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“Did anyone in the village know him? Did they claim him?”
Head shakings were the only response to Radulf’s questions.
The soldier who spat looked as if he meant to do it again, then changed his mind when he met his lord’s narrowed eyes. “No, Lord Radulf. Those we spoke to said they’d never seen him afore. Said the hut he was in was an empty one.”
“They’re afraid.” Jervois leaned closer to Radulf. “If they support Vorgen’s rebels, you will punish them, and if they support you, the rebels with punish them.”
Radulf grunted in agreement. “When we return from Rennoc, we must make it more profitable for them to support us. Lord Henry always says gold coin will win a war, when hot heads are cooling.”
Jervois nodded. “Aye, lord. Lord Henry has the right of it.”
Radulf glanced at his captain. Jervois was the son of a Norman mercenary and had been with Radulf since 1066, when King William granted his Sword the extensive estates at Crevitch in gratitude for his support at Hastings.
Crevitch had been a joy, but it had also brought problems. Plenty of greedy eyes had turned in Radulf’s direction. He had needed good, loyal men to help him guard his good fortune. Jervois had proved himself both loyal and intelligent, an immensely useful captain. And unlike Henry, he did not seem overly ambitious.
Radulf had once been just like Jervois. Wielding a sword had made him feel unstoppable, invincible, but now even that was stale. Again Radulf found his thoughts drifting to Crevitch. Perhaps at thirty-three he had grown too old, too tired. He wanted to feel the warm breeze across the wheat field, smell the scents of summer, but now the dream had grown. He no longer wished to be alone in his paradise. He saw a woman riding crossways on the horse before him, her warm body melded to his, her pale hair streaming over his shoulder, her face flushed and smiling as she gazed up at him…
“Perhaps I should remain here at the camp. Hunt them down.” Jervois was speaking again. There was a frown in his green eyes that told Radulf he was fully aware of his master’s distraction.
Radulf mentally shook himself, and cold fear doused him. Stop it! Put her from your mind! He had known men to die from a brief moment’s lack of concentration; he had known battles to be lost through wandering wits. If Jervois sensed the extent of Radulf’s self-indulgence he would begin to think of turning elsewhere, of finding a more dependable master, one who would not get him killed. And Radulf would not blame him.
“No,” he said sharply, frowning as if he had been considering this question all along. “Leave that to Lord Henry. We’ll deal with what’s left when we get back. ’Tis only a couple of days’ ride to Rennoc, after all.”
As the little band rode out, a wiry man in one of Father Luc’s brown gowns watched from the shelter of the trees, his hands clenched at his sides, his gaze fixed on Lily’s bent head.
The sun shone between showers. Lily wasn’t sure which was worse, the dripping dampness of her cloak or the steaming warmth. Each clip of her mare’s hooves took her farther away from her lands, and her mind was filled with one wild scheme after another.
What did the discovery of Hew’s man mean? Was he part of a last pocket of resistance, a leaderless rabble who had decided to sacrifice themselves in a final attempt to drive the Normans from the north?
Lily rejected that explanation. Olaf had said the rebels were watching the camp, and had been seen and then trapped by the Normans.
Had they been watching for her?
Lily stilled, her mare slowing, until one of her guards edged close. “Lady? You must keep up.”
How could they be watching for her? Lily urged her mare forward once more. They did not even know she was at the camp unless Father Luc had told them. Was that what he had meant when he’d assured her she would soon be among friends again? Were these men attempting to rescue her from the Normans so they could use her as their own figurehead?
The idea was frightening. She had no intention of being the leader of another futile rebellion that would only further harm her people. Lily wanted peace, and the only way to find it was to talk with the conquering Normans, to win their trust, to work with them.
You’ve made a good start then, the voice sneered in her head. Does sleeping with their leader count?
That just…happened. I would never do such a thing in an attempt to win Radulf’s trust!
Trust? the voice mocked. How can you speak of trust, when your every word to him is a lie?
And the alternative? Lily demanded. If she had told Radulf the truth, he would have taken her captive and delivered her to the king! She stared blindly ahead. If Hew’s men had been trying to rescue her from the Normans, to prop her up as the head of their depleted rebel band in the hope more recruits might swell their ranks, then her escape became even more imperative.
Lily began to listen closely to the soldiers’ conversations, hoping to hear something to her advantage. At first the men appeared stilted and uneasy, but as the journey dragged on and Lily’s presence among them became more familiar, they tossed comments among themselves. Nothing extraordinary, just normal concerns—the chafe of their chain mail, the rub of a boot, the suitability of the country they were passing through for hunting or an ambush, their longing for the women who might or might not be waiting for them at home.
As the hours passed, Lily noticed that Radulf’s captain, Jervois, was also keeping an eye on her. He would ask if she was thirsty or hungry, if she was weary and might prefer to ride before him. Lily did not know whether he was acting under Radulf’s orders, or whether he was making her comfort his concern for other reasons. Maybe he thought to gain her favor, and therefore Radulf’s. So it had been when she was Vorgen’s wife—Vorgen’s men vying for her notice, until they understood how little power she had to wield on their behalf.
Probably it was Radulf’s orders, for several times Jervois rode up to speak with his master, and occasionally he would ride into the surrounding country, always reporting back to Radulf.
Radulf rode in front of his men. Sometimes he would turn to look back, his face a blur beneath his helmet, his gaze sweeping over them, checking each detail. Once he ordered the soldiers nearest her—her “guard”—be changed, but he didn’t seem to notice Lily in particular. She was just another task, another detail to be dealt with.
Perhaps he had already forgotten the night they shared, and his words of that morning. The warm generosity of his lovemaking had turned, in an instant, to cold calculation. Did he have the ability, like Vorgen and Hew and even her father, to shut off his emotions when the situation demanded it? His tall helmeted figure, bulky with armor, astride the huge destrier, was every inch that of a cold, heartless warrior. A fighting machine.
Radulf, the King’s Sword.
