The Lily and the Sword (Medieval 1)

Radulf laughed briefly. “Perhaps it is. Come sit down, my lady. We will eat, and this time there will be no interruptions.”

His eyes promised much more than food, but Lily avoided his gaze. “I find I am weary rather than hungry, my lord. I would sleep now.”

The silence grew heavy, but still Lily refused to look up. She heard Radulf sigh.

“Very well, lady. I will have Stephen take you to Gudren’s tent.”

Lily’s stiff bearing eased with relief, and yet there was a traitorous sense of disappointment. She had liked it when Radulf kissed her, liked it very much indeed. She would not mind if he kissed her again. But kisses would lead to other things, and Lily was not sure she had the strength to resist. Radulf might be her enemy, but he held an attraction for her that was well-nigh irresistible.

Radulf swallowed the last of a chunk of mutton, and reached for more. His body was burning, but this was no ordinary fever. He gulped down half a goblet of wine, refilling it immediately, as if the sour red liquid might somehow quench the fire Lily had started in him. He forced himself to chew more of the meat, then bit into the hard brown bread. Radulf wondered wildly if he should send his squire to bring him one of the whores who were a permanent part of any soldiers’ camp. But he didn’t want a whore.

He wanted Lily.

He had wanted her as soon as he walked into the tent and saw her lying asleep on his bed, her pale hair spread across the covers, her mouth curved in a secret smile. If Stephen hadn’t been there, he might have been tempted to caress her to wakefulness, to befuddle her with kisses so that she would not remember who and what he was. Until it was too late.

Instead he had ordered her to tend his wound, suffering agonies of lust as her scent teased his nostrils and she touched him with her gentle fingers, each brush of her skin another twig upon the pyre of his need.

Radulf sighed, impatient with himself. He was a fool. He had seen the terror in those gray eyes when she woke and saw him. What woman could fail to fear him? And yet she had tended his wound and met his eyes straightly when she spoke to him. She had courage. Perhaps her gratitude would overcome her fright long enough for him to make her forget he was Radulf.

He remembered his mouth on hers, the sweetness of it, the heat as she opened her lips to his tongue, and clenched his jaw on a groan. She had been in his arms, her lashes dark crescents against her pale skin, her long, fair hair curling in wild tendrils about her back and shoulders. Her breasts had swelled beneath the red wool of her gown, rising and falling quickly with each breath—already he knew their size and shape, as if God had made them precisely to fit into his hand.

Radulf gave up trying to eat.

He knew he should have questioned her further about Morcar and Rennoc. He should have questioned her in regard to her journey from the border. He should have asked her about the ambush in the wood and how she alone had escaped the attackers. And why three of his men, sent to investigate that same wood, had found no sign of any fighting.

Was she a liar?

He didn’t care.

Nothing seemed to matter anymore but the heat in his groin and satisfying it with her.

Radulf did not know how long he sat, staring at nothing, before the sounds penetrated his mind.

The clash of swords and the shouts of men, the unmistakable noise of battle.

Gudren’s tent was roomy, although a fire just outside combined with a brisk breeze to send frequent gusts of smoke within. Once Lily had adjusted to the gloom and the pungent odor of woodsmoke, she found the tent warm and clean. Gudren, ignoring her protests, supplied her with an ample supper of bread and goat’s cheese, as well as ale to wash it down.

Gudren was a woman of middle age, her body comfortably plump, her pale eyes wrinkle-wrapped and watchful. She preferred to keep her silence, as Lily discovered when she had spoken several times and received nothing but smiling nods in reply.

After she had eaten her fill, Lily set about combing her tangled hair with an antler comb, and plaiting it into one long braid. Gudren seemed to be dozing, eyes half closed. The fluttering tallow candle smoothed the age from her face and bleached the gray from her hair. They might have been anywhere, anyone…two women taking respite after a busy, task-filled day.

Outside in the Norman camp, all was quiet as the soldiers huddled in sleep around their fires or in their tents. Lily felt oddly secure, like a child again, in the safety of her father’s hall. She even heard hi

s voice.

You carry the blood of warriors and kings in your veins, Lily. But ’tis possible that you may be forced to bow your head one day, for the sake of your lands and your people, to lesser men. Be proud and remember, your altruism and your ability to compromise does not make you weak, rather it strengthens you.

Had he known even then that war was inevitable? Perhaps he had felt the cold wind from across the channel, the stirring of the Norman conquerors. Perhaps he had stood at his gate to greet those same conquerors, and seen the greed in Vorgen’s eyes. What would he think of Radulf? Would he see only that here was another Norman, or would he see past the outer trappings to the man within, as Lily was beginning to?

A rustle beyond the tent startled Lily, bringing her back to her surroundings. Peering through the smoky gloom, she made out the shape of a soldier standing at attention before the entrance. As she watched, he shuffled his feet again, and his sword scabbard clinked dully against his chain mail.

Lily was Radulf’s prisoner. How could she imagine anything else?

She closed her eyes again, trying to recapture her previous mood, but the warm contentment had vanished.

“You are tired, my pretty one?”

“A little, mother.”