Ahead lay a series of green hills swathed in white mist, and upon the tallest one, what was left of Vorgen’s stronghold. It stood dark above them, straddling the gloomy sky. The keep had been constructed of wood and rose high upon a manmade mound of earth and rock. A deep ditch was the outer defense, and inside this a tall wooden fence or palisade further enclosed Vorgen’s stronghold.
Someone had set out to burn it, and done a reasonable job.
Radulf frowned. It was like a hundred other scenes he had witnessed in a hundred other places.
He doubted anyone was still living there, especially not a highborn bitch like Lady Wilfreda.
Radulf released his pent-up breath with an irritable hiss. He and his men had come from his estates in the south many months ago, and Radulf wanted nothing more than to go home.
He was tired of war.
The feeling had been growing, making it increasingly difficult for him to obey the king’s orders with his old enthusiasm. And yet he had marched back and forth across England, putting down rebellions, ordering the building of more keeps and fortifications, enforcing the king’s laws.
Once Radulf had been as keen as any man to take up his sword and do what he knew he did best.
Now, more and more often he thought of Crevitch, and the stone castle he was building and the crops he was growing. He dreamed of stripping off his chain mail and riding across his land with the sun on his bare head, breathing deeply of the ripening wheat and the wildflowers in the meadows.
“Like an old stallion put out to pasture,” he muttered scornfully to himself.
But it was true. He was tired of death.
Angrily, Radulf quickened his destrier’s pace.
The great, feathery hooves kicked up clods of sodden earth. His men struggled to keep up with him. Probably they thought him eager to put as many men, women, and children to the sword as he could find. His reputation had long since eclipsed the reality. Now it was so dire, often he had only to appear before an opposing army or demand a besieged castle open its gates to him, and the deed was done.
All well and good, but there was a darker side to the coin. When he laughed, when he was gentle, people thought it a trap, to trick them into trusting him so that he could pounce. Only those who knew him well saw the real Radulf, and they were few enough.
The face of the woman in the church crept back into his thoughts, and he scowled so blackly his men feared for their lives. Radulf didn’t even notice them. As a youth he had sworn never to love any woman, be she common wench or highborn lady. His own father’s plight had been too bitter.
When Radulf grew up and became a man, he realized that even had he wished to be loved by a woman, it was unlikely one could be found to love the King’s Sword.
Why was it, then, that lately he had felt a terrible yearning to love and be loved? He had never been one to harbor foolish fancies. A man in his position should be satisfied with fighting and killing, increasing his wealth and power, and swearing fealty to his king. And he had been satisfied, until recently. But as his taste for war de-creased, this other need increased—maybe it had been there all along, bubbling and roiling beneath the surface, until it could no longer be ignored.
Radulf shifted uncomfortably in his saddle.
Was he like his father after all? Did he, too, long for that all-consuming passion, half madness, that had gripped the old man and blinded him to the truth about his second wife? Was Radulf also destined to be brought to ruin by his own weakness?
Radulf’s face turned grimmer. Women were creatures to be used and discarded, and certainly never trusted—it was as well his reputation frightened them away! And he was wise to refuse King William’s repeated requests for him to marry and sire an heir to his huge estates. A wife was a dangerous appendage. The idea of one living at Crevitch gave him a twitch between his shoulder blades, as if a knife were pricking him.
Better to leave well enough alone.
“My lord!”
Radulf started, then drew his mount to a stop.
He had reached the place where the gate had once stood, and the blackened stronghold rose before him. Quickly his men rode up to surround him, their faces flushed and sweating, their horses huffing and blowing. All about was the smell of wet ash and devastation.
“My lord?” Radulf’s captain, Jervois, eyed him warily. “This place looks empty.”
Radulf frowned. “Aye. But if Vorgen’s wife is here, we will find her. Who will lead the search?”
There were a dozen volunteers for the task.
Once he, too, would have gladly risked his life for the honor of fulfilling such a request. Now he risked his life every day and every day expected to die, and for what? One day he would die, but his legend would live on. Was that a blessing or a curse?
Radulf watched his men walk their horses down into the ditch and up again, cautiously exploring the deserted bailey and burned-out ruins of Vorgen’s keep. Where was she, this she-devil who kept him in the wild north when he longed for home?
Had she gone to Scotland, to beg safety from the wily Malcolm? Or was she even now trying to gather another army to drive William from this place? Did she not comprehend the fruitlessness of such an effort? William had subdued the rebels and laid waste to the land, and if the people didn’t starve this year, they would next.
