by Sara Bennett
“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. It must be growing cold and he was hungry, yet he hadn’t spoken angrily to her, he hadn’t lifted his hand to strike her. He had sat still and patient and allowed her her way with him.
What sort of Norman was this?
“Have I time to see to your hand?” she asked quickly and a little breathlessly.
Radulf lifted his hand in surprise, as if noticing the cut on it for the first time. Had he not felt the discomfort? Was he so used to these things that they were normal for him? And, now that she thought on it, his shirt had been damp and his breeches were definitely so.
“As you will, my lady,” he was saying, and watched her curiously as she gave his hand her attention.
To distract herself, Lily clucked her tongue and instructed him. “You should see that your servant keeps you dry and warm. The north of England is different from the south, my lord. Here the cold creeps into your bones and lies there, making them ache. You will become ill if you do not change into warm, dry clothing.”
He laughed, but he sounded pleased. “Enough,” he said, still smiling. “We will eat first, and then you can strip me and rub me dry.” One eyebrow lifted slowly, suggestively. “If you wish.”
Lily knew the color was rising in her cheeks again. “My lord,” she began breathlessly in denial, but the thought was between them, vivid as if it were already a fact. She could not seem to look away from his eyes, and he appeared to be in similar difficulty.
“You must be hungry, my lord,” Lily managed to say through the constriction in her throat.
Radulf lifted his hand and cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing her bottom lip, as it had in the church. Lily felt the earth beneath her shift and tremble, or was it only her own legs that shook? Radulf’s other arm curled about her hips and drew her slowly against him.
Lily looked down into his eyes. “My lord? What are you doing?”
“I am doing what I wanted to do the first moment I saw you,” Radulf murmured. He lifted the long strands of her hair, winding his fingers in them, gently drawing her face closer to his. Lily felt his warm breath on her lips. His eyes really were black, she realized. She could see her own reflection in them, and for a moment didn’t recognize herself. She looked flushed, her lips moist and parted, her gray eyes half closed. She looked seductive. She looked as if she wanted to be kissed.
Lily wasn’t surprised when Radulf did kiss her. What did surprise her were the sensations that went with such a simple act. Her mouth throbbed, her breasts tingled, and the place between her legs felt achy. The tip of Radulf’s tongue followed the outline of her lips, and then slid inside. Lily opened her mouth to him, quite unable to resist, no longer sure she wanted to. In another moment she would have been lost…
The clearing of a throat sent her stumbling backward, the heat draining from her body like wine from a ruptured barrel.
“My lord?”
Stephen’s voice seemed unnaturally loud, and he stomped his feet as he entered the tent, looking everywhere but at them. Lily figured he must have already seen them, left the tent, and re-entered. She put a shaking hand to her mouth, as if to hide the evidence of their kiss.
“What is it, boy?” Radulf sounded annoyed at the interruption, his eyes on Lily. She felt them boring into her back, but refused to turn and meet them. She felt flustered and confused. How Vorgen would have laughed! There had been nothing cold about her a moment ago in Radulf’s arms. Had she lost her mind, to allow her enemy such power over her?
But Stephen’s next words swept all self-recriminations from Lily’s mind.
“We have found the priest, my lord!”
Chapter 3
The priest!
Lily’s heart stopped, and started again. Father Luc! Here was danger in full measure. She had always liked Father Luc, and she thought he liked her. She prayed desperately that he had his wits about him and would not give her away.
“Must I see him now?” Radulf sounded weary as well as annoyed.
“You’ve been seeking him, Lord Radulf; don’t you want to speak with him?”
Stephen seemed puzzled by Radulf’s resistance, and at any other time Lily might have found it amusing. As it was, she watched in tense silence as Radulf reached for his shirt.
“Very well,” he growled, “but he’d best be quick. I’m hungry.”
Stephen’s gaze skimmed over Lily but didn’t linger. He bowed and gestured to someone beyond the entrance to Radulf’s tent. “Come,” he said, the authority in his voice somewhat marred by its tendency to waver up and down the scale. “My lord will do you the honor of speaking with you.”
“He’ll do me the honor, will he?”
Lily stepped back into the shadows and stayed there unmoving as Father Luc waddled into the candlelight. A small, rotund man in a coarse brown gown, his bald melon head was pink with anger, his eyes a vivid blue. Before the Normans came, Father Luc had had a wife and children—the English church saw no harm in its priests marrying. Afterward, Lily heard that the wife and children were sent away to safety, and Father Luc took on a solitary existence more in line with the Norman idea of piety.
“My lord,” he puffed now, “your men are rough and uncouth. What mean you by this disrespect?”
“What mean you?” Radulf growled softly, long legs splayed out before him. He did not bother to get up. “You have been well hidden, priest. I have been seeking you.”
“There have been many people seeking me since you came north, my lord,” Father Luc replied tartly. “Plows and farming tools have been broken, and crops burned in the fields. Animals have been slaughtered. The people are starving. They turn to me and God, and I give them what help I can.”
“I want you to help me, priest.”
Father Luc frowned, trying to read Radulf’s face. “In what way, my lord?”
“I am looking for Vorgen’s wife. Do you know her?”
The priest nodded cautiously, his eyes still fixed on Radulf, but Lily had the distinct impression he was very well aware she was there. “You seek the Lady Wilfreda?”
“Have you seen her recently?”
“She fled, Lord Radulf. Fled when she heard the King’s Sword was coming. Your name is a powerful one. Only a fool would stand and fight.”
Radulf snorted. “Vorgen fought.”
“Aye, lord, and he was a fool.”
“And you take me for one, too, old man?” Radulf leaned forward threateningly. “I’ve heard too many rumors that Lady Wilfreda is still in Northumbria. I don’t believe she’s gone north.”
Fat
her Luc shrugged.
“Perhaps you could be persuaded, priest?” Radulf sneered. “The men of God I know are always short of gold.”
Father Luc’s amiable face seemed to pinch upon itself. “She has fled. Best you resign her to her fate and go home. Go home, my lord, and take your gold with you.”
He was brave, thought Lily, but foolish to antagonize Radulf. She glanced quickly toward the Norman, expecting him to show his anger, but Radulf appeared unmoved by the priest’s words.
“When I have found Wilfreda I will go home,” Radulf replied mildly. “Until then I will hunt.”
The priest’s rosebud mouth tightened, but his eyes remained steady.
“However, you may be able to help me in another matter,” Radulf added. He turned and stared over to where Lily stood. “This lady was hiding in your church. She says she is Edwin of Rennoc’s daughter, returning home from the border. Do you know her?”
Father Luc allowed his eyes to flick briefly to Lily and away again. Lily’s heart squeezed within her chest. He must recognize her, must have recognized her as soon as he entered the tent, and yet there was nothing whatsoever in his face to show it. “I do not know Edwin of Rennoc’s daughter, my lord.”
“And yet the villagers know of her.”
“Ah, that is a different matter, my lord. I know he has a daughter, fair-headed and fair of face, but I have never met her. And you say this is she?” The priest nodded in Lily’s direction. “She looks weary. Have you hurt her?” he asked with a frown. “Her father is the Earl of Morcar’s vassal, and Morcar is the king’s man. Surely the king would be angry if he knew his Sword was striking at his friends as well as his enemies.”
Radulf stiffened, and Lily held her breath. Father Luc had questioned Radulf’s integrity. If this had been Vorgen, the priest would be dead by now, and she had no reason to think Radulf was any different. But before she allowed such a fate to befall the little man, she would speak the truth. She would not allow another to suffer in her stead; there had been enough suffering.
To her astonished relief, Radulf’s shoulders eased back and the frown smoothed from his brow. Contrarily, the sense of strength and power that surrounded him increased rather than diminished. Lily knew then that a man like Radulf did not need to kill and maim to build on his consequence, and admiration mingled with her relief.
“You are a brave man, priest, but take care with your tongue.” Amusement curled Radulf’s lips, but there was a warning in his dark eyes.
The priest gave him an innocent smile.
“Boy!” Stephen hurried to obey his master’s call, eyes wide as he looked from the priest to his lord. “Let him go. He’s of no use to me after all.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Father Luc straightened his gown, smoothing its sleeves and shaking the mud from its hem. His face remained impassive, but his blue eyes twinkled as he turned to Lily. “Be of good cheer, my lady of Rennoc,” he told her gently. “You will soon be among friends.”
Lily stared after him as he left, wondering what he had meant, and if, indeed, the words had contained any meaning beyond the need to comfort.
“A priest who cannot be bought or bribed,” Radulf said with a shake of his head. “A rarity.”
Lily frowned, moving slowly forward until she faced him across the table of uneaten food. “You are cynical, my lord.”
“I have grown so, Lily.” That look was in his eyes again, as if beneath the battle-hardened warrior lay a wounded soul.
“Perhaps it is the company you keep.”
Radulf laughed briefly. “Perhaps it is. Come sit down, my lady. We will eat, and this time there will be no interruptions.”
His eyes promised much more than food, but Lily avoided his gaze. “I find I am weary rather than hungry, my lord. I would sleep now.”
The silence grew heavy, but still Lily refused to look up. She heard Radulf sigh.
“Very well, lady. I will have Stephen take you to Gudren’s tent.”
Lily’s stiff bearing eased with relief, and yet there was a traitorous sense of disappointment. She had liked it when Radulf kissed her, liked it very much indeed. She would not mind if he kissed her again. But kisses would lead to other things, and Lily was not sure she had the strength to resist. Radulf might be her enemy, but he held an attraction for her that was well-nigh irresistible.
Radulf swallowed the last of a chunk of mutton, and reached for more. His body was burning, but this was no ordinary fever. He gulped down half a goblet of wine, refilling it immediately, as if the sour red liquid might somehow quench the fire Lily had started in him. He forced himself to chew more of the meat, then bit into the hard brown bread. Radulf wondered wildly if he should send his squire to bring him one of the whores who were a permanent part of any soldiers’ camp. But he didn’t want a whore.
He wanted Lily.
He had wanted her as soon as he walked into the tent and saw her lying asleep on his bed, her pale hair spread across the covers, her mouth curved in a secret smile. If Stephen hadn’t been there, he might have been tempted to caress her to wakefulness, to befuddle her with kisses so that she would not remember who and what he was. Until it was too late.
Instead he had ordered her to tend his wound, suffering agonies of lust as her scent teased his nostrils and she touched him with her gentle fingers, each brush of her skin another twig upon the pyre of his need.
Radulf sighed, impatient with himself. He was a fool. He had seen the terror in those gray eyes when she woke and saw him. What woman could fail to fear him? And yet she had tended his wound and met his eyes straightly when she spoke to him. She had courage. Perhaps her gratitude would overcome her fright long enough for him to make her forget he was Radulf.
He remembered his mouth on hers, the sweetness of it, the heat as she opened her lips to his tongue, and clenched his jaw on a groan. She had been in his arms, her lashes dark crescents against her pale skin, her long, fair hair curling in wild tendrils about her back and shoulders. Her breasts had swelled beneath the red wool of her gown, rising and falling quickly with each breath—already he knew their size and shape, as if God had made them precisely to fit into his hand.
Radulf gave up trying to eat.
He knew he should have questioned her further about Morcar and Rennoc. He should have questioned her in regard to her journey from the border. He should have asked her about the ambush in the wood and how she alone had escaped the attackers. And why three of his men, sent to investigate that same wood, had found no sign of any fighting.
Was she a liar?
He didn’t care.
Nothing seemed to matter anymore but the heat in his groin and satisfying it with her.
Radulf did not know how long he sat, staring at nothing, before the sounds penetrated his mind.
The clash of swords and the shouts of men, the unmistakable noise of battle.
Gudren’s tent was roomy, although a fire just outside combined with a brisk breeze to send frequent gusts of smoke within. Once Lily had adjusted to the gloom and the pungent odor of woodsmoke, she found the tent warm and clean. Gudren, ignoring her protests, supplied her with an ample supper of bread and goat’s cheese, as well as ale to wash it down.
Gudren was a woman of middle age, her body comfortably plump, her pale eyes wrinkle-wrapped and watchful. She preferred to keep her silence, as Lily discovered when she had spoken several times and received nothing but smiling nods in reply.
After she had eaten her fill, Lily set about combing her tangled hair with an antler comb, and plaiting it into one long braid. Gudren seemed to be dozing, eyes half closed. The fluttering tallow candle smoothed the age from her face and bleached the gray from her hair. They might have been anywhere, anyone…two women taking respite after a busy, task-filled day.
Outside in the Norman camp, all was quiet as the soldiers huddled in sleep around their fires or in their tents. Lily felt oddly secure, like a child again, in the safety of her father’s hall. She even heard hi
s voice.
You carry the blood of warriors and kings in your veins, Lily. But ’tis possible that you may be forced to bow your head one day, for the sake of your lands and your people, to lesser men. Be proud and remember, your altruism and your ability to compromise does not make you weak, rather it strengthens you.
Had he known even then that war was inevitable? Perhaps he had felt the cold wind from across the channel, the stirring of the Norman conquerors. Perhaps he had stood at his gate to greet those same conquerors, and seen the greed in Vorgen’s eyes. What would he think of Radulf? Would he see only that here was another Norman, or would he see past the outer trappings to the man within, as Lily was beginning to?
A rustle beyond the tent startled Lily, bringing her back to her surroundings. Peering through the smoky gloom, she made out the shape of a soldier standing at attention before the entrance. As she watched, he shuffled his feet again, and his sword scabbard clinked dully against his chain mail.
Lily was Radulf’s prisoner. How could she imagine anything else?
She closed her eyes again, trying to recapture her previous mood, but the warm contentment had vanished.
“You are tired, my pretty one?”
“A little, mother.”
Lily answered before she thought. Dismay washed over her, and she opened her eyes slowly as she straightened. Gudren had just spoken in the Norse tongue, and Lily had answered her.
Gudren was grinning, a cunning gleam in her pale eyes. Lily saw then that it was not silence Gudren craved, ’twas only that she was a foreigner who spoke French badly, if at all. No wonder she was smiling with delight! How many Norman ladies could claim to know such a language?
Gudren leaned closer, bringing with her the combined aromas of herbs and goat. “’Tis long since I heard any other than my husband speak the sweet sounds of our own country. Are you from Norway, lady?”