Lyonene could hear Lucy’s heavy step on the stone stairs and snuggled deeper beneath the thick coverlet. The January winds whistled outside the old donjon, threads of cold air cutting under the wooden shutters, but her bed was warm and she planned to put off leaving it as long as possible.
“Lady Lyonene.” Lucy pulled the bed-curtains back. She was an old woman now and far too fat. She’d been with Lyonene since the girl’s birth and was much like a mother to her. “The lady your mother bids you dress in your gold tunic with the green surcoat and mantle.”
Lyonene, who had turned toward the light only reluctantly, now looked with interest at Lucy. “The green mantle and surcoat?”
“There is a guest, an important guest, and you are to wear your finest clothes for the introductions.”
Lyonene threw back the bedclothes and put a small foot on the rush-covered oak floor. The shutters were closed tightly against the cold winter, and the only light came from the small fireplace and the tallow candle on the tall iron stand by the bed. The soft glow highlighted the full curves of her slim young body. Lucy helped her mistress into the thin linen shift and then the woolen tunic, the tightness of which emphasized her womanly body. The sideless surcoat hid nothing.
“Know you this guest? He is friend to my father?”
“Oh no, my lady.” Lucy fastened the thin leather belt about Lyonene’s slim waist. “He is an earl, a man your father has not met, and he is a young man.”
Lyonene stopped and stared at her maid. “He is handsome? He is a handsome young earl, fair, and rides a white stallion?” Lyonene teased the old woman.
“You shall see soon enough. Now get your comb so I may remove some of the tangles from your hair.”
Lyonene obeyed and then asked, “Tell me more of him. What color are his eyes? His hair?”
“Black. As black as the Devil’s eyes.”
Both women looked up to see Gressy and Meg entering the small chamber with armfuls of clean linen for the bed. Gressy, the older girl, spoke. “It is an earl come, and not just any of the king’s earls, but the great Black Lion himself.”
“And black he is, too,” Meg added.
“His eyes and hair are black as Satan’s. Even his horse is all black.”
Lyonene looked at them in horror. She had heard stories of the Black Lion since she was but a girl—stories of strength and courage. But each story was misted with a sense of evil, that mayhaps his strength was ill-gotten. “You are sure it is the Black Lion and no other?” Her voice was quiet.
“No other man could have such a look. I vow he gave me gooseflesh just to be near him.” Gressy gave her mistress an intense look.
Lucy stepped forward. “Cease your foolish prattle! You’ll scare the poor girl. Now get on with your work. I must go below to the Lady Melite.” She gave Lyonene’s hair a final combing and settled the transparent circle of silk in place with a thin gold fillet. “Now be still and do not muss yourself.” She paused at the door, pointing a warning finger at Meg and Gressy. “And no more of this gossip. If black hair made us part of the Devil, there’d be a lot of us dreading the Day of Glory.” She sniffed and patted the little bit of gray hair that showed at her temple between the barbette, a piece of linen that totally concealed her neck and chin, and the cascading veil that extended to her shoulders. Lucy imagined that her own locks were still the soot-black of her youth.
When the door was closed, Lyonene sank to the stone windowseat. “Tell me of him,” she whispered.
“He is a large man…”
“Strong…” Meg interrupted, but then, at Gressy’s quelling look, she went obediently to her side of Lyonene’s bed to catch the billowing sheet.
“Aye,” Gressy continued, looking back at Lyonene and feeling confident in her audience. Lyonene would be the mistress of her own castle someday, but for now there was one area where Gressy was superior, and that was in her knowledge of men. “He’s the Black Lion and named for his Devil’s blackness and for having the fierceness of a lion. It is said he can unseat twenty men at a tourney and that in Wales, in the wars there, he could hack a man or his horse in half with one blow.”
Lyonene felt her face drain of color, and this encouraged Gressy to elaborate on half-heard tales.
“It is said his first wife tried to kill herself to escape him.”
Lyonene gasped and involuntarily crossed herself. Suicide was a mortal sin.
“And the seven men—seven devils—he has near him…” Meg inserted, too excited to fear Gressy.
“Aye,” Gressy said, her voice conspiratorial. “He travels with seven men, great huge men, black-haired all, but none so black as the Lion on his black horse.”
“He has come here and I am to meet him?” Lyonene could not keep the fear from her voice.
“Aye. Your father and mother are below now with him. No one denies the Black Lion a request, however small.” She straightened. “Come, Meg, we must go to prepare a room for this Devil’s knight.” She left the room, the wide-eyed Meg trailing behind with the dirty laundry. Gressy was smugly pleased that she had caught the undivided attention of the two girls, for she considered them both girls, although neither was more than two years younger than she.
Outside the heavy door, Meg found her voice. “Is it true, Gressy, that this man is a spawn of the Devil?”
The older woman put her face close to Meg’s. “They say he never smiles, has never laughed. It is also said that the woman who makes him laugh will become his bride.”
Meg leaned against the damp stone wall. Gressy’s face was dim in the dark hallway. She felt her heart thud with a sinister terror. The Devil’s bride! That was a horrible thought.
Lady Melite, Lyonene’s mother, had also heard stories of the Black Lion, and she dressed carefully, scolding herself for her trembling fingers. She already wished he had not come. There had been too much turmoil lately, and now a troublesome earl to care for! She fastened the undecorated belt around the voluminous surcoat, so different from her daughter’s. She pulled the top fabric out and over the belt, completely hiding it. She fastened a dark green mantle about her shoulders with two intricately wrought gold brooches, connected across her collarbone with a short chain.
“What with Sir Tompkin coming on the morrow, and the house servants to organize…” She stopped her mumbling and then laughed. I am getting to be too much like William, dreading an event before it happens, she thought. He is a man, no more. We will offer what we have, and he must be content. She straightened the long linen veil that covered the back of her head and hair and fell past her shoulders. She prided herself on having a still-beautiful throat and did not wear the covering barbette. Leveling her shoulders, she went below to greet her guest.
William, Lyonene’s father, was fascinated by the Earl of Malvoisin. The tales he had heard about this man were also exaggerated, but with a man’s point of view in mind. He looked now at Ranulf’s right arm, the muscles outlined clearly by the perfectly tailored chain mail. It was said that the Black Lion could, while riding at full gallop on that black horse of his, cut a four-inch oak post in twain. William hoped he could persuade the earl to demonstrate this impossible feat. The baron could not help staring at the earl’s chain mail. It was silvered. William thought with amusement how difficult it was for him to provide each of his twelve knights with even a mediocre grade of chain mail, and here this man had a hauberk just for tournaments. Even his men were splendidly dressed in mail that had been painted either green or black—Malvoisin’s colors.
“Ah, here is my wife, the Lady Melite. This is Ranulf de Warbrooke, Third Earl of Malvoisin.”
Ranulf lifted his eyebrows slightly in surprise at William’s introduction. “It is an honor, my lady, and I hope my uninvited presence will cause you no more hardship than is necessary.” He bowed to her.
William often accused Melite of making judgments too quickly, and so she had stopped volunteering her opinion to him, often waiting weeks or months for him to reach the same conclusions that she had drawn in but moments. Now that quick judgment did not fail her—instantly, she knew this man Ranulf de Warbrooke.
“You are most welcome, sir, and it is we who are honored … no … pleased by your presence here, and all will see to your comfort.” Her voice had changed in midsentence from formality to genuine warmth, for she liked this young man.
Ranulf was startled by her warmth. Usually mothers with daughters were greedy for him, for his money and title, or else afraid of him on account of his reputation. He sensed neither of these in this elegant little woman.
“Come, sit by me by the fire and tell me of the news. We so seldom get visitors here at Lorancourt.” She held up her arm and Ranulf took it and led her to two chairs by the roaring fire.
“But I understood that you have had many visitors lately.”
She waved her free hand in dismissal. “They come to see Lyonene, to appraise our property and eat our food. They come to show their pretty forms to one another on the lists. No one has time to talk to an old woman hungry for news. But sit for a while and let me hear all.”
William stood behind them feeling as if a bird’s breath could fell him. Melite, usually the most sensible of women, had taken the arm of the most fierce knight in England and had led him to a corner as if he were a gossiping old woman. And whatever had she said about their coming to see Lyonene and to appraise our property? This was too intimate a statement to make to a stranger. He must speak to her.
“Describe this new thing, a button, to me,” Melite was saying.
“It is a little ornament on a shaft sewn to the clothing, and lately the women have cut a hole on one side of the garment and inserted the button through it, making a fastening.”
“I see. Then we would not have to sew on the sleeves of the tunic any longer.”
William sank on a bench by the fire. The Black Lion, the greatest warrior in all of England, perhaps in all of Christendom, and his wife talked to him of women’s fashions!
Melite turned to her husband and smiled sweetly. “Would you send Lucy to fetch Lyonene? I desire our guest to meet with our daughter.”
“Oh, ’tis a handsome man, this Black Lion!” Lucy gushed to Lyonene. “His hair curls about his neck just as my boy’s did once.” Lucy, though proud of her son, who was now a monk in the Benedictine Order, was sad at times about him, too. “He is tall and strong, and your mother has him eating from out her hand. Great warrior he may be, but I would take an oath he is a gentle man.”
“What of his black hair and eyes? Were you not frightened?”
“For truth, I was, but your mother knew his character from the first moment, and it is she I trust.” She tilted her head and looked questioningly at Lyonene. “You would do well to choose such a man for a husband.”
“Husband! Lucy, you have heard the stories of his character!”
“Aye, stories. I know not one whiff of truth in them.”
“He is an earl, and an earl does not marry a baron’s daughter. I do not know how you could have such a thought. Know you his reason for coming to Lorancourt?”
“I did … happen to hear a bit of conversation.”
Lyonene tried not to smile.
“He has a brother who is squire to Sir Tompkin, and as that knight is soon to come, the earl wishes to visit a day or so with his brother.”
“Well, I am glad this Black Lion is not above love for his own kin. You say my mother talks easily with him and he is handsome?”
“Most terribly handsome, but if you dawdle longer he will be an old man before you see him.”
Lyonene descended the stone steps slowly, touching the worn walls as they spiraled to the lighted hall below. She found her hand trembling and tried to still it. The stories of this man rang in her head as everyone’s opinions whirled together. She reached the bottom step, paused, and then smoothed her skirts and her hair, taking a deep breath to still the fluttering of her heart. From her vantage point on the dark stairs, she could view the scene in the Great Hall. The enormous fireplace roared with several logs blazing in it. At a small distance from the fire were two chairs, one occupied by the petite form of her mother, the other revealing only a mailed arm, the silver gleaming dully in the firelight.
She succeeded in calming herself and looked toward the other end of the hall, to the other fireplace, which also was blazing. On low benches or squatted on the floor rushes were seven men, all in mail, all with tabards bearing the Black Lion’s coat of arms. Their voices were quiet and she heard one of them laugh. They did not seem to be the devilmen that Gressy spoke of. They looked rather tired, and Lyonene felt a desire to go to them to see that they were given what food and drink they needed. If the Black Guard were tame, mayhaps the Black Lion would be also. She stepped into the light.
“Lyonene, my daughter, is come.”
Lyonene kept her face lowered. She must control her urge to stare and remember her manners. Her mother spoke to this man as if they had known one another for many years. She was aware that the Black Guard had come to their feet and that now the Black Lion also stood before her. Her nervousness increased.
Ranulf had not felt so at ease in a long time. Only Eleanora, the queen, had ever made him feel so comfortable as this woman had. Even after having seen Melite and knowing that she had once been a beautiful woman, he was startled by Lyonene’s extraordinary beauty. Her head was lowered and he could not see her face, but her thick, curling hair tumbled down her back past her waist. It was tawny, a dark blond with thousands of dancing lights caught by the fire. Her figure was amply revealed by the tight tunic, and it made his mouth dry. A tiny waist, curving hips, a soft, inviting bosom. He could not remember ever having been so affected by a pretty woman.
Lyonene raised timid eyes to Ranulf de Warbrooke, not sure what she expected but fearing the worst. He was dark, with eyes as black as coals and sable curls of hair that seemed to be ever unruly. The top of her head did not reach his shoulder.
But the expression in his eyes was what intrigued her. Like her mother, she could judge a person’s character quickly. The Earl of Malvoisin’s eyes reminded her of a dog she had seen once. The dog had been caught in a trap, his leg nearly cut in half, and the pain had made him almost mad. It had taken a long time for Lyonene to soothe the animal and gain its trust so that she could release the iron jaws of the trap, and all the while the dog had looked at her with just such an expression of wariness, pain and near-dead hope as did the man who stood before her now.
“I am most pleased you could come to Lorancourt, my lord, and pray forgive me for my tardiness in welcoming you.”
Ranulf extended a hand to her and she put her small hand into his warm, large one. His touch could not have affected her more if he’d put a lighted brand to her fingertips. She almost gasped at the sensation but was glad she had not, fearful of giving offense. Gone was any knowledge of anyone else in the room. She became a disembodied hand, all feelings and thoughts transferred to the fingertips of that one small area. She stared stupidly at the two hands, one small and fair, the other large, battlehardened and coated in short dark hairs.
He spoke again and she seemed to feel his voice through the tips of her fingers. “A beautiful woman need not ask forgiveness. A smile will be enough.” His voice had lost some of its smoothness; there was a hesitation in it. He put his other hand beneath her chin and lifted her face so he could look at her.
She looked again at him, seeing a strong face, a jaw wellcut, slightly arched brows over the black eyes, a straight nose, the nostrils somewhat flared. Her gaze fell on his lips, which were well-shaped but held too rigid. Lucy had been correct; he was a handsome man. She smiled, timidly at first and then with more warmth. She looked behind the lips that did not smile and saw a … yes, a sweetness there, the same gentleness that her mother had seen. Of a sudden, she had an urge to laugh, so great was her relief at her findings. She moved against the fingers that held her chin. Never had a man’s touch made her feel so alive.
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 remember 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?”