The Lily and the Sword (Medieval 1)

When Radulf nodded his consent, Lily didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry.

“Very well, lady. Stephen, fetch what needs to be fetched. And bring food. I am hungry, and the lady will eat with me before you take her to Gudren’s tent.”

When Stephen had hurried out, Lily dared a question. “You were hurt today?”

Radulf gave her one of his unreadable looks. “No, lady. I was hurt yesterday when we fought what was left of Vorgen’s army. An arrow pierced my chain mail. ’Twas a slighting blow, not serious. I could ride out and fight now, if need be, without any difficulty.”

Lily was sure he could. Such a man as he appeared indestructible—part of Radulf’s legend stated he was unable to be slain—but Lily had begun to unpick that mythical tapestry.

Stephen returned with a bowl of warmed water, some cleaning cloths, and strips of linen for binding the wound. He also removed an earthenware pot of salve from a small chest in the corner, and placed it upon the trestle table with the rest. At a nod from Radulf he bowed and slipped back out of the tent, leaving them once more alone.

Radulf eased himself down onto a stool and gave Lily a faint, mocking smile over one shoulder. “You say you are not afraid of me, lady. Prove it.”

Lily shrugged in pretended disdain. He turned away from her, and she was left facing a broad and unfriendly expanse of back. She sensed he was waiting; she also sensed his tension—it was a brave man who turned his back on a stranger in Northumbria. He was testing her. Lily took a step closer, and then another, until she stood directly behind him.

His big body gave off such warmth. It attracted her, an irresistible pull. Her inner voice was still protesting but Lily took no notice. There was something very strange happening to her

, and Radulf was at its core. Her fingers trembled as she lifted them, and carefully rested her hands on his broad shoulders. Lily felt his muscles tense beneath her touch, and he shifted restlessly on his stool.

“Am I hurting you, my lord?”

He laughed wryly. “Aye, I hurt, lady.” Radulf glanced up at her and, seeing her incomprehension, sighed. “Tend me then, Lily. You are not hurting me.”

With infinite care, Lily began to remove Radulf’s tunic and undershirt. The cloth was fine and well made, as befitted a great lord. Radulf lifted his arms to help her, and first the tunic and then the shirt slipped up over his head. Lily folded them neatly, placing them to one side before turning again to Radulf.

She bit her lips.

Her mother, before she died when Lily was a child, had told her wondrous stories of Valhalla, the Norse heaven, peopled with gods like Odin and Thor and Freyr. Thor was Lily’s favorite. He was the strongest, a giant, but he was clever, too, and according to Lily’s mother, of such manly beauty a maiden might fall instantly under his spell. Lily had listened to those stories, her gray eyes wide, dreaming that one day she might behold such a creature.

And now she had.

Radulf’s back was broad and brown, with well-defined muscles roped beneath his skin. Lily was tempted to run her hands over his shoulder blades and down his spine, smoothing her palms over that firm, healthy body. And as for his arms, why, she would need two hands to measure their upper circumference, and even then her fingers would not meet! Hew had been slim and golden, while Vorgen had been old and sinewy. Not like this. Never like this.

Stop it. Are you losing your wits? Remember who this is, remember what he could do to you.

The wound—she must tend the wound.

It was but a shallow gouge in his flesh, just beyond the ridge of his shoulder. Lily could see where the arrow had sliced through his skin, luckily not piercing it too deeply. There had been some bleeding, though that had stopped, and there was now only a slight leaking of watery fluid. Still it looked red and sore, and must hurt him quite a bit.

“Does this hurt you?” She pressed the edge of the wound, gentle but firm. It was best to know now if there was any swelling or poison. Lily had seen men die of something so small it was hardly noticed by them, and yet they sickened and, within a short time, died in great agony.

“No,” he said, his deep voice husky. “Your hands are gentle, lady. ’Tis long since I have had such tender care.”

Lily suddenly became very brisk, bathing away the dried blood, careful not to inflict further pain or hurt. Radulf sat as a statue, never flinching or crying out as Vorgen had always done. During her ministrations Stephen returned with food and more wine, setting both silently upon the table and once more leaving them alone. When Lily finally lifted the earthenware pot and opened the stopper, she held it up to her nose and sniffed sharply.

Radulf turned his head to look up at her. A glint of amusement shone deep in his eyes. “Do you mean to anoint me with it, lady, or eat it?”

She ignored him. “I know it,” she murmured with relief. “’Tis from the marigold plant. A goodly potion for healing wounds such as yours.”

“You are a healer?” he asked sharply, still watching her.

Lily laughed, genuinely amused. “No, my lord, I am no healer. I have learned only a little. But enough,” she added. There was no need to tell him too much; she must not give her secrets away.

Radulf seemed satisfied and nodded, turning back to his contemplation of the food on the table. It must be growing cold and he was hungry, yet he hadn’t spoken angrily to her, he hadn’t lifted his hand to strike her. He had sat still and patient and allowed her her way with him.

What sort of Norman was this?

“Have I time to see to your hand?” she asked quickly and a little breathlessly.