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.