Rogue Knight (Medieval Warriors Book 2) (17 page)

In the distance, what was left of the tall Minster rose from
the ground, a charred hulk whose bell was now silent. Ravaged by fire, the
wooden parts of the church had burned, but bits of its skeleton remained to
signify the terrible loss. He was glad the archbishop had not lived to see it.

The fire had raged for two days, cutting a swath through the
city from the castles north toward the cathedral, destroying homes and shops
along the way. Small fires still lingered where there was fuel. Oddly, the
blaze had left some buildings undamaged, a home here, a shop there, as if it
had carefully selected which structures would be its victims.

Consumed with fighting the fire’s incursions into the outer
palisade fence, he had not been able to return to Emma’s house. From what he
had heard, it was possible that, lying so far to the northeast, it might have
been spared. It was his fervent hope and his nightly prayer she was well. She
was his heart and he could not live without her.

From the other side of the battlement, a great hue and cry
suddenly arose. He and the other men quickly crossed to the other side to look
down at the point where the River Ouse met the River Foss.

His heart sank as understanding dawned. As far as his eye
could see, longships were unloading at the banks of the river. “The Danes have
arrived.”

“There must be hundreds of them,” said Alain beneath his breath.

“And thousands of warriors,” said Geoff. As they watched,
the Danes, armed with axes, swords and spears, poured forth from the ships to
be embraced by Northumbrians waiting on the shore.

“
Mon Dieu
,” gasped Malet, gaping at the Danes
swarming ashore.

FitzOsbern said nothing but the scowl on his face spoke
loudly.

Geoff watched the scene, dismayed. Even knowing they were
coming had not prepared him for the sight. He turned to Malet. “Would that you
had not sent word to William telling him we could hold out for a year.”

“Mayhap I was wrong,” admitted the sheriff in a stunned
voice.

“Surely William has received word of their numbers,”
muttered FitzOsbern. “He knows they have been plundering their way north.”

“Even if he has,” Geoff said, “his army cannot move as fast
as we require. I would not count upon his aid. Best we prepare for the siege
that will soon be upon us.”

* * *

Maerleswein first stopped at Emma’s house, pleased to find it
untouched by the fire as were all the homes in that section of the city, but
many were empty, including Emma’s. He ordered his men to ride on, northeast of
the city walls, to where he thought she might go—the cottage of Jack and
Martha, two of her villeins. Emma was fond of the couple and he knew them to be
trustworthy, loyal to his daughter.

When they arrived, he was relieved to see the twins playing
in front of the cottage. He dismounted, telling his men to wait.

The twins rushed to greet him and he swept them into his
arms.

“Have you come to save us, Godfather?” asked Finna.

“From the fire, you mean?”

“It was awful,” interrupted Ottar. “The smoke burned my
eyes.”

“Mine, too,” added his sister in a small voice.

“I have come to take you and Emma home, and to see you are
safe. There now, is not that a fine thing?”

The twins grinned. It brought joy to his heart to have
cheered them. A fire sweeping through the city must have been terrifying to one
so young. It would be terrifying to anyone.

The door of the small thatched cottage opened. Emma
appeared, her long flaxen plaits trailing down the front of the simple, brown
tunic, one he thought she kept to work in her garden.

“Father! I heard voices and wondered who it was the twins
were speaking with. I am glad to see you.”

He put the twins down, walked to his daughter and kissed her
on the cheek. The twins ran at his side to keep up with his long strides. In
truth, he was glad to see they were all here. He stopped in front of his
daughter and studied her face. “You are well?”

“Yea, Father. We escaped the fire as you can see, but we
have watched the smoke and people fleeing tell us the city lies in ruins. Did
you see my house?”

Finna clung to Emma’s tunic and looked up at him.

“Aye. It stands.” At that Emma’s face brightened, Finna’s
did as well. “I have come to bring you home. Are Sigga and Artur with you?”

“Sigga and Inga are in the cottage and Artur is helping Jack
with the lambs.”

“You must see them, Godfather,” urged Finna. “They are much
bigger now.”

“I will visit the lambs,” he agreed, not wanting to
disappoint them. “Then we must go while we still have light.”

“I see you do not come alone,” Emma remarked, her eyes
taking in the five men who had come with him sitting atop their horses some
distance away.

“Nay, and not just these, four of which I will leave to
guard you. The Danes have come with their many ships. They camp on the bank of
the River Ouse along with the Northumbrians who have joined our cause.
Cospatric and Edgar are with them. Think of it, Emma. Hundreds of ships and
thousands of men. All of Northumbria has risen to fight the Normans.”

“When does the fighting begin?” she asked anxiously.

“We attack at first light.”

* * *

Geoff had spent the night preparing his men and his weapons.
From the tower’s battlement, he had watched the hundreds of fires in the Danish
camp on the bank of the river, wondering if fire would be the Danes’ chosen
weapon. None in the tower castle had slept even after the campfires died down.

Dawn broke in the cloud-streaked sky as he gazed toward the
city. The flames still lingering in isolated places added to the hellish nature
of what Geoff knew might be the place of his last battle. He had faced death
many times and knew well the fear before a battle. But he could not recall a
time when William’s forces had been so greatly outnumbered. Even so this was
not the first time he had considered the day might be his last.

He did not want to think he might never see Emma again. He
wanted a life with her, one day even a child. He did not worry for her safety
since she was a Northumbrian, but the Danes’ presence added an uncertain
element. Would they seek to pillage what was left of the city?
Will Emma and
her family be safe?

Geoff was standing at the top of the motte looking into the
bailey when the Danes’ fierce war cries echoed through the air as they attacked
the castle in a great rush. Their shrieks sent an icy chill snaking down his
spine. He had fought for William in Maine and Normandy against the French, at
Hastings and Exeter against the English and the year before in York at the side
of the Red Wolf, but if he survived the day, he would never forget the shrieks
of the Danes as they tasted blood they had yet to shed.

Arrows flew from the castle battlements in a great whooshing
sound. The Danes raised their shield walls where the arrows struck in the
thickest part of their numbers. A few of the Danes fell but not many. The
archers on the battlements of both castles fired another volley. Once he and
his fellow knights engaged in close fighting, the arrows would no longer be of
use.

Geoff rushed down to the bailey and mounted his destrier
Mathieu had waiting.

“
Dex Aie
!” God aid us! Knights shouted as they poured
forth from the castle to engage.

“I want you and your knights with my own and those of
FitzOsbern, Sir Geoffroi,” shouted Malet coming alongside Geoff.

“As you wish,” Geoff said and signaled to his men to circle
Malet’s and FitzOsbern’s guards. Protecting the two noblemen, Geoff and Alain
led the knights into battle.

Immediately they were confronted with the Danes’ axes and
swords flying in all directions. With his long shield, Geoff blocked an attack
from a blond, bearded warrior on one side of his horse, then with his sword
sliced the neck of a dark bearded man on the other. The Danes screamed in
exaltation and their victims grunted in pain. It was almost like Hastings where
they had faced the elite huscarls of the Saxon army.

Geoff and Alain fought side-by-side keeping the nobles
protected from the most vicious attacks. Around them, the other knights sought
to cut down the bearded rebels, but they swarmed like bees over the ground.

What seemed like hours later, Geoff felt fatigue sapping his
strength. He had lost track of the rebels that had fallen to his sword as the
clash of steel with shields and blades gave way to the groans of wounded and dying
men. He was coated in the blood of the slain. His own arm had suffered a gash
and only now did he feel the pain.

Finishing off one rebel, he surveyed the field of battle.
While they had killed many of the Danes and their allies, too many French
knights had fallen. Their mail-clad bodies littered the grass now soaked in
blood. The knights protecting the nobles had dwindled to a precious few.
Concerned he could no longer afford Malet and FitzOsbern the protection needed,
he gave the order, “Fall back!”

They managed to shield Malet and FitzOsbern as they
retreated across the bridge to the palisade gate, fighting off Danes and rebels
as they went. The nobles and the small group of knights plunged into the
bailey, past the guards still holding the gate.

“Into the tower,” he shouted to Malet and FitzOsbern,
fearing it would only postpone the inevitable.

They dismounted in the bailey where Mathieu met them.
“Stable the horses, then follow us into the tower.”

Mathieu nodded and took the reins of their horses.

A short while later, Mathieu joined them in the hall. Geoff
knew the squire was disappointed not to have seen his share of fighting but the
battle was too intense for Geoff to allow it. He would not risk the Red Wolf’s
faithful squire.

“I need you here,” said Geoff, “but keep to the shadows. You
may have need of escape.”

“Aye, sir,” replied Mathieu.

Minutes later, Geoff stood at the door of the great hall
looking down into the bailey when the Danes broke through the line of knights
defending the gate.

“Bar the door!” he ordered the few men inside the tower.
“Then fall back to guard the sheriff and the earl.”

* * *

Gripping his round shield in one hand and his spear in the
other, Maerleswein and his men surged forward with their swords and spears to
inflict a bloody assault on the Normans. Grudgingly, he admitted the French
knights fought well but they were sorely outnumbered and the people of
Northumbria unforgiving in their revenge.

No mercy was given, no quarter offered. They fought with a
purpose, not for the love of battle like the Danes, but to take back their city
and to thrust out the Normans who had viciously oppressed them.

At one point, he crossed paths with Feigr, the sword-maker,
wielding one of his silvered blades, crying aloud his vengeance as he slew a
Norman knight. “This,” said Feigr, piercing the knight’s throat and thrusting
his sword deep, “is for my daughter.” Maerleswein wondered how many men of York
had come seeking reprisal for their daughters’ stolen virtue.
Too many.

He was surprised when some of the Normans left the
protection of the walls of the new castle on Baille Hill, venturing forth on a
sally, only to be cut down as they passed through the gate. Waltheof had placed
himself there like a Nordic harbinger of death. As each Norman drew near,
Waltheof let his giant axe fall in a move that could only be called an
execution. In a steady stream, the severed heads of the French knights fell to
the earth and rolled down the hill to form a large pile below. Even to
Maerleswein, it was gruesome.

The fighting went on for hours, battle lust carrying
Maerleswein and his men forward until, with the Danes’ help, they had captured
the castles and nearly every Norman lay dead. Hundreds of bodies were strewn
about the baileys, at the base of the massive, square towers and on the banks
of the rivers.

Some Danes and Northumbrians had fallen to the long French
swords and lances as they fought on the riverbanks, but their losses were few
compared to the number of French knights slain. In such tight spaces the
knights’ horses had not given them much of an advantage. And their numbers were
not so many as the Danes.

When the battle was theirs, Maerleswein’s men surged through
the gate and broke down the door of the first castle built the year before, a
hated symbol of Norman domination.

Soon after, with Cospatric at his side, he strode into the
great hall where his captain told him he could find the nobles they had taken
prisoner: Gilbert de Ghent, who Osbjorn had brought over from the new castle
where he’d been captured, William Malet, the Sheriff of Yorkshire and his
family, and William FitzOsbern, Lord Hereford.

He knew the three men from his time as Sheriff of
Lincolnshire. And he could see from their faces, they remembered him.

A small group of French knights surrounded the nobles, their
stance oddly proud given they had just lost thousands of men and been stripped
of their weapons.

Osbjorn swaggered into the hall with Swein’s two sons and
walked toward him, all three bearing wide grins. “We have won!”

“Aye, so we have,” said Maerleswein.

“We go to join the men,” said Osbjorn. “They seek their
plunder and we would have our share. Even now Norman helms and swords lay on
the ground for the taking. What do you have here?”

“A few prisoners I must see to.”

Osbjorn nodded and cast a glance at the nobles behind
Maerleswein.

“Go, then.” He waved the Dane off. “But take no booty except
from the Normans and keep your men clear of the far northeast of the city where
lies my daughter’s home, else your men will die by my sword.”

“Of course,” Osbjorn said, tipping his head. “I will see you
later when we return for the evening’s feast.”