The Lily and the Sword (Medieval 1)

And Radulf.

They reached Radulf’s tent and Olaf unceremoniously pulled her inside. “Stay,” he barked at her, and was gone. Lily was left, disheveled and panting, in the place she had so recently escaped.

“My lady!” Stephen, big-eyed with excitement, suddenly looked very young. “My—my lord asked that I stay here with you until he comes. Do you wish for wine? I have wine.”

He obviously needed something to do. Lily nodded and allowed him to pour her a goblet. The sounds of fighting were growing sparser as the rebels escaped or were slain. Lily shivered, lifting the goblet and spilling some droplets in her haste. The wine slid down her throat, warmed her, and gave her back her courage. Her mind began searching for some hope to hold to, a spell against despair. More and more, she was beginning to believe she was Northumbria’s only chance of avoiding total devastation.

Suddenly her legs felt weak with the responsibility. Lily sank down onto one of the stools, the goblet still grasped between her fingers.

“My lady, you are ill?” Stephen asked from his place by the door.

Lily shook her head. Silence fell, and so they stayed for some time.

Until the heavy tread of men drew nearer.

Lily lifted her head, listening. Voices called. She heard Radulf, his husky tones too low to be understood. Others answered him. A horse snorted and stomped. A man laughed—Olaf? And then Stephen straightened his back, like a soldier, and Radulf entered the tent.

Chapter 4

Radulf was an imposing figure in his hauberk and helmet. To see him so gave Lily a tingling shock. It was as if they were back in Grimswade church, at the very beginning, and strangers.

They did not feel like strangers now.

Lily comprehended this with some surprise, for they were barely more. Besides, he was her enemy, and furthermore an enemy she must persuade to her point of view if she was to regain her lands and save her people.

Radulf removed his helmet, and Lily’s agitated thoughts came to a halt. His dark gaze was fixed on her, and suddenly it was as if nothing else mattered but being here with him. The moment was broken as Stephen hurried to assist his lord in unbuckling his sword and removing his hauberk. When Radulf sat once more in only his linen shirt and breeches, the boy carried away the chain mail, staggering under the enormous weight of it.

Radulf ran a hand through his short black hair, flexing his shoulders, and lifted the goblet of wine Stephen had poured him. He did not appear to be cut or bruised, and the only sign Lily could see of the recent fighting was the reopening of the scab across his knuckles. She tried to view him dispassionately, telling herself it was the other men who deserved her concern, the pitiful remnants of Vorgen’s rebel army.

But her heart told her she lied.

Lily found her voice. “Have you taken any prisoners?”

Radulf shook his head. “The leader and half the band escaped before my men could surround them. The rest of them preferred to fight. No one surrendered, they all fought to kill, and so did we. Brave men, if misguided.”

“Who were they?”

Radulf shrugged, and then winced when it hurt his wounded shoulder. “Vorgen’s men. Outlaws. Maybe both.”

Stephen poured more win

e and asked in a murmur if his lord was hungry. Radulf shook his head. “Go to bed, boy. I will return this lady to Gudren’s tent myself.”

When the squire had gone, Radulf gulped down the rest of his wine. The quiet of the tent seeped into him, and outside his camp returned to slumber. The attack had been countered and won, and he was whole and safe, and once more alone with her.

The elation of battle had passed and left him, as always, light-headed with weariness. In such a state, he might have expected the lust to have died. It hadn’t; if anything it was worse than ever. And it was not that familiar lusty longing for a woman, any woman…no, this was different.

For why had he sent for her? She had been safe enough in Gudren’s tent; Olaf would have seen to that. There had been a suspicion that her presence in the camp and the rebel attack were connected, but Radulf didn’t really believe that. He had thought only of having her close, protecting her.

The acknowledgment was like an ache in his chest and memories of his father clamored for his attention. That worn, hard face the last time Radulf had seen him, twisted with a pain so vast there was no escaping it. He had died, they said, of a broken heart. Radulf had felt as if he, too, had died that day.

He had vowed, after that, that never again would he allow any woman to penetrate his wounded heart. Love was for fools.

Now he searched blindly for the well-worn phrases and reminders that had always worked before, on the few occasions he was tempted to forget.

He could not find them.

All of that was suddenly unimportant. He was lost in a foreign land, alone and confused and frightened. A land he had visited but once before, with disastrous consequences. Dare he try again?