The Lily and the Sword (Medieval 1)

It was Hew.

His horse reared and turned, and briefly Lily thought he was about to run. But Hew forced the animal back around, facing his opponent, just as the blond giant rose up beside his saddle. The battle-axe sang through the rain, and took Hew’s head from his body.

There was a collective groan from the enemy ranks.

“Now we will win!” Stephen’s whisper was hoarse, his throat raw from shouting.

The azure banner flapped, moving through the field. Hew’s men held a moment longer, and then began to retreat. First one or two, and then more, stumbling and running, pursued up the slope by Radulf’s forces.

Radulf himself rode forward, and was suddenly surrounded by Hew’s men. No, Kenton’s men—tough, battle-hardened Normans determined to battle to the end for their absent master. Rigid with fear, Lily watched Radulf fight first one, and then another, his sword slashing and jabbing. Oh God, he was desperately outnumbered…

Thunder rumbled across the hills, the dark clouds moving in as though to signal an end. Another crack of thunder and the rain came down, a deluge. And now Lily could not see a thing.

“Where is he?” she whimpered, and began to pray. There were glimpses of color, the green of the grass and the brown of the churned earth, men’s armor and clothing, and men’s blood. Even the noise of the battle had faded beneath the roar of the rain.

Stephen gripped Lily’s hand, pulling her toward the shelter of a tent. When they stood dripping within its walls, she turned to him frantically.

“Did you see Radulf? At the last, did you see him?”

Stephen stared back at her. She could see the lies forming in his eyes, but in the end he offered her the uncomfortable truth. “No, lady, I did not see him.”

Was he dead, then? Fallen upon the battlefield? He had been surrounded, overwhelmed. She had seen how easily Hew’s head had been parted from his body…If it had not been for her babe, Lily would have run from the tent to search for him. What was her life without Radulf? Had she given him her heart, only to

have it smashed? Lily’s tears mingled with the rain…

A rough, ragged cheer floated across the valley. The rain was easing, the thunder’s growl drifting away. Lily blinked, wiping the moisture from her lashes and gripping the tent doorway with a trembling hand. There was the sound of horses approaching; a voice—Jervois?—rose in tired laughter. Lily edged forward on shaky legs. A huge, dark shape was approaching her, taking form through the white shield of the rain. She heard the clomp of horse’s hooves, and then Radulf’s destrier was suddenly before her.

With a gasping sob, Lily began to run toward him. The stallion whinnied, already unsettled by the fighting, and reared up dangerously.

“My lady!” Stephen cried and, sprinting after her, held her back.

The destrier snorted irritably, settling to the soft murmur of Radulf’s voice. A groom ran up as Radulf dismounted, leading the stallion away.

Radulf reached up and removed his helmet. His face was grimy, his hair plastered to his head with sweat; he tilted his face to the rain and let it wash him clean. Of all the battles he had ever fought, today’s was the most important. Because he wasn’t just fighting for the king, but for Lily and himself, and their future together.

When he straightened again she was standing before him.

“Radulf.” Lily’s voice trembled. “My lord.”

She was soaked through, her hair dripping, her skirts clinging to her legs, her face without color. He could see in her gray eyes the suffering she had endured while she watched him fight. Radulf put out his hand, and then seeing the state of it, pulled back with a grimace.

“You won?”

A weary smile tugged at his lips. “Aye, Lily, we won. Now we can go home to Crevitch.”

Lily did not remind him that, to her, this place had always been home. The truth was, it was only home if he was there.

“You are hurt?”

He shook his head. “No, Lily, I am whole. A scratch or two, but nothing to concern you.” His wonderful mouth curved into a smile. “You will heal me with your salve, mignonne?”

He is safe, he is alive!

With a glad cry, Lily flung herself into his arms. He caught her, half laughing, half wincing. “Lady,” he murmured against her hair, “I am not fit…”

“You are here with me,” she replied fiercely, “and that is all that matters.”

He gave in and rested his cheek upon her damp hair, stroking the silver strands. She was soft and sweet, and it mattered not that he was neither. They would bathe together, wash the dirt and sorrow of this place away, and turn their thoughts to a better future. The red gleam of the hawk’s-eye ring caught his tired gaze.