Rogue Knight (Medieval Warriors Book 2) (6 page)

A moan from Feigr drew her attention to where he slumped
against the chest of the huge knight. The sword-maker’s eyes were closed and
his bandaged arm rested in a sling across his chest. Only the arm of the knight
kept Inga’s father from falling.

Before they had left the castle, she had explained to Feigr
that Sir Geoffroi and his companions had aided her and were taking him to her
home. But his eyes had been glazed from the pain-dulling potion the physic had
given him and she could not be certain he had understood her words.

She was grateful for the blond knight’s help. Whether his
motives were pure she did not question. For now, she needed him and so did
Feigr. She would take him at his word and hope he did not betray her.

As they rode through the city, an eerie silence pervaded the
town. The only sound was that from the horses crushing snow and ice beneath
their hooves. Above them the stars appeared like sparkling jewels scattered
over a midnight blue cloth. In its center was a pale half-moon.

There were no townspeople on the streets, no laughter from
taverns, no light from cottages. The men of York who had not been killed had
escaped into the woods or were in hiding, their homes closed to all. She did
not dare think of the women.

Now that the tension she had held inside for so long had
subsided, exhaustion overtook her. The wind blowing off the ice made her shiver
despite Sigga’s cloak. Sir Geoffroi must have felt it for he drew her back
against his chest and wrapped the edges of his cloak tightly around her. It was
a caring gesture, one she had not expected from the enemy. She gave in to her
desire to be sheltered in his arms and rested her head on his shoulder.
What
makes him so different than the others?

The street was dark when they arrived at her home. No light
came from behind the window coverings of her neighbors’ dwellings.

Artur admitted them and Magnus came to nuzzle her hand.
“Sorry, old boy, but it was safer for you here.”

Standing next to her husband, Sigga raised her brows. “Safer
for him mayhap, but we were worried when we saw you had left the hound behind.
The squire, Mathieu, brought us word you were well and with his master.”

“I could not take Magnus where I was going,” she said, as
Sir Geoffroi followed her inside.

Sigga looked from Sir Geoffroi to Emma and raised her brows
with what Emma knew to be a fellow woman’s insight. Sigga and Artur might be
servants but they were her family, too.

Sir Alain carried Feigr into the house. She was impressed
with the huge knight’s strength for Feigr was not a small man. Her two servants
raised their candles high and stared wide-eyed as Sir Alain passed them.

Emma directed him up the stairs and to the chamber her
father used. The knight laid the sword-maker on the bed and stood back.

Artur and Sigga then went to work, first lighting candles
and stirring the fire in the brazier, then stripping the soiled and
bloodstained clothes from Feigr, carefully lifting his bandaged arm. He moaned
when they touched it.

“His arm was broken,” she said to Artur, “but Sir Geoffroi
asked the physic at the castle to tend him. He set the bone and gave Feigr a
sleeping potion.”

Magnus strolled into the room and sat at her side, his dark
eyes watching the servants.

Neither of the Norman knights commented on the few things
her father had left behind in the room he usually occupied, but they had to
wonder at the extra shield, a pair of boots and a few pieces of his gold
jewelry he had left on the shelf. The light from the candles made the gold
glisten. Of course, there were more of his things they could not see in the
chest at the foot of the bed.

Emma turned to Sir Geoffroi. “I must see how Inga fares. You
need not stay.” She knew her servants would be uncomfortable with the Normans
in their home. Emma was not at ease with their presence either, though she was
coming to realize Sir Geoffroi presented no threat.

“I will remain until I am assured all is well,” he remarked
and sent his fellow knight, Sir Alain, to wait below with the squire.

Emma slowly walked to her chamber and opened the door,
keenly aware Sir Geoffroi followed close behind her. A warm light from the
coals in the brazier allowed her to see Inga still slept. She paused for a
moment and then closed the door.

“When she wakes,” she said to Sir Geoffroi, “it will comfort
her to know her father is near and his wounds have been tended. Once again, I
am in your debt. You have carried those I love to safety.”

“As I told you, my lady, you may call upon me anytime.”

In the dim light of the passage, his blue eyes appeared like
pools of dark water, his lips curved in a seductive smile. Against her will,
she was drawn to him, attracted to his courage and his kindness, no matter he
was a Norman. When he smiled, as he did now, his chiseled jaw softened, along
with the look in his eyes. Underneath his smile, she sensed there lay a man of
unfailing strength and an iron resolve.

Her husband, Halden, had been a free-spirited adventurer who
loved the sea. Sir Geoffroi was a steady river whose waters ran deep.

“I hope I will not need to ask you for aid in future,” she
told him. Pulling her thoughts away from his eyes and his lips, she walked
toward the twins’ chamber. Weariness settled into her bones, but she had to
look in on them before she retired.

“Do you know if the sword-maker was among those fighting today?”
he asked.

“I doubt it. Feigr may be a supplier of swords but as far as
I know, he has yet to raise one against anyone, let alone a French knight. He
is an artist, devoted to his craft and to his daughter. But after what happened
to Inga, he may have a new use for his swords.” Even to her own ears the words
sounded like an accusation. She was frustrated she had not been able to sink
her blade into the flesh of the man responsible.

The knight was silent for a moment, then his gaze met hers.
“I am sorry for what happened to your friend. Any of the Red Wolf’s knights
would feel the same, but then Talisand is a very different place.”

“Talisand?” She could not recall hearing the name before.

“My home, two days’ ride west of here. ’Tis a very pleasant
shire where both English and Normans live together in peace.”

“I cannot imagine it.”

“Given the violence you have witnessed, I can well
understand.”

Reaching the twins’ chamber, she silently opened the door
and peeked in, Sir Geoffroi looking over her shoulder. Magnus, who had followed
them, padded in and sniffed at the children. Both slept, the white bandage
around Ottar’s head clearly visible in the light of the glowing coals in the
brazier. She tiptoed into the room and kissed each child. Retreating quietly to
the open door where the knight stood, she waited for Magnus to join her and
then pulled the door closed.

Sir Geoffroi scratched Magnus’ ears in a gesture that was
oddly reminiscent of her father’s affection for the hound.

“’Tis good the children sleep,” she whispered.

“How is the lad?”

“He seems to be well. I have chided him for following after
the men. I do not think he will be so foolish again. Not after he endured his
sister’s tears. They are twins, you know.”

“Nay, I did not know but I did observe they were about the
same age.”

The light in the narrow space in which they stood was dim
and the knight was very close, his shoulders nearly spanning the corridor. When
he dropped his gaze to her lips, without thinking she opened her mouth to expel
a breath. Heat flowed between them. He wanted to kiss her, she could feel it.
For a long moment, neither said a word.

“You are very beautiful, Emma. Be careful.” Then he clenched
his jaw and turned, walking toward the stairs. She was amazed when Magnus
followed him.

She did not move at first, but watched him walk away and
felt a pain in her heart she had not felt in years. A remembered parting. The
memory of saying goodbye to Halden the last day she would ever see him as he
blithely stepped onto his ship and sailed away. Would she see Sir Geoffroi
again? Did she want to? He was a Norman, after all, one who had killed some of
her countrymen this very day. Yet he was an enemy who had shown her kindness.
No other man had caused her to want again something she had once lost.

She and Halden had been young when they came to realize
their love for each other. They had wanted to marry then, but her father had
bid them wait. And they had. They were wed but a year when Halden died. A
trader whose other loves were his ships and the sea, it had been those other
loves that had taken him from her. When his ship was lost in a storm, she had
been so distraught, she lost their babe she had only recently become aware was
growing within her. Halden was her only love and she had thought not to wed
again. With Ottar and Finna, she believed her life full. Now she had to wonder.

She followed the knight to the stairs. As she had once
missed Halden, she would miss Sir Geoffroi and the sound of his knight’s spurs
in her home. The realization was troubling. She hardly knew him.

Suddenly curious to know what his king would do in York, she
asked, “What will happen now?”

He paused and looked over his shoulder. “William would have
another castle.”

A sigh of frustration escaped her lips. She hated the wooden
edifice that stood above the river at the south end of the city, a symbol of
the hated Norman king. “A castle the people of York will no doubt be forced to
build.”

He ignored her statement and paused at the top of the
stairs. “Stay away from town for the next few days, Emma. William’s army will
be seeking revenge for the death of FitzRichard and until they are gone, no
woman will be safe.”

She thought of her friend lying hurt and defiled in the bed
where she herself would sleep this night. “Your advice is well-taken.”

“In war, not many innocents are spared,” he said with a
glance in her direction as he descended the stairs to where his men waited, the
sound of his spurs on the steps ringing in her ears.

She watched them leave, wondering if she would see the blond
knight again.

The Normans had just departed when a knock sounded. She
unlatched the door, thinking it might be Sir Geoffroi returned but, instead,
her father suddenly loomed before her, looking exasperated.

He crossed the threshold with a long stride. “I thought they
would never leave! I saw their horses and have been huddling in the freezing
cold, waiting. Why were the French knights here? Did they threaten you?”

She kissed her father on the cheek. “Nay, they did not. ’Tis
late and you look tired.” Letting her eyes rove over his tunic, stained with
Norman blood, she added, “You will want to wash. Why not do that while I fetch
you some mead and find you somewhere to sleep. Feigr is in your bed. Then I
will tell you what has happened. Tomorrow you must tell me what you have seen.
I’ve been worried.”

* * *

“Did you notice the things scattered about the chamber where
I laid the sword-maker?” asked Alain when they had returned to the castle.
Geoff had called for wine that he, Alain and Mathieu now shared.

The hall was nearly vacant, only a few knights and
men-at-arms lingered over their wine, having finished their evening meal. The
celebration of the day’s victory was largely over.

Geoff turned his goblet in his hands, the rich ruby color of
the wine reminding him of the tunic she had worn.

“Yea, I saw them. ’Twould appear the servant, Artur, is not
the only man living there.”

“Has the woman mentioned a husband?” Alain asked.

Geoff took a drink of his wine and set down his goblet, his
gaze meeting Alain’s. “She told me she is three years widowed. But now I am
forced to consider she harbors a man in her home, mayhap one of the rebels.”

“A lover?” questioned Alain.

Geoff felt a scowl building on his face.

“Or a brother,” suggested Mathieu. “He occupies a separate
bedchamber, does he not?”

A brother!
Geoff remembered what he’d seen in the
room and his frown returned. Emma now shared a bed with Inga, mayhap to bring
the girl comfort. “Whoever he is, he is a large man.”

“How do you know that?” asked Alain.

“The shoes he left behind were as long as mine.”

“What do you know of her?” asked Alain.

“In truth,” admitted Geoff, “very little. By her appearance,
I would judge she is in some part Danish. Emma of Normandy, you will recall,
married the Dane who became King of England.”

“Aye,” said Alain. “And this Emma must be a woman of some
wealth to have such a fine home. ’Tis twice the size of any cottage and with
many bedchambers.”

“And there is a stable, but ’tis not large,” added Mathieu.

“She is also a caring sort,” observed Geoff. “The children
who live with her are not hers. She has obviously taken them in. And the girl,
Inga, and the sword-maker are now under her care as well. ’Tis a house of the
recovering and she the one who graciously cares for them out of her charity.
Not many would help strangers with such open hands.”

“The lad I carried back from the forest, is he one of the
children?” asked Alain.

Geoff pictured in his mind Ottar and his twin. “Yea, and you
have yet to see his sister. She is a shy little angel.”

“Would William be angry if he knew we had helped the lady?”
asked Mathieu.

“Aye, if she houses a rebel,” said Geoff.
And if
the
king knew his knight would willingly help her no matter she did.

* * *

“What of the uprising, Father?” Emma sat on a stool at his
feet by the hearth fire, her chin resting on her upturned hands, her elbows on
her knees. They had just finished breaking their fast. Finna was with her
brother, who was still recovering, and Inga was with Feigr. They had not been
able to speak over the meal, but now they were alone and Emma was eager to hear
his version of the events of the day before. “Tell me what happened.”