The Lily and the Sword

by Sara Bennett

  “Lord Radulf—” Jervois had begun, but one glance from Radulf had stopped his protest in his throat.

  “Bring her here,” he repeated the order. “Now go, quickly!”

  There was nothing for him to do but obey. He had climbed upon the fastest horse he could find and set out to fetch Radulf’s wife.

  “‘Fight better if they see her beside me,’” he muttered under his breath. “Aye, my lord, and pigs might fly! You want her with you, that is what it is. You rode off without her, and now you are heartsick.”

  He spurred the horse, taking a low rise and starting down the other side. That was when he saw the other riders coming toward him, two upon the one mount. He slowed and halted his horse.

  “Good, lady! You have saved me much time!” He wiped a hand across his brow, sweat dripping down his face beneath the helmet.

  Lily gave him a bewildered look. She was as white as her breath in the cold light.

  “Lord Radulf has sent me to fetch you. He says the English will fight better if you are there.”

  “I was just now going to Lord Radulf. I was thinking the very same thing.”

  Jervois nodded soberly, as if he believed her. “Make haste, lady. Lord Radulf may be able to persuade the king to do his will where you are concerned, but I doubt he can prevent the enemy from attacking.”

  Lily urged her horse forward. There was bitterness in her voice when she spoke. “When has Lord Radulf ever persuaded the king to do his will where I was concerned, Jervois? I remember him arguing with the king on a number of occasions, but it was never to please me.”

  Jervois gave her a look of astonishment. “Why, lady, what about when Lord Radulf persuaded the king to agree to your marriage? He knew who you were then, and knew that King William could well have him arrested for treason, but still he laid claim to you. Has he not told you this?”

  Lily shook her head, staring at him as if he had grown horns and a tail. Her mare plodded to a stop. “That can’t be. The king ordered Radulf to marry me. I was there; I heard.”

  It had not occurred to Jervois that Radulf would not tell his wife what had transpired that day at William’s court. “Perhaps it is not for me to say,” he began, but Lily would have none of that.

  “Tell me. Please, Jervois. I swear I won’t come with you unless you do.”

  There was desperation in her face, in her eyes, which Jervois had never seen before. Here was not the cold creature of rumor, but a warm, living woman, a woman who was suffering.

  “Very well, lady, but we must ride swiftly as I speak, or the battle will commence before we reach Lord Radulf!”

  Chapter 19

  Radulf had been watching the sky grow lighter. Hew’s army occupied a goodly portion of the upper valley. The number of Englishmen had dwindled to only a handful, but there were archers and foot soldiers, as well as a heavy contingent of horse soldiers, tough men who had fought at Hastings for Lord Kenton—my lord was safe elsewhere, the harsh reality of the battlefield was not his to taste.

  Hew sat upon his horse, his long, fair hair, the glory of an English noble, as yet uncovered by a helmet. His gaze often turned to Radulf’s position. Radulf tucked his own helmet under his arm, his black hair stirred by the cold wind that swirled up the rise upon which he stood.

  If Hew could read his mind, he thought, he would be even more confident. For who could fear a man who was as sick with longing as he?

  Radulf had awakened that morning, the rage still pounding in his head, to find Lily tucked against him, her hand upon his chest, her cheek nestled into his shoulder. Her face was pale and still puffy from the tears she had shed. He could have gathered her closer and kissed her, but he didn’t.

  The anger had gripped him again. He remembered how he had grown weak with the want of her, squandering his wealth by buying her clothes and searching out a fine house to suit her. And all the while she had held herself cool and distant, and taken what he gave. No, he did not want to forgive her deceit. In God’s name, was he not Radulf, the King’s Sword?

  So he had risen from the bed, washed, dressed, and eaten, and left her to Stephen. It had seemed fitting, and when his anger eventually cooled, he could tell himself he had done it for her own good, that she was tired and needed her rest.

  It wasn’t until Radulf was halfway to reaching the rebel army that he began to regret what he had done, to wish that he had awakened her and kissed her. What if he never saw her again? What if he were struck down in battle by a sword or a spear or an arrow? What if he lay on the green valley floor with the life pumping from him and the sky growing dimmer, remembering only that they had parted in bitterness?

  Furiously, he had tried to set his madness aside, organizing his men, sending orders for their placement, bolstering their courage. But the picture in his mind wouldn’t go away, and he finally couldn’t bear it any longer, and had sent Jervois to do his bidding.

  Poor Jervois; he had been down that road before!

  It was more than possible Lily would not reach him before the order was given to commence the fighting. Perhaps she would refuse to come. He could not blame her for refusing; he had been cruel to her when he could have shown a little more kindness, a little more understanding. It was not as if he didn’t have his faults, and he had admired her cold pride and her bravery in standing up to him, when so many others feared him for the tales that were told about him.

  I am not afraid of you. She had said that to him more than once, gazing up with her brave gray eyes even as her mouth tightened to stop it trembling.

  But these memories did not alter the fact that Lily had hurt him deeply by keeping the secret of the babe from him. He had given her all that he could, protected her with all that he had, lavished his body upon her like one starved; and she had stood like the cursed English at Hastings, with their shields held up before them, defending themselves from the enemy.

  “Sir!” A voice rose above the noise.

  Radulf yanked himself back from his daydream and found the man, who was pointing. Radulf turned his head and shaded his eyes against the rising sun. There were a couple of riders coming toward them. Jervois was one of them, and the other…

  “Stand firm!” Radulf cried. “Hold a little while longer.” Faces turned toward him, white and strained, shaking hands gripping spears or bows. The foot soldiers and cavalry would wait until the archers had had their turn, and then they would sweep down the valley. Beside Radulf, Olaf held his great battle-axe delicately in one hand, as if it were not capable of removing a man’s head with a single blow.

  “Odin shield me.” The amorer muttered his pagan prayers under his breath. “Mighty Thor, strongest and most virile of all the gods, protect me…”

  “My lord, I have the lady,” Jervois panted as he arrived.

  Radulf nodded, his eyes sliding past his captain to where Lily was dismounting with Stephen’s help.

  “Thank you, Jervois,” he said quietly. “I will remember this.”

  Lily’s cloak had blown back, and Radulf saw that she wore the dark blue gown, the wool cloth molding her slender body. Her hair was loose about her, tangling in the wind so that she had to hold it back from her eyes. She was staring at him, her white face ablaze with some powerful emotion.

  Anger, he supposed. What had he expected? He bit back his frustration. It couldn’t be helped; he must go ahead with his plan. And hope that Lily would not revenge herself upon him by refusing to obey him. The reason he had given for fetching her had been partially the truth; her presence would make a difference to the English contingent of his army.

  The other reason…How could Lord Radulf, the monster of legend, admit that he wished to feel his wife’s softness against his body, and smell the scent of her hair, to take with him into the terror of battle?

  He was a weak fool. He had sent Jervois to bring him the woman who, after last night, had every reason to hate him more than ever, and who was capable of turning half of his army against him.

  A woman
he mistrusted.

  Radulf was frowning as he came toward her, but Lily forestalled him. She held up her hand, and he halted. Her gaze flicked over him, so large and formidable in his armor, his expression still angry and somehow expectant. This was the man she loved, without whom her life would be nothing. What did it matter if he did not love her? She would make him love her, she thought fiercely. In a few minutes he would fight Hew, and if he were killed…

  Lily swallowed hard. She had guarded her heart for too long. It was time she opened it to all the joy, and maybe the pain, of which she was capable.

  She stretched her arm against the lightening sky and cried out, as loudly as she could, in English and then in French:

  “Hear me! Oh, good Englishmen and Normans, hear me!”

  Gradually the noise began to drop away as, one after another, the men of the army became aware that something was happening. Radulf was standing unmoving, hardly seeming to breathe.

  “I wish Lord Radulf luck today in his fight against the rebel Hew. I know that he will win back the north, and we will have peace here at last. Those of you who have families here, who live here, must long for peace as much as I do.”

  Lily stepped forward, tugging at the ring on her thumb—the red-eyed hawk that had been her father’s symbol of power. The black enamel inscription caught her eye: “I give thee my heart.” It seemed particularly apt.

  “Lord Radulf, I give you this,” she said in stirring tones, and held the ring high, so that the hawk’s ruby eye caught the sun and glinted like blood. There was a muffled cheer from those who understood its significance.

  Lily took the steps that brought her face to face with him and, trembling, reached to grasp his hand. She heard his hiss of breath, and then his hand lay acquiescent in hers, the flesh warm and callused. She did not dare think of those fingers touching her, loving her. She did not dare meet those dark eyes, which she knew were watching her every move. If she allowed herself to think or to look, she might not be able to finish what she had begun.

  Lily managed to push the ring onto Radulf’s little finger, at least as far as the second knuckle, and there it stuck.

  She drew in a deep breath and proclaimed to all, “Lord Radulf, I give you this ring, and with it…all that is mine!” And raising his hand to her lips, she pressed a fervent kiss against the roughened skin.

  Only then did she look up, into his eyes, her own shimmering with tears, her face naked, vulnerable, and laid open for him.

  She meant it. With growing wonder, Radulf understood what she had just given him. He had feared the worst and instead she had given him the very best. There was no longer any reason to mistrust her, to fear that if he admitted to loving her, she would use it as a weapon and destroy him. She had had her chance, and instead of his destruction, given her own heart into his keeping.

  Aye, he loved her! He spoke the words in his head, and liked the sound of them. A huge smile split Radulf’s face. He caught Lily up in his arms, lifting her feet off the ground. She gasped, her arms twining about his neck, and he fastened his mouth on hers in a long, soul-wrenching kiss.

  The shouts and cheers rose headily about them as the great Radulf kissed his wife, and their army celebrated the joining of Norman and English, and the victory they were about to have.

  “I will win today, my Lily,” Radulf murmured huskily in her ear. “I will win for you.”

  “Just come back to me,” she said, and tilted her head so that she could gaze deep into his coal-black eyes. “I love you, Radulf. I think I have loved you from our first meeting in Grimswade church. I dream about your wonderful mouth and your strong body, moving inside mine…Radulf, you are my Thor.”

  Thor? Olaf’s prayer came back to Radulf, and he gave her a slow and satisfied grin. “Keep dreaming that, mignonne. Soon I will make it come true.”

  Farther up the valley, Hew’s horse was stamping, sensing its master’s fury, as Hew stared white-faced at the scene being enacted before him. Radulf and Lily! He felt sick with bitter disappointment. Well, they would see who were the victors there today…

  Hew raised his gauntlet, and screamed out the command to do battle.

  Lily’s arms felt cold, empty. Radulf had gone, riding with his men down into the valley. She held her breath, gazing over the distance until her eyes ached and stung, unable to do more than shake her head when Stephen asked her if she wanted wine, or to take shelter in the tent since it was lightly drizzling.

  She was nothing, an empty shell, and she would not live again until Radulf returned.

  He loved her. He had not said it aloud—maybe he never would—but there had been no mistaking the expression in his eyes, the fiery longing in his kisses. Last night he had said he treasured her, but this morning she knew he loved her.

  The azure banner fluttered below, its brilliance catching Lily’s gaze. She watched it move back and forth among the seething mass of men. Radulf’s banner. At first it had shown her where his army was situated, but now the fighting was so intense, there were no clear demarcation lines. Radulf’s men could be anywhere within that unwieldy killing machine. The noise was deafening.

  But where was Radulf? Lily scanned the battlefield, and finally found him—she had not realized she had stopped breathing until she gulped in a mouthful of cold, rain-laden air. He was fighting from his black destrier, his mighty sword arm swinging back and forth. Lily had never quite realized before how attuned her lord’s body was to fighting, how superbly strong and fit he was. Now, even in her terror, she admired him.

  A fair-haired giant caught her eye. Olaf. He was pushing his way through the enemy, the great battle-axe rising and falling. He appeared to be set on a particular destination, and although the foes threw themselves into his path, he dispatched them with hardly a pause. Lily lifted her gaze beyond Olaf and saw that the enemy was still strong to the left of the field. A horseman, slender even in his armor, fought furiously, urging his men to push forward.

  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?”