“That would depend on who called,” Gudren retorted.
“They say,” Lily began thoughtfully, “he is without a heart or a soul, that he kills to feed the lust within himself. That he knows nothing else, except the authority of his king. That he is as cold and hard as the sword he wields.”
“The legends would have it so. He is a great warrior, ’tis true, but he is also a wise and just lord. I cannot speak for others, but I know that my Olaf is well paid for his work, and has a dry, comfortable place to live and sleep, and that our table groans with food. At Crevitch, the people do not talk of his lack of heart. Their bellies are full and their bones are warm, and they cheer him when he rides home.”
Lily shifted uneasily. “You almost make me believe him to be a great man, mother.”
“And so he is, lady. So he is. He is also a fine lover . . . so I have heard.”
Color flooded Lily’s cheeks.
Did everyone in the camp know of last night?
Life here was close-knit, necessarily so. The Normans were strangers in a foreign land and clung together for safety as well as the familiarity of their own kind. They would know if their lord coughed, and why. They must know about Radulf and Lily.
“You do not under—” Lily began, when a deep voice from outside interrupted her.
“Lily?”
Her gray eyes widened on Gudren’s. Briefly she considered remaining silent, pretending she was not there, but dismissed the idea as cowardly and foolish.
Radulf would simply come in and drag her out.
She nodded stiffly in Gudren’s direction.
“Thank you once again, mother. I will not forget your kindness.”
Gudren watched her go, a knowing smile in her eyes.
Radulf stood outside, a giant in chain mail, his dark hair damp and sleek to his skull, his face cleanly shaven. A tightness gathered in Lily’s chest, a breathlessness. Truly, it was just as well that he was leaving. He was more dangerous to her than all the Normans in the land.
“I have come for you, lady,” he said, and held out his hand.
Without thinking, Lily gave him hers, and felt his hard fingers close tightly. A tingle of anticipation ran up her arm. He felt it, too, she was certain of it. She could see those fires, banked now, in his dark eyes. She resisted the urge to sway against his body like a feeble sapling, forcing herself to remain aloof.
“Olaf says you speak the language of the far north.” Radulf’s frowning eyes searched hers.
She blinked back at him, her eyes stinging from the smoke and the cold clear air.
“How do you speak that tongue?” he went on.
“Where did you learn it?” His voice was hard now, and demanding.
You could tell him the truth, the treacherous voice whispered in Lily’s head. Remember what Gudren said? He is a wise and just lord. He will listen to you; he will understand. Tell him now. Now!
Angrily, she shook her head.
Radulf thought she shook it at him. “Lady,” he groaned in exasperation. “You try me too hard. I will have answers.”
Above them, on the rise near Radulf’s tent, preparations to leave were almost complete. Lily noticed that her own mare was saddled and waiting, her small bundle of possessions strapped in place. She turned in wide-eyed astonishment to the man scowling down at her.
“Why are you taking me with you?”
“Give me your answer.”
Lily’s eyes searched his dark ones, but could not read them. She sighed, surrendering. “I had a servant who spoke the language and she taught me.”
It was only partially a lie. Lily had had a Norse servant, but she had learned the language from her mother.
