The Lily and the Sword (Medieval 1)

“Oh no, lady,” Una had replied, when Lily asked her if she wished to come with them. “It’s been like a dream, with you and Lord Radulf here, and one I’m not likely to forget. But it’s time for me to wake up now. There’s a boy who’s been too afraid to come calling on me these past weeks. He’ll be back now that you’re leaving.”

She smiled contentedly. “I thank you for asking me, but my place is here, making the best pies in all of York.”

Alice, however, visited constantly. She had purloined some sewing women, and Lily’s wardrobe was moving ahead in giant leaps and bounds. Lily had worn the midnight-blue wool to court, and the water-green silk, and even King William had been struck dumb—briefly—by her beauty. As the King’s Sword’s wife she already had some reflected glory, but now she began to gather it in her own right.

On Alice’s behalf, Lily had asked Radulf to look favorably upon a marriage between her friend and Jervois. At first Radulf had refused, still angry with Alice for helping Lily to follow him to the meeting with Anna, but Lily had persisted and eventually he promised to consider it.

“Perhaps Jervois does not want to wed the lady,” he said mildly.

“And still look at her in such a way?” Lily retorted. “As if he will pounce on her and gobble her up?”

Radulf chuckled. “And how does Alice look at him?”

“As if she would be glad to be gobbled,” Lily answered, as amused as he. “He is too proud to ask the favor of you, my lord.”

“He is young,” Radulf excused his captain. “He will learn.”

“So you will agree to further this marriage?”

“I will agree to think about it.”

Radulf’s shoulder had healed slowly, though no one would have believed he had a sore shoulde

r at all from the way in which he “flung himself about,” as Alice said. Only Jervois and Lily saw his pain.

Lily continued to rub her healing potions into his tender flesh at bedtime. She found such pleasure in touching him, in running her hands over that magnificent body, that sometimes she prolonged her ministrations just so that she could continue to stroke him. After she finished, it was Radulf’s turn to watch her as she undressed and brushed her hair, braiding it sometimes, or sometimes climbing into bed beside him with the silken cloak loose about her.

By then he was always aroused, his hands reaching up to cup her firm breasts or between her legs, teasing her until she begged him to push that hard, velvet-covered flesh deep within her, and climb with her to that peak of pleasure.

The wonder never seemed to grow any less.

Lily didn’t tell him about the baby. Although it was real to her now, not speaking of it allowed life to remain simple. Once Radulf knew, things would change, become complicated in ways she hardly dared imagine. She expected he would immediately send her south to Crevitch, where she would be watched over as carefully as his most precious broodmares. Perhaps he would even stop making love to her, fearing it would harm the child.

No, she was right to keep her secret from him. The longer she kept it, the more time they would have together.

Of course it couldn’t last. She knew that. Every morning as she quelled her nausea, she knew there would come a time when she could no longer hide it from Radulf, and he would realize. But every morning she promised herself one more day—and night—with him.

King William was leaving the north. As if to celebrate the fact, he increased his demands upon Radulf, bidding him here and there. Radulf wanted to start building his northern castle before the weather turned bleak—already summer was coming to its end, and soon the long golden days would fade, the trees turning red and orange with the colors of autumn. The wind was cooler, too, with a bite that spoke of darker days.

Lord Henry was to begin on the castle foundations, and Radulf sent him serfs and skilled men to do the work. “Though I cannot expect him to remain in the north doing my bidding, when he has lands of his own in the south, awaiting his return,” Radulf told Lily. He stroked the scar near his eye, watching as she put the finishing touches to her costume.

In honor of the king’s final evening in York, she was wearing the red velvet. Her skin and hair were so pale against the deep, rich color that they appeared almost translucent. Yet despite her unearthly air, there was a voluptuousness about her tonight, a flush on her cheeks and her lips, a glitter to her eyes, while beneath the smooth gown her body swelled full and opulent.

Radulf felt his pulse quicken, though he continued to speak as if it had not. “When I go north you will remain here in York. As soon as I return, we will go south, to Crevitch. I have been away too long.”

Lily turned her head to look at him. She was like an idol, he thought. Some Viking fertility goddess, luring him into lustful madness with her cool beauty. He felt his manhood twitch and almost groaned aloud. She would probably kill him with overuse, but he had no complaint. He was more than happy with the manner of death.

“I would rather come with you, lord,” she said quietly.

Radulf blinked, trying to remember his words of a few moments ago. Crevitch, was that it?

“You are coming with me, mignonne.”

“No, I don’t mean to Crevitch. I mean north, to my lands, to my people. They need me. I thought that was why the king ordered us to marry, so that I could help bring peace to the north. I should be with you.”

He frowned, his head clearing with a jolt. “Should you? Or do you want to run for the border and join Hew and his bloodthirsty Scots?” He spoke before he could stop himself, but the fear was real enough. He often wondered, in some dark corner of his mind, if she might try and run away from him again. Was all of this but an interlude, a pretty memory to take out and examine when he was an old, embittered man?

For a moment Lily looked as if he had struck her, then she was herself again. The ice queen, her gray Viking eyes daring him to show weakness.