Page 11 of Rogue Knight
Maugris’ words echoed in Geoff’s mind.William is a great king, but terrible in his wrath.
***
That afternoon, from the top of the tower Geoff stared into the distance as the large army flowed over the land toward the castle like locusts out of season covering the winter landscape. William had arrived and was mowing down the rebels outside the walls of York.
Once the king’s forces were in sight, the main gate was thrown open. Geoff tore down the stairs from the motte to the bailey, anxious to be engaged in the fight. Too long he had been relegated to swordplay with his own men.
Mathieu handed him his helm and waited until Geoff mounted his destrier, then passed him his shield and lance. Geoff and his knights were among the first to leave the confines of the castle, their horses’ hooves sending up a great clatter as they raced over the bridge that spanned the moat. Alain was at his back, followed by the knights from Talisand. They formed a formidable force to meet the rebels fleeing William’s army back toward the city.
Northumbrians wielding spears, pikes and swords scattered in all directions at the thundering hooves of the knights’ warhorses. But some stood and fought. Caught between William’s army moving north and the knights from York moving south, the rebels had not a chance. They were slain by the hundreds.
Geoff turned his destrier to confront a spear-wielding rebel, his sword raised for a crushing blow. A glint of metal at his side caught his eye. With a quick change in his aim, he sliced first at the man coming alongside his horse, a long seax gripped in the rebel’s fist. Blood splashed onto Geoff’s leggings, the crimson liquid dripping onto his leather boots. With a quick turn, he directed his horse toward the rebel with the spear. The destrier knocked the man to the side, allowing Geoff a swift slash to his throat. Blood splattered onto his mail. The man’s shocked eyes stared at him for a moment before he crashed to the ground.
The sounds of battle surrounded him as he plunged into the throng of fighting men. He did his share of killing, cutting down all who faced his sword, uncaring of the blood splashing onto his hauberk.
The youngest of seven sons, he had fought for all he had ever claimed as his. A page at seven, a squire at fourteen and a knight at seventeen, he had proved to all he could take his place with the best of Duke William’s knights. It made up for his youth in which he had ever borne the brunt of his brothers’ taunts. Before he had gained his height, they had thought him a weakling. Mayhap their merciless harassment had made him who he was. Even before he had sailed for England, years of fighting in Normandy at the Red Wolf’s side had honed his skills to a sharp edge. The Northumbrians, untrained and undisciplined, were no match for the experienced knights.
At his back, Alain fought with a strength few men possessed, like the vicious bear that had gained him his name.
When they had dispatched the last rebel, Geoff glimpsed William’s banner waving in the distance, two golden leopards on a field of red. He took off his helm and wiped the sweat from his brow. Putting it back on, he raised his arm to gesture his knights toward the king.
William sat atop his dark bay warhorse, the Iberian stallion he had ridden at the Battle of Hastings when they had first assaulted England’s shores. Surrounding the king was his guard and behind them, his army.
Geoff brought his knights to a halt and walked his horse toward the king.
“Sire,” he bowed his head. “’Tis Sir Geoffroi of Talisand. Your presence is most welcome.”
Beneath his conical helm graced by a golden crown, the breeze stirred the king’s short brown hair. “We can see that it is, sir knight. We are pleased we were able to surprise the rebels south of the city.” Then in a harsh tone, “But what of our castellan FitzRichard and Malet, our sheriff—and our hundreds of knights? Why have they not kept the peace?”
“FitzRichard fell to the rebels this morning, sire, cruelly murdered. Malet is well, as far as I know. I left him in the castle ere I came to join you. As for the knights, based on what I have seen, I cannot say whether they have helped or hurt the peace of the city. I have not been here long enough to rightly judge.”
“Malet has much to account for.”
In the face of William’s ire Geoff remained silent.
“And what of our wolf? Where is he?”
“Recovering in Talisand from a grievous wound, My Lord. He was most disappointed to be forced to remain behind.”
The king frowned, then raised his brow. “He will recover?”
“Yea, My Lord. His lady tends him.”
William nodded, apparently satisfied. “We remember well the beautiful archer who guards our wolf. A bit too free with her arrows, we think.”
Geoff smiled at the king’s recollection of the Lady Serena. It was true Serena would fight any who threatened one she loved. He turned his horse in a circle to take his place next to the king as the two of them proceeded to walk their horses toward York.
The Talisand knights circled their horses to join William’s army behind the king’s guard.
Slain Northumbrians and Normans lay on either side of their path. The king gave them scant attention. “Have you captured many of the rebels?”
“Some, My Lord, but many fled when confronted with our longer swords.”
“We suspect the leaders have slipped through our net once again,” said the king with narrowed brows. “That apostate, Earl Cospatric, is likely one of them. Any word of the Ætheling?”
Geoff saw the worry in the king’s face and knew William feared a rebel plan to have the young Edgar crowned king here in York. Archbishop Ealdred of York certainly had the authority. “Nay, sire.”
They were almost to the castle when the king paused and looked up at the tower. “We are of a mind to build a second castle in York to remind the populace we reign here as we do in the rest of England.”
