Page 36 of Rogue Knight
“’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?
CHAPTER 8
Emma endured the disapproving stares of the few people they passed on the streets as the three of them rode down Coppergate toward the new castle. They could have taken another route but this street was wider and allowed them easier passage. She knew some who saw her in the company of the knights would wonder about her. A few would think the worst.
Sir Geoffroi had not worn a hauberk this eve. Instead, he had donned a fine tunic of blue wool, a shade darker than his eyes. The shoulders of his tunic were beautifully embroidered with silver thread making her wonder if a woman of Talisand had made it for him. His belt was fine leather studded with silver, one she had not seen before with a design carved into it, mayhap his family’s emblem. When she’d first seen him waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, he had appeared every bit the nobleman, not merely one of the Bastard’s knights.
All three of them wore cloaks of dark wool so the people they passed could not observe how elegantly she and Sir Geoffroi were attired, nor did the people who stared at them know of the feast that was their destination. How could she explain to them that what she did was not improper or treacherous, that even her father, whom the people knew and respected, would have encouraged her to go? No, she could not expect them to understand what she only reluctantly admitted to herself, that not all Normans were alike and that Sir Geoffroi was, in all things, honorable.
Yet she did not forget that he and his fellow knights had killed some of her people.
She was relieved when they finally crossed over the moat, leaving the town and the stares of the people behind. But when they entered the bailey and the palisade walls of the Norman fortress surrounded her, it was fear, not relief that caused her to shudder. She had thought of the square wooden tower built a year ago as Lucifer’s den. If ’twas so, this new, mightier castle might be Hell.
A few men-at-arms lingered in the wide open bailey, guards mostly, she assumed. Still, her presence was noted as their heads raised and work stopped, their eyes following her as she passed them. They could not see much of her, cloaked as she was, but they had to wonder at a woman escorted by two knights.
Her gaze was drawn to the stables, larger than those built to support the knights garrisoned in the first tower. The other buildings she assumed were those typical of such castles: the armory, blacksmith and lodging for men who did not sleep in the hall. In one corner, a chapel was nearly finished. It was ironic, indeed, that those who came prepared to kill paid homage to God in building a chapel. Mayhap they thought of their deaths and wanted to be prepared. The archbishop had once told her that the Norman king came to England with the Pope’s blessing. She could hardly fathom it.
A groom came to take their horses. Sir Geoffroi dismounted and helped her down, raising his hands to her waist to lift her from her saddle. His touch sent a wave of pleasure coursing through her as his hands slid inside her cloak and he lowered her to the ground. How could such a slight encounter leave her wanting? A flame she had thought long extinguished suddenly ignited within her. When her feet touched the earth in the bailey, she raised her eyes to meet his, darkened with emotion. He, too, had been affected by their closeness.
