Radulf did not appear to care one way or the other, for he shrugged and said indifferently, “As you wish, lady. Let us go.”
Lily took control of her mount once more, settling her heavy skirts about her. It wasn’t much, perhaps, but it was a start.
They rode through the narrow streets, Radulf’s banner carried snapping before them—a fist with a sword held upright on a field of azure. There were plenty of people to cheer for them. William had been busy, Radulf informed Lily, noticing her bewilderment. The king had ordered York to re-joice in the joining of Norman and English, in the coming of a new age of peace and prosperity to the north.
Flower petals settled about them like perfumed rain. The blossoms were sweet and heady, and those who threw them were smiling, enjoying the moment as much as Lily was not.
“They have denuded the gardens,” Radulf murmured close to her ear, humor tugging at his mouth.
The surge of longing in her heart frightened
Lily, and made her voice sharp and shrewish. “The king has ordered it. Who would dare disobey?”
Radulf sat back, disinterested again. “Not I, lady.”
He grasped her hand, raising it high in his, and the crowd cheered.
“Smile,” he told her. “I order it.”
Lily smiled, her face stiff and frozen, her heart leaden. It was all so beautiful, but it was all wrong.
Radulf glanced sideways at his bride-to-be. She was beautiful, even the normally taciturn Jervois thought so. And yet she seemed as brittle as eggshell. He had taken her mare’s reins because he was afraid for her, and then she had demanded them back. She could not even allow him that small courtesy, her pride was so monstrous.
Radulf irritably brushed a petal off his nose.
If he could get this business over with, take her back to the inn, there might be a chance of melting that icy hauteur. But that was hours and hours away; William’s feasts were never brief. Radulf sighed and settled himself for the long wait.
The castle yard was crowded with servants and musicians, welcoming them and announcing their arrival. Inside, the great hall was resplendent with green twining leaves and more flowers, until it seemed more like a forest than a manmade structure. The sweet smells of herbs and blossoms almost but didn’t quite overpower those of stale sweat and hunting dogs—the more typical aromas of a Norman keep. Cooks and servants dashed about, while William’s guests drank enormous qualities of wine.
The Normans were great fighters and hunters, but they were also great eaters and drinkers. They indulged their senses with passion. Why then, when it came to matters of the heart, were they so reserved and cautious?
Lily remembered her father’s manor when she was young, and the laughter and merriment to be found there. Her father had honored her mother with his smile and his gaze, loving her deeply and not caring who saw it. There was nothing wrong in loving someone. Love, she decided, did not depend upon land or wealth; rather it was the connection between two hearts.
And what of lust, which was what she felt for Radulf? Certainly in their case lust had nothing to do with land or wealth, or even which side of the battlefield they stood on. Like being struck by a bolt of lightning, it was beyond explanation.
The priest was waiting in the small chapel.
Radulf and Lily were led toward him, and guests crammed in behind them. Foolishly, Lily had hoped for someone like Father Luc. This priest was almost cadaverous, with sunken cheeks and hooded eyes. Lily stood, her chin up and her outer demeanor cold, while the words were spoken and the replies given. Beneath the surface pomp and glitter, beneath her regal pose, she was frightened by what was happening. And yet, at the same time, she felt a strange elation.
For better or worse, they were joined together.
As she thought it, Radulf swooped down and set his lips to hers in a quick, hard kiss. And then William was slapping his back and other voices were shouting congratulations. The noisy, colorful crowd moved back into the hall to begin the
eating and drinking, and the king himself took Lily’s hand and led her to the high table on the dais, to the place of honor by his side.
“Your hand is cool, Lady Wilfreda,” he said, when she was seated. “Does that mean your heart is warm?” But he seemed to doubt it; his sharp eyes held little of the friendship he shared with Radulf.
My heart is broken.
“Will you be a loyal wife to my Sword?” he went on, not waiting for an answer. “I would not like to see him unable to rest in his own chamber, fearing a dagger in his back.”
William, Lily recalled, was himself happily married and, it was rumored, had never been tempted to stray. Perhaps some Normans understood love after all.
“I wish only to see my lands ruled well and wisely, sire, and will do everything in my power to bring that wish about. Does that make me a loyal wife?”
“No, lady. Loyalty is not a cloak to wear when it suits you. Radulf deserves better than that.”
“I do not intend to betray my husband,” Lily said quietly.
