Page 12 of Rogue Knight
Given William’s propensity toward building the symbols of his domination, Geoff was unsurprised. “Might I take my leave of you here, sire? I’d like to scout the countryside for rebel stragglers and wounded before returning.”
“Go, Sir Geoffroi. Leave none to escape. We will see you at the evening meal.”
At Geoff’s signal, Alain and Mathieu peeled off from William’s army and followed him into the forest. He could only wonder what he might find.
***
Emma emerged from the dense stand of trees, shocked by the tragic scene before her. Despite her search, she had not found Ottar and, disbelieving what was shouted in the streets, had come to see for herself. But not even her dream had prepared her for the slaughter that had awaited her here.
Dear God.
She crossed herself and covered her mouth, fighting the urge to spew at the sight of so much blood and so many bodies strewn about the clearing, blood congealed on their clothing, their vacant eyes staring into space. Some of the blood had pooled on the ground to catch the rays of the sun. The metallic scent of it, carried by the wind, rose in her nostrils.
At her side, the hound whimpered.
So many.
Until the Normans had come, Yorkshire had been a place of gentle hills, forests and thatched cottages circling a glistening jewel of a city set between two winding rivers. A place of children’s voices at play, some of those voices now silenced forever, for among the bodies lying on the cold ground were mere boys, their corpses cast aside like broken playthings.
At the sound of heavy footfalls on the snow-crusted ground, she jerked her head around, her heart pounding in her chest.
A figure emerged from the trees, so close she could have touched him.
She cringed.A Norman.
A tall giant of a knight, his blood-splattered mail a dull gray in the weak winter sun, ripped off his silvered helm and expelled an oath as he surveyed the dozens of dead. The sword in his hand still dripped the blood of those he had slain. He was no youth this one, at least thirty. His fair appearance made her think of Lucifer, the fallen angel of light.A seasoned warrior of death who has taken many lives.
Had he killed people she knew? Her heart raced as fear rose in her chest.
Would she be next?
The wind blew his straw-colored hair about his face as he turned from the field of bodies to stare at her.
She backed away as their gazes met and a frown creased his forehead, a puzzled look flickering in his stark blue eyes. Was he surprised to find a living soul among the dead? Or was it because she was a woman?
Beneath her cloak, her hand went to her seax, her mind screaming for retribution even as fear rose in her throat. Magnus came to her side but, to her surprise, did not growl at the threatening warrior.
The knight’s eyes shifted to where her hand gripped the hilt of her knife. “Still your hand, lady. I mean you no harm.” He had spoken in English.
Wiping his sword on his leg, he sheathed the weapon in a leather scabbard attached to his belt.
“No harm?” she blurted out. Taking her hand from the hilt of her blade, she swept it in a wide arc over the bodies. “Is this not harm enough?” Her voice dripped with the sarcasm and hatred she felt for the Norman Bastard and his soldiers.
“The rebels brought this on themselves.”
Before she could answer, Magnus let out a sudden bark and bolted across the clearing to where a mere youth, blood spattered on his tunic, lay on the snow-covered ground. The hound licked the boy’s face and she heard the boy groan. A sudden dread came over her when she spotted the familiar tunic and sun-streaked hair. “Ottar!”
She flew across the clearing and knelt beside him. Magnus pressed his nose to the boy’s cheek.
“Ottar!”
His eyes were closed and his face was as pale as the snow he lay upon. Desperation rose in her mind. Placing her ear on his chest, she heard the sound of a heartbeat.He lives!
Ignoring the knight behind her, she gathered Ottar into her arms and tried to stand, anxious to take him home. But the lad was heavy and she faltered.
The knight’s shadow fell across her. “I will carry him.”
She reached her arm protectively over Ottar. “You’ll nay touch him, Norman scum.”
