He spoke again when she didn’t answer, his tone deceptively mild and unconcerned. “I will take you with me, and you will do what you promised to do. We will both obey the king and see this matter brought to an end. And then we will go home to Crevitch, and it will all be forgotten.”
He was offering her a truce.
She smiled, her lips trembling. “Very well, my lord. The north, and then to Crevitch.”
They were barely inside the house when Radulf began shouting orders and Lily began hurrying to pack. Jervois had felt dazed until then. He had been dazed since Lily said, in a strange sort of jest, that he might end up with his head upon Bootham Gate. As his horse had galloped through York’s narrow streets he had been able to think of nothing else.
If he died, Alice would have to wed Sir Othric!
He remembered the man well, a hideous figure with warts on his face. He might have been a creature of pity, only he was so full of his own importance it was impossible to feel sorry for him. Sir Othric would have found such a thing incomprehensible.
The fact of Alice marrying that repulsive old man hadn’t seemed real until now. It had been a blur, but suddenly it took on a sharp and distinctive edge.
As Radulf strode toward the hall, Jervois stepped in front of him. “My lord.”
Radulf halted, frowning down at him.
Jervois swallowed. “My lord, I . . . I beg you to . . . that is, I have a boon to ask of you.” He was red; he felt the fire in his face.
Radulf watched him with some concern. “What is it, Jervois? Are you ill?”
“Alice of Rennoc,” he got out, somehow.
Radulf’s eyes lost their worried expression. A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “You want to gobble her up?”
Jervois stepped back a pace, green eyes blazing.
“My lord!”
“Nay, calm yourself. ’Twas . . . a private jest.”
Radulf assumed a more serious demeanor. “Aye, Jervois, have her to wife if you want. We will find you some part of my estates to watch over. Go tell her uncle, in case he weds her to someone else while we are gone.”
Jervois felt dizzy with relief, but he was not finished yet. “If I die in battle, my lord—”
Radulf frowned. “If you are slain then I will take care the girl does not wed against her will. My lady would probably be glad of her company at Crevitch. Worry not, my friend, all will be taken care of.”
Jervois smiled. Without his habitual serious-ness, his face looked suddenly young and transformed. “Thank you, Lord Radulf!” he said fervently.
Radulf shook his head as his captain hurried away to Alice of Rennoc’s uncle. He had been thinking himself the only fool in the house; it was comforting to know there was another.
Lily straightened her spine, staring straight ahead. They had traveled hard and fast, and if she hadn’t been young and strong and fit, she would have feared for her child. As it was, she was merely exhausted every night when she crawled under the furs inside Radulf’s tent.
Sometimes he was very late coming to bed, remaining outside with his men and Jervois. But when he did come, his arms were warm and iron hard, and they held her safe. Often he caressed her until she squirmed and pleaded, then he mounted her and covered her mouth with his to take her cries as she crested wave after wave of singing pleasure. And every morning he woke her, laughing at her bleary eyes and tangled hair.
“Up, sleepyhead,” he mocked. “You wanted to come. Remember?”
Sometimes Lily thought she hated him . . . when she wasn’t loving him.
As they passed through the little villages and settlements, Lily spoke to the people. She smiled with them and sympathized with them, and she told them about Radulf, her husband, and her hopes for peace in the north. A peace they were unlikely to have under Hew’s rule.
Did they listen to her? She thought so, she hoped so, but only time would tell.
As they drew closer to Grimswade and Radulf’s camp under the command of Lord Henry, the countryside appeared quieter, sometimes deserted. Those who did remain watched them suspiciously and when Lily tried to speak with them, took to their heels or hid in the ruins of their houses. Her heart ached for them.
She began so many sentences with, “If I could only tell them!” that Radulf should have grown tired of hearing it. But he was more patient than she could have imagined. He listened to her, and held her, and once when she wept with sorrow over the burned bodies of a family trapped in a farm cottage, he lifted her upon his lap and rocked her, his lips warm and soft against her hair.
“You have done all you can,” he comforted her.
