Page 31 of Rogue Knight
Emma’s gaze followed her friend as she ascended the stairs to the bedchamber Feigr occupied. Then Emma set about her nightly chores, all the while thinking of Sir Geoffroi. In her mind, she saw the creases that formed at the corner of his eyes when he laughed. She remembered his kiss, too, and it sent warmth rippling through her. His gift of the deer would see them well fed. ’Twas unusual for a knight, hardened by war, to have such a tender side. She thought of the wistful look on his face when his fellow knight and squire spoke of Talisand. Could such a place exist where Normans and English lived together in peace? Surely it was only a dream.
***
The next day, Geoff stood at the top of the motte, breathing a sigh of relief at seeing the king’s procession pass through the gate. William, apparently satisfied his new castle was rising sufficiently from Baille Hill, left for Winchester with his army and FitzOsbern.
Gilbert de Ghent, the new castellan, departed shortly after with his Flemish mercenaries in tow, bound for Durham. Far better they should stalk armed rebels than the innocent maidens of York.
Once the two contingents of soldiers had gone, Geoff went to the bailey where he was to meet his men.
“I was surprised to see Malet is still sheriff,” Geoff said to Alain as they mounted their horses, preparing to leave on a hunt. Today they would hunt wild boar, something they were becoming quite good at.
“Yea, William needs him. But the king is taking no chances on another failure. I overheard him tell FitzOsbern that he is to return here after Easter.”
Geoff signaled to his men and led them through the gate. He did not worry overmuch about the comings and goings of William’s favorites. There was still a garrison of knights that remained. He hoped the city would soon come back to normal. He and his knights would hunt less often and mayhap he could visit Emma more frequently. The last time he had been to her home had given him hope she might one day entertain his suit. To have a summer wooing the Northumbrian widow was a pleasant thought, bringing a smile to his face as he and his men headed for the forest.
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 ishisfault 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 Ætheling?”
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.”
