Rogue Knight (Medieval Warriors Book 2) (5 page)

Helise’s face, normally serene, was lined with worry. Geoff
did not wonder at her concern, given what must have transpired between William
and her husband. Mayhap Malet would not long hold the position of Sheriff of
Yorkshire.

Alain shifted in his seat, his eyes following the object of
Geoff’s interest. “William appeared none too happy when he took his seat at the
dais and now he glares at Malet between sips of wine.”

Geoff looked at his friend. “You speak uncommonly much this
night.” The knight the Red Wolf had dubbed “the Bear” for his size was known
for speaking in grunts and growls more often than words.

“I speak when I have something to say.”

“Which is not often,” Geoff teased. “But I do not doubt the
truth of your words. ’Tis certain Malet earned a stern rebuke, though being a
friend of the king, I expect it was delivered in private.”

“Likely while we were seeing the injured lad home.”

“Yea, likely so.” Suddenly the vision of the beautiful York
widow ministering to the boy returned to Geoff’s mind. Despite her hostility,
he was anxious about her living alone with only children and servants while the
streets of York swarmed with knights, men-at-arms and mercenaries looking for
trouble, looking for women to ease their battle lust.

Returning his attention to his meal, he stabbed a large
piece of meat and brought it to his trencher. She would not have listened to
him had he tried to counsel her.

The Bear slid him a mischievous glance. “From what I
observed, that woman you aided did not like you much.”

Geoff tossed a piece of bread at Alain’s chest. “She liked
me well enough for a Norman, you dolt.”

“She could use your protection were you to give it,” said
Alain, more seriously. “With William’s army combing the streets, there will not
be a woman left untouched in York.”

Geoff let out a breath. “Leave it be, Alain. I want no woman
and Emma of York would have no Norman.”
Though I would give her my
protection whether she asked for it or not.

“None of the English women want Norman husbands,” argued
Alain, “but Serena accepted the Red Wolf and my own Aethel was finally
persuaded to wed with me. In time, there will be many such matches.”

“The York widow would be near impossible to win.”

“That which comes with much effort is more highly prized,”
Alain declared thoughtfully.

“You begin to sound like Maugris, my friend.”

“I have learned a few truths since coming to England.”

“Oh?”

“It does nay take Maugris to see the only wives for French
knights are English unless the women come from France, like Helise Malet.”

Geoff cast a glance at the woman sitting beside her husband.
“’Twould be a rare knight who brought a wife with him.” He laughed at what came
to his mind. “We brought only horses and squires.”

Geoff drank his wine in silence after that, watching the
king and his companions on the dais. It appeared that William had recovered
from his dour mood. He was now in jovial spirits laughing with his friends.

“I heard talk of William building a second castle,” said
Alain, his eyes on the king.

“Yea, William spoke of it as we rode toward the city. I
imagine the good people of York who were not killed in the fighting or escaped
into the woods will be pressed into the work.”

“’Tis his way,” observed Alain.

“Did you happen to notice who is sitting at the dais with
the king?”

Alain glanced at the table at the front of the hall. “Aye, I
recognize the older one,
William FitzOsbern, the Earl of
Hereford. He is the companion of the king who came with him to Talisand last
year. But I do not know the other.”

“The younger one is
Gilbert de Ghent. I
encountered the Fleming as I was going to my chamber when I returned from the
widow’s. He
told me he’s being sent by the king to Durham with a
group of his Flemish mercenaries to chase down the rebels fleeing north.”

“No good can come of that,” observed Alain.
“Like wraiths, the rebels can hide in the woods. ’Tis what they always do.”

“No matter. William is intent on chasing them
down.”

* * *

It was night when the knock came at the front door. The sound
was faint and Emma, who had been sorting through some tapestries in her chamber
by candlelight, was not even certain she had heard it until Magnus scrambled
from the floor beside her and went to scratch at her chamber door.

“All right. I am coming.” She threw on her robe and opened
the door of her chamber. Magnus raced down the stairs and scratched at the
front door.

This time the knock was a mere thump and then a sound like
something falling against the door.

Emma took one look at Magnus and realized whoever was on the
other side of the door was someone he knew. He whined and did not growl, so the
late hour visitor could not be a Norman soldier.

She unlatched the door and a sobbing Inga fell into her
arms.

“Inga!”

The girl trembled as she clutched her cloak tightly to her
body.

Emma wrapped her arms around her. “What is it, Inga? What
has happened?”

One look at Inga’s face told her questions would have to
come later. The girl’s eyes were wide with fear, her cheeks tear-stained. She
was incapable of speech.

Still holding Inga, Emma shut the door, making sure it was
locked. Wrapping an arm around the girl’s waist, Emma helped her to the stairs.
“Come, I will take you to my chamber.”

Together, they stumbled up the steps, Emma helping the young
woman whose strength appeared to be at an end. As they neared the top, Inga
tripped and nearly fell. Emma gripped her more securely and together they
managed to reach her chamber. Magnus followed closely behind. He had known Inga
since he was a whelp. She was family.

Emma helped the girl to the bed, gently laying her upon it.
Inga mumbled, “He returned… oh, Emma, he came back.”

“Who returned, Inga? Who?”

Inga’s terror-filled eyes fastened on Emma, telling her
without words who it was. She remembered the French knight from the day he had
accosted her friend outside Feigr’s shop on Coppergate. Eude, the tall, burly
Norman with dark hair and a heavy jaw. A sudden loathing came over Emma,
fueling her rising fury. Seeing the bruise on Inga’s face, Emma could imagine
what had happened.

Artur had apparently heard the commotion, bringing him to
her chamber. “What has happened, Mistress? Do you need help?”

“Aye, I need Sigga’s hemlock and wormwood potion that warms
and brings sleep. Inga is hurt and needs rest.”

He took one look at Inga, curled into herself on the bed,
and departed.

Emma took off her fur-lined robe and draped it over the
young woman, then sat on the bed next to her, holding her hand, waiting for the
potion to arrive. “Inga, can you speak?”

Inga’s hand was cold despite the heat from the coals in the
brazier and the warm robe covering her. “My father… Oh, Emma. The Norman was
not alone. The men with him beat my father when he tried to protect me, before
the Norman….” She broke off and shut her eyes tightly as if trying not to see
the images that haunted her. “The knights who came with him took my father
prisoner. I am afraid of what they will do to him.” Then with a shudder, she
added, “At least he did not see my shame.”

“Oh, Inga.”
It was as I feared.

On the young woman’s face, the bruise seemed to darken. She
had obviously been struck. Her heavy, golden hair, always neatly confined to a
long plait, was loose and tangled.

Artur returned with the potion, a bowl of water and a clean
cloth. “Thank you, Artur. I had not thought to ask for the water and cloth, but
they are needed. I must bathe the dirt from her face.” Emma would not mention
what had happened to her friend. Artur was a man who had lived long enough to
understand what a young woman like Inga might have suffered but he would say
nothing. The terrible truth would remain a secret.

“Do you need aught else, Mistress?”

“Yea.” A plan was already forming in her mind. “Once Inga is
asleep I will need to borrow a gown and cloak from Sigga. And then I would ask
Sigga to sit with Inga. I am going out but I will let you know when I leave.”

“You would leave the house tonight?” He sounded aghast.

“I must.”

“Do you want me to go with you?”

“Nay.”

“You must take care. The Normans will spare no one. Keep to
the shadows.” His countenance fell in resignation as he turned to go.

She called after him, “Artur?”

He paused at the door. “Yea?”

“Do not mention what you have seen here to anyone save
Sigga.”

He nodded and left, closing the door behind him.

Emma helped the stunned girl to drink the potion that would
send her to sweet oblivion. Then she waited for it to take effect.

Once she was certain Inga was deep in sleep, Emma removed
the robe she had placed over Inga. Carefully, she peeled back the edges of
Inga’s cloak and gasped. Inga’s tunic and shift had been torn from neck to the
hem, leaving her naked and exposed. The girl would have been no match for the
Norman. “He forced you, the bastard,” she hissed under her breath. Inga’s small
breasts were bruised and there were more bruises on her hips and slim thighs.
And blood. It was caked in streaks on her skin from her woman’s center halfway
down her thighs. The rampaging beast had hurt her, hurt her badly.

A sudden rage rose within Emma.
He will pay for this.
If she could find a way, she would see him dead for what he had done.

As tenderly as she could, Emma cleaned the blood from Inga’s
young skin and wiped the streaks of dried tears from her cheeks.

Once she had finished bathing Inga, she gently pulled the
torn gown from under the girl and took one of her own shifts from the chest at the
foot of the bed. After some difficulty, she was able to put it on Inga,
thinking it would be best if she did not wake to see the bruises on her breasts
and hips. She would surely feel them, but at least she would not have the sight
of them to remind her.

The torn and soiled garments Emma took downstairs and burned
in the hearth fire. She was standing over the fire, watching the soiled
clothing turn to ash, when Sigga met her with the tunic and the cloak that
would disguise Emma as a servant.

“The clothes you asked for, Mistress.”

“Thank you, Sigga. I will return them.”

“Are you certain you are doing the right thing, my lady?”

“Aye, I must save Feigr if I can.”

Sigga’s gaze followed Emma as she climbed the stairs to her
chamber. Setting the clothing aside, she carefully combed the tangles from
Inga’s hair using her own carved wooden comb, then tucked the cover around the
girl and smoothed the hair from her forehead.

Tears fell as Emma faced the stark reality: Inga might look
innocent in her sleep, but her innocence was no more.

Once she had made Inga as comfortable as possible, Emma
dressed in the servant’s clothing. Sigga had given her the best tunic she had,
a crimson one she kept for special days. It was so like Sigga not to want her
mistress to be seen in the ones the servant used to prepare their meals. Still,
it would serve. It was looser than her own fine gowns and would mask her
slender curves.

Wrapping Sigga’s cloak around her against the cold night
air, she set forth, bidding Magnus to stay. She would not take him with her
lest he growl at some knight and be slain. Her errand was one of mercy.

Sir Geoffroi had offered her his service. She would test the
sincerity of his offer, risking much to save Inga’s father. Even entering the
den of Lucifer himself.

For some reason he could not explain, instead of returning to
his chamber after the evening meal, Geoff lingered to observe the knights and
men-at-arms gathered in the hall. Leaning against the rear wall, not far from
his chamber, he crossed his arms over his chest, and watched the men dicing,
drinking and telling stories of their encounters with the rebels that day.

They were a rough lot, some having newly joined William’s
army, among them Flemish mercenaries who came for the plunder and the freedom
to pillage. They were the most dangerous of William’s men for they cared not
what destruction they left behind them. Surely they had been the ones
responsible for the boys who had been killed.

A cloaked figure moved in and out of the shadows, drawing
Geoff’s attention. Though the hood mostly covered her head, he could see it was
a woman. By her apparel, a serving wench, but she carried herself like a lady.
As he studied her more carefully, there was something familiar about her. It
was the way she walked with confidence, her head up, her shoulders back.
The
young widow…
Emma
! The only thing missing was the hound. Why had she
come to the castle where so much danger threatened a woman alone?

In the flickering light of the torches, she gazed anxiously
around the hall, searching the faces of the men as if looking for someone.
Suddenly her eyes fixed upon one of the mercenaries and she froze. Like the
Valkyrie he had first imagined her, she glared at the knight as her hand moved
slowly beneath her cloak to her hip. In the same manner she had reached for her
knife that morning when he’d come upon her in the clearing.

Geoff knew the mercenary she was staring at, a man he
heartily disliked, a braggart whose mouth was never silent. Sir Eude de
Fourneaux.

It took him but a moment to realize her intent.

Striding toward her, Geoff grabbed her arm beneath her
cloak. Their eyes met and at once he discerned her intent. “Do not, lady. Else
he would see you dead.”

“I did not come for him, though I would kill him if I could.
I came to seek your help if your offer is still good.”

Before he could assure her it was, the man whom she had
stalked focused his attention on them.

“What vision is this, Sir Geoffroi? We could happily use
another wench this night. One to sheathe my most worthy sword.” Eude’s words
were slurred with the drink he had consumed, but his meaning was clear enough.

Eude’s friends laughed and shouted for Geoff to remove
Emma’s cloak. “Let us see the prize you have there!”

Without taking his eyes from Emma, Geoff said, “I saw her
first, Eude.”

“You could share,” came the lazy retort.

In her eyes, Geoff saw both fear and determination. She
would not shy from murder, but with the knights’ attention drawn to her, she
knew she was in grievous danger. Conversations broke off as men at the tables
paused to observe the confrontation.

Into the silence, he said in a commanding voice, “I never
share.”

The mercenary rose, a few of his companions with him. Geoff
reached for Emma, pulling her against his chest. She was slender and her
resistance fleeting against his knight’s strength. “If you would be spared
their lust, do not fight me,” he whispered.

He claimed her mouth as an act of possession, a
demonstration to the assembled knights that she was his. But when their lips
touched, it was he who was claimed. Her mouth was soft and inviting, the taste
of her as sweet as summer wine. The attraction he had felt for her before now
surged in his veins. Urging her lips open, his tongue found the warmth within.
She responded. In the honey of her kiss, his rising passion was echoed in his
loins. Alone in their own world, the kiss continued.

Hearing the jeers behind him, he broke the embrace, though
it cost him to do so. Breathing heavily, he stared into her beautiful
blue-green eyes.

She shifted her passion-filled gaze to the floor.

Turning to the knights, who had slowed their approach, he
announced, “As you see, the lady is mine, I have claimed her.”

“Leave off, Eude,” urged one of the man’s friends. “’Tis Sir
Geoffroi you challenge, a favorite of the king. He is the right arm of the Red
Wolf and his sword is just as deadly.”

At his words, Eude and his companions lost interest in their
mission and returned to their table.

“There are plenty of wenches in the city,” Eude blustered.

At Geoff’s side, Emma stiffened.

He waited until he was certain the other knights would not
pursue them, then escorted her to his chamber, his arm tight around her
shoulder.

Once inside his chamber, he dropped his arm, walked to the
table near the brazier and poured her a goblet of wine. “Here,” he said,
handing it to her.

With unsteady hands, she took it and drank, her chest rising
and falling with apparent emotion. She had been more nervous than he had
initially thought. Mayhap more afraid. Or was she also moved by the kiss they
had shared?

No matter the cause, her presence worried him. Such a
beautiful woman should not be out alone, much less in a castle full of men with
too few whores to share. He took in her clothing, that of a servant and ill
fitting. “What could you have been thinking to come to the castle? And how did
you gain admittance?”

Holding the goblet between her hands, she stepped to the
brazier as if seeking its heat. “I came as a servant. The guards gave me a bit
of trouble but apparently the need for serving wenches is great. I answered
their questions and they admitted me.”

His brows drew together at the ridiculous notion. “No one
would see you as a servant, even in those clothes.”

“Your guards are not so discerning as you,” she said dismissively.
“And mayhap not so sober.”

“Where is that great beast that usually follows at your
heels?”

“I left him at home. I feared he might be speared by one of
your French swords.”

“And so he might have been. As might you.” It concerned him
that she had been so foolish. “Why did you come?”

“To seek your help in saving the life of a man taken
prisoner. But when I saw the knight called Eude, I could think of nothing else
but to kill him for what he has done.” When he raised his brows, she explained,
“He raped my friend, Inga, the daughter of Feigr, the sword-maker. When her
father tried to protect her, Eude’s companions beat him and took him prisoner.
I assumed they brought him here. I would free him and see Eude dead.”

“And your life would be lost in the process had you been
successful with the mercenary.”

“My anger has cooled but only just,” she said, setting down
the goblet and turning to pace. “The man deserves to die!”

“Aye, likely he does. I would not put rape past him. I like
him not.”

She paused in her pacing to gaze at him. “Inga was young,
untouched,” she explained, her distress showing on her face. “Feigr’s only
child and much loved.”

“What would you have me do?”

Her beautiful, tear-filled eyes fixed on him, desperation in
their depths. “Find Feigr, save him, protect him, as I will now protect Inga.”

Seeing her tears, he could deny her nothing. “All right. But
you must stay here until I locate him.”

“My family will worry. Ottar is still recovering and now I
have Inga to see to.”

“I will send my squire to tell them you are safe. Latch the
door after I leave. When I return, listen for three knocks. I myself will take
you home.”

He went first to Mathieu to dispatch him to Emma’s house, to
tell her servants she was safe. Once that was done, he went looking for the
sword-maker. He found him with the other prisoners who had been taken that day,
now sequestered in a building in the outer bailey.

* * *

Emma paced in Sir Geoffroi’s small chamber, keenly aware she
was confined inside the Norman castle where the French knights gathered like
wasps around a hive.

The smell of metal, leather and horses filled the room, a
masculine smell she recognized as belonging to the blond knight from when he
had carried her home from the clearing earlier in the day. The candles set
about the chamber made it seem somehow intimate and, because it was the abode
of a Norman knight, more threatening. Could she trust him to find Feigr and
bring him to safety? Did she have a choice? She could not very well leave on
her own now that the creature Eude knew she was here. To approach him had been
a mistake. She would not have succeeded in killing him. Sir Geoffroi was right
to scold her. Surely if she had killed Eude, the other knights would have
killed her. But the mad impulse had seized her when she recognized the monster
who had raped her friend.

She touched her fingers to her lips, still swollen with Sir
Geoffroi’s kiss. Since his reason for kissing her had been to protect her, she
did not resent it. But she had not expected to like it so well. His mouth had
been gentle on hers and his tongue…
Oh God
. The memory of his seductive
tongue exploring her mouth made her tremble even now. Had it only been for
show? Mayhap he had kissed many women. The thought did not please her.

When he had taken her into his arms, she had felt protected,
not threatened. It disturbed her that she should find a Norman so desirable.
She did not like that her reaction to him seemed to steal away the hatred that
gave her the strength to fight. She did not like the way her body still craved
his touch.

Her pacing stopped. Would he help her to take vengeance on
the one called Sir Eude? She suspected the answer was no. But if she could
leave with Feigr, if he were still alive, then she would have accomplished her
purpose in coming. The rest she could see to another time.

Some minutes later, three knocks sounded at the door. She
unlatched it and pulled it open.

Sir Geoffroi strode into the chamber.

Closing the door behind him, she asked, “Where is Feigr?”

“You did not expect me to bring a rebel prisoner to the hall
where the king himself dines?”

“No, I suppose not,” she said, disappointed. “But did you
find him?”

“Yea. Alain is guarding him now. We will collect him when we
leave the tower. He is too weak to ride alone.”

She inhaled sharply. “Will he live?”

“I cannot say what injuries lie beneath his skin. He has
been badly beaten and his body is all cuts and scrapes. He might have a broken
arm as well, for he cradles it close to his chest. I have asked the king’s
physic to see what can be done.”

“Poor Feigr. He was only trying to protect his daughter.
Inga will be despondent.”

“William does not countenance rape but even he cannot
control so many knights and men-at-arms. Some are mercenaries with no care for
anything save what they can gain. ’Tis a bad time to try to protect a young
woman in York.”

She could tell by his expression he included her in his
statement. As she considered what had happened after the battle the full scope
of the truth came to her. Inga was likely not the only woman raped by the
Normans this day. She shuddered. “When do we leave?”

“Now if you like, but we may have to wait for the physic to
complete his work.”

She drew her cloak around her, eager to leave and wanting to
assure herself Feigr would be well.

“Keep your hood pulled over your head, stay close to me and
do not look at the men.”

Emma was only too happy to oblige. She had seen the lust in
the knights’ eyes when they had discovered her in the hall. Never did she want
to draw their leers again. They were like the hungry wolves that hid in the
forest.

When they reached the part of the bailey where prisoners
were housed, the knight with the scarred face, the one called Sir Alain, waited
for them with horses. Torches illuminated the bailey and the face of the huge
knight. He no longer appeared so formidable to her, his scar now merely part of
a familiar face.

“The physic is near finished,” he informed Sir Geoffroi.
“The arm was broken, but not the flesh. The physic has set the bone.”

With anxious eyes, Emma looked up at the huge knight. “What
does the healer say about Feigr? Will he recover?”

“If it is God’s will, lady. Only time will reveal the
outcome.” His voice was surprisingly kind. “Some of the sword-maker’s wounds
are inside, but the physic was encouraging. You should know he does not usually
see prisoners, but Sir Geoffroi asked on your behalf and, given the
circumstances, he did not refuse.”

Emma turned her gaze to the blond knight. “You have come to
my aid once again. Why, I cannot imagine.”

“Can you not?” he whispered. His blue eyes teased but she
detected a seriousness there that belied the laughter in his eyes.

“If your interest is in me, sir knight, it is misplaced.”

He took her hand and kissed her knuckles, sending a shiver
coursing through her, making her breasts tingle. “We will see, my lady.”

She turned her eyes from his intense regard and pulled back
her hand. “No matter, I am in your debt once again. Thank you.”

“I will always come to your aid,” he said.

The connection with the French knight embarrassed her. She
had sought his help so she could hardly fail to thank him, but there was more
between them than his kindness and her gratitude. There was that kiss she could
not forget and the unmistakable attraction that grew with his nearness. She was
more conscious of his presence than other men.

She waited until the Norman physic was done and the knights
had collected Feigr. They rode across the bridge over the castle’s moat, she in
front of Sir Geoffroi on his chestnut stallion and Feigr with Sir Alain on his
huge gray horse. Mathieu, the squire, had returned from his messenger duty to
ride with them.

Sir Geoffroi’s mailed chest was hard at her back and his
powerful arms braced her as he held the reins of his horse. His head was so
close to hers she could feel his breath on her temple. She had not been this
close to a man, save her father, since her husband, Halden. Remembering Sir
Geoffroi’s kiss, her heart quickened its pace. Halden had loved her but had not
kissed her like that.