Page 63 of Rogue Knight
Alain picked up his goblet of wine and threw back a large swallow. “’Tis our wine they give us, the last we shall see, at least for some time.”
“Aye,” said Geoff, helping himself to the French wine, hoping it would make him forget.
Alain stared at the goblet, turning it in his hand. “’Twill soon be October. Aethel’s babe was to be born in September.”
Geoff knew the big knight worried for his wife. Childbirth could mean the death of the mother or the child, or both. “She will be well, Alain. Did not Maugris see your little girl growing up with the Red Wolf’s son?”
“Aye. For that reason Aethel chose a name before I left.”
“What is it?” asked Mathieu from where he sat eating some of the cheese.
“Lora,” the Bear said with a smile that suggested a pleasant memory.
“’Tis a beautiful name,” Geoff remarked. Then seeing the wistful look on Alain’s face, he added, “You will see them, have no worry.” He had his doubts of their returning to Talisand, but he would not share them with his friend.
“When was Lady Serena’s babe expected?” asked Mathieu.
Geoff recalled Maugris’ words to Serena. “’Twas to be in the spring, April, I think. If all went well, as Maugris’ vision told him it would, she has been delivered of the Red Wolf’s cub, his heir.”
“They were to name him Alexander,” said Alain.
Geoff grinned thinking about the Red Wolf as a father. Missing his friend and wanting to cheer his companions, he lifted his goblet. “A toast! To Alexander and Lora and to our seeing them before this year is done.”
Alain and Mathieu lifted their goblets and the three drank in somber celebration in the midst of a castle where a clamorous revelry celebrating their defeat echoed from the hall below.
***
“Tonight the Norman hall rings with the sounds of our victory,” Maerleswein announced, lifting his goblet of mead to Cospatric and Edgar who sat on one side of him at the high table. Osbjorn, King Swein’s sons and Waltheof sat on his other side. “Tomorrow we will tear down these walls, these symbols of Norman tyranny.”
“Aye,” said Cospatric raising his goblet and taking a long drink.
“’Tis a long time in coming,” said Edgar.
The great hall glowed with torches and candles. Hundreds of Danes and Northumbrians sitting at the long trestle tables lifted their cups, goblets and tankards in toast to the victory they had won that day. When the fighting was over, they had bathed in the same river that had brought their dragon ships to York, washing themselves of the blood of their victims.
In the center of the room over the hearth fire, a side of beef roasted on a spit, a lad turning it often. Outside, other fires played host to roasting meat and other celebrations. The smell of beef and melting fat mixed with herbs filled the hall, making Maerleswein’s mouth water. No food had touched his lips since first light, and then only dried beef to sustain him.
Along with the beef, there was to be roast pork and several varieties of fish. The servants were already setting cooked vegetables from the castle gardens and bread and honey upon the tables. The serving wenches flitted about, obviously happy to be waiting upon the warriors who had freed their city. The Danes eyed the women with lusty gazes. The women were quick to offer sultry smiles in return. He was glad Emma was not here.
Osbjorn, who sat in the center of the high table with King Swein’s sons and Waltheof on his other side, filled his drinking horn with ale, then got to his feet and lifted it high. “To those in the hall,” he loudly proclaimed, “we celebrate a great victory! York is once again ours!”
The Danish warriors and the men of Northumbria stood and raised their drinking cups, echoing Osbjorn’s pronouncement before downing their mead.
Lowering his hand, Osbjorn made the sign of the cross over his drinking horn, as was tradition. It was Thor’s hammer and not the Christian cross Osbjorn paid tribute to, while Bishop Christian of Aarhus, who King Swein had insisted come with them, sat on the far end of the high table. It did not surprise Maerleswein. The Christian God had come to the Danes decades before, and though most were now Christians, some still observed the old ways.
The men were in high spirits as they downed their mead. Maerleswein was pleased. How could they not be happy? They had taken back York and slain the Norman usurpers. But as Waltheof’s Icelandic skald lifted his lyre and took his place before the dais to sing his lord’s praises, Maerleswein reflected on what was to come, knowing the battle for York was not yet over. William would not easily accede to their rule in the North.
***
The next day, Geoff and the other prisoners were moved from the older castle to the Danish longships. He, Alain and Mathieu were put in chains and guarded by Danes armed with axes and swords.
Malet and his family, together with Gilbert, FitzOsbern and their few remaining guards, were consigned to other ships. He could not imagine the valuable noble prisoners being kept in chains. Guarded yes, but Maerleswein had once considered them colleagues. And Malet was half Saxon. At one time, the two men might have been friends. Geoff could not see the prisoners once they were taken to the other ships, so he did not know for certain if they received different treatment. He could only wonder at their fate.
What followed next did not surprise Geoff. Standing at one end of the deck of the dragon ship where he and the others were confined, he watched as the rebels attacked the castles with hammers and axes. The sounds of vicious pounding and the splitting of wood echoed in the autumn air from morning through afternoon.
The next day, what the army of Danes and Northumbrians had not torn down, they burned.
They spared the stables, but the smoke caused the horses to rear and scream in fright so they led them away until the fire died down. Most of the smoke was carried north into the city, but the bitter smell was everywhere. Charred wood floated in the air, landing on the longships anchored in the river and falling into the slow moving water like a storm of gray snow.
