The Lily and the Sword (Medieval 1)

Jervois nodded soberly, as if he believed her. “Make haste, lady. Lord Radulf may be able to persuade the king to do his will where you are concerned, but I doubt he can prevent the enemy from attacking.”

Lily urged her horse forward. There was bitterness in her voice when she spoke. “When has Lord Radulf ever persuaded the king to do his will where I was concerned, Jervois? I remember him arguing with the king on a number of occasions, but it was never to please me.”

Jervois gave her a look of astonishment. “Why, lady, what about when Lord Radulf persuaded the king to agree to your marriage? He knew who you were then, and knew that King William could well have him arrested for treason, but still he laid claim to you. Has he not told you this?”

Lily shook her head, staring at him as if he had grown horns and a tail. Her mare plodded to a stop. “That can’t be. The king ordered Radulf to marry me. I was there; I heard.”

It had not occurred to Jervois that Radulf would not tell his wife what had transpired that day at William’s court. “Perhaps it is not for me to say,” he began, but Lily would have none of that.

“Tell me. Please, Jervois. I swear I won’t come with you unless you do.”

There was desperation in her face, in her eyes, which Jervois had never seen before. Here was not the cold creature of rumor, but a warm, living woman, a woman who was suffering.

“Very well, lady, but we must ride swiftly as I speak, or the battle will commence before we reach Lord Radulf!”

Chapter 19

Radulf had been watching the sky grow lighter. Hew’s army occupied a goodly portion of the upper valley. The number of Englishmen had dwindled to only a handful, but there were archers and foot soldiers, as well as a heavy contingent of horse soldiers, tough men who had fought at Hastings for Lord Kenton—my lord was safe elsewhere, the harsh reality of the battlefield was not his to taste.

Hew sat upon his horse, his long, fair hair, the glory of an English noble, as yet uncovered by a helmet. His gaze often turned to Radulf’s position. Radulf tucked his own helmet under his arm, his black hair stirred by the cold wind that swirled up the rise upon which he stood.

If Hew could read his mind, he thought, he would be even more confident. For who could fear a man who was as sick with longing as he?

Radulf had awakened that morning, the rage still pounding in his head, to find Lily tucked against him, her hand upon his chest, her cheek nestled into his shoulder. Her face was pale and still puffy from the tears she had shed. He could have gathered her closer and kissed her, but he didn’t.

The anger had gripped him again. He remembered how he had grown weak with the want of her, squandering his wealth by buying her clothes and searching out a fine house to suit her. And all the while she had held herself cool and distant, and taken what he gave. No, he did not want to forgive her deceit. In God’s name, was he not Radulf, the King’s Sword?

So he had risen from the bed, washed, dressed, and eaten, and left her to Stephen. It had seemed fitting, and when his anger eventually cooled, he could tell himself he had done it for her own good, that she was tired and needed her rest.

It wasn’t until Radulf was halfway to reaching the rebel army that he began to regret what he had done, to wish that he had awakened her and kissed her. What if he never saw her again? What if he were struck down in battle by a sword or a spear or an arrow? What if he lay on the green valley floor with the life pumping from him and the sky growing dimmer, remembering only that they had parted in bitterness?

Furiously, he had tried to set his madness aside, organizing his men, sending orders for their placement, bolstering their courage. But the picture in his mind wouldn’t go away, and he finally couldn’t bear it any longer, and had sent Jervois to do his bidding.

Poor Jervois; he had been down that road before!

It was more than possible Lily would not reach him before the order was given to commence the fighting. Perhaps she would refuse to come. He could not blame her for refusing; he had been cruel to her when he could have shown a little more kindness, a little more understanding. It was not as if he didn’t have his faults, and he had admired her cold pride and her bravery in standing up to him, when so many others feared him for the tales that were told about him.

I am not afraid of you. She had said that to him more than once, gazing up with her brave gray eyes even as her mouth tightened to stop it trembling.

But these memories did not alter the fact that Lily had hurt him deeply by keeping the secret of the babe from him. He had given her all that he could, protected her with all that he had, lavished his body upon her like one starved; and she had stood like the cursed English at Hastings, with their shields held up before them, defending themselves from the enemy.

“Sir!” A voice rose above the noise.

Radulf yanked himself back from his daydream and found the man, who was pointing. Radulf turned his head and shaded his eyes against the rising sun. There were a couple of riders coming toward them. Jervois was one of them, and the other…

“Stand firm!” Radulf cried. “Hold a little while longer.” Faces turned toward him, white and strained, shaking hands gripping spears or bows. The foot soldiers and cavalry would wait until the archers had had their turn, and then they would sweep down the valley. Beside Radulf, Olaf held his great battle-axe delicately in one hand, as if it were not capable of removing a man’s head with a single blow.

“Odin shield me.” The amorer muttered his pagan prayers under his breath. “Mighty Thor, strongest and most virile of all the gods, protect me…”

“My lord, I have the lady,” Jervois panted as he arrived.

Radulf nodded, his eyes sliding past his captain to where Lily was dismounting with Stephen’s help.

“Thank you, Jervois,” he said quietly. “I will remember this.”

Lily’s cloak had blown back, and Radulf saw that she wore the dark blue gown, the wool cloth molding her slender body. Her hair was loose about her, tangling in the wind so that she had to hold it back from her eyes. She was staring at him, her white face ablaze with some powerful emotion.

Anger, he supposed. What had he expected? He bit back his frustration. It couldn’t be helped; he must go ahead with his plan. And hope that Lily would not revenge herself upon him by refusing to obey him. The reason he had given for fetching her had been partially the truth; her presence would make a difference to the English contingent of his army.