The Black Lyon Read online

  Abruptly, Ranulf dropped his hand from her chin and relinquished the hand he held. “I must see to the Frisian,” he mumbled and made his way to the door, the Black Guard following suit.

  “Well!” William collapsed in the cushioned chair before the fire. “If a man were to live a thousand more years, he would not understand the mind of a woman. My wife treats the king’s champion as a gossiping washerwoman, then my daughter fair faints at the mere sight of him, and then she laughs in his face. If my lands are not forfeit in two weeks, I will not know why.”

  “William,” Melite began, but she knew she could not explain her own actions, much less those of her daughter. “He seems well content. Come, Lyonene, there are duties to see to.”

  Lyonene was anxious to leave the room, for she did not like to think her reactions to the man were so obvious. But it was true that she could not have felt more strongly if the slate roof of the donjon had rolled back and lightning had struck her.

  Lyonene dreaded being alone with her mother for she knew there would be questions that she could not answer.

  As if knowing her thoughts, Melite said, “No, there will be no questions. I ask only that you be kind to our guest, not because he is a great warrior or the king’s earl, but because he deserves our kindness.”

  Mutely, Lyonene nodded.

  “Now, go see to those two silly maids of yours and see that our Black Lion has a fitting den.” She smiled and smoothed her daughter’s lovely hair.

  Lyonene climbed the remaining stairs to the third floor’s private sleeping chambers. There were six chambers, one for her parents, one of her own and four for guests. She was alone on the floor, the servants busy below in the kitchens. She could take her time in choosing a chamber for Lord Ranulf.

  It was an hour later when she felt that the room was ready and went to her own chamber. Lucy had left some bread and cheese and a mug of milk on the mantelpiece. As Lyonene sipped the warm liquid, she adjusted the louvered slats in the wooden shutters so she could look across the bailey. As she watched, one man left the group of the Black Guard and made his way to the gate of the bailey wall; he carried a long stick at his side and a bag strapped to his waist and pushed to his back.

  Without thinking what she was doing, Lyonene threw off her green mantle and surcoat and pulled on another surcoat—a woolen one—over the gold tunic. She withdrew from a chest her warmest cloak, a heavy gray wool with a deep hood, completely lined in white rabbit’s fur. Clutching the cloak tightly, she made her way down the stairs to the Great Hall, telling herself that she only wished for some fresher air. She took with her a large flagon of wine that had been set to warm on the mantel. She was amazed at how easy it was to pass unobserved across the open bailey yard and out the gate. The watch guards cared not who left the castle, only who entered.

  Ranulf sat on the cold, hard ground, his back against a tree, heedless of the piercing wind. His thoughts were absorbed with a lovely, green-eyed girl. Ah, Warbrooke, he chided himself, she is not for your dalliance. She is a girl, an innocent intended for marriage, marriage to a young man near her own age, her own rank. But still he could not relinquish the vision of her. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the rough bark, the remembrance overwhelming him, a tangible thing: emerald eyes under high, arched brows, a small nose, and her mouth—lips full and soft, tempting. Her hair intrigued him as he thought of it spread about her, covering her shoulders and lying across her breasts, the color unusual, a tawny gold.

  Mon Dieu! What ailed him so that he sat here dreaming of a bit of a girl when there was work to be done? He had seen pretty girls afore now—aye, many girls—but there was a difference, somehow, with this one. When he had touched her chin, he had thought he might disgrace himself by kissing her before her parents and his men. What would have been their reaction had he buried his hand in this unknown girl’s hair and…

  “I have brought you wine.” Lyonene’s soft voice shattered his thoughts.

  He stared at her, unsmiling, studying her, not aware of the offered refreshment.

  “It is cold and some time before dinner and…” She looked away from his intense stare, shy of a sudden, regretting her impulsive action.

  He took the warm mug and sipped the delicious sweet wine, the smooth liquid trickling down his throat, his eyes never leaving hers. “You will share it with me?”

  “Aye,” she said, smiling at him, her fingers lightly grazing his as she took the cup. A drop of wine rested on the rim and she touched the spot with her lips, amazed at her boldness. She returned the mug and took a linen packet from under her mantle, unwrapping it to show bread and cheese.

  Her smile at him was brilliant, and he found he could only watch her, her eyes sparkling like the finest jewels, her cheeks pinked by the cold air. The hood hid most of her lovely hair, but the white fur framed her face and contrasted beautifully with the thick, long lashes.

  Neither of them seemed to need words, and both sat quietly enjoying the wine and food. A sudden gust of wind blew the dead leaves of the forest about them.

  Lyonene covered one eye with her hand as a sudden sharp object struck it. “My eye!” she cried, tears blinding her, the pain increasing each moment.

  “I will look.” Warm hands held her face; strong, gentle fingers forced her to uncover the eye.

  “It is a rock, a boulder,” she sobbed.

  “Nay, I do not think so. Look up at me and I will find it. Open your eye, slowly.”

  His voice was soft and soothing, and in spite of the pain, she made herself open her eye, her trust in him complete, sure in the knowledge that he would remove the pain.

  “There! See, it was but a speck of dirt, truly smaller than a boulder.”

  She blinked several times to remove the sting. From the moment he had touched her she had known that he would take away the pain. She was now very aware of his hands on the side of her face, the dark eyes that stared into hers, eyes bordered by short, thick lashes. The irises were truly black—yet, at this close distance, she could see that they had tiny gold flecks in them.

  “You are well now? Your eye no longer pains you?”

  She did not answer immediately, and as he began to draw his hand away she held it for a moment to her cheek. “Nay, the pain is gone. Thank you.”

  He moved his hand and looked away and Lyonene was afraid she had offended him. She felt as if a stranger were gradually overtaking her body, for she could not believe her forwardness of this morn. She tried to make conversation. “I wonder—however do you stay so warm when I am so cold, and it is I with the fur mantle?”

  Ranulf looked startled. “We will return to the castle to the fire.” At the look of disappointment on Lyonene’s face, his heart leaped. She did not want to leave his company any more than he hers. “Come then and I will show you a sport to make you warm.”

  They stood and she watched as Ranulf took the long stick and bent it to fasten a long string of silk to either end.

  “Have you seen this ere now?”

  She shook her head.

  “It is a Welsh bow, and it is called by some, because of its length, a longbow.”

  “It does not look to be a bow at all.” She gave him a skeptical look. “How can one fire an arrow from a mere stick?”

  “You have not seen it used and already you decry it?”

  She sniffed and put her chin into the air. “You must allow my father to show you the workings of a good crossbow.”

  Ranulf raised one eyebrow at her. “Find you a target that is as far as your father’s best archer can shoot.”

  Lyonene pointed to a white-barked tree not far away. She watched as Ranulf pulled the six-foot longbow string to his ear, an arrow with black and green feathers held lightly between his fingers. The muscles on his arms stood out. The arrow was released with a sharp twang of silk. Lyonene gasped as she saw it land more than twice the distance of the tree she had chosen.

  Ranulf merely looked at her, one quick glance that made her reme
mber her boast of crossbows. Then, before she could recover from her surprise, he began to insert arrows, drawn from the leather bag at his waist, and fire them with a dazzling rapidity. In less than a minute, he had fired ten arrows, never once missing the tree.

  She stared up at him. “I have never seen the like.” She lifted her skirts and ran toward the distant tree. She struggled to pull an arrow from the tree and was startled when Ranulf appeared beside her and easily removed the arrow she could not. She had not heard him approach.

  She turned to him, laughing. “I think there is little that my father can teach you.”

  Ranulf said not a word, but his expression showed that he agreed with her.

  “You must show this Welsh longbow to him. He will train his men to use it.”

  “Nay, I do not think so. Even my own men refuse to use it. They think it an unchivalrous weapon and have a fear that it will somehow reduce them to foot soldiers.”

  “I see that you do not have such a fear yourself.” Her eyes twinkled and laughter threatened to escape as he raised one eyebrow at her. “Think I could learn to shoot this long stick?”

  “You may try.” Ranulf demonstrated the proper handling of the new weapon.

  Lyonene took it in all confidence but found she could not bend the bow more than an inch or two. She looked in exasperation to Ranulf.

  Quickly, he stood behind her, his great arms about her, and pulled the strong bow back. As Ranulf bent to sight the arrow, he was aware of the fragrance of her—roses and smoke—and of her cool cheek so near his. He could feel every luscious curve of her against him, her buttocks pressed against his groin. He ached to turn her to him, longed to feel her softness near him, to kiss her moist lips, parted slightly now in concentration. He tried to give directions to her concerning the bow but found that his voice betrayed his desire since her ear was so close to his lips; he could almost taste the flesh of her earlobe between his teeth. She released the arrow.

  “I hit it!”

  She turned in his arms, and he held her, lightly, not even daring to breathe for fear he’d crush her in his surging desire.

  Lyonene felt her heart would burst, it was beating so hard. His arms were about her, his hands on her back, and she could feel the warmth of him through her heavy woolen surcoat. She looked from his eyes to his lips, and she hoped he would kiss her, yes, she wanted him to kiss her, and her heart beat faster as unconsciously she swayed toward him, her soft breasts touching his chest. She felt his sharp intake of breath. His face was so close that she could feel his breath, so warm and soft. How would it feel to kiss a man?

  His arms dropped away.

  “Dinner will be served and my mother will expect me.” She searched for something calming to say. She smiled up at him. “Thank you for the archer’s lesson, and now, Lion, we needs must return to the castle, for my father’s temper would make even a lion tremble when his viands are late.”

  At his look of puzzlement at her name for him, she continued. “It is strange, is it not, that we are both named for lions? My father vows that on the day of my birth I gave him such a look of contempt that he named me for a lioness, but my mother says he thought of the name Lyonene because of the color of my hair.”

  Ranulf lightly touched a strand of her tawny hair. “I could not think you could give anyone a look of contempt.”

  She laughed. “You do not know me, for I am possessed by a terrible temper.”

  “Then the name well suits you, as I fear mine does also. At least you are not cursed with an ugly blackness such as mine.”

  “Bah! It is only the jongleurs who demand all men be fair with eyes of blue. You would make other men seem colorless.” She turned quickly. “See the tree at the edge of the wood? I will race you.” She gathered her skirts and mantle edge over her arm and ran.

  Ranulf stood quietly and watched the lovely sight of firm, shapely calves and little feet running so inexpertly across the forest’s floor. When she was halfway to the tree, he caught up with her in a few easy strides.

  Lyonene looked over her shoulder to see him easily gaining on her. She remembered a trick she had used as a child to win races against the boys of Lorancourt. When Ranulf was nearly beside her, she sidestepped into his path, throwing him off balance as he swerved to keep from hitting her, and thus she gained a few seconds’ time.

  She heard Ranulf’s snort behind her and laughed in satisfaction at her successful trick. Then the breath was near taken from her as he threw a strong arm around her waist, lifting her from the ground, still running, not even hesitating when he took on the added burden of her weight.

  When Lyonene recovered from her surprise, she began laughing, and by the time they reached the tree she was near helpless. He sat her down and she leaned against the tree, tears rolling down her cheeks, blurring her vision. “I won,” she gasped.

  “Won! You did not even race with honor. You cheated.”

  She wiped her tears and saw to her joy that Ranulf was smiling and that his features had softened. He looked like a boy. “My head reached the tree first, before any of you arrived, so I won the race.” She could hardly keep the laughter inside her.

  Ranulf pulled one of the curls that lay wildly about her cheeks, her hood having fallen away. “You would never make a knight. Your lies would dishonor your liege lord.”

  Lyonene opened her mouth in mock horror. “And you, Lion, would be worse as a woman with your picking up of whatever great objects lie in your path.”

  “Great objects!” His hands encircled Lyonene’s waist and lifted her, her head high in the air, her hands on his shoulders. “You weigh less than my armor.”

  Suddenly she was serious. Looking down at him as he smiled up at her, she smiled back. “Whatever my trick, it is rewarded by seeing a lion smile.”

  Gently, Ranulf lowered her. He, too, was serious now, and his desire for her returned. He could not touch her without the blood in his veins fair boiling. “Go to the hall; I will follow. You mother will not like her lioness spending the morning alone with a man.”

  Without a word she left him, running to the castle, up the worn stone steps and into her room. Only then did she stop, flinging herself on the feather mattress of her bed.

  Melite had seen both Ranulf and her daughter enter the forest a while before. If it had been any other man, she would have sent a servant to bid Lyonene return, but she knew her daughter was safe with Ranulf. She never questioned her knowledge of this man, trusting only in her feelings and her senses. She smiled to herself—she was going to work hard to bring about a marriage between her daughter and the Earl of Malvoisin. She truly wished he were not an earl; then she would have a surer chance of bringing about her desire. Aye, desire. She laughed aloud, then looked to see if anyone had noticed. Desire is exactly what she planned. There was nothing surer than two young bodies close to one another. If William knew what she planned, he would be furious. He did not like men near his daughter, no matter what he said of marriage, but Melite planned to help nature by encouraging the flowering of this delicate young bud of love.

  Lyonene watched Ranulf from her shuttered window as he returned from the forest. She knelt and poked at the fire with an iron rod. The image of his smiling face appeared to her in the midst of the blaze. She didn’t seem able to see anything but him; she could hear his voice, feel his hands about her waist. She sat heavily on a bench by the fire and dropped her head into her hands. Everything was whirling together. She had never felt so strange in all her life.

  “Lyonene!” Lucy’s heavy form waddled into the room. “What are you about, girl, when your mother has so many guests below? And a fire in the room during the day! Have you a wee fairy in your head?”

  “No, Lucy, I am just happy. ’Tis naught awry at all. I am very hungry. Could we not go below?”

  Chapter Two

  Ranulf felt confused. For a long time now he had been near content. There had always been women and they had freely given of their bodies, but too often he had
sensed that he had been only a conquest to them, that they boasted of having been in the Black Lion’s bed. Ranulf had never fooled himself as to his status in King Edward’s court. Of the eleven earls, only two were young and unmarried: his friend Dacre de la Saunay and himself. He knew that many women would sell their souls to become a countess. Yet for all their flirting, all their protestations of love for him, none had offered him laughter.

  He remembered Lyonene’s clear eyes, sparkling in the cold, and her reddened cheeks. Most of all he thought of her laughter. For a few minutes he had forgotten himself, forgotten the responsibility of being an earl, forgotten the past. Yes, most important, for a short time he had not been haunted by Isabel—Isabel, whose sneering remarks had so unmanned the young boy who had loved her. Ranulf looked up at the gray, overcast sky. He was no longer that young boy, but today the years between might never have been.

  “You sit here alone while there is a feast awaiting? I vow I have never known such hunger; it is long since we ate last.”

  Ranulf looked up to see Corbet, one of his Black Guard, standing over him. “I fear I have neglected my men. Is all well with you?” He rose to stand beside the knight, measuring an inch or two taller than Corbet. Were someone to observe them separately and together, they would say that Corbet was a strong and handsome knight but that his lord put him into shadow, so commanding was his appearance.

  “This is not Malvoisin, but neither is it a tent on cold Welsh soil. The Lady Melite is kind and the daughter would make any man warm to look upon her, even ’twere it a blizzard.”

  Ranulf turned on him. “Do not speak of her so.” Angrily, he left his vassal and strode ahead to the castle.

  Corbet watched Ranulf’s broad back and then smiled. If ever a man needed a wife, it was his lord. Unlike most of the other men, Ranulf was not content with several women; in truth, he seemed to avoid women altogether, using them only when necessary, although they plagued him much at court. Corbet was proud to be part of the elite Black Guard, and although Ranulf kept a distance from his men, they knew more about him than he would have supposed. They all saw the gentle man that lay under the fierce exterior. Corbet stopped his musings and followed his lord to the great stone donjon. For himself, he dearly wished the lovely Lady Lyonene would return to Malvoisin with them; a beauty such as hers would be a joy to look upon each day. He envied Ranulf.