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.
