Epilogue
The following year
Crevitch Castle, usually such a lively place, was surprisingly hushed. Radulf stood alone in the great hall, staring into the fire, two hounds lying at his feet. No one had approached him since breakfast, when he had almost bitten Jervois’s head off for offering him a mug of ale.
He hadn’t meant it, and Jervois, pale and shaken, had accepted his apologies, even offering his heartfelt sympathies to his lord. Jervois knew exactly what Radulf was going through—Alice was also with child.
Radulf ground his teeth. Sympathy just made it worse. He should be rejoicing; his wife was giving birth to their first child. So why was he not rejoicing?
Because he was sick with worry, that was why.
Radulf sighed. He loved the lady too much. She was his joy, his heart, his life itself. If anything should happen to her, if she should be taken from him . . .
This was all beyond his experience, beyond his control. Radulf was used to giving orders and seeing a thing instantly done, but he could not order a babe not to hurt its mother, and he could not order Lily not to scream. Frustrated and powerless, Radulf could do nothing at all.
Apart from wait.
It was the waiting that was driving him to despair.
Suddenly there was whispering behind him in the doorway.
Radulf’s hands clenched on the mantel, fear raking through him.
Was it bad news? Were they choosing straws to see which of them would tell him?
His stomach threatened to spill the ale he had swallowed hours since.
These past few months at Crevitch with Lily had been beyond happiness. Were they all he was ever to have?
“My lord? Lord Radulf!”
Radulf spun around, white-faced. Alice of Rennoc.
She had come up silently behind him, her little rounded form even more rounded these days, as Jervois’s child swelled within her.
Her bright eyes appeared sympathetic, though shadowed with weariness.
Radulf searched her expression for clues to his wife’s well-being but could find none.
Alice wasn’t smiling; did that mean something?
But then Radulf was well aware that he had always made Alice nervous, and at this moment he was a sight to frighten the smile off braver faces than hers.
He had been up for many hours, slumped outside their bedchamber, listening to Lily’s pain.
Until he could bear it no more, and had retreated down there, to be alone with his terror.
“Lady Lily is ready for you now, Lord Radulf.”
Ready for him? That had an ominous ring to it.
But before he could ask her what she meant, Alice had turned, and Radulf followed her with unsteady feet and a pounding heart. A shudder rent him. If she was dead . . . but his thoughts could get no further than that. There was nothing beyond that. Life for him would simply cease to exist.
Alice had slipped through the door into the bedchamber, and Radulf hesitated. Was he brave enough to face what was in there? He straightened his broad shoulders and took a deep breath for courage. There was nowhere else to go. Radulf followed her in.
The room was warm and scented with herbs.
Compared to the rest of the castle, it was a pleasantly cheery place. Radulf swayed, disoriented, as if he had entered a dream.
Lily was propped up in bed, her hair combed like a silken shawl about her, while Gudren sat, smug as a well-fed cat, by the fire.
Alice was smiling down at the bundle she held carefully in her arms. Lily turned at his entrance, her face pale but radiant, and her gray eyes filled with tears. Her voice trembled with happiness.
“Oh, Radulf, you have a daughter!”
Radulf stared at her a moment, bewildered by the sight of her so much alive when he had been imagining her cold and dead. Then, with a groan, he stumbled to the bedside and fell to his knees.
His dark head dropped to her breast, and he breathed in the familiar scent of her with a great shudder of joy.
Startled, Lily cried out softly as he jolted her aching body, and then, feeling him shaking, her own discomforts were forgotten as she gathered her husband into her arms. “Radulf? My love, what is it? You are unwell?” In between her words, she was covering his face with frantic little kisses, her hands touching him, stroking him, searching to heal his hurt.
Radulf shook his head, only gripping one of her hands with his and pressing it hard to his lips. She was warm and alive; he felt her heart beating, her breast rising and falling with each breath she took.
His Lily was alive. Suddenly the dark clouds lifted from him, as they had done the day of the battle with Hew, and the sun shone warm and cheering.
Radulf raised his head and, hollow-eyed, met her worried gaze. With shaking fingers, he touched her beautiful face. His voice was so soft it was almost a whisper.
“If you had died, lady, there would have been no point to living.”
Her gray eyes widened, and one tear spilled over her lashes as he leaned forward and pressed his lips tenderly to hers.
“I am the King’s Sword,” he went on, more firmly. “Give me a battle to fight and I will fight it; send me to win a war, and so I will. But mignonne, I cannot bear your pain. I would rather die myself than stand by while you suffer.”
Lily’s expression softened. Gently, she smoothed back his dark hair. “Radulf, I will not break. I am strong. And the pain is gone now. Come, look at your daughter. She will think you do not want her, if you ignore her.”
Alice stepped forward, and handed Lily the bundle in her arms. At his wife’s urging, Radulf dropped his gaze to the face of the sleeping babe.
It was round and sweet, with a pale fuzz of hair, dark lashes, and a pouting little mouth. One look, that was all he needed, and any resentment in his heart melted. Instinctively he put out his finger, and then hesitated, glancing at Lily.
“Go on,” she urged him again. “She will not break either.”
Radulf stroked his daughter’s cheek and, when she stirred, allowed her to take his large finger in her tiny hand.
“You see,” Lily whispered, blinking back more tears at the sight of Radulf, the great warrior, and this little babe. “You have a daughter, my love.”
His daughter . . . Lily’s daughter. Suddenly it made their love more real, more lasting. For how could it ever die, if their daughter was there to carry it on?
Radulf leaned closer, his lips seeking his wife’s, and said, “No, Lily, my love— we have a daughter.”