Lily looked down, knowing what she would see.
The gold ring was still warm from Hew’s grip.
Warmer than her chill flesh, when she realized that the return of her father’s ring could only mean Vorgen was dead.
Hew was telling her in a hoarse voice that the battle, and possibly the rebellion, were lost.
Radulf, he said bitterly, had won. But Lily was thinking, I am free! Her soul, so long held captive, soared, only to plummet once more to hard earth when she met the desolation in Hew’s eyes. Vorgen was dead, but with the end of his greedy dreams came a new and perhaps more terrible threat.
As Vorgen’s wife, she had been able to cling to the remnants of the old ways. Now they would be swept to oblivion. Radulf would take her lands, maybe even her life.
Blindly, Lily was aware of Hew’s arms about her, his mustache tickling her cheek, the cloying, clinging smells of death and battle. “I am for the border,” he was saying. “Come with me, Lily, before it is too late.”
Yes, yes, she thought.
“King Malcolm was your grandfather’s friend; he will give us sanctuary until we can rally. This is not the end, Lily! We will raise another army, and return to send the Normans fleeing!”
He was fierce, angry, and for a moment he sounded like the boy she had once loved and believed she would wed. But when Lily looked into his eyes she recognized that his emotion was but pretense. Hew was beaten; they were all beaten.
Slowly, Lily lifted her head, looking around her. People had gathered at the edges of the candlelight, with fearful faces, and scared eyes. They were watching her, their hopes, their futures pinned on her actions. If she fled, what would happen to them? She was all they had, all that stood between them and total destruction. They had not asked for Vorgen’s war, just as she had not asked to be Vorgen’s wife. They could not turn tail and run for the border. They could not leave their homes and crops and families.
Perhaps . . . maybe Lily could secure some sort of peace for them?
But she could not do that if she was hiding in Scotland.
Slowly, Lily shook her head. “I cannot go with you, Hew. I am needed here.”
Pain twisted his face. “They will kill me if I stay!” he cried. “You too!”
She drew herself up. “So be it.”
That had been the last time she saw him.
This new possibility, that some of Hew’s men had remained in Northumbria, caused a flurry of unanswered questions that Lily didn’t have time to explore. Radulf’s voice, cutting through the past, reminded her of where she was and of the precariousness of her position.
The Normans were still gazing down at the pitiful body.
“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.
