The Lily and the Sword (Medieval 1)

For better or worse, they were joined together.

As she thought it, Radulf swooped down and set his lips to hers in a quick, hard kiss. And then William was slapping his back and other voices were shouting congratulations. The noisy, colorful crowd moved back into the hall to begin the eating and drinking, and the king himself took Lily’s hand and led her to the high table on the dais, to the place of honor by his side.

“Your hand is cool, Lady Wilfreda,” he said, when she was seated. “Does that mean your heart is warm?” But he seemed to doubt it; his sharp eyes

held little of the friendship he shared with Radulf.

My heart is broken.

“Will you be a loyal wife to my Sword?” he went on, not waiting for an answer. “I would not like to see him unable to rest in his own chamber, fearing a dagger in his back.”

William, Lily recalled, was himself happily married and, it was rumored, had never been tempted to stray. Perhaps some Normans understood love after all.

“I wish only to see my lands ruled well and wisely, sire, and will do everything in my power to bring that wish about. Does that make me a loyal wife?”

“No, lady. Loyalty is not a cloak to wear when it suits you. Radulf deserves better than that.”

“I do not intend to betray my husband,” Lily said quietly.

William frowned at her, opened his mouth to say more. Just then an enormous plate was carried in, topped by a roasted boar crouched upon a bed of vine leaves and surrounded by honeyed vegetables. A murmur of appreciation arose from the guests, and William rubbed his hands together in anticipation. Lily watched in dismay as he piled her plate high and then ordered her jeweled goblet filled to the brim with the heady spiced wine.

“You will celebrate your wedding, Lady Wilfreda,” he commanded, “whether you willed it or not. Now eat up!”

“Yes, sire.” She modestly lowered her eyes to hide her anger. When the king’s suffocating attention had moved on, she dared a glance at Radulf on her other side. He caught it, reading it correctly as his dark gaze swept over her piled plate. The corner of his mouth tugged up.

“You are clearly ravenous, lady.”

“No,” spluttered Lily, “I am not!”

He made his mouth serious, though a gleam still lit his dark eyes. “You are thin, wife. A little more flesh could not hurt.”

Lily sighed in exasperation. “If I eat this, I will be as round as a bladder.”

He threw back his head and laughed, the tension smoothing from his face as if by magic. She had never seen him laugh like that. He looked so handsome and so carefree, not like the King’s Sword at all! It caught at her, confused her, like a hand squeezing her heart. Then someone else claimed his attention and Lily was left with a view of his back.

It was, she decided, a very nice back. Broad, straight, shoulders wide…She took a small piece of meat and began to chew. She felt absurdly pleased with herself for making him laugh. Somehow their byplay had lightened the mood, and even sitting beside a king who did not like her very much didn’t seem quite so bad.

Lily glanced at Radulf again, secretly examining him. The ice within her melted still further as she allowed herself a brief daydream. Radulf’s arms around her, his mouth on hers…Loud and discordant music brought her to her senses, luckily before she could melt completely into a warm puddle of lust.

A group of players capered about the hall, singing and playing their instruments until Lily’s ears rang with their racket. When they had done, a harpist played and sang some plaintive songs, but was soon ousted in favor of acrobats and then some actors, who performed a play based on Lily’s own recent capture and wedding.

Surprised and dismayed, Lily recognized herself in a lithesome lad with a long, fair wig and a disdainful air. He glided about, swinging his hips and tossing his locks, while glancing coquettishly in the direction of the player who was meant to be Radulf.

If Lily had found her own portrayal embarrassing, Radulf’s was worse. He was depicted as a fool, blundering about the hall, tripping over feet and dogs, cursing and shaking his fist, and all the time making much of his “sword.” Bawdy laughter followed every jest.

Radulf, leaning back in his chair beside Lily, gave the occasional snort of laughter, but like her he was embarrassed that his personal affairs had become fodder for William and his gossip-hungry court. He was more used to inspiring fear than laughter.

As the play came to an end and the “bride” and “groom” were entwined in a clinch more like a wrestling match than an embrace, Radulf breathed a deep sigh of relief. He glanced sideways and noted Lily’s bowed head and the flush of color in her cheeks. Had this nonsense upset her? She glanced up, just a quick flicker of her long lashes, and he was gazing directly into a pair of dark gray eyes.

“’Tis only silliness,” he assured her in a murmur, his voice low and gentle.

Lily’s pupils were huge and dark and she shivered, but when he asked her if she was chilled, she shook her head. “No, it is only…no, it is nothing, my lord.”

He wanted to ask her to tell him what she really felt; he wanted to take her aside and hear her voice close to his ear, her breath warming his skin. For suddenly it seemed as though the iron shield she held so rigidly before her had been lowered. But in a moment it was back up again, her chin raised, her gaze haughty.

Radulf nodded and turned away, back to the conversation of the man to his right. Yet he remained intensely aware of Lily, as if her every movement was imprinted on his skin. Was it his fevered imagination, or had he seen invitation in her gray eyes? Was it possible his wedding night was going to be more than sitting with his men getting drunk?

Nerves jumped in Radulf’s belly. He felt like a boy with his first girl. It was ridiculous, demeaning, but he couldn’t help it. He wanted Lily, he needed her, and tonight that was all that mattered.