The Lily and the Sword (Medieval 1)

Radulf frowned, and finally some of his rage fell from him. His wits, which had been writhing like snakes in his head, began to calm. He asked himself whether, in the heat of his passion, he could have imagined her maidenhead. No, he had not been mistaken. Even now he recalled the resistance when he broke it asunder, and how she had explained her virgin state.

My husband was old.

Vorgen was old.

He was unable.

Radulf recalled there had been rumors, even before Hastings, that Vorgen was impotent.

She had not lied in everything, then.

His frown deepened. If she had told some truths, was it possible that she had told the truth when she said she burned for him? Burned for him as much as he burned for her?

Radulf shrugged his shoulders angrily. What did it matter? Why was he splitting hairs? She was the Lady Wilfreda, that was the important point. He had been ordered by his king to find her and bring her before him.

He was happy to obey. Ecstatic!

At that moment, Jervois bumped against him and earned himself a look that would have turned a lesser man to jelly. “My lord,” he began, his voice strained, “I beg your pardon, but the lady will not eat or drink. She is making herself unwell. I fear by the time we reach the king at York, she will be no more than a wraith…”

But Radulf wasn’t listening to his captain. After that brief glare, his restless gaze had traveled past Jervois, over the tired and dirty faces of his soldiers, and settled on the author of his troubles.

Lily rode hemmed in by heavily armed guards. Lady Wilfreda, Radulf corrected himself. May her soul rot for making such an idiot out of him. For tempting him to open wide his sore, wounded heart, only to have her stab him with her lies. She was an evil conniving bitch. Just like Anna. She was—

“My lord?” repeated the long-suffering Jervois.

Lily had begun to sway in her saddle. Her face had turned chalk-white, and her silver-fair hair was tangled and dulled. There was a mark on her cheek, caused by her fall from her mare during the escape attempt.

The woebegone sight of her did not soften Radulf’s heart. Instead his fury returned, a different sort of fury and hotter than ever. Like a spurred devil, it rode him, raking him. Giving him no rest. Suddenly he could bear it no more.

“Stop!”

At his bellow, his men did stop. They pulled up so sharply their horses danced, and their swords grated in their scabbards as they prepared for certain attack.

“Be easy,” Radulf ordered gruffly, when he saw what he had done. He looked about him at the weary, exhausted faces, as if seeing them for the first time. “We will rest here awhile.”

He could not miss the exchange of grateful glances, but no one said anything as they dismounted. Radulf swung down to the ground and strode back toward Lily, still atop her mare, every movement he made proclaiming his anger.

Lily stiffened, watching him approach. Her eyes were reddened and gritty from lack of sleep, while apprehension had drained her face of all color. But she refused to let him see her weakness, gripping the reins tightly to hide the trembling of her hands, reminding herself of who she was. She had gone from misery to hatred so many times, she no longer knew what she felt.

Radulf barely paused as he reached her, lifting her abruptly from the saddle. Her hands were tied before her, so she was unable to prevent him, but she made her body rigid and unhelpful. As Radulf set her down, however, her breasts brushed his chest. That, and his hard hands at her waist, almost shredded her carefully constructed defenses, and she had to exert all her strength to prevent herself from melting against him. Focused so hard on being strong, she didn’t notice how very gently he set her on her feet.

Dark eyes looked down, gray eyes lifted. Fury and ice clashed and collided. Perhaps it was the proud coldness in her eyes, so at odds with her bedraggled state, but suddenly Radulf found his anger unraveling. When he spoke to Jervois, his voice was almost mild. “Has she had aught to eat and drink?”

Jervois had hurried along in his lord’s wake, and sounded breathless. “No, my lord. She will take neither.”

Radulf grunted. He lifted Lily’s hands, checking on the tightness of the rope, and saw at once the red marks where the coarse fibers had rubbed her tender skin. Something twisted inside him, a truth he had tried to keep buried until now. She let him inspect a bruise on her wrist and a torn fingernail, pretending haughty indifference. She was like a queen, only far more regal than any queen Radulf had ever known. He felt a wild urge to pull her into his arms and hold her fast until this proud stranger was vanquished, and all that remained was his sweet, beautiful Lily, the girl from Grimswade Church.

Instantly he stifled it.

This was no time to loose his grip. The part of him that was his father’s son might want nothing more than to throw all caution to the four winds, but Radulf the warrior knew better. Still, the sheer madness of such a thought at such a time brought a gleam of appreciative humor to his dark eyes.

Lily recognized it, and her own eyes widened.

Radulf had pulled her jeweled dagger from his belt and was slicing through her bonds. When he lifted his face again, it was once more a stony mask, and his eyes were as bleak as winter.

“Now, eat!” he ordered, and turned and walked away.

Lily watched him go.