Page 50 of Rogue Knight
They brushed the grass from their clothes and walked hand in hand from the meadow, the ache of regret lodging deep within her heart for what she knew could never be and for fear of what was coming.
***
’Twas the middle of August when Malet found Geoff in the bailey where he had been speaking with Mathieu about the horses. The sun overhead was warm, heating his mail and the skin beneath his tunic. He was hoping for a cup of ale, but he could see by the sheriff’s face, set in stern lines, he carried the weight of the world. The tankard of ale would have to wait.
Sending Mathieu on his way with a wave of his hand, he turned to Malet. “What is it?”
“A messenger has arrived from the king.”
“He is returning?” Geoff guessed. “I thought William was hunting in Gloucestershire.”
“He was,” said Malet. “That is where the news reached him that more than two hundred Danish ships have been sighted off Dover. Since then, the Danes have attacked Ipswich and Norwich in East Anglia, destroying William’s ships and plundering the towns.”
For a moment, Geoff was too shocked at the news to speak. When he found his voice, he said, “The Danes are attacking England?”
“Aye, sailing north and pillaging along the way,” came Malet’s grave reply.
Regaining control of his thoughts, Geoff raked his hand through his hair, hardly believing that after three years the Danes would choose to sail to England. “Why would they do that when William has taken control of the land? Are they testing our defenses?”
“Mayhap they are. Think of it, Sir Geoffroi, more than two hundred longships, their warriors plundering the coast and moving north.”
Staring into the distance, Geoff pictured the ships with their red and white striped sails, the curved stems carved into dragon heads. In his mind, he counted the warriors each would carry, some as many as a hundred. All together it would be thousands more men than they had knights.
“Does William believe they are headed to York?” Even as he asked, Geoff realized if the Danes were plundering the southeast of England, they would not fail to come north with a treasure as rich as York in their path.
Malet nodded.
“What are the king’s orders?” Geoff asked.
“He orders us to resist and asks how long we can hold out.”
“That will depend on whether the Northumbrians join them,” said Geoff. “Remember, we are not so many compared with their greater numbers. York is not a small city and the warriors they have would add greatly to the Danes’ numbers and their fighting skills. Worse, the Danes would give the rebels courage to fight on.”
“I believe we can hold out for a year were we to take in sufficient food,” said the sheriff, “but FitzOsbern wants to discuss it. That was my purpose in seeking you out. He has called for a meeting at the evening meal.”
“I will be there,” said Geoff.
Malet strode away, mumbling about sending a page to tell Gilbert of the meeting. In Geoff’s mind, he saw Emma.I must warn her.
***
At the far end of the garden where Artur had built benches, Emma sat telling the twins the tale of Beowulf, one she had told them many times before but they had pleaded to hear it again. Beside her sat Inga, just beginning to show her rounding belly. The twins, with their upturned faces, were sitting cross-legged at Emma’s feet, Magnus between them. They had spent many afternoons in such manner after their chores were done since the weather was warm and the days long.
The children loved the tale, so she told them what she knew, what her father had told her years ago, the tale of the great warrior who had come to the aid of the Danish king to slay the monster Grendel and later a dragon. The twins’ eyes grew large at the daring exploits she described.
Inga, sitting next to her, looked at the twins with an amused expression. Her friend showed great patience with the children, making Emma think she would make a good mother.
“He lived to slay the dragon only to fall, fatally wounded in battle,” Emma told the twins. “’Twas a crushing blow.”
“I do not want him to die,” said Finna mournfully.
“Ah, but ’tis the way of warriors,” said Emma, tapping Finna’s small nose.
“A great warrior expects to die in battle,” Ottar sternly informed his sister as if he were an authority on great warriors and intended to become one himself. She supposed he did. His fascination with the knights had not diminished with the battle he had witnessed. The twins had just turned ten the week before and she regretted that the innocence of their childhood was being cut short by the times in which they lived.
“’Tis best to avoid battles, Ottar, and live in peace,” she chided. Even as she said it she knew one sometimes had to fight for what was important and to defend one’s home, one’s honor. To live peaceably sometimes meant playing the coward. She would not want that for Ottar.
Artur strode into the garden. “Mistress, the squire has come on a matter he says is urgent.”
