Page 6 of Rogue Knight
By the light from the fire in the hearth, Emma sat bent over her embroidery, lost in her thoughts. A loud pounding on the front door made her start. She thrust the needle into the linen and stood.
Magnus clambered up from where he’d been lounging next to the hearth and trotted to the door, reaching it before her. She was glad for his presence. An unwelcome visitor would think twice before forcing entry. But this time the hound’s prodigious tail wagged furiously, telling her the visitor was most welcome indeed.
She unlatched the door to see Maerleswein, her tall, proud father, standing there grinning, his golden hair loose about his shoulders, his mustache and beard neatly trimmed.
“Daughter!”
She had not seen him for nearly a year. “Father, you look well.” She reached out to embrace him. “It has been too long.”
Before she could say more, he gave her a quick hug, planted a kiss on her forehead and strode over the threshold, crushing the rushes under his large feet. Behind him was a man she recognized from many past meetings, Cospatric, the handsome Earl of Bamburgh. Unlike most Danish and English men, he was clean-shaven and his dark brown hair extended only to the base of his neck.
“My lady,” Cospatric bowed, his brown eyes twinkling. Straightening, he took her hand and brought it to his lips. “You are beautiful as ever and a most welcome sight.”
“And you, my lord, are too kind. Do come in.” He walked past her and she closed the door. Emma smiled to herself. The charming nobleman who had once been the Earl of Northumbria had always been wont to flatter her.
Magnus followed the two men into the room. It was large enough to provide seating for several people around the fire burning in the central hearth where smoke ascended to a hole in the roof. Firelight illuminated the tapestries gracing the whitewashed walls, tapestries that had been in her family for generations.
Artur, her manservant, and his wife Sigga, hurried in from the kitchen door at the far end of the room on the other side of the table where the family dined. “Welcome, my lord,” said Artur, taking the cloaks of the two men and hanging them on pegs near the door.
“Greetings, to you, Artur, Sigga,” replied her father. “As you see, I come with a guest, Earl Cospatric. You might recall him from the last time I was in York.”
“Aye, I do,” said Artur. “My lord.” He bowed to Cospatric. At Artur’s side, Sigga curtsied.
Magnus sniffed Cospatric as he would anyone coming with her father.
“May I bring you something to drink?” asked Sigga, looking at her father.
“Aye, ’tis cold with more snow coming,” observed Maerleswein, reaching his hands to the hearth fire.
“Best warm the mead, Sigga,” instructed Emma.
“Yea, mistress.” Sigga dipped her head and retreated toward the kitchen along with her husband. They had been with Emma a long time and knew her preference to make guests feel welcome as soon as they entered.
“I see that great beast I gave you has grown,” remarked her father. “His chest deepens.”
As if knowing he was the topic of discussion, Magnus rose from where he had been sitting, nuzzled her father’s hand and wagged his considerable tail. Her father patted the coarse fur of the hound’s head without having to stoop, for the dog was that tall.
“He remembers you from when he was only a whelp,” she said.
With an answering chuckle, her father scratched Magnus behind the ears. “Wise hound. Does he yet hunt?”
“Oh, indeed,” she confirmed, smiling at Cospatric who watched, amused. “But the hares he brings to my door often arrive a bit mangled.”
Her father laughed, a deep belly laugh, his voice resonating through the house.
Ottar bounded into the room from the kitchen. While not her natural son, Ottar and his sister, Finna, nine-year-old twins, might have been for all the love she gave them. Orphaned three years ago at the same time she had miscarried her own child upon hearing the news of her husband’s death, she’d taken them in. They had brought each other comfort during that painful time and now they were a family.
“Godfather!” shouted Ottar hugging Maerleswein about his hips.
“Aye, ’tis me,” he teased, wrapping his powerful arms around the boy’s shoulders and mussing his hair. “Is that your sister I see?”
Peeking into the room from the doorway to the kitchen, Finna gave Emma’s father a shy smile. She was a beautiful child and, like her brother, her brown hair was streaked with sunlight, but whereas her brother had dark gray eyes, hers were a soft brown.
“Greetings to you, Godfather,” she said, coming slowly forward. When she got close, Maerleswein snaked his arm out to draw her to him to hug her in turn.
“And this,” explained her father, gesturing to Cospatric, “is my friend the Earl of Bamburgh.”
Ottar bowed and Finna did a small curtsy as Emma had taught her.
