Rogue Knight (Medieval Warriors Book 2) Read online

  Rogue Knight

  Regan Walker

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  ROGUE KNIGHT

  Copyright © 2015 Regan Walker

  All rights reserved. Unless specifically noted, no part of this publication may be reproduced, scanned, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or by any other means without the permission of the author is illegal and punishable by law. Participation in the piracy of copyrighted materials violates the author’s rights.

  Praise for Regan Walker’s work and Rogue Knight:

  “Ms. Walker has the rare ability to make you forget you are reading a book…the characters become real, the modern world fades away and all that is left is the intrigue, drama and romance.” Straight from the Library

  "Mesmerizing medieval romance! A vivid portrayal of love flourishing amidst the turbulence of the years after the Norman Conquest."

  Kathryn Le Veque, USA Today Bestselling Author

  Dear God.

  She crossed herself and covered her mouth, fighting the urge to spew at the sight of so much blood and so many bodies strewn about the clearing, blood congealed on their clothing, their vacant eyes staring into space. Some of the blood had pooled on the ground to catch the rays of the sun. The metallic scent of it, carried by the wind, rose in her nostrils.

  At her side, the hound whimpered.

  So many.

  Until the Normans had come, Yorkshire had been a place of gentle hills, forests and thatched cottages circling a glistening jewel of a city set between two winding rivers. A place of children’s voices at play, some of those voices now silenced forever, for among the bodies lying on the cold ground were mere boys, their corpses cast aside like broken playthings.

  At the sound of heavy footfalls on the snow-crusted ground, she jerked her head around, her heart pounding in her chest.

  A figure emerged from the trees, so close she could have touched him.

  She cringed. A Norman.

  A tall giant of a knight, his blood-splattered mail a dull gray in the weak winter sun, ripped off his silvered helm and expelled an oath as he surveyed the dozens of dead. The sword in his hand still dripped the blood of those he had slain. He was no youth this one, at least thirty. His fair appearance made her think of Lucifer, the fallen angel of light. A seasoned warrior of death who has taken many lives.

  Had he killed people she knew? Her heart raced as fear rose in her chest.

  Would she be next?

  www.ReganWalkerAuthor.com

  Author’s Note

  The love story of Sir Geoffroi de Tournai and Emma of York is set in England in 1069-70 during what became known as William the Conqueror’s Harrying of the North. While I have used minor artistic license to fit the story, most of the events in Rogue Knight actually occurred as I have described them.

  At the time of the Norman Conquest of England in 1066, Northumbria in the north was a very different place than Wessex in the south. At one time it was the capital of the Danelaw where the laws of the Danes governed from the 9th into the 11th century. Even after Northumbria was incorporated into England in 954, it was governed by powerful earls and thegns who operated somewhat independently from the king.

  In its language and culture, Yorkshire was Anglo-Scandinavian not Saxon. Almost every street in the city of York had the Old Norse suffix “gata” or “gate” meaning “street” and most of the personal names would have been Scandinavian.

  It is not surprising, then, that in 1068 when William the Conqueror came north and built his first castle in York (as told in The Red Wolf’s Prize), the people resented his presence and that of his French knights. They did not consider William their king any more than they had the Saxon Harold Godwinson before him. The situation was made worse by the despicable way the Normans treated the people.

  Maerleswein, the former Sheriff of Lincolnshire and Emma’s father in my story, was a real historic figure and a rich English thegn of noble Danish lineage. He did not fight against William at the Battle of Hastings, but by 1068, he’d had enough of William and his egregious taxes and joined the rebellion.

  In 1069 when my story begins, York was the largest city north of London and an important center of commerce with as many as 15,000 residents. It was a city William very much wanted under his control. But it was not to come to him easily.

  One indication of the seething resentment of the Northumbrians for the Norman invaders is seen in the fact that the great families—both English and Danish—that had been feuding for hundreds of years, came together in 1069 to fight against William. Given York’s history, it was natural for the rebels to look to the Danes for help.

  William’s vengeance on the North for the ensuing rebellion was so horrible that for decades thereafter, the land between York and Durham remained untilled and no village was inhabited. It would take the North centuries to fully recover.

  Orderic Vitalis, the English chronicler and Benedictine monk, said of William’s actions, “I dare not commend him. He leveled both the bad and the good in one common ruin by a consuming famine…he was…guilty of wholesale massacre…and barbarous homicide.”

  Indeed he was.

  William of Jumièges, a monk and contemporary of William the Conqueror, said that “from the youngest to the oldest” most of the population of York was killed.

  The wolves would have had a great feast on the bodies left lying in the woods where they fell.

  It was enough to turn any noble knight rogue.

  Contents

  Cover

  Quotes & Story Snippet

  Author’s Note

  Map

  Characters of Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  Author’s Bio

  Books by Regan Walker

  Excerpt from The Red Wolf’s Prize

  Characters of Note

  (Both real and fictional)

  Sir Geoffroi de Tournai

  Emma of York

  At Talisand:

  Sir Renaud de Pierrepont, Earl of Talisand

  Serena, Countess of Talisand

  Maugris the Wise, a seer

  Maggie, cook and housekeeper

  Mathieu, squire to Sir Geoffroi

  Sir Alain de Roux (“the Bear”)

  In York, the Northumbrians and their allies:

  Maerleswein, Emma’s father, Danish nobleman and former Sheriff of Lincolnshire*

  Cospatric, Earl of Bamburgh, former Earl of Northumbria, and cousin to King Malcolm of Scotland*

  Magnus, Emma’s Irish hound (in modern terms, a wolfhound)

  Inga, Emma’s friend

  Feigr, sword-maker and Inga’s father

  Finna and Ottar, twins, Emma’s adopted children

  Artur and Sigga, Emma’s servants

  Edgar Ætheling, Saxon heir to the throne of England


  Waltheof, Earl of Huntingdon, cousin to King Swein, King Harold and Earl Cospatric*

  The Normans in York:

  William I, King of England, Duke of Normandy

  William Malet de Graville, Sheriff of Yorkshire

  Richard FitzRichard, Castellan of York (1st castle)

  Gilbert de Ghent, Castellan of York (2nd castle)

  William FitzOsbern, Earl of Hereford

  Robert, Count of Mortain, half-brother to William the Conqueror

  Sir Eude de Fourneaux

  The Danes:

  King Swein of Denmark

  Osbjorn, brother to King Swein

  The Scots:

  King Malcolm of Scotland

  Margaret of Wessex, sister to Edgar Ætheling and betrothed to Malcolm

  Where now is the warrior? Where is the warhorse?

  Bestowal of treasure, and sharing of feast?

  Alas! The bright ale-cup, the mail-clad warrior,

  The prince in his splendor—those days are long sped

  In the night of the past, as if they never had been!

  From the Anglo-Saxon poem The Wanderer

  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.”

  “You would only put yourself in their sights, my lady, were you to do aught. Feigr will protect her, and see, now the townspeople have stopped to watch.”

  Keeping her hand on Magnus, Emma turned toward the gathering crowd, a frown on every face. It was not the first time the people of York had seen the Normans seize what was not theirs. Since the garrison of knights had come earlier in the year, fear rode the streets of York like an ever-present phantom. But this time there was more than fear in the eyes of the people. There was outrage.

  Reaching his stall, Inga’s father stepped between his sobbing daughter and the knight, breaking the man’s hold on her arm. Though smaller than the knight in stature, long years of working with metal had given Feigr brawny shoulders and arms. He faced the knight, his bearded chin raised in defiance, his stance sure.

  The knight clenched his fists and leaned into Feigr, touching the sword-maker’s chest with his own, a threat apparent to all.

  Emma tensed, worried for Feigr should the three knights attack him together. At her side, Magnus resumed his low growl. Removing her hand from her seax, she stroked the rough fur on his neck to calm him.

  The murmurs of the townspeople grew boisterous as they stared at the unfolding drama, their gazes condemning the effrontery of the French knight who dared lay hands on a maiden of York.

  One of the knights turned to look at the crowd, then strode to his companion who was confronting Feigr. Placing his hand on the knight’s shoulder, he whispered something in his companion’s ear.

  The knight jerked his shoulder away. “What is one of them to so many of us?” he challenged.

  “A crowd gathers. The wench will keep, Eude. We are expected back at the castle.”

  With a speaking glance at Inga that sent a shiver of fear through Emma, the knight called Eude shrugged and joined his fellow Normans.

  As the three of them swaggered away from the stall, Eude made a rude gesture that caused his fellow knights to bellow their laughter.

  Rage choked Emma. Had they planned the whole affair taking the sword to lure Feigr away from his shop?

  As the French knights sauntered down the street, relief replaced Emma’s anger. She was thankful for t
he crowd of townspeople that had come. Their show of strength had no doubt kept the knights from doing worse.

  “Thank God I did not bring Finna and Ottar,” she muttered beneath her breath. The last thing she wanted was for the two young orphans who lived under her protection to have witnessed the assault on her friend.

  The crowd dispersed, shaking their heads.

  With Magnus at her side, Emma rushed across the street to where Inga’s father comforted his daughter. Both were clearly shaken by what had happened.

  “Oh, Inga. I am so sorry. Are you all right?”

  Gray eyes, wide with fear, looked up at Emma. Barely sixteen, Inga had shouldered much since her mother’s death two winters before, helping her father with his shop as well as their home. Emma, seven years older, had lost her own mother at a young age and knew well the emptiness it left. She tried to look after the younger woman, for there was no son to help Feigr, no other child.

  Not knowing what to say, Emma reached her hand to touch Inga’s arm in solace. The gesture brought little comfort, for Inga turned her face into her father’s broad chest and sobbed.

  Feigr’s eyes glared his hatred as his gaze followed the French knights disappearing down the street.

  In the distance the tall square tower of the Norman castle loomed over the city like a great vulture’s nest.

  * * *

  Talisand, Lune River Valley, northwest England, February 1069

  “’Tis enough!” Sir Geoffroi de Tournai called as he sheathed his sword and strode from the practice yard outside the palisade fence. Passing through the gate, he entered the bailey, heading toward the stairs leading up to the timbered castle, his sweat chilled by the frigid winter air. Having seen the king’s messenger ride in through the gate, he was anxious to know what that ominous arrival portended.