in dismay. “Yea, and York is important to our sovereign. The messenger said William already marches north. He will have a battle on his hands when he gets there. I thought it a possibility when his victory at York last year came too easily. The Northumbrians with their Danish connections may yet hope to carve out a northern kingdom as they did in the past.”

  “If that be true, the people of York have much to fear,” replied Geoff. “It will not be pleasant for them when William arrives to exact his revenge. Does Lady Serena know?”

  “Aye, she knows, and is none too pleased that the people of York are threatened by William’s army. You know well how she feels about our sire.”

  From behind Geoff, Maugris spoke. “William is a great king, but terrible in his wrath. He cares more for his crown and his treasures than the people he would rule. I fear for him on Judgment Day when the Master of the Heavens holds him accountable for his cruelty and his slaying of little ones.”

  “Little ones?” Geoff protested. “I have yet to see William’s knights raise their swords against children.”

  Maugris’ eyes fixed on some unknown point as he gazed out the window. “In my visions I have seen it. And though horrible, it did not surprise me. When defied, William can become a great destroyer, ripping off limbs, blinding eyes and laying waste to all in his path. This time, William will show the people of York no mercy.”

  Geoff knew Maugris saw things the rest of them did not, but he remembered the mercy William had shown the year before when he entered York and left behind a castle and a garrison of knights. “I hope such can be avoided.”

  “I have seen a great wasteland,” Maugris intoned, “where nothing grows.” As he spoke, the old man appeared taller, his voice enduing him with power. “Vacant land strewn with the dead, both young ones and old.”

  “For once, wise one, I hope your vision is wrong,” said the Red Wolf.

  Troubled by Maugris’ ominous words,
Geoff gripped the hilt of his sword. “I will prepare to ride.”

  “Tomorrow is soon enough,” Ren insisted. “Take Mathieu along as your squire. He is nearly a knight and grows impatient for action.”

  “Yea, I will.” Geoff was happy to have Mathieu join his company, for the squire had served the Red Wolf well. “His sword arm is strong. I welcome his service.”

  “With me limping around, you’d best leave my few knights, save Alain. The Bear will guard your back as he has guarded mine, though he will not be anxious to return to York where he got that scar that adorns his jaw.”

  Geoff remembered the fight the year before when the knight, dubbed “the Bear” for his size, had taken a blade across his jaw. “I would gladly have Alain with me. What about the others?”

  “Take all the knights William has quartered here. Serena will be glad to see them go. She nearly sank an arrow into one for grabbing a servant girl, and that in her condition!”

  Geoff chuckled at the picture of Lady Serena, heavy with child, wielding a bow and arrow. Her state would not stop her from defending the maidens of Talisand. “I will do as you say, Ren. Rest if you can bring yourself to do so. We want you in the practice yard again.”

  “Godspeed,” said Ren as they left the chamber. Geoff heard concern in his voice but there was nothing for it. They must heed the king’s summons.

  Early the next day, a good meal under his belt, Geoff mounted Athos, his chestnut stallion. The air was chilled even though the pale sun was shining on the winter landscape. He was glad it was not raining. His helm and shield tied to his saddle, Geoff gave the signal to ride.

  Mathieu followed on his palfrey, leading Geoff’s black destrier, the squire’s brown hair blowing about his face. A few years in Ren’s service had given him a proud bearing and a confident look, more like a knight than a squire.

  Behind Mathieu rode Alain and the long line of William’s knights who would accompany them to York.

  Geoff guided Athos toward the gate, but before he could pass through the wide opening, Maugris called him back.