The Lily and the Sword E-Book

Sara Bennett

• Herausgeber: NYLA
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 494

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Pulled from her hiding place in an old Saxon church, Lady Lily is forced to face the warrior who's been hunting for her — Radulf, the King's Sword, a man known as cold and heartless/merciless; a man whose name all fear to speak. But when she looks into his coal-dark eyes, it is not fear that makes her tremble, but desire. She may have to conceal her true identity to save her life, but there's little hope of shielding her heart. Radulf is a proven warrior who knows better than to ignore his instinct that Lily is not entirely who she pretends to be, but instead he finds himself fighting his burning need to possess her. When her true identity is revealed to his — and the King's — fury, he nevertheless marries her… not to protect her from the king's wrath, he tells himself, but to watch her closely. For Radulf was betrayed by a woman once before and trusting Lily could cost him his life. But it's a risk he's willing, even eager, to take.

Leseprobe

THE LILY AND THE SWORD

SARA BENNETT

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The Lily and the Sword

Copyright © 2002 by Sara Bennett

Ebook ISBN: 9781641972765

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

NYLA Publishing

121 W. 27th St., Suite 1201, NY 10001, New York.

http://www.nyliterary.com

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Epilogue

Also by Sara Bennett

About the Author

PROLOGUE

Northumbria, the North of England 1070

“Ihave seen him!” Rona hissed.

“Where?” Lily moved closer to the fire, her breath stirring the steam above the kettle of thin stew her old nurse tended.

“Careful, my lady!” But the glance the white-haired old woman gave her was gentle. “I saw him and his men ride through these woods on Hew’s trail. They stopped a moment by the stream to water their horses. I was watching from the trees.”

“What is he like?” Lily whispered, trying to still a tremor. Radulf was her enemy, the man who wished to conquer her.

“Big. Powerful. A man to be feared.” Rona looked up at her, slanting green eyes watchful.

Chilled, Lily turned her face away from the old woman’s piercing gaze. “I must escape.”

“Yes—tonight.” The shadows in the smoky hut were growing longer; night was coming on swift feet through the forest. “Your husband Vorgen is dead, your kinsman Hew has fled north, and this Radulf will come for you. They say he is not one to give up.”

“If I surrender, I fear he will give me to his master, King William—who will crush me in his fist like a butterfly.”

Lily shuddered. She had seen enough of what William and his men had done to the north; for the past four years there had been nothing but war.

Rona urged, “Follow Hew over the border to Scotland; find sanctuary there.”

“Run like a hare, you mean?” Lily’s answer was bitter.

“Hew has run.”

“I am not Hew.”

No, thought Rona, you are not. Gentle Lily had sought peace even while her father Olwayn, husband Vorgen, and kinsman Hew were intent on making war. Now Olwayn and Vorgen were dead, and Hew gone, and Lily was left to bear the full brunt of William of Normandy’s anger.

And William had sent Radulf to find her.

“My lady,” Rona spoke firmly, “we cannot change the past, but the future is yet to be made.”

“I feel as if I have no future.”

Lily closed her eyes, long lashes dark against her pale cheeks. Her hair, moonlight silver, was concealed beneath the hood of her green cloak, though wisps curled free at her temples.

She was so weary, so alone.

Radulf—it was a name to strike terror into the hearts of all Englishmen. They called him the King’s Sword, because he was an extension of William’s strong arm. Yet what was he but a greedy mercenary come to plunder England and murder the rightful rulers? His reputation was bloody and fearsome, but he was still only a land-less, lowborn Norman. Lily’s father had been an English nobleman and her mother a daughter of a Viking king.

She would not humble herself to Radulf.

At last, Lily opened her eyes. They were gray, a dark, stormy gray. “If I leave England I will never be able to return.”

But if she stayed she would die, and her death would be merely one more meaningless episode in a world where men had run mad with blood-lust. Better she hang on to her life in the hope she could still do some good for her people.

“If only I were a man,” Lily muttered. “I would stay and face Radulf.”

“A woman has weapons, too, my lady, and sometimes they are stronger than any sword,”

Rona said.

Lily frowned, not understanding.

“You must go now,” Rona insisted. “Quickly, before it is too late. Already Radulf may be turning his eyes in our direction. He is very strong, a formidable enemy.”

Lily’s hand rested a moment on Rona’s stooped, bony shoulder. “Yes, it is time to go. Farewell, Rona.”

“Farewell, my lady. May God keep you from harm.”

After Lily’s slender form had melted into the dark forest, Rona turned back to her kettle. When she had seen Radulf and his men, the King’s Sword had stood alone, big and intimidating.

Frightened and yet fascinated, Rona had crept closer, trying to see his face. Her foot had slipped on the leaf mold and made a soft sound.

Radulf had turned to look.

Dark eyes were narrowed in a harsh face, strong and manly. He had stared for a long time and Rona had held her breath, terrified. When Radulf turned away, relief had made her dizzy.

After the Normans climbed back upon their horses and left, she had crept back to her hut.

Rona could only pray that her Lily would safely escape—for the King’s Sword would have no mercy if he found her.

CHAPTER1

Lily stood perfectly still, listening.

She had ridden for many days, skirting isolated farms and villages, holding her breath at the edge of a wood when a group of men-at-arms rode past. There was no route north that was safe, and she had zigzagged across the country, doubling back again and again, until she was exhausted.

Grimswade was directly in her path, and Lily had felt as if it had been meant that she come here.

Her father was buried in this church, her mother beside him. If Lily was to be forever exiled from England, this would be her final goodbye. Determinedly, she made her way toward the western door.

Before her loomed the familiar blunt tower of the church, while faint candlelight caressed the arched windows. Was Father Luc here, she wondered, his blue eyes bright with kindness? The Grimswade priest was sympathetic to the rebels, hating the king’s wanton destruction. Father Luc would hide Lily . . . help her.

The smell of woodsmoke drifted from the village beyond the rise, and with it the occasional bark of a dog. Lily’s anxious gaze swept over the stony fields, and the narrow road that ran between what remained of the corn. Her mare was hidden among some wind-bent trees, a few yards from the church.

The door opened to her touch.

Inside the church, tallow candles spat and smoked. Lily paused, expecting any moment to see Father Luc bustling toward her. The hem of her cloak brushed the floor, stirring a faint scent of rosemary. Lily’s clothes were stained with travel, and the inside lining of the cloak had been torn during her sojourn in the woods. A small jeweled dagger, her only weapon, was strapped high on her thigh beneath her red wool gown and linen chemise. A bundle containing a few personal things was fastened to her mare outside—all that was left of her previous life.

Lily took another step into the nave and felt the empty silence about her. She was alone. Her slim shoulders slumped. The priest wasn’t there. There would be no warm greeting, no offers of safety and gentle remembrances of times long past, when life was good. Before the light was snuffed out on her world.

Disappointment formed a lump in Lily’s throat, but she gulped it down with the cold air. This was no time for her courage to fail her. So she was alone?

She had been alone before. So she was tired? She had been tired before. When she was safe over the border in Scotland, she could rest. Lily knew now that she should have gone when Vorgen was killed.

She should have realized then that all was lost, that her lands would never be hers again. But she had thought, hoped, that as long as she stayed in England, she would have a chance of righting her evil husband’s wrongs. That she could offer King William her allegiance through Radulf, and he would listen to her tale of betrayal—how Vorgen had betrayed William, then killed her father to gain her lands. She’d hoped he would then leave her in peace to rule her lands.

Foolishness!

Why had she thought Radulf would be different from Vorgen or Hew? Radulf would never allow her to regain what was hers! And he would never believe she could maintain peace in the north. She was a woman, to be used and treated as if of no account, while Radulf made war on her land, on her people.

Lily paused before the altar, where her parents were buried. Once she had thought to make a proper monument there, extolling their virtues, but Vorgen had refused his permission and so there was nothing to mark their passing. Yet another reason for Lily to hate him.

Forcing her chaotic thoughts to the back of her mind, Lily prepared to pray. She had just bowed her head when, from outside the church, came the thud and rattle of horses. The clatter of armored men.

Radulf?

Gray eyes wide, Lily ran to one of the arched windows. Stretching up onto her toes, she peered out into the darkness just as a shape galloped past.

And then another. A boy ran with a flaring torch.

Its flame lit up a nightmare scene of Norman foot soldiers and men on horseback, the gleam reflecting on their chain mail, shields, and weapons.

She fell back, her blood pounding. Radulf! He had come for her! She had heard the stories. He was a giant with a hideous face and blood dripping from his sword. Children screamed at the sound of his name. He would be worse than Vorgen, much worse! A barely human monster . . .

Lily tried to calm herself. Her hands clenched and unclenched in her wool cloak. How did she know it was Radulf? There were many Normans in Northumbria; small bands of them had system-atically destroyed large areas of it. She must be brave and cunning. These men would not know she was Vorgen’s wife, how should they? Lily might be any woman. A Norman lady, perhaps, fleeing the English even as Lily was fleeing the Normans.

And she could easily play the part of a Norman lady. For two years she had been Vorgen’s wife.

She had sat at a Norman table and watched how they lived and ate and thought. She could speak French; these men would not guess she was the woman they hunted.

The western door banged open.

Lily scrambled sideways and pinched out the nearest of the betraying candles, then slid down behind one of the pillars. If she was lucky, they would not find her, but if they did . . . A fleeing Norman lady encountering a group of armed men would naturally conceal herself.

A foot soldier came running up the nave, breath wheezing, feet shuffling. Behind him came another man, this one holding a torch, the flames rearing up to show a young, clean-shaven face and short-cropped brown hair. A Norman face. A boy’s face.

Lily stared, frozen like a wild, hunted thing.

When the boy shouted Lily jumped, clutching her cloak about her tightly, as if trying to vanish into it. Her eyes stung with lack of sleep, for she had lain awake many nights now.

“Priest! Where are you?” The boy’s voice wavered up and down, as if it were not properly broken yet. “Priest, my lord wishes words with you!”

Lily blinked, hard. My lord?

The cold was seeping through her thick wool cloak, numbing her flesh, but her senses were sharp as needles. Where was Father Luc? Perhaps he had known the soldiers were coming. Father Luc might be a priest, but the Normans were a treacherous lot, and Lily could understand the kindly priest not wishing to be caught up in the fighting. More importantly, he might give away Lily’s identity—so it was better that he was absent.

The soldier and the boy with the torch had reached the altar. The flame’s red glow reared up the walls of the choir, glinting in the windows of colored glass. The boy turned, looking back down the nave toward the door, and his voice echoed in the shadows.

“My lord, he’s fled!”

Slowly, afraid any movement might betray her hiding place, Lily leaned a fraction out from the pillar and looked back to the doorway. A dark shape filled it. A man. Behind him, more torches flared as more men ran past, but the dark shape did not move, his very stillness both menacing and compelling.

The boy was hurrying back down the nave, and his torch shone out toward the man, slowly revealing him. Lily’s eyes grew rounder.

Such a tall man, with such a breadth of chest and shoulder. Rona’s word powerful slipped into Lily’s head. Chain mail, a dull silver, covered his body from neck to knees. On his head he wore a conical helmet with a broad nose guard, so that his face was hidden by metal and shadows, except for the pale line of mouth and chin.

“He’s gone, my lord,” the boy repeated dully, revealing his disappointment.

“Gone for now,” the man replied in a deep, husky voice that gave the impression of anger. He moved as if to shrug his shoulders and then caught his breath in a sharp hiss of pain.

“You’re hurt, my lord?”

The knight shook his head impatiently. “Go and fetch my horse. We will have to ride north without the priest.”

“Perhaps,” the boy ventured, “he has gone already. Perhaps he is persuading Vorgen’s wife to surrender to us. Perhaps she has had enough bloodshed, my lord.”

A low laugh was his answer. “They are dull-witted, these English,” the man growled. “They must be shown the error of their ways. Now fetch my horse, boy!”

“Aye, Lord Radulf.”

Lily gasped as her worst fears were realized.

The man and the boy didn’t hear her, but the dog did. Until then, Lily had not even noticed it was present, but now it ran forward with a growl, the soldier behind it. Lily tried to scuttle out of the way, but the dog followed, barking with a sharp, high-pitched sound.

“Here, sir!” the soldier cried excitedly. “’Tis the priest hiding!”

The boy thrust the torch toward her. The heat of it made Lily’s eyes blink, and then rough hands closed on her arms, dragging her forth into the nave and dumping her unceremoniously at the feet of her enemy.

The dog was still snuffling around her, and the soldier pulled it away and led it outside. Lily, her heart leaping in her chest, slumped, frozen and waiting.

The silence seemed to stretch interminably.

“What is this? Have the priests in Northumbria taken to wearing women’s gowns?”

The husky voice was full of a wry humor that surprised Lily more than if he had struck her with his fist.

“No, my lord.” The boy didn’t seem to notice his master’s amusement, and took his words at face value. “ ’Tis a woman in truth.”

Radulf did not answer him, speaking instead to Lily, at his feet. “Lift your face, woman, and let me see you.”

It was an order. Lily might be gentle, but she was no coward, and she had never yet shown her fear to the Norman conquerors. To them, her reticence appeared as frigid hauteur.

Straightening her slim shoulders, Lily slowly lifted her head.

The man towered over her, all brawn and bulk.

Iron spurs decorated the heels of his leather boots, and dark breeches molded his strong legs, the cloth firmed by leather cross garters. One big hand rested on the hilt of his sword in its scabbard, and Lily noted a scabbed cut across his knuckles. His tunic of chain mail, or hauberk, was dull and stained from the day’s fighting, and there was a rent at his broad shoulder.

Beneath his conical helmet Lily was able to make out his clean-shaven chin and his mouth, full-lipped despite being so rigidly held. To her consternation, her interest remained fixed on that mouth, only slowly lifting to his eyes, which glowed darkly either side of the metal nasal. They stared deep into hers, and there was a quick intelligence in them that once again surprised her.

Perhaps something of her thoughts showed on her face, for the gleam was abruptly doused, the dark eyes narrowed suspiciously, and Radulf demanded, “Who are you? What are you?”

Lily glanced down at her hands to give herself time to concoct a believable story. Her fingers were clasped tightly at her waist, and on her thumb something gleamed gold in the torchlight. A ring.

Her father’s gold ring! Given to him by Lily’s mother, and which Vorgen had taken from his dead finger, and which in turn had been taken from Vorgen’s finger when he was killed. Lily had worn it ever since, for it rightly belonged to her. It was a ring like no other, a symbol of leadership.

Her father’s device, a hawk, was chased on a black niello background, the hawk’s eye set with a bloodred ruby. Around the hawk design an inscription was engraved, the words also filled with black enamel or niello: “I give thee my heart.”

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 upper-most 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.

CHAPTER2

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 terrible 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 de-creased, 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?

Radulf watched his men walk their horses down into the ditch and up again, cautiously exploring the deserted bailey and burned-out ruins of Vorgen’s keep. Where was she, this she-devil who kept him in the wild north when he longed for home?

Had she gone to Scotland, to beg safety from the wily Malcolm? Or was she even now trying to gather another army to drive William from this place? Did she not comprehend the fruitlessness of such an effort? William had subdued the rebels and laid waste to the land, and if the people didn’t starve this year, they would next.

She-devil indeed!

She was certainly too dangerous for William to allow her to remain free in the north. He would have her killed. Radulf could understand his king’s thinking. William had been inclined to le-niency in the beginning, willing to leave certain Englishmen in charge of their own estates. However, too many of them had failed him, particularly in the north, so now he ensured their loyalty by force rather than diplomacy.

What was the life of one woman against the peace of the whole realm?

Radulf had known Vorgen when the Normans invaded England; they had fought together at Hastings. Vorgen had been loyal and tough, a white-haired man with a face lined by hardship.

Radulf was certain the Vorgen he had known then could not, alone, have caused such turmoil here in the north.

It was Vorgen’s wife who had worked on him, convinced him to rebel against William. ’Twas said she was the Norse king Harald Hardraada’s granddaughter, and a Viking temptress. She had turned faithful Vorgen into a traitor, with her silken tongue and witchy ways. Some women had the devil in them, and all their lovely smiles and sweet kisses were but lures to destruction.

Like Anna.

How different the girl in the church! Her pale, ethereal beauty, her great gray eyes, the soft tremble of her lips. Radulf had been shot through with a lust as deadly as any spear, but he had also felt a compelling urge to protect her, and to prevent any further harm or fright from coming to her. And then she had remembered who he was and she had trembled again, only this time not from fear of her situation but from fear of him! Angry and frustrated, Radulf had turned from her.

Must it always be so? Must his name for brutality always overshadow the real man?

Radulf recalled the story she had told him of her journey from the border and subsequent escape from unknown attackers. He knew the Earl of Morcar, and had heard of Edwin of Rennoc— they were both, for now at least, the king’s men.

He had no reason to disbelieve her, although it was in his nature to be suspicious. Yet there was something . . . He would divert his men on the return journey; the wood Lady Lily had spoken of was only slightly out of their way. If what she had said of the battle between her men and their attackers was true, there should be some clear sign of it.

An entire day had passed since Stephen had brought Lily to Radulf’s tent, a day in which she had paced and worried, and paced again. Although she was probably safe just now, that could not last. She must escape as soon as possible, or persuade Radulf to let her go.

Eventually, as the light began to fade, Lily wore herself out and flung herself down upon the bed.

It was Radulf’s bed, there was no doubt of that.

The wool covers and animal skins reminded her of him; they had his body scent. The acknowledgment made her want to leap up again, but Lily forced herself to be still. It is important not to beafraid of him, she told herself firmly. He is just aman, like Vorgen or . . . or Hew.

Is he? mocked her inner voice. Lily shivered and wondered how a man with such sensuous lips and intelligent eyes could be as cruel and frightening as was generally believed. She had thought she was adept at reading a man’s mind and character—such tricks had been necessary to keep her alive—but Radulf was a puzzle. The man who had touched her in Grimswade church was not the same man whose legend was spoken of in hushed tones. Lily would stake her lands on it—if she still had any. He had desired her, and to

Lily’s surprise, she had desired him. Her surprise at her own feelings wasn’t because Radulf was undesirable—such a big, masculine man must always be attractive—but because of Vorgen.

There had been no love between Lily and her husband. In fact Lily had hated him, and at first Vorgen had seen her as nothing more than the means to his domination of the north. He had not pretended otherwise, and anyway, how could Lily love the man who had murdered her father and turned her comfortable, ordered existence into hell?

In the beginning, when they were first married, Vorgen had tried repeatedly to consummate their marriage. He had pressed and pummeled her, hurting her when he failed. As time passed his attempts became fewer, but were still as frantic and frightening. Lily had imagined his impotence was due to his age, for he was nearly as old as her father. But with each failed attempt, Vorgen’s need to have her grew. He roared at her that it was all her fault, that she was a frozen bitch, and it was her coldness that had made him incapable.

“Then I am glad. Glad!” she had screamed back at him, and earned herself a bruised cheek. But she had been glad he could not take from her what she had always considered hers alone to give.

Still, his cruel words had hurt as much as his hands. And he began to say them so often and with such venom, Lily could not help but believe them.

Occasionally Vorgen would threaten her with other men. He told her that he would force her to mate with them, for Vorgen needed an heir to con-solidate his position. His subjects thought of him as a foreigner, but they would accept a half-Norman, half-English child and give it their allegiance.

Yet the threats had been just that. And then Vorgen was dead, and she was his widow without ever having been his wife.

The coming of night had been something to dread, in case he visited her chamber. She did not think she would have dreaded the nights if Radulf had been her husband, but Vorgen had left behind a legacy of doubt. Would Radulf, too, find her cold and undesirable? Would he kiss her with passion, only to find that heat chill and shrivel to naught?

He is my enemy! her weary brain reminded her.

But that only further confused her; it felt as if her mind and her body were playing tug-of-war.

But Radulf’s bed was soft and warm, and Lily’s body rested in a comfortable hollow. The past weeks, the past few years, had been like living on a knife edge, and it was a very long time since Lily had been so peaceful or so relaxed.

Finally, she succumbed to exhaustion.

Her sleep was so deep, she did not hear the sounds of the army camp settling for the night, or Stephen coming to light the candles, or an owl calling outside. She slept on, dreamless, her silver hair spread about her.

“My lord?”

The last lingering effects of sleep dissipated abruptly, and Lily held her breath. Stephen’s soft voice had come from the direction of the tent door, but it was not Stephen who had awakened her so abruptly.

There was someone standing over her. She could feel him, smell him—a combination of sweat, damp wool, and man.

Radulf.

Beneath the folds of her gown, Lily’s hand closed hard, her nails digging into her palm.

“My lord?” Stephen repeated, his puzzlement evident.

Now all of Lily’s senses were awake and quivering. There was a movement nearby as heavy wool—a cloak? —swirled, brushing against her cheek. The contact caused her to flinch, but Radulf had already turned away, his footsteps retreating.

Very carefully, Lily opened one eye and peered through her lashes.

Her enemy had his back to her, and by the tilt of his head was drinking from a goblet. Stephen stood beside him, waiting until Radulf had finished, and then refilling the goblet from a beaten metal jug. Radulf grunted his thanks.

Lily noted that Radulf had removed his hauberk and helmet, and now wore a green, short-sleeved tunic over a white linen shirt and breeches of a muddy brown. A thick, dark-colored cloak was thrown loosely over one shoulder. The chain mail had taken with it some of his bulk, but he was still enormous, wide of back and shoulders, his body as strongly muscled as any large fighting animal. Powerful. Again Rona’s word seemed to encompass all that was Radulf.

“My lord Radulf,” Stephen spoke. “Will I dress your wounds?”

Radulf paused, the goblet once more lifted. His hair was very dark and cut short over his skull, shorter even than the Norman fashion.

“No,” Radulf answered his squire. “My lady offered to do so,” and he nodded in Lily’s direction.

She tried to make herself smaller on the bed.

Dressing a knight’s wounds was the province of a lady, but Lily was wary of touching that warm skin.

“Did you search Vorgen’s stronghold, lord?”

“Aye. Empty.”

“So there was no battle, my lord?” Stephen sounded disappointed.

Radulf gave a snort of disgust. “No, there was not.” He flexed his shoulder, easing the ache.

“So the she-devil is still free?” Stephen looked uneasy at the idea of anyone defying his lord.

“She is. There would be less bloodshed if she yielded now instead of cooking up more plots, but it matters not. I will have her sooner or later.”

Lily bit her lip, cold fear crawling over her skin.

What if he were to find out that the woman he held safe in his tent was the very woman he sought? Surely he would kill her?

“Women are weak creatures, meant to be confined,” Stephen was saying knowledgeably, more like a swaggering knave than an untried boy. “’Tis not right they should be allowed the freedom to lead men and make war. ’Tis not right they should cause such pandemonium about the land!”

“Calm yourself, boy.”

Radulf was laughing, Lily could tell by his voice. How could Radulf, the bloody warrior, the putter-down of rebellions, be laughing? The men Lily had recently known in her life did not laugh very often, and when they did their humor was coarse and violent. This Radulf was a puzzle, and Lily could no longer keep still. She opened her eyes and sat up.

Stephen, facing her, frowned and glanced quickly at his lord. Radulf turned, the goblet in his hand and dying laughter in his eyes. Lily’s breath slipped out of her open mouth.

The church last night had been dark, the light poor. Although she had had an impression of size and strength, and a sensation of dangerous dark eyes and a sensuous mouth, she had not really seen him. Now Lily saw Radulf as he truly was, and her heart tumbled over and over, like a small water wheel in a raging millpond.

Why did his face stir her so? It was by no means handsome in the usual way, not at all like the blond perfection of Hew. Radulf’s nose had been broken and was a little crooked, and there was a deep scar that ran across one cheekbone and up into his hairline, just missing his left eye. Strong and masculine, it was the face of a man who had lived and seen much. His eyes, dark and deep set, were watchful and older than his years. And his mouth . . . Lily felt weak at the thought of pressing her own against it, of feeling those full lips moving over hers.

Her thoughts careering out of control, Lily’s gaze flew wildly to Radulf’s as she wondered whether he could read her mind. And then, horrified, whether he would need to. Surely women threw themselves at him every moment of every day? Such a man must be a honeypot for all womankind. With a mixture of uneasy fascination and horrified expectation, Lily watched Radulf approach her.

An angry spark flared in eyes that had a moment before been laughing and warm, and there was a hint of cruelty in the curl of his lips. He looked cross—had he discovered the truth already? No, if he knew the truth he would be furious. Lily held her breath as Radulf came to a halt beside the bed.

“You do well to fear me, lady,” he said in his deepest, most menacing voice. “You are the lamb to my wolf. I could tear out your throat.”

Lily gazed up at him, her eyes held prisoner by his. Oh yes, this was indeed her feared enemy, just as she had always imagined him. The terror of the north, the King’s bloody Sword! A shudder of fright ran through her body . . . and then faded.

Lily’s frozen mind thawed and began to work.

Why, if Radulf was so alarming, if his face was as hard and cold as his sword, was the expression in his eyes so achingly weary? As if his own infamy were a burden he could hardly bear.

“I am not afraid of you.” Lily heard the quiet certainty in her voice.

Surprise flickered in those dark depths. Slowly the cruel smile faded and became genuine. “No, lady?” He shrugged, winced, and dropped his deep voice to a husky rumble. “Then methinks you are very foolish. Everyone is afraid of me.” Radulf held her gaze a heartbeat longer before turning away, back toward Stephen. His next words were offhand, a deceptively negligent challenge. “However, if you speak the truth, and are brave enough, you may tend my wounds. Stephen usually does so, but his hands are more used to the serving of meat than the repairing of it.”

Radulf turned again to look at her, while Stephen appeared suitably shamefaced.

Lily slowly rose to her feet, smoothing the red gown where it had wrinkled over her hips. She could not help but notice how Radulf’s eyes followed her movements, their expression reminding her of a hungry wolf suddenly confronted by a plump lamb. Lily trembled as she used the same analogy as he, but in a very different context. She could not mistake such a look, and her need for self-preservation should send her fleeing from Radulf, and yet . . .

Lily raised her chin.

He was watching her keenly, searchingly, and her proud gesture made him smile. He bowed his head to hide it, but Lily saw the tug at the corners of his mouth.

Did he find her so amusing? Briefly, anger flared within her, but she could not afford to be angry.

“You do not frighten me, my lord Radulf,” she repeated firmly, “though for some reason you try. Besides, you forget, I am in your debt.”

“My debt?” If he had forgotten the circumstances of their meeting, she had not.

“For granting me your protection.”

“A damsel in distress,” he murmured, and once again amusement warmed his eyes. Lily waited patiently while he catalogued her features as thoroughly as before. She was not nearly as calm as she pretended. Inside she was asking herself what she hoped to accomplish by her acceptance of his challenge. His trust? Or was there more to it— some secret reason that made her heart flutter and her body weak? Perhaps tending him was just an excuse to touch that hard body and let her thoughts linger on impossible dreams.

When Radulf nodded his consent, Lily didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry.

“Very well, lady. Stephen, fetch what needs to be fetched. And bring food. I am hungry, and the lady will eat with me before you take her to Gudren’s tent.”

When Stephen had hurried out, Lily dared a question. “You were hurt today?”

Radulf gave her one of his unreadable looks.

“No, lady. I was hurt yesterday when we fought what was left of Vorgen’s army. An arrow pierced my chain mail. ’Twas a slighting blow, not serious. I could ride out and fight now, if need be, without any difficulty.”

Lily was sure he could. Such a man as he appeared indestructible—part of Radulf’s legend stated he was unable to be slain—but Lily had begun to unpick that mythical tapestry.

Stephen returned with a bowl of warmed water, some cleaning cloths, and strips of linen for binding the wound. He also removed an earthenware pot of salve from a small chest in the corner, and placed it upon the trestle table with the rest.

At a nod from Radulf he bowed and slipped back out of the tent, leaving them once more alone.

Radulf eased himself down onto a stool and gave Lily a faint, mocking smile over one shoulder. “You say you are not afraid of me, lady. Prove it.”

Lily shrugged in pretended disdain. He turned away from her, and she was left facing a broad and unfriendly expanse of back. She sensed he was waiting; she also sensed his tension—it was a brave man who turned his back on a stranger in Northumbria. He was testing her. Lily took a step closer, and then another, until she stood directly behind him.

His big body gave off such warmth. It attracted her, an irresistible pull. Her inner voice was still protesting but Lily took no notice. There was something very strange happening to her, and Radulf was at its core. Her fingers trembled as she lifted them, and carefully rested her hands on his broad shoulders. Lily felt his muscles tense beneath her touch, and he shifted restlessly on his stool.

“Am I hurting you, my lord?”

He laughed wryly. “Aye, I hurt, lady.” Radulf glanced up at her and, seeing her incomprehen-sion, sighed. “Tend me then, Lily. You are not hurting me.”

With infinite care, Lily began to remove Radulf’s tunic and undershirt. The cloth was fine and well made, as befitted a great lord. Radulf lifted his arms to help her, and first the tunic and then the shirt slipped up over his head. Lily folded them neatly, placing them to one side before turning again to Radulf.

She bit her lips.

Her mother, before she died when Lily was a child, had told her wondrous stories of Valhalla, the Norse heaven, peopled with gods like Odin and Thor and Freyr. Thor was Lily’s favorite. He was the strongest, a giant, but he was clever, too, and according to Lily’s mother, of such manly beauty a maiden might fall instantly under his spell. Lily had listened to those stories, her gray eyes wide, dreaming that one day she might be-hold such a creature.

And now she had.

Radulf’s back was broad and brown, with well-defined muscles roped beneath his skin. Lily was tempted to run her hands over his shoulder blades and down his spine, smoothing her palms over that firm, healthy body. And as for his arms, why, she would need two hands to measure their upper circumference, and even then her fingers would not meet! Hew had been slim and golden, while Vorgen had been old and sinewy. Not like this. Never like this.

Stop it. Are you losing your wits? Remember who this is, remember what he could do to you.

The wound—she must tend the wound.

It was but a shallow gouge in his flesh, just beyond the ridge of his shoulder. Lily could see where the arrow had sliced through his skin, luck-ily not piercing it too deeply. There had been some bleeding, though that had stopped, and there was now only a slight leaking of watery fluid. Still it looked red and sore, and must hurt him quite a bit.

“Does this hurt you?” She pressed the edge of the wound, gentle but firm. It was best to know now if there was any swelling or poison. Lily had seen men die of something so small it was hardly noticed by them, and yet they sickened and, within a short time, died in great agony.

“No,” he said, his deep voice husky. “Your hands are gentle, lady. ’Tis long since I have had such tender care.”

Lily suddenly became very brisk, bathing away the dried blood, careful not to inflict further pain or hurt. Radulf sat as a statue, never flinching or crying out as Vorgen had always done. During her ministrations Stephen returned with food and more wine, setting both silently upon the table and once more leaving them alone. When Lily finally lifted the earthenware pot and opened the stopper, she held it up to her nose and sniffed sharply.

Radulf turned his head to look up at her. A glint of amusement shone deep in his eyes. “Do you mean to anoint me with it, lady, or eat it?”

She ignored him. “I know it,” she murmured with relief. “’Tis from the marigold plant. A goodly potion for healing wounds such as yours.”

“You are a healer?” he asked sharply, still watching her.

Lily laughed, genuinely amused. “No, my lord, I am no healer. I have learned only a little. But enough,” she added. There was no need to tell him too much; she must not give her secrets away.

Radulf seemed satisfied and nodded, turning back to his contemplation of the food on the table.