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 land-less, 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 blood-lust. 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.”
