The Lily and the Sword (Medieval 1)

Radulf grunted.

“Come, Radulf, it is a good scheme. I will continue your hunt for Vorgen’s wife and guard her lands. It will take only two days to get to Rennoc, and your mind will be set at ease.”

He was right, Radulf knew. Best to discover once and for all the truth about Lily. Then why this sense of deep reluctance? As if he knew the truth might not be something he wished to hear? Just as the truth had been something his father had refused to acknowledge…Nay! he could not go down that road.

A feeling of calm settled over him. Lily might well be any number of things: a liar, a straying wife, an English spy, a follower of Vorgen’s wife. There was a myriad of unpleasant possibilities. But whatever she was, Radulf had two days—three or four if he took his time—in which to enjoy her before they reached Rennoc.

Curtly he nodded his agreement, but Henry noted the tension had returned to his face.

Back once more in Gudren’s tent, Lily reacquainted herself with the smell of smoke and the taste of goat’s cheese. Gudren appeared pleased to see her, chattering away in her own language. Lily had only to nod occasionally to keep the conversation going.

In truth, she was too caught up in her own thoughts to pay Gudren much attention.

He is a god.

Why had she said such a thing? Though they had thought her jesting, the words remained to Lily a betrayal of the depth of her feelings. And she knew Radulf had sensed their truth, just as he sensed her lies.

Soon he would be gone, soon she could plot her escape. There would not be another chance like this. Once Radulf returned, he would send for her again. And with each moment the leaving would grow more difficult, and the danger more intense.

She could not risk it.

“You are far away, my pretty one.”

Gudren was watching her with pale eyes, her round face made even broader by her smile.

“There are things to be considered, mother.”

Gudren nodded wisely, as if she understood. “Lord Radulf has a fiercesome reputation, lady, but you should not believe all you hear.”

Lily smiled despite herself. “Is he a lamb then, to follow meekly? I think not.”

“That would depend on who called,” Gudren retorted.

“They say,” Lily began thoughtfully, “he is without a heart or a soul, that he kills to feed the lust within himself. That he knows nothing else, except the authority of his king. That he is as cold and hard as the sword he wields.”

“The legends would have it so. He is a great warrior, ’tis true, but he is also a wise and just lord. I cannot speak for others, but I know that my Olaf is well paid for his work, and has a dry, comfortable place to live and sleep, and that our table groans with food. At Crevitch, the people do not talk of his lack of heart. Their bellies are full and their bones are warm, and they cheer him when he rides home.”

Lily shifted uneasily. “You almost make me believe him to be a great man, mother.”

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“And so he is, lady. So he is. He is also a fine lover…so I have heard.”

Color flooded Lily’s cheeks.

Did everyone in the camp know of last night? Life here was close-knit, necessarily so. The Normans were strangers in a foreign land and clung together for safety as well as the familiarity of their own kind. They would know if their lord coughed, and why. They must know about Radulf and Lily.

“You do not under—” Lily began, when a deep voice from outside interrupted her.

“Lily?”

Her gray eyes widened on Gudren’s. Briefly she considered remaining silent, pretending she was not there, but dismissed the idea as cowardly and foolish.

Radulf would simply come in and drag her out.

She nodded stiffly in Gudren’s direction. “Thank you once again, mother. I will not forget your kindness.”

Gudren watched her go, a knowing smile in her eyes.