Radulf’s frown grew blacker. “You know not of what you speak, lady. These are men’s matters. Stay with what you understand, Lily. I have made my judgment. Vorgen’s wife is a scourge upon the north and will be captured and brought before the king for just punishment.”
A chill ran through Lily, freezing any reply she may have made.
Radulf’s voice had wakened the old abbot from his doze. He sounded quite hearty but clearly had heard nothing of their conversation.
“I knew your father, my lord! A fine man. He was most generous to our order. I heard he requested prayers be said for him after his death, to shorten his stay in Purgatory. Aye, a fine man. You must be proud to tread in his footsteps!”
Radulf turned and looked at him. Whatever the abbot saw in his face startled him so that he jerked back, his lips working.
“My lord . . .” he muttered. “My lord, I meant no offense.”
Radulf had already turned away, and a heavy silence ensued while the abbot struggled to regain his composure.
Radulf’s anger dissipated slowly, and with it went the red mist from his eyes. He reminded himself that the old abbot could not know of the rift between him and his father. He should apologize, make all right, but he found the words difficult. The wound inside him had still not healed; perhaps it never would. But it was his wound and he did not share his pain with many. Over the years, the hurt had become an old, familiar companion.
No, it was Lily’s quiet argument that had really infuriated him. All but accusing him of lacking fairness in his decisions, instructing him on how to deal with the rebels! No woman had ever dared meddle like that before, and he would not allow it now. He might desire Lily with a raging, insatiable hunger, but she was a woman.
He could not start trusting her now, especially not after what Jervois had discovered.
And what if she is right?
The voice in his head was very like Henry’s.
Teasing, questioning, the devil’s advocate. Radulf stiffened. How could she be right? he argued silently. He had known Vorgen; he did not know Wilfreda. Should he slander the man he believed loyal for a rebellious, treacherous woman?
So you are not biased in your thinking?
Of course not!
Then . . . why did Lady Wilfreda resemble Anna in his thoughts? Had he allowed his hatred for the one to cloud his judgment of the other?
He tried to remember Vorgen more clearly, pushing past the knightly bravado and comrade-ship they had shared at Hastings.
A memory came to him, sharp and somewhat unpleasant.
Vorgen had won a sword. It was a handsome thing, the handle decorated with emeralds and rubies and gold filigree, the blade as sharp as a scold’s tongue. Vorgen claimed he had won it fair, but Roger, the man who had lost the sword, claimed foul play. He had complained loud and long to any who would listen. Until he had died at Hastings—not in the main battle, but in a minor skirmish elsewhere.
Afterward, the mutterings of Roger’s friends had not gone away. They said that Roger hadn’t died at the hands of Harold Godwineson’s troops, but by his own sword, held in Vorgen’s greedy grip. Their accusations had continued on so long, Radulf had heard of them and investigated. In the end, his ears ringing with Vorgen’s strenuous denials, he had dismissed the matter. And indeed, there had been no proof.
Only now he remembered the incident, and wondered.
Radulf shifted in his chair, flicking a restless glance toward the abbot. The old man was asleep again, mouth agape, wrinkled face slack.
Radulf’s lips twitched as he turned to his other side.
Lily was watching him, her gray eyes wary, as though he were a stranger again. The mighty and fearsome Radulf, who ate English children for his dinner.
Radulf’s heart contracted.
Tomorrow they would reach Rennoc, and tonight . . . well, tonight was already in hand. He could not call a halt to his plans, even had he wished to.
What would be, would be.
Whatever tonight’s outcome, this might well be the last time he sat with her, looked upon her— apart from in his dreams. He could not lie with her in his arms, here. Lust was another sin the abbot would frown upon. Perhaps that is to be my punishment for bringing her to the monastery and weaving my deceit. I can look, but I cannot touch.
He lifted her hand, which rested beside her goblet, and kissed her fingers, then turning it, pressed his lips into the soft hollow of her palm.
His eyes were dark and intent, his voice an intimate, husky murmur. “Tomorrow I deliver you safe to your father.”
