Page 1 of Rogue Knight
CHAPTER 1
York, England, December 1068
The Minster bell tolled loudly as Emma hurried down Coppergate, gripping her green woolen cloak tightly to her chest against the winter chill. The deep folds of her hood hid her flaxen hair. Only the huge gray hound striding beside her told the merchants who it was that passed their open stalls.
A glance at the nearly white sky warned her nightfall would bring snow. She hastened her step. There were things she needed for Christmastide and neither the ominous weather nor the risk of encountering one of the dreaded Normans would keep her from town this day.
Townspeople on either side of her hurried along, their steps displaying the same urgency of last minute tasks.
Nearing her destination, she heard raised voices in French.Normans.Her stomach clenched. Where the French knights went, wickedness always followed. They treated the people of York—even the thegns—worse than serfs, freely taking what they wanted often as not. It was why, even with Magnus at her side, she was grateful for the deadly seax at her hip. Both the hound and the knife had been gifts from her father.
She slowed as she approached the altercation and slipped into the shadows in front of the goldsmith’s shop, leading the hound with her.
Across the street, four knights wearing mail hauberks crowded around Feigr’s stall where the best swords in all of York could be found. At the rear of his shop, smoke billowed from the forge, open to the air.
As was the Norman custom, the knights wore no beards and their hair was shorter than any man of York would deign to wear.
She watched as one of the knights abruptly lifted a sword from those Feigr displayed and strode away, clutching his prize.
Feigr chased after him shouting his protest against the knight’s failure to pay.
The three knights who remained laughed.
Emma inwardly seethed, her brows pressing into a frown at yet another incident of treachery from the garrisoned knights. One among many that had angered the people of York. Feigr worked hard for the living he provided for himself and his daughter, Inga. He could ill afford to give away his fine swords.
One of the knights directed a leering gaze at Inga where she stood next to the stall. Garbed in the simple rust-colored tunic she wore when helping her father, Inga was still an appealing young woman, her delicate features and golden hair only adding to her slim body.
And she was now alone with only an old servant.
Magnus moved slightly forward, lowered his head and stared straight ahead at the three knights, a low growl rumbling from his throat. Emma knotted her fingers into the coarse fur of the hound’s neck, feeling the tension in his body. Something was about to happen.
The leering knight suddenly reached for Inga, his powerful hand clutching the girl’s delicate arm.
Inga shrieked in terror.
Magnus’ growl grew louder as his dark eyes narrowed on the Norman who held Inga.
The knight pulled Inga to his chest.
Attempting to break free, Inga tugged her arm back, but she was a frail thing and provided little resistance to the muscular knight.
“I’ve seen the one who will warm my bed this night,” the knight confidently announced in French to his two companions.
“Yea, a fair one,” one of the knights tossed back.
Emma gripped the hilt of her seax, her body tensing to move. Beneath her other hand, Magnus tightened his muscles to lunge. She caught the edge of his ear between her fingers and hissed a caution under her breath. The hound quivered but obeyed, remaining by her side. The tall Irish hound was more a threat than she was, for his sharp teeth had brought down more than one wolf in the forests of Yorkshire, but she would not yet let him enter the fray.
The knight who held Inga lifted her long plait of dark golden hair, letting it run over his hand.
Inga let out a wail and then a whimper as tears streaked down her face. “Please, no.”
Emma could stay her hand no longer. Anger, building as she had watched the Norman’s ill treatment of her friend, now compelled her away from the shadows. She took a step toward the street, Magnus moving with her.
A hand reached out, staying her progress and tugging her back. A familiar voice spoke from behind. “Nay, my lady, leave it be. See, her father returns. The knight must have paid him for the sword.”
Recognizing the voice, she guided Magnus back into the shadows. ’Twas Auki, the goldsmith, whose shop had been her destination. She shifted her eyes to where Auki pointed to Inga’s father hurrying down the street toward his stall.
Facing Auki, she pulled her arm free. “I cannot let them treat Inga so.”
