The Lily and the Sword (Medieval 1)

“Lady?” One of the soldiers was holding her mare, waiting for her to remount. Lily placed her foot into his palm, springing neatly into the saddle, then she sat waiting for the others, her eyes blind to the busy scene about her. Tonight she must escape and never see Radulf again.

He would hate her for her deception. He would think she had used him. And there was nothing Lily could do about it, for how could she state her case if she were gone? She did not regret what had happened between them; she was only sorry she would not be able to make him understand that it was an entirely separate thing from her allegiance. Those tender moments had been like a sheltered island in a vast, cold sea, but now she must turn her face once more to the storms.

They reached Trier in the late afternoon. It was a poor, ramshackle construction of wood and stone. The buildings appeared to be sinking, rather than nestling, in a dip in the surrounding hills. The abbot, himself a recent Norman replacement, was more than willing to give Radulf and his men shelter.

Lily learned that they were Benedictines, the so-called Black Monks, the most populous order in England. As with most other religious houses, the monks of Trier grew their own food and made their own bread, but these monks also produced their own cheese from a small herd of cows, and wine from a precious, tiny vineyard on the sheltered side of a hill.

She was able to sample the wine for herself as she sat down to dinner with Radulf and the abbot. The abbot, though very old and stern-faced, spoke of his home in Normandy with all the longing of a child for its mother.

His reflections on Northumbria were stark and brutal.

“This is a most uncivilized land. The people are pagans. Savages!” He spat out the word like a sour plum. “King William must be strict with them, Lord Radulf, if he is to humble them. They are like defiant children in need of discipline.”

“Surely, Your Grace, even defiant children would respond to kindness rather than discipline, if they were given the choice?” Lily said.

The abbot peered shortsightedly at her, and she almost wished she had bitten her tongue as she had done so often at Vorgen’s table. But when the old man replied, it was with puzzlement rather than anger.

“You sympathize with these rebels, Lady Lily?”

Lily smiled her swe

etest smile, while inside a new and dangerous sense of freedom began to blossom. “I neither sympathize with war, nor with those who make it. I believe…” She hesitated as both the abbot and Radulf gave her their full attention, one curiously, the other with a frown of disapproval. And yet, she asked herself defiantly, why shouldn’t she say what she truly thought? She was no longer Vorgen’s wife, afraid that the least hint of spirit might gain her a blow from Vorgen’s fist or a vicious tirade from his tongue.

The words came out in a rush.

“I believe the north has seen enough bloodshed. We could have peace, if the king would allow it.”

Radulf grunted, unimpressed. “If you imagine King William is a warmonger you are mistaken, lady. He wants peace, just as you do. His coffers and his temper suffer when he cannot rest one day in his kingdom without fearing a rebellion. You think him harsh, perhaps, but it is a harshness brought on by the people themselves.”

“Discipline them, like children!” The abbot nodded his hoary head.

“Maybe that was so in the past.” Lily leaned toward Radulf, as if she spoke to him alone. “But now cannot the harshness stop? There are rebels willing to listen…at least, I believe it is so. Can the English and the Normans not live in peace together?”

Radulf narrowed his dark eyes. “There will be no peace while Vorgen’s wife stirs the pot.”

“Lady Wilfreda?”

The name shocked Lily to frozen silence.

But the abbot didn’t notice, easing his bony buttocks upon the hard wooden seat. “I have heard appalling stories of her cruelty, Lord Radulf. I have heard her likened to a she-wolf eating her own young!”

Radulf turned to him. His voice was soft. “You know her?”

The abbot, startled by his guest’s intent stare, hurriedly shook his head. “I don’t know her, no, but I can see into her heart.”

Radulf shrugged and lost interest. “Everyone has heard of her, but no one knows her,” he growled. “I begin to think she is a witch who can vanish and appear at will!”

The abbot’s eyes widened and he crossed himself.

“I have heard,” Lily began, dizzy from her own daring, “that Vorgen kept her locked away from the world. His prize and his prisoner.”

Radulf sipped his wine.

Emboldened by his silence, she went on. “Everybody speaks of Wilfreda as if she were a devil’s daughter, but as you so rightly said, my lord, not one of these rumor bearers has seen her or spoken to her. Lord Radulf, you know what it is to be a tall tale. Perhaps she is not nearly so terrible as the stories would have us believe. Perhaps she, too, is weary of war.”

Now Radulf’s eyes were riveted to hers. Lily forced herself to remain calm while his dark gaze delved deep, deep into her heart, until she became light-headed. At last, when she was sure he must know all her secrets, he shrugged, and returned to his wine.

“You mean well,” he allowed, “but you know not what you say. I knew Vorgen, I fought with him at Hastings. He was a loyal soldier. It was his wife who turned him into a traitor.”