Page 64 of Rogue Knight
Mathieu stared at the castles, now reduced to rubble. “What will be left for them to defend with the castles gone?”
“’Tis a reasonable question,” said Geoff. “Their actions may appear foolish to us with the city nearly destroyed and nowhere but the ships and their camps to take shelter, but you have to remember, to them, the castles represent our sire and his claim to York.”
In the days that followed, Geoff and his two companions were moved again, this time to an abandoned home that had not been destroyed in the fire. He did not know what became of his other knights or the noble prisoners.
The Danes shoved them into a large chamber on the first floor of the house, then boarded up the windows. A few cracks allowed shafts of light through. Geoff and his companions also had candles, which they used sparingly, not knowing how long they would have to last. The chains they still wore chafed their hands and feet, but Geoff did not complain. At least they were alive.
Before they lost the outside light, Geoff studied the chamber. Like Emma’s home, it was well appointed with tapestries hung on whitewashed walls. It had once been the dwelling of a leading citizen of York.
“Could be worse,” said Alain the next day as they sat pondering their circumstances. “We have pallets to sleep on and each other for company.”
“Aye, we have a roof against the night’s chill and the Danes feed us,” said Geoff, “but I can tell by their glares and the ribald jesting we hear through the walls, they would sooner run us through.”
“Mayhap the lady’s pleas to her father protect us still,” said Mathieu.
Geoff said nothing. Dreams of Emma cursed his nights. He did not want to remember her beautiful eyes, her smile nor the feel of her skin beneath his hands. Likely Mathieu was right, but Geoff could hardly feel gratitude for the time her guilt had bought them. Who knew how long they would live?
***
Emma sat by the hearth fire as night settled in around her small family, drawing her lap robe over her legs, happy for the warmth it provided. The chill that had come with November told her winter would soon be at their door. She had done what she could to provide for her family. The garden’s vegetables had been harvested and they had a supply of the apples produced from the orchard, stored in an alcove off the kitchen. Added to those were the dried beef and salted fish and the walnuts from this year’s crop. Even without the market, they would eat.
The city was still mostly in ruins though on her infrequent excursions, accompanied by the guards, she had noted some rebuilding had occurred in the months before on Coppergate.
She let out a sigh as she threaded the needle for the border of flowers she embroidered on the small, linen tunic Sigga had made for Inga’s babe. Inga sat nearby on a bench near the hearth. With one hand on her large belly, she silently stared into the fire.
If all went well, the babe would come before Christmastide. Her villein, Martha, had said she would help deliver the child. For that, Emma was grateful for it was with sadness she reflected that she had never experienced a birth herself. Some days when she had allowed her mind to wander, she had thought of a fair-haired child that might have been hers one day, a child born of her love for a French knight. She shook off the thought. That was a dream best forgotten.
Emma’s father had told her that Feigr had survived the battle and was with the Northumbrians camped on the banks of the River Ouse. Having gained a reputation among the Danes for being a superb craftsman, he was kept busy repairing their swords. Inga was happy for him.
At Emma’s feet, the twins sat cross-legged, playing a game with her father who was stretched out on a fur laid on the floor. He was teaching them the game ofhnefa-tafl, King’s Table, a game played on a wooden board inlaid with walrus ivory and carved soapstone pieces that each player tried to capture from the other.
Ottar pointed to the dark pieces. “Why are the king and his men outnumbered by the ones attacking them?”
“It has always been so,” answered her father. “But remember, the king has an advantage. He can only be captured when he is surrounded on all sides.”
Emma thought of the Norman king, curious if he knew the castles he had built now lay in ruins. She had tried not to think of Geoffroi but she had failed. His face was ever before her. She knew he was being held somewhere in the city. Her thoughts often returned to the summer days they had spent together. When she asked about him, her father had assured her the prisoners were being well cared for. She had stubbornly tended the garden she and Helise had planted, which had survived the destruction of the castle on Baille Hill. When she and Sigga had harvested the vegetables, she made sure the guards saw that some were given to the prisoners.
Finna sat on the floor observing the play of the game. In one hand, she clutched a new poppet, the cloth plaything that Maerleswein had given her that was Finna’s very image in a red tunic with long plaits made out of yarn. The child’s other hand rested on Magnus, curled up at her side with his head on his paws. Tucked in next to Ottar was his new wooden sword, a gift from her father, who had said it was time the boy learned. She supposed he was right though it pained her to see Ottar, only ten, training to one day take his place with the warriors.
Maerleswein looked up at her. “Osbjorn wants to winter on the Humber where his men will be fed by the Northumbrians in the marshes.”
“Will you leave with them?”
“Aye, ’twould be wise for me to keep an eye on them since Cospatric, Edgar and Waltheof want to winter in the north closer to Bamburgh. Someone must watch Osbjorn. He is not constant.” Her brow furrowed and he added, “You need not worry. The city will be left with the Northumbrians who remain. And the guards will stay to see no stray man comes near the house.”
“We will miss you.”
She studied the faces of the children. They loved their godfather who, years ago, had taken the place of their own father who had died.
“I will not be so far I cannot check on you now and then, weather allowing. Now that the Danes are gone, I will leave you two guards. When the winter is over, the Danes and I will return.”
***
She stood on the shore of the great North Sea, watching the twins frolic in the shallows, dipping their toes into the white sea foam brought to shore by the rushing waters. The sun at her back cast her shadow onto the warm golden sand. Without warning, the waters suddenly pulled far out to sea and a wave taller than any castle rose in the distance towering above them, turning the sky dark. As she stared, unable to move, the great wave came toward them. “Run!” she shouted, even as she realized with sudden dread, it was too late.
Emma startled awake, every nerve on end, her heart racing as she blinked, then stared into the darkness of her bedchamber. The images persisted causing her to shiver even though she was nestled under the bedcover. At her side, Inga slept. The fire in the brazier, banked when they had retired, provided little light. The terror of the dream, for that is what it was, would not leave her. It was too vivid, too real. Dread encircled her like a heavy black cloak. What could it mean?
The few dreams she had experienced in her life had always portended some coming disaster. Those in the last few years, though rare, had been no different. The dream of a ship swirling in the ocean as it was pulled into the depths only days before Halden was lost, the dream of the bodies in the clearing… and now this.
