Page 55 of Rogue Knight
“Archbishop Ealdred has passed from this life,” Artur somberly announced as he stepped through the front door a few days later.
“I am sorry,” Emma said, looking down at the golden tapestry stretched on the frame. She had been working on it for some months as a gift for the archbishop. It depicted him riding on a black horse, his head held high as he traveled through an English village. She had hoped it might bring him memories of happier days. It was finished. She rolled it up and rose from the bench, giving Artur a sympathetic smile. “This will keep for another day.”
It was not just the passing of a good man but the ominous end of an era. She was sorry her father had left for the Humber and was not here to share the loss. She had known the archbishop was old and frail, yet she could not help wondering if he had died of a broken heart. The look of despair she had seen on his face when she had left the Minster a few days before spoke loudly of his sadness at having failed to persuade the people of York to submit to the Norman king. All his pleading had been for naught.
A sigh escaped her lips as she took the tapestry to her chamber and placed it in a chest with some others. Mayhap it was best he had passed, for the city Ealdred had longed to see at peace would now see only war.
She decided to go to her garden where Sigga was harvesting vegetables. It was September and harvest time for all of Emma’s fields, too.
“’Tis a dark day,” said Sigga, patting down the dirt around the herbs from which she had taken cuttings.
Emma joined her servant in the work, grateful for something to do that took her mind from more troubling thoughts.
“The archbishop was a voice of reason,” murmured Sigga, glancing at Emma from where she was digging out a weed.
Sitting back on her heels, Emma wiped her brow. “He was old, Sigga. His death was not unexpected. But you are right; such a faithful servant of God will be sorely missed.”
They were watering the plants with the buckets they had carried from the well when an acrid smell rose in Emma’s nostrils. “Do you smell smoke?” Her eyes met Sigga’s. “Something is burning.”
Alarmed, she sniffed the air and hurried through the kitchen and into the hearth room, detecting nothing amiss. But the faint smell of smoke persisted. Seeing no one, she shouted up the stairs, “Inga, where are the children?”
“Here with me,” said Inga coming to the top of the stairs.
Emma’s heart raced with fear as she threw open the front door. The bitter smell of burning wood was stronger. Fire was dangerous in a city made of timber, wattle and daub. Stirred by the wind, it could quickly leap from one structure to another, rapidly destroying an entire street, even the entire city.
“Inga,” she shouted, “there is fire somewhere. Keep the children inside until I return.”
Ottar appeared at the top of the stairs. “I want to see, too!”
“You and Finna stay here with Magnus until I learn what is happening.”
The hound suddenly appeared next to Ottar to stare down at her. “You, too, Magnus.”
Outside, she raced across the streets that lay between her house and the Minster. She arrived out of breath. Panting, she stood in front of the cathedral, looking south toward the castles, shielding her eyes as she stared into the distance. A huge cloud of black smoke rose high into the sky above where the castles stood.May God have mercy.
Artur came to her side, his chest heaving from running after her. “My lady, is it the castles?”
“I cannot say for certain, but its source must be near them.” Feeling the breeze on her face, she said, “The wind is coming this way. It will bring the fire to the Minster. It will bring the fire to us!” She faced her servant. “We must prepare to flee.”
With haste born of fear, they ran back to the house.
***
“What in God’s name was Gilbert thinking!” shouted Geoff. He pointed to where the flames leapt from one thatched roof to another. “See there,” he said to FitzOsbern, standing beside him on the tower’s battlement, “the fire spreads beyond the houses he torched. It roars into the city.”
“Aye, the wind carries the blaze north,” replied the earl in dismay. His lined face a mask of worry, he gazed north. “The Minster lies in its path.”
“It has not rained for days. At the speed the dry wood will burn, it will no doubt reach the cathedral.” Geoff gritted his teeth, furious Gilbert’s men had not been more careful. It was just as he had feared. For a moment, he watched the flames engulf another house, disturbed at how fast the fire was spreading.
It had been foolish for Gilbert to set fire to the homes. Surely destroying them would not prevent the rebels from finding sufficient timber to fill the moat. The forests of York were full of wood. But Gilbert had been intent on torching the homes nonetheless.
Smoke filled Geoff’s nostrils until it made him cough and he had to cover his face with a cloth. Emma’s home lay in the path of the fire though some distance east of the Minster.
“I must warn Emma,” he told FitzOsbern. He had to help her and her family escape the inferno.
Minutes later, Geoff launched himself into the saddle and tore out of the gate and over the bridge with Alain following. Galloping through the smoke, they sped down one street, then another, avoiding the path of the fire, burning straight through the center of town.
People scattered in all directions before the hooves of their powerful horses. Panicked by the spreading fire, they shouted to their families and serfs to help carry away their goods.
