by Sara Bennett
Appreciating the value of symbols, Vorgen had taken the hawk as his own when he killed Lily’s father, and it had flown on flags and banners over every battlefield on which he had fought.
Radulf would recognize it.
Lily lifted her gaze and fixed it on Radulf, not knowing what she would say, only that her life depended on it. Beneath the cover of her cloak her fingers were busy tugging at the one thing that might give her secret away. Her voice tumbled out, breathless.
“My lord, I have been staying with my cousins over the border, in Scotland, during this trouble in Northumbria. When we heard Vorgen was dead, I was sent home with a group of men-at-arms. My father, Edwin of Rennoc, is a vassal of the Earl of Morcar, and lives ten leagues south of Grimswade. We had reached the forest just north of here when we were attacked by outlaws. I managed to escape on my horse. I don’t know what happened to the men.”
The English Earl of Morcar had been King William’s man and had refused to join Vorgen in the rebellion. So any vassal of Morcar’s would also be William’s man, and Lily knew Edwin of Rennoc had a young, fair-haired daughter.
“I was weary and afraid and took shelter in this church. I hoped to find sanctuary. There is so much warring in the north, I did not know who was friend and who was foe.”
“’Tis true ’tis sometimes hard to tell one from the other,” Radulf agreed softly. More humor? Lily had no time to ponder Radulf’s strange manner, for his voice curtly demanded, “Do you know who I am, lady?”
She nodded. Beneath her cloak, the ring popped off her thumb, and she nearly dropped it.
“Then you know I am the king’s man. If you are indeed who you say you are, you are safe with me.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Could he believe her so easily? Lily gripped the ring tightly in her slippery palm as Radulf leaned over her, his dark eyes holding a twin image of the boy’s fiery torch. Steadying her fingers, Lily slipped the hawk ring neatly through the tear in the lining of her cloak.
None too soon. Radulf was holding out his hand, palm up, and with the sensation of placing her head in a wolf’s jaws, Lily gave him her shaking fingers. His skin was very warm, and callused where he gripped his sword. As he raised her to her feet, his gaze ran over her face, taking note of her features as if he were making an inventory, she thought in frightened anger. Lily was well aware of what he would see; her face was no mystery to her.
Widely set gray eyes framed by thick, dark lashes and above them arching dark brows. An oval face with high cheekbones, a straight nose perhaps a little long for true beauty, and a stubborn chin. Skin like pearl, growing flushed now from his intense perusal. Once a bard had come to her father’s manor and sung songs in praise of her beauty and of how he wished to melt her heart. Hers was a cold beauty, and strangers assumed her heart was equally cold.
Lily only wished it were so. In truth her heart was soft and tender, and she had had to guard it all the more diligently to prevent it shattering. The defense came naturally now; she had lost the ability to be open.
Carefully, as if he were afraid of startling her, Radulf reached to slip the hood of her wool cloak from her hair. The pale silk, neatly plaited when she had left Rona’s, was now a wild mass of escaping curls. The sudden flash of heat in Radulf’s dark eyes told Lily more than any words what he was feeling.
“The moon has come down from the sky to light our way,” he murmured. “What say you to that, Stephen?”
The boy laughed nervously.
Radulf lifted a strand of her hair and allowed it to slide through his brown, battle-scarred fingers. Lily’s breath caught in her throat, and warmth crept into her cheeks. The sight of her hair against his skin was disturbing in a way she didn’t understand. This was Radulf, she reminded herself, the man who would hunt her down and destroy her.
Slowly, Radulf’s hand cupped her face, his roughened fingers sliding over her skin as though he sought to imprint it in his memory. A tingle ran through her from the point of his contact, down her throat, spreading across her breasts and arrowing into her belly. He made a wordless sound, but she did not look at him, too caught up in her own sensations. It was as if she were a pale candle and he were the brand that had set her alight. And now she was burning. Slowly, languorously burning.
“You have not told me your name,” he reminded her, his deep voice gentle, and tilted her head back so that she was looking far into his eyes. He wanted to kiss her—Lily read it in those dark depths. And she wanted him to. Light-headed, Lily found her gaze shifting again to that sensuous mouth. Watched it curve up ever so slightly at the corners.
“Your name?” he whispered.
“My name is Lily.” Instantly, she cursed her wandering wits. Then she remembered that to the Normans, Vorgen’s wife was known as Wilfreda. It was only her father who had called her Lily—my cool, beautiful lily.
“Lily,” he repeated, warming the name on his tongue. “Aye, it suits your cool beauty.”
His thumb smoothed the jut of her chin and, as Lily’s breath sighed softly between her parted lips, boldly brushed her full lower lip. She trembled, sliding deeper into a situation of which she had little experience. Suddenly his mouth was so close that Lily could feel his warm breath, smell the male scent of him.
She knew then that this was not fantasy, this was not a dream. He really did mean to kiss her, right there, in Grimswade church. And if he kissed her, Lily feared she would melt into a puddle at his feet, would be his to command. An even more dangerous situation than the one she was now in.
Lily jumped away, like a startled mare.
The boy grunted a curse as her elbow connected with his midriff, and then muttered an apology to his lord. Lily felt her cheeks warming again as betraying color flooded her pale skin. Never in her life had she behaved in such a wanton manner! And never in your life have you wanted to.
Radulf had stepped back. He was smiling, but all humor had vanished from his face. It was as if Lily’s fear of his kiss had broken whatever strange, hot spell they had been under, reminding him of who and what he was. This time when Radulf leaned toward her, his voice was soft with menace rather than desire.
“Yes, I am to be feared, lady. You do well to remember it. You tell me you are loyal to King William, but why should I believe you? For all I know, your loyalty may lie with Vorgen or his she-devil of a wife.”
Lily shook her head firmly, trying to still the savage beating of her heart. She-devil! He dared call her so, when all she had ever cared for was the welfare of her people! And yet how could Radulf or King William know her truly, when Vorgen had ruled her lands and made war in her name?
“My lord,” she said, “truthfully, I am no ‘she-devil.’”
But the eyes that had gazed into hers so warmly were cold and unfeeling; the mouth that had promised her such pleasure had become a thin, hard line. The change in him was frightening, and yet it was also a relief. This was how she had always imagined Radulf, not that other man with his melting dark eyes and delectable mouth. She could hate this man.
Radulf had turned away from her, speaking to the boy, Stephen, as if Lily no longer existed. “Take the lady to my tent and guard her there. When I return from Vorgen’s keep I will question her again.”
Lily gasped at his high-handedness. She had expected to face some suspicion as to the truth of her identity, but she had still hoped Radulf would give her the benefit of the doubt and send her on her way. She should have realized a man like Radulf would be overcautious. How else had one as hated as he lived so long?
He was watching her again, absently rubbing his shoulder where the chain mail had been cut. Lily saw that blood the color of rust had seeped through his under tunic.
Her heart gave a hard, solitary thump.
“You are wounded, my lord Radulf.”
The words came out of her mouth involuntarily. As Vorgen’s wife, Lily had learned to scheme and dissemble, to be what she was not—it had been necessary to enable her to survive. But
this time the notion that displaying womanly sympathy might be wise only occurred to her after she had spoken.
“’Tis nothing.” Gruffly, Radulf shrugged off her concern.
“’Tis not ‘nothing’ if you are hurt, my lord.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. Lily felt his suspicion like a stone wall between them. “What would you do about it then, Lady Lily?”
Lily swallowed. His gaze was so intense, as if he were watching her for some sign…but of what? “I…I would tend you, my lord.”
“Ah, ‘tend me,’” he murmured. His body relaxed. His mouth twitched. “Do you think that wise, lady?”
Lily’s brow wrinkled in a frown. “My lord?”
Radulf stepped closer, and Lily’s body went rigid as she fought a sudden, mad desire to sway into his arms. “I may ask you to tend more than my shoulder,” he murmured, his breath stirring tendrils of her hair.
Instinctively Lily’s eyes lifted to his, reading the truth there. Radulf desired her…as had Vorgen. Fear trickled in icy drops down her spine, but this was not fear of Radulf her enemy. This was a fear Vorgen had planted in her, a dark skein of dread, and within that dread were woven myriad strands of doubt and shame.
“Lady?”
He spoke sharply and Lily blinked. The present refocused. She was in Grimswade church with Radulf, and, strangely, relief was now her uppermost emotion. Lily tightened her cloak about her, attempting to regain her composure.
Radulf sighed; he seemed disappointed. Lily realized too late that again he had read her fear and thought it was of him. “Take her to the camp,” he commanded Stephen. “Now!” And turning abruptly, he strode on long legs outside into the darkness.
Stephen took her arm in a strong grip. “Come, my lady,” he said cheerily, in his boy-man voice. “Lord Radulf has spoken.”
Outside, dawn’s cold light was gathering on the eastern horizon. The air was sharp, filled with the smells of burning torches and sweating horses, but most of the hurrying soldiers had now moved northward across the cornfields, toward Vorgen’s stronghold.
Toward Lily’s home, two leagues away.
Her eyes glittered with tears. They would find nothing there but a burned, black shell. After Lily had fled, her people had burned what remained, so that never again could the Normans use the buildings to shelter their soldiers.
Stephen gripped her arm tighter and tugged her along. Lily shook him off, losing some of her assumed meekness. Whatever spell Radulf’s presence had spun, it was dispersing with his going.
“I have a mare hidden in the trees over there,” she said, pointing at the small thicket. “If I leave her, she will be stolen.”
Stephen eyed her cautiously, but must have thought she spoke good sense, because he sent off another boy to fetch the mare.
“Why does Radulf go to Vorgen’s keep?” Lily asked, more of herself than the boy.
Stephen hesitated, but youth and excitement loosened his tongue. “He thinks Vorgen’s wife hides there. He plans to capture her and take her to the king.”
And what then? Instinctively, Lily assumed an expression of icy disdain, concealing her thoughts and emotions. Such precautions were second nature to her now, as necessary as breathing in keeping her alive.
A soldier hovered nearby, and Lily realized she was to have a guard. So Radulf feared “Edwin of Rennoc’s daughter” might escape? Perhaps she would have tried it, were she not so tired. But even if she did escape, where would she go? Strange as it seemed, Radulf’s tent was probably the safest place to hide just now. No one would be looking for the she-devil there.
“I am weary.” She spoke at last. “It has been a long and perilous night. Is your lord’s tent far…Stephen, is it?”
Stephen gave her a shy smile. “Aye, I am called Stephen. I am Lord Radulf’s squire. And it is not far. Our army is camped just beyond the village of Grimswade.”
Lily nodded and made certain to pull her hood back over her hair, tying it close so that her face was half hidden. If she remained in the Norman camp she would not be recognized by anyone in Grimswade village, but she could not take any chances.
Her life depended upon it.
Chapter 2
Radulf ignored the pain in his shoulder and the soft, constant drizzle that fell from the iron-gray sky, soaking him right through to the skin. He wished he were elsewhere, preferably in the lady Lily’s bed. The memory of her pale beauty in the gloomy church and the feel of her silken hair slipping through his fingers caused a hot, aching jolt that had nothing to do with his wounded shoulder.
He tried to remember how long it was since he had had a woman. There had been that plump, compliant merchant’s wife in York, and before that…? His mouth turned grim; it was longer than he had thought. And very long indeed since he had wanted one particular woman. Radulf shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, trying to concentrate his mind above his waist.
The chilly light of dawn had long ago given way to day as Radulf had led his men north to Vorgen’s stronghold. He had paused at the church only because he’d thought the priest might speak to Vorgen’s wife, and beg her to see reason. She could not win. If Radulf did not open her hiding place like a dagger tip in an oyster shell, then William would. Either way, Vorgen’s wife was doomed.
Ahead lay a series of green hills swathed in white mist, and upon the tallest one, what was left of Vorgen’s stronghold. It stood dark above them, straddling the gloomy sky. The keep had been constructed of wood and rose high upon a manmade mound of earth and rock. A deep ditch was the outer defense, and inside this a tall wooden fence or palisade further enclosed Vorgen’s stronghold.
Someone had set out to burn it, and done a reasonable job.
Radulf frowned. It was like a hundred other scenes he had witnessed in a hundred other places. He doubted anyone was still living there, especially not a highborn bitch like Lady Wilfreda.
Radulf released his pent-up breath with an irritable hiss. He and his men had come from his estates in the south many months ago, and Radulf wanted nothing more than to go home.
He was tired of war.
The feeling had been growing, making it increasingly difficult for him to obey the king’s orders with his old enthusiasm. And yet he had marched back and forth across England, putting down rebellions, ordering the building of more keeps and fortifications, enforcing the king’s laws. Once Radulf had been as keen as any man to take up his sword and do what he knew he did best. Now, more and more often he thought of Crevitch, and the stone castle he was building and the crops he was growing. He dreamed of stripping off his chain mail and riding across his land with the sun on his bare head, breathing deeply of the ripening wheat and the wildflowers in the meadows.
“Like an old stallion put out to pasture,” he muttered scornfully to himself.
But it was true. He was tired of death.
Angrily, Radulf quickened his destrier’s pace. The great, feathery hooves kicked up clods of sodden earth. His men struggled to keep up with him. Probably they thought him eager to put as many men, women, and children to the sword as he could find. His reputation had long since eclipsed the reality. Now it was so dire, often he had only to appear before an opposing army or demand a besieged castle open its gates to him, and the deed was done.
All well and good, but there was a darker side to the coin. When he laughed, when he was gentle, people thought it a trap, to trick them into trusting him so that he could pounce. Only those who knew him well saw the real Radulf, and they were few enough.
The face of the woman in the church crept back into his thoughts, and he scowled so blackly his men feared for their lives. Radulf didn’t even notice them. As a youth he had sworn never to love any woman, be she common wench or highborn lady. His own father’s plight had been too bitter. When Radulf grew up and became a man, he realized that even had he wished to be loved by a woman, it was unlikely one could be found to love the King’s Sword.
Why was it, then, that lately he had felt a terr
ible yearning to love and be loved? He had never been one to harbor foolish fancies. A man in his position should be satisfied with fighting and killing, increasing his wealth and power, and swearing fealty to his king. And he had been satisfied, until recently. But as his taste for war decreased, this other need increased—maybe it had been there all along, bubbling and roiling beneath the surface, until it could no longer be ignored.
Radulf shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. Was he like his father after all? Did he, too, long for that all-consuming passion, half madness, that had gripped the old man and blinded him to the truth about his second wife? Was Radulf also destined to be brought to ruin by his own weakness?
Radulf’s face turned grimmer. Women were creatures to be used and discarded, and certainly never trusted—it was as well his reputation frightened them away! And he was wise to refuse King William’s repeated requests for him to marry and sire an heir to his huge estates. A wife was a dangerous appendage. The idea of one living at Crevitch gave him a twitch between his shoulder blades, as if a knife were pricking him.
Better to leave well enough alone.
“My lord!”
Radulf started, then drew his mount to a stop. He had reached the place where the gate had once stood, and the blackened stronghold rose before him. Quickly his men rode up to surround him, their faces flushed and sweating, their horses huffing and blowing. All about was the smell of wet ash and devastation.
“My lord?” Radulf’s captain, Jervois, eyed him warily. “This place looks empty.”
Radulf frowned. “Aye. But if Vorgen’s wife is here, we will find her. Who will lead the search?”
There were a dozen volunteers for the task. Once he, too, would have gladly risked his life for the honor of fulfilling such a request. Now he risked his life every day and every day expected to die, and for what? One day he would die, but his legend would live on. Was that a blessing or a curse?
