The Lily and the Sword (Medieval 1)

“You are wounded, my lord Radulf.”

The words came out of her mouth involuntarily. As Vorgen’s wife, Lily had learned to scheme and dissemble, to be what she was not—it had been necessary to enable her to survive. But

this time the notion that displaying womanly sympathy might be wise only occurred to her after she had spoken.

“’Tis nothing.” Gruffly, Radulf shrugged off her concern.

“’Tis not ‘nothing’ if you are hurt, my lord.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. Lily felt his suspicion like a stone wall between them. “What would you do about it then, Lady Lily?”

Lily swallowed. His gaze was so intense, as if he were watching her for some sign…but of what? “I…I would tend you, my lord.”

“Ah, ‘tend me,’” he murmured. His body relaxed. His mouth twitched. “Do you think that wise, lady?”

Lily’s brow wrinkled in a frown. “My lord?”

Radulf stepped closer, and Lily’s body went rigid as she fought a sudden, mad desire to sway into his arms. “I may ask you to tend more than my shoulder,” he murmured, his breath stirring tendrils of her hair.

Instinctively Lily’s eyes lifted to his, reading the truth there. Radulf desired her…as had Vorgen. Fear trickled in icy drops down her spine, but this was not fear of Radulf her enemy. This was a fear Vorgen had planted in her, a dark skein of dread, and within that dread were woven myriad strands of doubt and shame.

“Lady?”

He spoke sharply and Lily blinked. The present refocused. She was in Grimswade church with Radulf, and, strangely, relief was now her uppermost emotion. Lily tightened her cloak about her, attempting to regain her composure.

Radulf sighed; he seemed disappointed. Lily realized too late that again he had read her fear and thought it was of him. “Take her to the camp,” he commanded Stephen. “Now!” And turning abruptly, he strode on long legs outside into the darkness.

Stephen took her arm in a strong grip. “Come, my lady,” he said cheerily, in his boy-man voice. “Lord Radulf has spoken.”

Outside, dawn’s cold light was gathering on the eastern horizon. The air was sharp, filled with the smells of burning torches and sweating horses, but most of the hurrying soldiers had now moved northward across the cornfields, toward Vorgen’s stronghold.

Toward Lily’s home, two leagues away.

Her eyes glittered with tears. They would find nothing there but a burned, black shell. After Lily had fled, her people had burned what remained, so that never again could the Normans use the buildings to shelter their soldiers.

Stephen gripped her arm tighter and tugged her along. Lily shook him off, losing some of her assumed meekness. Whatever spell Radulf’s presence had spun, it was dispersing with his going.

“I have a mare hidden in the trees over there,” she said, pointing at the small thicket. “If I leave her, she will be stolen.”

Stephen eyed her cautiously, but must have thought she spoke good sense, because he sent off another boy to fetch the mare.

“Why does Radulf go to Vorgen’s keep?” Lily asked, more of herself than the boy.

Stephen hesitated, but youth and excitement loosened his tongue. “He thinks Vorgen’s wife hides there. He plans to capture her and take her to the king.”

And what then? Instinctively, Lily assumed an expression of icy disdain, concealing her thoughts and emotions. Such precautions were second nature to her now, as necessary as breathing in keeping her alive.

A soldier hovered nearby, and Lily realized she was to have a guard. So Radulf feared “Edwin of Rennoc’s daughter” might escape? Perhaps she would have tried it, were she not so tired. But even if she did escape, where would she go? Strange as it seemed, Radulf’s tent was probably the safest place to hide just now. No one would be looking for the she-devil there.

“I am weary.” She spoke at last. “It has been a long and perilous night. Is your lord’s tent far…Stephen, is it?”

Stephen gave her a shy smile. “Aye, I am called Stephen. I am Lord Radulf’s squire. And it is not far. Our army is camped just beyond the village of Grimswade.”

Lily nodded and made certain to pull her hood back over her hair, tying it close so that her face was half hidden. If she remained in the Norman camp she would not be recognized by anyone in Grimswade village, but she could not take any chances.

Her life depended upon it.

Chapter 2