The Lily and the Sword Read online

  SARA BENNETT

  The Lily and The Sword

  To Robin, Emma and Alex,

  who made this book possible

  Contents

  Prologue

  “I have seen him!” Rona hissed.

  Chapter 1

  Lily stood perfectly still, listening.

  Chapter 2

  Radulf ignored the pain in his shoulder and the soft,…

  Chapter 3

  The priest!

  Chapter 4

  Radulf was an imposing figure in his hauberk and helmet.

  Chapter 5

  Lily woke to the dawn, with Stephen creeping about the…

  Chapter 6

  The horses stamped restlessly. Lily, flanked by two of Radulf’s…

  Chapter 7

  Lily lifted her face to the sun, easing her aching…

  Chapter 8

  Bells rang from the church calling the monks to Compline,…

  Chapter 9

  Radulf was in the grip of an anger such as…

  Chapter 10

  Lily woke to half darkness and the sound of movement…

  Chapter 11

  Lily rode back to the inn in even more of…

  Chapter 12

  The trestle tables were being cleared, but whether the feast…

  Chapter 13

  The following morning, Lily woke blearily to the smell of…

  Chapter 14

  Seated upon Alice’s docile gelding with her cloak wrapped tightly…

  Chapter 15

  “You asked me once about this scar.” His voice was…

  Chapter 16

  The lengths of cloth had arrived from Jacob. Beautiful wools…

  Chapter 17

  The house Radulf found them belonged to one of York’s…

  Chapter 18

  Throughout the following day, a constant trickle of men sought…

  Chapter 19

  Radulf had been watching the sky grow lighter. Hew’s army…

  Epilogue

  Crevitch Castle, usually such a lively place, was surprisingly hushed.

  About the Author

  Other Books by Sara Bennett

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Northumbria, the North of England

  1070

  “I have seen him!” Rona hissed.

  “Where?” Lily moved closer to the fire, her breath stirring the steam above the kettle of thin stew her old nurse tended.

  “Careful, my lady!” But the glance the white-haired old woman gave her was gentle. “I saw him and his men ride through these woods on Hew’s trail. They stopped a moment by the stream to water their horses. I was watching from the trees.”

  “What is he like?” Lily whispered, trying to still a tremor. Radulf was her enemy, the man who wished to conquer her.

  “Big. Powerful. A man to be feared.” Rona looked up at her, slanting green eyes watchful.

  Chilled, Lily turned her face away from the old woman’s piercing gaze. “I must escape.”

  “Yes—tonight.” The shadows in the smoky hut were growing longer; night was coming on swift feet through the forest. “Your husband Vorgen is dead, your kinsman Hew has fled north, and this Radulf will come for you. They say he is not one to give up.”

  “If I surrender, I fear he will give me to his master, King William—who will crush me in his fist like a butterfly.”

  Lily shuddered. She had seen enough of what William and his men had done to the north; for the past four years there had been nothing but war.

  Rona urged, “Follow Hew over the border to Scotland; find sanctuary there.”

  “Run like a hare, you mean?” Lily’s answer was bitter.

  “Hew has run.”

  “I am not Hew.”

  No, thought Rona, you are not. Gentle Lily had sought peace even while her father Olwayn, husband Vorgen, and kinsman Hew were intent on making war. Now Olwayn and Vorgen were dead, and Hew gone, and Lily was left to bear the full brunt of William of Normandy’s anger.

  And William had sent Radulf to find her.

  “My lady,” Rona spoke firmly, “we cannot change the past, but the future is yet to be made.”

  “I feel as if I have no future.”

  Lily closed her eyes, long lashes dark against her pale cheeks. Her hair, moonlight silver, was concealed beneath the hood of her green cloak, though wisps curled free at her temples.

  She was so weary, so alone.

  Radulf—it was a name to strike terror into the hearts of all Englishmen. They called him the King’s Sword, because he was an extension of William’s strong arm. Yet what was he but a greedy mercenary come to plunder England and murder the rightful rulers? His reputation was bloody and fearsome, but he was still only a landless, lowborn Norman. Lily’s father had been an English nobleman and her mother a daughter of a Viking king.

  She would not humble herself to Radulf.

  At last, Lily opened her eyes. They were gray, a dark, stormy gray. “If I leave England I will never be able to return.”

  But if she stayed she would die, and her death would be merely one more meaningless episode in a world where men had run mad with bloodlust. Better she hang on to her life in the hope she could still do some good for her people.

  “If only I were a man,” Lily muttered. “I would stay and face Radulf.”

  “A woman has weapons, too, my lady, and sometimes they are stronger than any sword,” Rona said.

  Lily frowned, not understanding.

  “You must go now,” Rona insisted. “Quickly, before it is too late. Already Radulf may be turning his eyes in our direction. He is very strong, a formidable enemy.”

  Lily’s hand rested a moment on Rona’s stooped, bony shoulder. “Yes, it is time to go. Farewell, Rona.”

  “Farewell, my lady. May God keep you from harm.”

  After Lily’s slender form had melted into the dark forest, Rona turned back to her kettle. When she had seen Radulf and his men, the King’s Sword had stood alone, big and intimidating. Frightened and yet fascinated, Rona had crept closer, trying to see his face. Her foot had slipped on the leaf mold and made a soft sound.

  Radulf had turned to look.

  Dark eyes were narrowed in a harsh face, strong and manly. He had stared for a long time and Rona had held her breath, terrified. When Radulf turned away, relief had made her dizzy. After the Normans climbed back upon their horses and left, she had crept back to her hut.

  Rona could only pray that her Lily would safely escape—for the King’s Sword would have no mercy if he found her.

  Chapter 1

  Lily stood perfectly still, listening.

  She had ridden for many days, skirting isolated farms and villages, holding her breath at the edge of a wood when a group of men-at-arms rode past. There was no route north that was safe, and she had zigzagged across the country, doubling back again and again, until she was exhausted.

  Grimswade was directly in her path, and Lily had felt as if it had been meant that she come here. Her father was buried in this church, her mother beside him. If Lily was to be forever exiled from England, this would be her final goodbye. Determinedly, she made her way toward the western door.

  Before her loomed the familiar blunt tower of the church, while faint candlelight caressed the arched windows. Was Father Luc here, she wondered, his blue eyes bright with kindness? The Grimswade priest was sympathetic to the rebels, hating the king’s wanton destruction. Father Luc would hide Lily…help her.

  The smell of woodsmoke drifted from the village beyond the rise, and with it the occasional bark of a dog. Lily’s anxious gaze swept over the stony fields, and the narrow road t
hat ran between what remained of the corn. Her mare was hidden among some wind-bent trees, a few yards from the church.

  The door opened to her touch.

  Inside the church, tallow candles spat and smoked. Lily paused, expecting any moment to see Father Luc bustling toward her. The hem of her cloak brushed the floor, stirring a faint scent of rosemary. Lily’s clothes were stained with travel, and the inside lining of the cloak had been torn during her sojourn in the woods. A small jeweled dagger, her only weapon, was strapped high on her thigh beneath her red wool gown and linen chemise. A bundle containing a few personal things was fastened to her mare outside—all that was left of her previous life.

  Lily took another step into the nave and felt the empty silence about her. She was alone. Her slim shoulders slumped. The priest wasn’t there. There would be no warm greeting, no offers of safety and gentle remembrances of times long past, when life was good. Before the light was snuffed out on her world.

  Disappointment formed a lump in Lily’s throat, but she gulped it down with the cold air. This was no time for her courage to fail her. So she was alone? She had been alone before. So she was tired? She had been tired before. When she was safe over the border in Scotland, she could rest. Lily knew now that she should have gone when Vorgen was killed. She should have realized then that all was lost, that her lands would never be hers again. But she had thought, hoped, that as long as she stayed in England, she would have a chance of righting her evil husband’s wrongs. That she could offer King William her allegiance through Radulf, and he would listen to her tale of betrayal—how Vorgen had betrayed William, then killed her father to gain her lands. She’d hoped he would then leave her in peace to rule her lands.

  Foolishness!

  Why had she thought Radulf would be different from Vorgen or Hew? Radulf would never allow her to regain what was hers! And he would never believe she could maintain peace in the north. She was a woman, to be used and treated as if of no account, while Radulf made war on her land, on her people.

  Lily paused before the altar, where her parents were buried. Once she had thought to make a proper monument there, extolling their virtues, but Vorgen had refused his permission and so there was nothing to mark their passing. Yet another reason for Lily to hate him.

  Forcing her chaotic thoughts to the back of her mind, Lily prepared to pray. She had just bowed her head when, from outside the church, came the thud and rattle of horses. The clatter of armored men.

  Radulf?

  Gray eyes wide, Lily ran to one of the arched windows. Stretching up onto her toes, she peered out into the darkness just as a shape galloped past. And then another. A boy ran with a flaring torch. Its flame lit up a nightmare scene of Norman foot soldiers and men on horseback, the gleam reflecting on their chain mail, shields, and weapons.

  She fell back, her blood pounding. Radulf! He had come for her! She had heard the stories. He was a giant with a hideous face and blood dripping from his sword. Children screamed at the sound of his name. He would be worse than Vorgen, much worse! A barely human monster…

  Lily tried to calm herself. Her hands clenched and unclenched in her wool cloak. How did she know it was Radulf? There were many Normans in Northumbria; small bands of them had systematically destroyed large areas of it. She must be brave and cunning. These men would not know she was Vorgen’s wife, how should they? Lily might be any woman. A Norman lady, perhaps, fleeing the English even as Lily was fleeing the Normans.

  And she could easily play the part of a Norman lady. For two years she had been Vorgen’s wife. She had sat at a Norman table and watched how they lived and ate and thought. She could speak French; these men would not guess she was the woman they hunted.

  The western door banged open.

  Lily scrambled sideways and pinched out the nearest of the betraying candles, then slid down behind one of the pillars. If she was lucky, they would not find her, but if they did…A fleeing Norman lady encountering a group of armed men would naturally conceal herself.

  A foot soldier came running up the nave, breath wheezing, feet shuffling. Behind him came another man, this one holding a torch, the flames rearing up to show a young, clean-shaven face and short-cropped brown hair. A Norman face. A boy’s face.

  Lily stared, frozen like a wild, hunted thing. When the boy shouted Lily jumped, clutching her cloak about her tightly, as if trying to vanish into it. Her eyes stung with lack of sleep, for she had lain awake many nights now.

  “Priest! Where are you?” The boy’s voice wavered up and down, as if it were not properly broken yet. “Priest, my lord wishes words with you!”

  Lily blinked, hard. My lord?

  The cold was seeping through her thick wool cloak, numbing her flesh, but her senses were sharp as needles. Where was Father Luc? Perhaps he had known the soldiers were coming. Father Luc might be a priest, but the Normans were a treacherous lot, and Lily could understand the kindly priest not wishing to be caught up in the fighting. More importantly, he might give away Lily’s identity—so it was better that he was absent.

  The soldier and the boy with the torch had reached the altar. The flame’s red glow reared up the walls of the choir, glinting in the windows of colored glass. The boy turned, looking back down the nave toward the door, and his voice echoed in the shadows.

  “My lord, he’s fled!”

  Slowly, afraid any movement might betray her hiding place, Lily leaned a fraction out from the pillar and looked back to the doorway. A dark shape filled it. A man. Behind him, more torches flared as more men ran past, but the dark shape did not move, his very stillness both menacing and compelling.

  The boy was hurrying back down the nave, and his torch shone out toward the man, slowly revealing him. Lily’s eyes grew rounder.

  Such a tall man, with such a breadth of chest and shoulder. Rona’s word powerful slipped into Lily’s head. Chain mail, a dull silver, covered his body from neck to knees. On his head he wore a conical helmet with a broad nose guard, so that his face was hidden by metal and shadows, except for the pale line of mouth and chin.

  “He’s gone, my lord,” the boy repeated dully, revealing his disappointment.

  “Gone for now,” the man replied in a deep, husky voice that gave the impression of anger. He moved as if to shrug his shoulders and then caught his breath in a sharp hiss of pain.

  “You’re hurt, my lord?”

  The knight shook his head impatiently. “Go and fetch my horse. We will have to ride north without the priest.”

  “Perhaps,” the boy ventured, “he has gone already. Perhaps he is persuading Vorgen’s wife to surrender to us. Perhaps she has had enough bloodshed, my lord.”

  A low laugh was his answer. “They are dull-witted, these English,” the man growled. “They must be shown the error of their ways. Now fetch my horse, boy!”

  “Aye, Lord Radulf.”

  Lily gasped as her worst fears were realized. The man and the boy didn’t hear her, but the dog did. Until then, Lily had not even noticed it was present, but now it ran forward with a growl, the soldier behind it. Lily tried to scuttle out of the way, but the dog followed, barking with a sharp, high-pitched sound.

  “Here, sir!” the soldier cried excitedly. “’Tis the priest hiding!”

  The boy thrust the torch toward her. The heat of it made Lily’s eyes blink, and then rough hands closed on her arms, dragging her forth into the nave and dumping her unceremoniously at the feet of her enemy.

  The dog was still snuffling around her, and the soldier pulled it away and led it outside. Lily, her heart leaping in her chest, slumped, frozen and waiting.

  The silence seemed to stretch interminably.

  “What is this? Have the priests in Northumbria taken to wearing women’s gowns?”

  The husky voice was full of a wry humor that surprised Lily more than if he had struck her with his fist.

  “No, my lord.” The boy didn’t seem to notice his master’s amusement, and took his words at face value
. “’Tis a woman in truth.”

  Radulf did not answer him, speaking instead to Lily, at his feet. “Lift your face, woman, and let me see you.”

  It was an order. Lily might be gentle, but she was no coward, and she had never yet shown her fear to the Norman conquerors. To them, her reticence appeared as frigid hauteur.

  Straightening her slim shoulders, Lily slowly lifted her head.

  The man towered over her, all brawn and bulk.

  Iron spurs decorated the heels of his leather boots, and dark breeches molded his strong legs, the cloth firmed by leather cross garters. One big hand rested on the hilt of his sword in its scabbard, and Lily noted a scabbed cut across his knuckles. His tunic of chain mail, or hauberk, was dull and stained from the day’s fighting, and there was a rent at his broad shoulder.

  Beneath his conical helmet Lily was able to make out his clean-shaven chin and his mouth, full-lipped despite being so rigidly held. To her consternation, her interest remained fixed on that mouth, only slowly lifting to his eyes, which glowed darkly either side of the metal nasal. They stared deep into hers, and there was a quick intelligence in them that once again surprised her.

  Perhaps something of her thoughts showed on her face, for the gleam was abruptly doused, the dark eyes narrowed suspiciously, and Radulf demanded, “Who are you? What are you?”

  Lily glanced down at her hands to give herself time to concoct a believable story. Her fingers were clasped tightly at her waist, and on her thumb something gleamed gold in the torchlight. A ring.

  Her father’s gold ring! Given to him by Lily’s mother, and which Vorgen had taken from his dead finger, and which in turn had been taken from Vorgen’s finger when he was killed. Lily had worn it ever since, for it rightly belonged to her. It was a ring like no other, a symbol of leadership. Her father’s device, a hawk, was chased on a black niello background, the hawk’s eye set with a bloodred ruby. Around the hawk design an inscription was engraved, the words also filled with black enamel or niello: “I give thee my heart.”