Chapter 19 #2
Radulf and Lily! He felt sick with bitter disappointment. Well, they would see who were the victors there today . . .
Hew raised his gauntlet, and screamed out the command to do battle.
Lily’s arms felt cold, empty. Radulf had gone, riding with his men down into the valley.
She held her breath, gazing over the distance until her eyes ached and stung, unable to do more than shake her head when Stephen asked her if she wanted wine, or to take shelter in the tent since it was lightly drizzling.
She was nothing, an empty shell, and she would not live again until Radulf returned.
He loved her. He had not said it aloud—maybe he never would—but there had been no mistaking the expression in his eyes, the fiery longing in his kisses. Last night he had said he treasured her, but this morning she knew he loved her.
The azure banner fluttered below, its brilliance catching Lily’s gaze. She watched it move back and forth among the seething mass of men.
Radulf’s banner. At first it had shown her where his army was situated, but now the fighting was so intense, there were no clear demarcation lines.
Radulf’s men could be anywhere within that un-wieldy killing machine. The noise was deafening.
But where was Radulf? Lily scanned the battlefield, and finally found him—she had not realized she had stopped breathing until she gulped in a mouthful of cold, rain-laden air.
He was fighting from his black destrier, his mighty sword arm swinging back and forth.
Lily had never quite realized before how attuned her lord’s body was to fighting, how superbly strong and fit he was.
Now, even in her terror, she admired him.
A fair-haired giant caught her eye. Olaf.
He was pushing his way through the enemy, the great battle-axe rising and falling.
He appeared to be set on a particular destination, and although the foes threw themselves into his path, he dispatched them with hardly a pause.
Lily lifted her gaze beyond Olaf and saw that the enemy was still strong to the left of the field.
A horseman, slender even in his armor, fought furiously, urging his men to push forward.
It was Hew.
His horse reared and turned, and briefly Lily thought he was about to run. But Hew forced the animal back around, facing his opponent, just as the blond giant rose up beside his saddle. The battle-axe sang through the rain, and took Hew’s head from his body.
There was a collective groan from the enemy ranks.
“Now we will win!” Stephen’s whisper was hoarse, his throat raw from shouting.
The azure banner flapped, moving through the field. Hew’s men held a moment longer, and then began to retreat. First one or two, and then more, stumbling and running, pursued up the slope by Radulf’s forces.
Radulf himself rode forward, and was suddenly surrounded by Hew’s men. No, Kenton’s men—tough, battle-hardened Normans determined to battle to the end for their absent master.
Rigid with fear, Lily watched Radulf fight first one, and then another, his sword slashing and jabbing. Oh God, he was desperately outnumbered . . .
Thunder rumbled across the hills, the dark clouds moving in as though to signal an end. Another crack of thunder and the rain came down, a deluge. And now Lily could not see a thing.
“Where is he?” she whimpered, and began to
pray. There were glimpses of color, the green of the grass and the brown of the churned earth, men’s armor and clothing, and men’s blood. Even the noise of the battle had faded beneath the roar of the rain.
Stephen gripped Lily’s hand, pulling her toward the shelter of a tent. When they stood dripping within its walls, she turned to him frantically.
“Did you see Radulf? At the last, did you see him?”
Stephen stared back at her. She could see the lies forming in his eyes, but in the end he offered her the uncomfortable truth. “No, lady, I did not see him.”
Was he dead, then? Fallen upon the battlefield?
He had been surrounded, overwhelmed. She had seen how easily Hew’s head had been parted from his body . . . If it had not been for her babe, Lily would have run from the tent to search for him.
What was her life without Radulf? Had she given him her heart, only to have it smashed? Lily’s tears mingled with the rain . . .
A rough, ragged cheer floated across the valley.
The rain was easing, the thunder’s growl drifting away.
Lily blinked, wiping the moisture from her lashes and gripping the tent doorway with a trembling hand.
There was the sound of horses approaching; a voice—Jervois?
—rose in tired laughter. Lily edged forward on shaky legs.
A huge, dark shape was approaching her, taking form through the white shield of the rain.
She heard the clomp of horse’s hooves, and then Radulf’s destrier was suddenly before her.
With a gasping sob, Lily began to run toward him. The stallion whinnied, already unsettled by the fighting, and reared up dangerously.
“My lady!” Stephen cried and, sprinting after her, held her back.
The destrier snorted irritably, settling to the soft murmur of Radulf’s voice. A groom ran up as Radulf dismounted, leading the stallion away.
Radulf reached up and removed his helmet.
His face was grimy, his hair plastered to his head with sweat; he tilted his face to the rain and let it wash him clean. Of all the battles he had ever fought, today’s was the most important. Because he wasn’t just fighting for the king, but for Lily and himself, and their future together.
When he straightened again she was standing before him.
“Radulf.” Lily’s voice trembled. “My lord.”
She was soaked through, her hair dripping, her skirts clinging to her legs, her face without color.
He could see in her gray eyes the suffering she had endured while she watched him fight. Radulf put out his hand, and then seeing the state of it, pulled back with a grimace.
“You won?”
A weary smile tugged at his lips. “Aye, Lily, we won. Now we can go home to Crevitch.”
Lily did not remind him that, to her, this place had always been home. The truth was, it was only home if he was there.
“You are hurt?”
He shook his head. “No, Lily, I am whole. A scratch or two, but nothing to concern you.” His wonderful mouth curved into a smile. “You will heal me with your salve, mignonne?”
He is safe, he is alive!
With a glad cry, Lily flung herself into his arms.
He caught her, half laughing, half wincing. “Lady,” he murmured against her hair, “I am not fit . . .”
“You are here with me,” she replied fiercely, “and that is all that matters.”
He gave in and rested his cheek upon her damp hair, stroking the silver strands. She was soft and sweet, and it mattered not that he was neither.
They would bathe together, wash the dirt and sorrow of this place away, and turn their thoughts to a better future. The red gleam of the hawk’s-eye ring caught his tired gaze.
I give thee my heart.
Lily would never betray him, he knew that now with solid certainty, and if he did not declare his trust of her, then they could never be truly free of Anna or Vorgen.
“You gave me much before the battle,” he said softly. “In return, I give you all that I am. I give you my wealth and my estates, I give you my might and my sword—and I give you my heart, Lily, for now and all time.”
She lifted her head, her gray eyes swimming with tears. “Your heart will be safe with me, my lord.”
He bent to kiss her, and just as he did, the rain stopped and the sun shone out. Around them, the weary army cheered. Aye, thought Radulf, here was an omen.
Lily, glancing up from the shelter of his arms, found herself the center of attention of a great many muddy, weary men. “Radulf,” she whispered, “can we not go somewhere more private?”
With a laugh, Radulf swung her up into his arms. “Your pardon, men! My lady requests privacy to give her thanks . . . properly.” And with Lily’s flushed face pressed to his heart, and the amused shouts of his men in his ears, Radulf carried his wife from the field of battle.