The Lily and the Sword (Medieval 1)

Lily answered before she thought. Dismay washed over her, and she opened her eyes slowly as she straightened. Gudren had just spoken in the Norse tongue, and Lily had answered her.

Gudren was grinning, a cunning gleam in her pale eyes. Lily saw then that it was not silence Gudren craved, ’twas only that she was a foreigner who spoke French badly, if at all. No wonder she was smiling with delight! How many Norman ladies could claim to know such a language?

Gudren leaned closer, bringing with her the combined aromas of herbs and goat. “’Tis long since I heard any other than my husband speak the sweet sounds of our own country. Are you from Norway, lady?”

Lily shook her head. It was pointless now to prevaricate. “No, Northumbria is my home. What do you in Grimswade, mother?”

Gudren sighed. “I follow my husband, Olaf. He came to England as a mercenary with William of Normandy, and now he is armorer to Lord Radulf.”

Lily’s gray eyes widened. “That must be a mighty job!”

Gudren laughed heartily at that, her round stomach jiggling. “You are right, ’tis difficult to cover such a big man, but Lord Radulf rewards his armorer well. Olaf makes swords, too, as fine as any in England. They fit to the hand as if they were born there, and sing with joy as they slice through flesh and bone.”

Lily felt her face lose some of its color. She was not squeamish; she had learned to face the truth about war—but there had been so much killing. Why must the Normans see every petty squabble as a chance to test their battle skills?

“You have come from Radulf’s estates?” Lily asked quickly.

Gudren nodded. “Aye, from Crevitch. We have been away for many months now. ’Tis soft country,” she added, with a trace of scorn. “Gentle hills and valleys, long green grass, and marshy flats. Lord Radulf longs for home, although”—she grinned knowingly—“he will never say so.”

Lily tried to imagine Radulf longing for something, anything. The Radulf of legend liked nothing better than to slay his enemies, eat heartily, and slay some more. Nowhere in the story did it mention yearning to go home.

Gudren poured herself more ale. “You seem curious about Lord Radulf. I will tell you the story of his life,” she announced, settling back in her chair.

There was a scuffle beyond the tent entrance, followed by a cry, and then a man the size of a mountain forced his way past the guard and into the smoky interior.

Lily screamed.

Wild white hair, a face tanned almost black, and eyes as blue as the sky. He crouched double as he came toward her, his fist clenched around a lethal-looking axe.

“Olaf?” Gudren’s voice was mildly scolding. “Why do you frighten the lady?”

Olaf gave her a hideous scowl. “We are attacked, woman! Cannot you hear the fighting further up the hill? Bah, your tongue clacks too loud for you to hear anything! Come”—he reached out one meaty hand to Lily—“I am to take you to my lord. He would see you safe.”

Now that the pounding of her heart had slowed, Lily could hear the sound of battle. Dull thuds and men’s shouts and the screams of the wounded. They were being attacked, but by whom? If they were enemies of the Normans, then surely they must be Lily’s friends?

Briefly, she considered pushing by Olaf and running.

But Olaf was enormous, and dangerous. She wouldn’t make it, and then she would have to explain her actions to Radulf. Meekly, Lily gave him her hand.

“She speaks the language of the far north,” Gudren informed him with pleasure, as if there were nothing wrong.

Olaf’s scowl remained, but his wife’s unflappable calm brought an appreciative gleam to his eyes. “Stay here, Gudren. I have set men to guard the women’s tents.” His voice dropped and became almost gentle. “I would not have anything happen to you.”

Gudren smiled serenely. “I know you wouldn’t, husband.”

For a moment their love for each other was like a fire, the sensation so strong that Lily was certain that if she reached out her hands, she would feel the warmth of it. A wave of loss and longing came over her as she thought of her terrible marriage to Vorgen and her childhood sweetheart Hew’s betrayal. Why couldn’t she have a love like Gudren and Olaf? Why must she always be frightened and alone?

“Come,” ordered Olaf.

Outside, the darkness was lightened by an almost full moon, which far outshone the feeble fires of the campsite. The fighting seemed to be beyond the horses’ enclosure, the sounds of battle waxing and waning on the chill breeze. Olaf’s tight hold on Lily tugged her onward between the tents and past grim, running men. The clatter of swords and shields made her head ache.

Olaf grunted. “We will slaughter them like pigs.”

Lily swallowed, and found her voice. “Who are they?” she managed, hoisting her skirts higher so that the wool cloth no longer impeded her progress—Olaf did not believe in taking ladylike steps.

“What is left of Vorgen’s rebels. They have been watching us and they crept too close. I do not believe they wanted to fight, but they were discovered by our scouts. Now they are dying.”

Were those poor souls the “friends” Father Luc meant? Lily hoped not. She did not want men to die for her, for a war already lost. If only she could speak to her people, to make them understand that further fighting would gain them nothing but more misery, and that their only hope now lay in Lily’s making peace with William of Normandy.