by Sara Bennett
“Nay,” she whispered, reaching out to rest her hand lightly against his thigh. “There was a fire between us, and neither of us could have doused it in any other manner.”
He looked down at her hand, and Lily felt his already hard muscles tense. She had spoken in the past tense but they both knew the fire had not been doused. The flames were as bright as ever.
“What will happen when we reach…when I am home?” she asked softly, and then wondered why she asked. She knew what would happen. Radulf would end it. But she wanted to pretend a little longer, fool herself that she really was Edwin of Rennoc’s daughter, and Radulf was taking her home. Then she could ask herself if his desire was strong enough for him to consider keeping her by him. Or would he visit her, when his duties permitted, riding swiftly to Rennoc to bed her and leaving an hour later?
Lily shivered. She did not want that. If she were to complete her fantasy as she really wished, then Radulf would be with her always.
But that was madness. An impossibility. A child might believe in such things, but Lily was no child. She desired Radulf, yes, but she must not give in to it, for if she did he would destroy her.
“What will happen when we reach Rennoc?” Radulf repeated her question, and answered it. “I know not, Lily.”
“My lord!”
Radulf turned as Jervois pulled his mount to a rattling halt. The animal looked as if it had been ridden hard, and the young captain reined in closely beside Radulf to murmur his news. The two men spoke a moment, their expressions serious.
Lily watched them curiously.
Radulf was now gazing between his horse’s ears, frowning, deep in his own thoughts. Jervois had dropped back. When Radulf had still not spoken after several minutes, Lily ventured curiously, “Something concerns you, my lord?”
Radulf shot her an impenetrable look. “There is always a need for concern, Lily. And caution. In all things.”
A tingle ran down her spine. Was he giving her a warning? He was suddenly so distant. What had Jervois told him?
Lily twisted around to look at the other man, but his face was also closed, no more readable than Radulf’s. Lily turned in time to see Radulf’s broad back as he spurred his horse into a gallop, riding up the line to the front of the column. As if by some prearranged signal, Jervois moved to take his place.
“Has something happened?” Lily asked him, not expecting a proper answer. “You have been away.” She had noticed Jervois’s absence since yesterday but had not thought to ask where he was—Would they have told her anyway?
“My lady?” Jervois raised his blond eyebrows in surprise. “I have been…solving a puzzle, but now everything is going as planned.”
“You are not afraid of attack?”
Jervois considered her. “It would be foolish indeed to attack such a well-prepared band of men, lady.”
“Nevertheless, Lord Radulf does not relax his vigilance?”
Jervois smiled, the tension smoothing from his face until he looked suddenly very young. Almost as young as Lily herself. “No, lady, he does not relax. That is what makes him such a good soldier. He trusts nothing and no one.”
Another warning?
Lily had come to believe suspicion was part of Radulf’s nature, and not just in the execution of his duties. Radulf was not a man who gave of himself easily; he guarded his emotions as closely as he guarded her.
And yet he had made love to her as if he were starving.
But none of this altered the fact that she must escape before they reached Rennoc. The truth would be out as soon as she rode through Rennoc’s gate.
The soldiers guarding her had increased their watchfulness. For every step Lily’s mare took, there were now several soldiers right beside her. Grim-faced and eagle-eyed, they did not allow her out of their sight. How could she possibly elude so many men? Lily’s tension increased, her neck and shoulders beginning to ache. Her gray eyes were underlined with faint shadows of tiredness as she constantly searched the surrounding countryside for a way out.
They stopped again at midday, but this time when Radulf sought her out it was not to drag her off into the woods and make love to her. Instead he caught her chin in his fingers, turning her face for his perusal, a frown that might have terrified any other woman drawing down his dark brows.
“You should have told me no last night,” he murmured. “You needed your rest.”
Lily laughed shakily. “My lord, I did not wish to tell you no,” she mocked.
Radulf smiled, his thumb stroking her jaw, while between their bodies and beneath her cloak, hidden from the men, his hand slipped down to gently cup her breast. Lily drew a ragged breath, knowing she should pull away but unable to do so. He caressed her until her eyes were half closed and her lips parted and her legs trembled.
And then, when she was dazed and willing, he leaned even nearer and said, “We are close to Rennoc, lady. You are almost home.”
He was watching her, judging her reaction. Lily swallowed and managed to nod calmly, while her heartbeat quickened with fear and anger. Had he touched her only to put her off her guard? Was he really so devious, so cruel?
“We could ride hard and be there by nightfall,” Radulf went on, his voice soft in her ear, “but I fear you are weary. Trier Monastery is a short ride east of here. We will rest there tonight and you will have a proper bed, and tomorrow you can return home to your father.”
A reprieve.
Did he see the flicker of relief in her eyes?
“Thank you, my lord.”
Radulf nodded, and Lily watched him walk away, calling out for his men to remount. The monastery was her last chance. Radulf would only increase his watchfulness tomorrow on the ride to Rennoc.
“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.”
Lily blinked, amazed by his willful blindness. Anger bubbled inside her, and with it a swirl of memories of her life with Vorgen. The pain and humiliation, the damage to her body and mind. But somehow she forced all emotion down, using her cooler mind to subdue her eager heart.
Remember that Radulf could not have known Vorgen as he really was, or he would not speak so. Vorgen must have changed, or he had hidden his true self well. Or was it just that Radulf, being a Norman, could not denigrate another Norman when there was an Englishwoman handy to take the blame?
For her sake as well as his, she must try to make him see, wake him from his sleep. It was foolish, perhaps, but when she was gone she wanted Radulf to understand.
“I understand what you say,” she said gently, “but men change. Perhaps the Vorgen you knew changed. Greed is like an illness that can afflict any man. Vorgen came north on the king’s business and saw he, too, could be a king. At least…that is what I have heard.”
“We must all be vigilant against the sin of greed,” the abbot murmured perfunctorily. He was losing interest, his head nodding.
Radulf played with the stem of his goblet. He preferred to believe Wilfreda had caught Vorgen in her spell like an evil, alluring spider might catch a helpless fly. He had a picture of her in his mind: raven-haired, amber-eyed, smiling into men’s eyes and saying one thing while she meant another. Wilfreda had become Anna, and he hated her.
“Who have you heard speak on this matter?” he demanded, a growing anger coloring his deep voice. “Does your father indulge in treason, lady?”
Lily shook her head, startled at the expression in his eyes—black and furious, like the storms that boiled over the hills near Vorgen’s keep.
“But you plead Wilfreda’s case?” he went on, leaning toward her, crowding her.
Again Lily shook her head, refusing to be intimidated. “Nay, Lord Radulf. I merely offer you my thoughts. Are women not allowed to have opinions under King William’s rule? I had heard he is very fond of his wife, and listens to her advice.
“Matilda is different—”
“And how is that?” Lily searched his face, very aware of this new tension between them. And the danger in his eyes. A combination of desperation and determination drove her on. “Matilda is a woman, the same as Wilfreda, the same as I am. Should a woman not be given the same fair and just treatment as you have given Vorgen?”
Radulf’s frown grew blacker. “You know not of what you speak, lady. These are men’s matters. Stay with what you understand, Lily. I have made my judgment. Vorgen’s wife is a scourge upon the north and will be captured and brought before the king for just punishment.”
A chill ran through Lily, freezing any reply she may have made.
Radulf’s voice had wakened the old abbot from his doze. He sounded quite hearty but clearly had heard nothing of their conversation.
“I knew your father, my lord! A fine man. He was most generous to our order. I heard he requested prayers be said for him after his death, to shorten his stay in Purgatory. Aye, a fine man. You must be proud to tread in his footsteps!”
Radulf turned and looked at him. Whatever the abbot saw in his face startled him so that he jerked back, his lips working.
“My lord…” he muttered. “My lord, I meant no offense.”
Radulf had already turned away, and a heavy silence ensued while the abbot struggled to regain his composure.
Radulf’s anger dissipated slowly, and with it went the red mist from his eyes. He reminded himself that the old abbot could not know of the rift between him and his father. He should apologize, make all right, but he found the words difficult. The wound inside him had still not healed; perhaps it never would. But it was his wound and he did not share his pain with many. Over the years, the hurt had become an old, familiar companion.
No, it was Lily’s quiet argument that had really infuriated him. All but accusing him of lacking fairness in his decisions, instructing him on how to deal with the rebels! No woman had ever dared meddle like that before, and he would not allow it now. He might desire Lily with a raging, insatiable hunger, but she was a woman.
He could not start trusting her now, especially not after what Jervois had discovered.
And what if she is right?
The voice in his head was very like Henry’s. Teasing, questioning, the devil’s advocate. Radulf stiffened. How could she be right? he argued silently. He had known Vorgen; he did not know Wilfreda. Should he slander the man he believed loyal for a rebellious, treacherous woman?
So you are not biased in your thinking?
Of course not!
Then…why did Lady Wilfreda resemble Anna in his thoughts? Had he allowed his hatred for the one to cloud his judgment of the other?
He tried to remember Vorgen more clearly, pushing past the knightly bravado and comradeship they had shared at Hastings.
A memory came to him, sharp and somewhat unpl
easant.
Vorgen had won a sword. It was a handsome thing, the handle decorated with emeralds and rubies and gold filigree, the blade as sharp as a scold’s tongue. Vorgen claimed he had won it fair, but Roger, the man who had lost the sword, claimed foul play. He had complained loud and long to any who would listen. Until he had died at Hastings—not in the main battle, but in a minor skirmish elsewhere.
Afterward, the mutterings of Roger’s friends had not gone away. They said that Roger hadn’t died at the hands of Harold Godwineson’s troops, but by his own sword, held in Vorgen’s greedy grip. Their accusations had continued on so long, Radulf had heard of them and investigated. In the end, his ears ringing with Vorgen’s strenuous denials, he had dismissed the matter. And indeed, there had been no proof.
Only now he remembered the incident, and wondered.
Radulf shifted in his chair, flicking a restless glance toward the abbot. The old man was asleep again, mouth agape, wrinkled face slack. Radulf’s lips twitched as he turned to his other side.
Lily was watching him, her gray eyes wary, as though he were a stranger again. The mighty and fearsome Radulf, who ate English children for his dinner.
Radulf’s heart contracted.
Tomorrow they would reach Rennoc, and tonight…well, tonight was already in hand. He could not call a halt to his plans, even had he wished to.
What would be, would be.
Whatever tonight’s outcome, this might well be the last time he sat with her, looked upon her—apart from in his dreams. He could not lie with her in his arms, here. Lust was another sin the abbot would frown upon. Perhaps that is to be my punishment for bringing her to the monastery and weaving my deceit. I can look, but I cannot touch.
He lifted her hand, which rested beside her goblet, and kissed her fingers, then turning it, pressed his lips into the soft hollow of her palm.
His eyes were dark and intent, his voice an intimate, husky murmur. “Tomorrow I deliver you safe to your father.”
Lily kept her eyes on his, not daring to speak. Her throat was thick with tears.
“My lady.” He clasped her fragile hand in his large one, leaning even closer. She saw her reflection in his dark eyes, a pale ghost compared to his earthy solidity. “My lady, I know you have secrets.”
