The Lily and the Sword (Medieval 1)

As the hospitaler led her away, she did not turn. Trust me, Radulf had said. And the strange thing was, she had almost been prepared to do so. Until his anger, his inflexible stance on Vorgen, had made her see the danger of such an action. Like a game of chance, she would not know the outcome until it was too late.

And Lily could not afford to dice with her freedom, or mayhap her life.

Chapter 8

Bells rang from the church calling the monks to Compline, the last prayers of the day, as the hospitaler led Lily through a small courtyard. She paused, breathing deeply to calm herself. The dark vault of the sky above her was ablaze with stars, but tonight their beauty appeared cold and distant to Lily.

She shook her head, forcing back the urge to weep. When he knew the truth, Radulf would be glad that she had gone. He would hate her. But if she had deceived him, then she was being punished for it.

Lily took another gasping breath. Time enough later to grieve. She forced herself to concentrate, to look about properly for the first time.

There were several open archways leading from the little courtyard. In the moonlight beyond one she could see a walled herb garden, and through another the dark, angular shape of the gatehouse.

Her way out.

“My lady?”

The monk, a black shadow, was waiting patiently beside a wooden doorway. Lily hastened to follow.

Her room was narrow and plain, and contained a bed, a crucifix, and a fat candle. After some of her recent sleeping places, it seemed like a palace. When the hospitaler had gone, she sank down wearily on the pallet. She was very tired, but must not fall asleep. She would wait until everyone else slept and then she would find her mare in the stables, and ride away from here.

Away from Radulf.

Her heart ached, but what choice had she? The arguments, the questions kept running through her head, but there was only one answer. She must leave tonight and never see Radulf again.

Time passed slowly. Eventually the monastery grew very still. Lily imagined the Norman soldiers sleeping, Radulf too, his hard face made vulnerable. Once again tears swelled, only this time she allowed them to trickle down her cheeks. Their salt stung her lips, and with shaking fingers, Lily lifted one corner of her cloak to wipe them away. Something round and hard made a ridge in the lining.

The ring.

With difficulty, Lily tipped the golden circle into her palm. The hawk seemed to stare back at her from its black background, the red eye glinting in the candlelight. “‘I give thee my heart,’” she whispered.

In Lily’s eyes the ring had always stood for fairness and a just ruler, as well as the love her Viking mother bore her English father. Vorgen had stolen it for a time and subverted it into something mean and avaricious, but now it was Lily’s.

She had hoped that, through her, the ruby-eyed hawk would one day be seen again as the mark of a fair and just ruler. And that she would be that ruler. Could such dreams still come true, or was she doomed to run and hide for the rest of her life?

Lily turned the ring over in her fingers, testing the familiar weight of it. With a fatalistic flourish, she slipped it onto her thumb.

The time for subterfuge had passed. Whether she was captured now, trying to escape the monastery, or tomorrow when they reached Rennoc, Lily was lost. At least she would be herself: the Lady Wilfreda, daughter of an English nobleman and a Viking princess, and rightful ruler of her father’s Northumbrian lands.

Her eyes dry, her mind clear, Lily rose to her feet. As she moved toward the door, she hesitated, then removed her jeweled dagger from its sheath, slipping it under her girdle. She did not expect to use it, but the threat might be enough if the situation required it. Carefully, trying not to breathe, Lily cracked open her door.

The abbot’s house was dark and empty. Lily’s hand crept to her dagger anyway. She had expected one of Radulf’s soldiers to appear before her and demand to know where she was going. Icy droplets of fear on her skin made her shiver as she tried to pierce the shadows. There was no one. In some corner of her mind it occurred to her that Radulf had been strangely remiss in not posting his usual guard, but she was so relieved by his oversight that she let her doubts slip away.

Lily’s shaking fingers uncurled from the dagger and she slowly eased out of her room, closing the door behind her.

There were no guards outside the abbot’s house, either, and it was a simple matter to slip into the small courtyard. Breathing fast, heart thudding, Lily pulled the hood of her cloak over her bright hair and ran beneath the archway in the direction of the stables.

Everything was so still.

The monastery buildings were dark, silent shapes, which Lily’s imagination peopled with dozens of watching eyes. The stables were situated near the gatehouse, and the stable door easily creaked open to her touch. The smells of horse and hay were released from within, comforting in their familiarity.

Lily peeped inside.

A torch flared on one wall, which struck her as providential rather than strange. There was no sign of Radulf’s men or any of the monks. A ladder ran up into a hayloft, and after holding her breath and listening, Lily decided that, too, was empty.

Her mare gave a soft whicker of greeting, and several of the other animals moved restlessly. Radulf’s great destrier eyed her solemnly, as if questioning her right to be there. Like its master, the war horse filled Lily with a sense of awe…and regret.

No time for that now!