Chapter 11 #2
Lily did not argue as Una helped her to don the gown.
The thought of Radulf struck dumb by the sight of his bride was a temptation too great for her to resist. When she was dressed, Una combed out her hair so that it hung loose about her in a veil finer and fairer than any cloth.
The gold brought a warmth to Lily’s pale skin, and with a touch of red at her lips, it was easy enough to overlook the shadows under her eyes.
Una stepped back to peruse her handiwork.
“You are a wondrous fair bride, lady,” she breathed reverently.
“ ’Tis the dress,” Lily murmured. “Such a gown would turn any woman into a beauty.”
She hardly heard Una’s protests. Now that it was time to appear before her bridegroom, Lily was very nervous. She knew she must pretend at haughtiness, enclose herself once more in the ice cage, but such pretense was difficult on her marriage day.
Radulf had released her from the cage, but it seemed that he still held the key.
“Lady?” Una was at the door, eyes bright, eager to show her off.
Lily gathered the stiff, heavy folds of her skirt in her hands, lifting the hem above her matching shoes so that she did not trip. You have faced Vorgen, she reminded herself, and you have faced King William. There is no need to be afraid of Radulf.
Radulf and his men had celebrated long into the night, and the common room was still smoky and untidy, and reeked of ale and wine.
Lily stood in the doorway, noting one man holding his head and another green-faced in the light from the door.
She could not at first see Radulf, and as she stood there, searching, one by one the soldiers’ voices fell silent.
Lily ignored their stares. She had found who she was looking for.
He was such a tall and commanding presence, Lily did not know how she had missed him.
He was standing by the fireplace, one booted foot resting against the hearth, a tankard in his hand, a smile on his mouth as he bent his head to converse with the innkeeper.
“My lady!” Jervois spoke the words softly, reverently, from his place by his lord.
Radulf turned, the amusement dying in his eyes.
Despite the smoky gloom, Lily caught the flash of heat in that dark gaze.
It was like sunlight, melting her flesh and bones, dazzling her so that for a brief moment she could not think at all.
Then Una slipped an unobtrusive arm about her waist, fearing perhaps that she was about to faint.
When Lily had regained her composure the heated look had gone, and Radulf’s eyes were unreadable.
He looked well, she admitted grudgingly.
The tunic he wore was Lincoln green in color, and a short, dark, fur-lined cloak was flung across one shoulder and fastened with an ornate brooch.
It swirled about his muscular legs as he turned to murmur some instruction to Jervois.
A heavy gold chain shone dully across his breast, indicative of his position. Oh yes, he looked very well indeed.
Today they would be joined together as husband and wife, as close a union as was possible between man and woman. The knowledge sent prickles of fright and excitement across Lily’s skin.
Radulf was striding toward her, setting his tankard down on a bench as he passed. By the time he halted, he was too close. Why did he always stand too close? Lily longed to take a step back and create space between them, but he would consider it a sign of weakness.
“We ride to the castle within the hour,” he said in a formal voice. “Will you take some wine with me before we go to celebrate our marriage?”
The men stood silent and waiting, while Una held her breath at Lily’s back. That she didn’t slap his face, Lily told herself, was more for their sake than her own. Radulf threw a glance at the innkeeper, and the man hastened to pour wine into two of the finest goblets.
“It is a pleasure, my lady,” he began, but Radulf silenced him with a single glance.
“To the lady Lily!” Radulf declared. As the wine reached his lips, an uncomfortable thought occurred to him. “Or should I call you Lady Wilfreda now?”
Lily refused to look away from those dark questioning eyes. “It is my name, my lord,” she replied just as formally.
He drank half the wine. His men raised a ragged and subdued cheer, obviously afraid their heads would crumble if they yelled too loudly. “So who is Lily?” asked Radulf, his brows drawn together.
“My father called me Lily. It is the name I am called by those who love me,” she said very coldly, so he would know he was not one of them.
He stared down at her a moment longer, then shrugged indifferently.
“Then I will call you Wilfreda, or perhaps vixen, for you have been as cunning as one.” He swallowed the remainder of the wine.
“Drink up, lady! You will be tired and thirsty ere this day is done. The king tends to wring every drop of amusement out of these occasions.”
He did not speak to her again, but turned to thank his men and receive more of their congratulations. Making them, thought Lily crossly, even more his slaves than they already were.
Vixen, indeed!
Lily swiftly drank down her goblet of wine, to help dull her fears. When it came time to mount her mare and ride to the castle, she was able to do so quite regally and with very little nerves.
“You do us proud, lady,” Jervois complimented her, as he assisted her into the saddle. “The King’s Sword could not have found a more ravishing bride.”
Honeyed words were rare from Radulf’s captain, and Lily wondered if he had spoken them because Radulf had not.
Apart from that one burning look, Radulf had said nothing at all about the golden gown.
But then, why should he? They were only marrying because the king had ordered it, and despite what he had said about revenge and enjoying her body, Radulf must be feeling angry and resentful.
She hardly knew what she herself was feeling.
Confusion, pain, anger . . . and other, darker emotions she didn’t want to examine too closely.
Lily’s mare shifted nervously, perhaps sensing her mistress’s shift in feelings. When Radulf moved in beside her, his destrier frightened the mare even more. As she tossed her head and side-stepped, he reached over and took her reins from Lily’s fingers, wrapping them firmly about his big hand.
“My lord,” Lily gasped, shocked by his high-handed behavior, “please return my horse to me!”
He ignored her, calling something to the innkeeper who was hovering in the doorway.
Her father had determined her life when she was young, then Vorgen had controlled her, and Hew had tried to. Men seemed always to be telling her what to do.
“My lord!” Lily hissed under her breath. “I asked that you return me my reins. I will not be led behind you like a child.”
Radulf turned and looked at her then, eyebrows raised. “You wish to be thrown, lady?”
“My mare is afraid of your destrier, Lord Radulf, but I can manage her.”
There was a note of pride in the statement.
Radulf did not appear to care one way or the other, for he shrugged and said indifferently, “As you wish, lady. Let us go.”
Lily took control of her mount once more, settling her heavy skirts about her. It wasn’t much, perhaps, but it was a start.
They rode through the narrow streets, Radulf’s banner carried snapping before them—a fist with a sword held upright on a field of azure.
There were plenty of people to cheer for them.
William had been busy, Radulf informed Lily, noticing her bewilderment.
The king had ordered York to re-joice in the joining of Norman and English, in the coming of a new age of peace and prosperity to the north.
Flower petals settled about them like perfumed rain. The blossoms were sweet and heady, and those who threw them were smiling, enjoying the moment as much as Lily was not.
“They have denuded the gardens,” Radulf murmured close to her ear, humor tugging at his mouth.
The surge of longing in her heart frightened
Lily, and made her voice sharp and shrewish. “The king has ordered it. Who would dare disobey?”
Radulf sat back, disinterested again. “Not I, lady.”
He grasped her hand, raising it high in his, and the crowd cheered.
“Smile,” he told her. “I order it.”
Lily smiled, her face stiff and frozen, her heart leaden. It was all so beautiful, but it was all wrong.
Radulf glanced sideways at his bride-to-be.
She was beautiful, even the normally taciturn Jervois thought so.
And yet she seemed as brittle as eggshell.
He had taken her mare’s reins because he was afraid for her, and then she had demanded them back.
She could not even allow him that small courtesy, her pride was so monstrous.
Radulf irritably brushed a petal off his nose.
If he could get this business over with, take her back to the inn, there might be a chance of melting that icy hauteur. But that was hours and hours away; William’s feasts were never brief. Radulf sighed and settled himself for the long wait.
The castle yard was crowded with servants and musicians, welcoming them and announcing their arrival.
Inside, the great hall was resplendent with green twining leaves and more flowers, until it seemed more like a forest than a manmade structure.
The sweet smells of herbs and blossoms almost but didn’t quite overpower those of stale sweat and hunting dogs—the more typical aromas of a Norman keep.
Cooks and servants dashed about, while William’s guests drank enormous qualities of wine.
The Normans were great fighters and hunters, but they were also great eaters and drinkers. They indulged their senses with passion. Why then, when it came to matters of the heart, were they so reserved and cautious?