The Lily and the Sword (Medieval 1)

As he spoke, William leaned forward in his chair. His body was tense and still, and his very stillness was so uncharacteristic that it made the two men before him edgy. Lord Kenton, small and bejeweled, his narrow, handsome face gray with grief and fatigue. And Radulf, big, dressed for battle, his black eyes full of a cold anger that had already sent William’s servants cowering.

The court fell mute as he answered, everyone straining to hear the low, husky voice.

“I say Lady Anna was nothing to me but a memory. Years ago she was wed to my father, but since then I have not seen her. Not until the night of my wedding, when she spoke to me and my wife.”

“She was your whore.” Kenton cut in angrily, his voice higher, shriller. “She told me so. She was your whore in the past, and when you came to York you wanted her again. She said you did not care for your wife—the marriage was forced upon you. You wanted my Anna.”

“‘Your Anna’ was lying.” Radulf sounded unruffled, but the blood pounded through his head, making it throb. His shoulder was aching like the devil, but he dared not show the slightest weakness before these crows. It was his strength, and the legends of it, that kept him safe.

“Why should she lie?” Kenton’s pale eyes were blazing. “She had nothing to gain from it.”

“Your jealousy,” Radulf replied mildly. “She played the same tricks upon my father, amusing herself by choosing favorites among the men of the household, driving him to greater and greater folly to please her. She wanted you to win her back, Kenton.”

“Bah!” He waved a hand. The jewels on his fingers sparkled richly in the light of the tall cand

les.

“I have already told my story,” Radulf went on calmly, speaking to the king. “I met with her because her behavior was upsetting my wife. I told her not to bother me again or I would go to her husband and disclose to him her faithlessness. I knew Kenton loved her and so did she, but she was not fool enough to believe he would keep forgiving her over and over. There comes a point where the wine of forgiveness is all drunk, and only dregs remain in the bottom of the cup. Maybe she had reached that point. My father did.”

“What do you know of—” Kenton began scathingly, but William held up his hand for silence. Reluctantly, twitching his richly embroidered tunic, Kenton held back the angry words bubbling in his throat.

William stroked his clean-shaven chin, eyes fixed upon the imposing figure of his Sword. “And Lady Anna took your advice in good part, Radulf?”

Radulf snorted a laugh. “No, sire, she did not! She was angry and rode off. I did not see her again. I was only glad that she had gone. I returned to the inn with my men.”

Kenton spun to face him, unable to contain his fury a moment longer. “You followed her and slew her! Because she would not give in to your lustful demands! She loved you once, Radulf, and you could not let her go.”

Radulf ground his teeth. “In God’s name, you have seen my wife! If I have ‘lustful demands,’ do you not think she can more than adequately meet them?”

William smiled, bowing his head to hide it, but Lord Kenton saw. He glared savagely from one to the other. “I see I will get no fair hearing here. It is well known the king and Radulf are more like brothers than master and subject.”

William stood up. His height, though not as great as Radulf’s, was imposing enough. To his credit, Kenton stood his ground, although it was clear he was half regretting his outburst.

“I will forgive you those remarks,” William said softly, almost gently, his eyes steely. “I understand your grief, Kenton. I, too, have a wife I treasure. You have spoken what is in your heart and mind, and I have listened. Depend upon me, I will not rest until I have found your wife’s murderer. However…I do not believe he is to be found here.”

Lord Kenton shot Radulf a bitter and malevolent glance. Briefly, he struggled with words he knew were better left unsaid in the king’s presence. When he spoke, his voice was harsh with strain. “I thank you, sire. You will understand if I continue to pursue my wife’s destroyer in my own time…in my own way.” Before the king could answer, he turned and walked quickly from the great hall.

William slapped a hand hard on the arm of his chair, and glared at Radulf’s impassive face. “You have placed me in a difficult position, Radulf,” he said softly. “I hope you appreciate it.”

Radulf bowed his head. “I do, sire, and am grateful for your trust in me.”

William nodded, watchful and a trifle sullen. “Kenton is a powerful man—almost as powerful as you, Radulf—and he has equally strong friends. England has only just found peace. I do not want two of my most important barons at each other’s throats.”

“I have no grievance against Lord Kenton.”

William frowned, obviously unhappy with the situation. Suddenly, as if he had had as much gloom as he could bear, he challenged, “Come! I am tired of all this darkness. We will go down to the training yard, Radulf, and see who is the better swordsman!”

Radulf’s heart sank. Weakness would be looked upon as a mark against him, especially when William had staunchly taken his side, so he dared not mention his shoulder. William would also know if he fought with less than his usual skill and vigor, and probably accuse him of currying favor by losing on purpose. So he must fight hard and for a good long time, long enough to satisfy William, and only then lose convincingly.

Still, this was a small thing when placed against the knowledge that he was safe again, warm in the favor of his king, free of Kenton’s raging grief and Anna’s lies, reaching out to him even from the grave. But despite all this, it was something more that gave a spring to his step as he followed William to what he knew would be an excruciatingly painful contest. Lily would not have to flee to Crevitch without him.

Soon he would return to her, knowing that she would be waiting, that she would lift her cool gray eyes to his. Call him a fool, but Radulf believed that hidden deep within that gray was a spark, an elusive promise, which spoke of better things.

A life, perhaps, such as he had only dreamed of. A warm, loving wife and children to follow where he led. A reason for doing what he did. A reason for being. Maybe that had been what his father sought, too.

A reason to be.

Alice had sent to her uncle’s house for needles and thread and shears. They had measured Lily with narrow tapes, and after carefully cutting the cloth, had begun the task of sewing it.