The Lily and the Sword (Medieval 1)

It was Vorgen’s wife who had worked on him, convinced him to rebel against William. ’Twas said she was the Norse king Harald Hardraada’s granddaughter, and a Viking temptress. She had turned faithful Vorgen into a traitor, with her silken tongue and witchy ways. Some women had the devil in them, and all their lovely smiles and sweet kisses were but lures to destruction.

Like Anna.

How different the girl in the church! Her pale, ethereal beauty, her great gray eyes, the soft tremble of her lips. Radulf had been shot through with a lust as deadly as any spear, but he had also felt a compelling urge to protect her, and to prevent any further harm or fright from coming to her. And then she had remembered who he was and she had trembled again, only this time not from fear of her situation but from fear of him! Angry and frustrated, Radulf had turned from her.

Must it always be so? Must his name for brutality always overshadow the real man?

Radulf recalled the story she had told him of her journey from the border and subsequent escape from unknown attackers. He knew the Earl of Morcar, and had heard of Edwin of Rennoc—they were both, for now at least, the king’s men. He had no reason to disbelieve her, although it was in his nature to be suspicious. Yet there was something…He would divert his men on the return journey; the wood Lady Lily had spoken of was only slightly out of their way. If what she had said of the battle between her men and their attackers was true, there should be some clear sign of it.

An entire day had passed since Stephen had brought Lily to Radulf’s tent, a day in which she had paced and worried, and paced again. Although she was probably safe just now, that could not last. She must escape as soon as possible, or persuade Radulf to let her go.

Eventually, as the light began to fade, Lily wore herself out and flung herself down upon the bed. It was Radulf’s bed, there was no doubt of that. The wool covers and animal skins reminded her of him; they had his body scent. The acknowledgment made her want to leap up again, but Lily forced herself to be still. It is important not to be afraid of him, she told herself firmly. He is just a man, like Vorgen or…or Hew.

Is he? mocked her inner voice. Lily shivered and wondered how a man with such sensuous lips and intelligent eyes could be as cruel and frightening as was generally believed. She had thought she was adept at reading a man’s mind and character—such tricks had been necessary to keep her alive—but Radulf was a puzzle. The man who had touched her in Grimswade church was not the same man whose legend was spoken of in hushed tones. Lily would stake her lands on it—if she still had any. He had desired her, and to Lily’s surprise, she had desired him. Her surprise at her own feelings wasn’t because Radulf was undesirable—such a big, masculine man must always be attractive—but because of Vorgen.

There had been no love between Lily and her husband. In fact Lily had hated him, and at first Vorgen had seen her as nothing more than the means to his domination of the north. He had not pretended otherwise, and anyway, how could Lily love the man who had murdered her father and turned her comfortable, ordered existence into hell?

In the beginning, when they were first married, Vorgen had tried repeatedly to consummate their marriage. He had pressed and pummeled her, hurting her when he failed. As time passed his attempts became fewer, but were still as frantic and frightening. Lily had imagined his impotence was due to his age, for he was nearly as old as her father. But with each failed attempt, Vorgen’s need to have her grew. He roared at her that it was all her fault, that she was a frozen bitch, and it was her coldness that had made him incapable.

“Then I am glad. Glad!” she had screamed back at him, and earned herself a bruised cheek. But she had been glad he could not take from her what she had always considered hers alone to give. Still, his cruel words had hurt as much as his hands. And he began to say them so often and with such venom, Lily could not help but believe them.

Occasionally Vorgen would threaten her with other men. He told her that he would force her to mate with them, for Vorgen needed an heir to consolidate his position. His subjects thought of him as a foreigner, but they would accept a half-Norman, half-English child and give it their allegiance.

Yet the threats had been just that. And then Vorgen was dead, and she was his widow without ever having been his wife.

The coming of night had been something to dread, in case he visited her chamber. She did not think she would have dreaded the nights if Radulf had been her husband, but Vorgen had left behind a legacy of doubt. Would Radulf, too, find her cold and undesirable? Would he kiss her with passion, only to find that heat chill and shrivel to naught?

He is my enemy! her weary brain reminded her. But that only further confused her; it felt as if her mind and her body were playing tug-of-war.

But Radulf’s bed was soft and warm, and Lily’s body rested in a comfortable hollow. The past weeks, the past few years, had been like living on a knife edge, and it was a very long time since Lily had been so peaceful or so relaxed.

Finally, she succumbed to exhaustion.

Her sleep was so deep, she did not hear the sounds of the army camp settling for the night, or Stephen coming to light the candles, or an owl calling outside. She slept on, dreamless, her silver hair spread about her.

“My lord?”

The last lingering effects of sleep dissipated abruptly, and Lily held her breath. Stephen’s soft voice had come from the direction of the tent door, but it was not Stephen who had awakened her so abruptly.

There was someone standing over her. She could feel him, smell him—a combination of sweat, damp wool, and man.

Radulf.

Beneath the folds of her gown, Lily’s hand closed hard, her nails digging into her palm.

“My lord?” Stephen repeated, his puzzlement evident.

Now all of Lily’s senses were awake and quivering. There was a movement nearby as heavy wool—a cloak?—swirled, brushing against her cheek. The contact caused her to flinch, but Radulf had already turned away, his footsteps retreating. Very carefully, Lily opened one eye and peered through her lashes.

Her enemy had his back to her, and by the tilt of his head was drinking from a goblet. Stephen stood beside him, waiting until Radulf had finished, and then refilling the goblet from a beaten metal jug. Radulf grunted his thanks.

Lily noted that Radulf had removed his hauberk and helmet, and now wore a green, short-sleeved tunic over a white linen shirt and breeches of a muddy brown. A thick, dark-colored cloak was thrown loosely over one shoulder. The chain mail had taken with it some of his bulk, but he was still enormous, wide of back and shoulders, his body as strongly muscled as any large fighting animal. Powerful. Again Rona’s word seemed to encom

pass all that was Radulf.

“My lord Radulf,” Stephen spoke. “Will I dress your wounds?”

Radulf paused, the goblet once more lifted. His hair was very dark and cut short over his skull, shorter even than the Norman fashion.