Lyonene and Ranulf had been at the new Caernarvon Castle for six days, and she had spent the time in getting to know the people of the court and Queen Eleanora. The queen was a short, quiet woman, much more interested in her children than in state politics. She and Lyonene got on famously. The king was a formidably tall man with red hair and enormous energy. To Lyonene he never seemed to sit still for very long.
In the evenings Ranulf and Lyonene sang duets, she playing a psaltery, he a lute. They were much favored by the many guests, who began to arrive in great numbers. Each guest was treated according to his rank. The earls were given first priority and the finest that could be had, while the lesser knights, the mercenaries, were given a place to stand their tents, fodder and the privilege of one meal a day with King Edward.
The growing excitement affected Lyonene and she enjoyed herself. Queen Eleanora came to depend on her, and Lyonene found herself to be an easy hostess.
“You spend much time with these men.” A strong arm encircled her narrow waist and pulled her into a dark corner of the house.
She had stiffened at first, but relaxed when she realized she stood so closely, so intimately, pressed to Ranulf. Her teeth showed clearly in the dim light as she grinned up at him. “I would but make them comfortable. There was a lady, a Lady Elizabeth I believe, who seemed overinterested in the cut of your tabard, especially your shoulders and arms, at least it looked so from the manner in which she ran her hands over your … ah, tabard.”
He pulled her tight against him till she could hardly breathe. “Mayhaps she felt me to be neglected by my own wife. I have not seen you much these past days. Mayhaps I should pretend to be a guest to get your attentions.”
Her heart beat rapidly and she could feel his under her hands. She worked her arms away until she clasped the great bulk of his chest. “Of course, my lord, you are most welcome to Caernarvon Castle. And, pray tell, what would you desire of our meager assets? Could I fetch wine or food or…”
“A dancer. I would have a veiled Saracen dancer for my room. One who entices and shows her tawny body as she casts away the veils. Do you think such could be found? Mind, I want only the best.”
“You did like my dance then?”
In answer, he kissed her, a fierce, demanding, crushing kiss that made her draw him closer to her and answer with equal fire.
“He is here!” A voice near them called. “I find my friend has changed little, for all his marriage to a baron’s daughter. Leave the girl, Ranulf, and come talk to me. The night is young and she will wait for you, no doubt.”
Ranulf pulled away from her, and she felt him to be as reluctant as she.
“There are times, Dacre, when you are more a curse than a friend.”
The handsome blond man placed hands on hips, legs apart, and his laughter rang, causing many people to turn and stare. They clasped one another, each seeming to try to break the other’s ribs. They smiled at one another with the special look of old friends who had seen much together.
“I hear of this marriage of yours and not two months later, I find you locked together with one of the castle ladies. I said you should have brought her with you to Wales. At least I hope this one is not so well-used as Lady Adela whom you bedded so often last year.” He stopped at Ranulf’s scowl.
Lyonene had stood behind Ranulf as he talked to his friend and now Ranulf pulled her to stand beside him, holding her forearm and hand possessively in his two hands.
“This is my wife, Lady Lyonene. And you, I believe, have met Lord Dacre.”
“What story is this? I would remember this beauty had I met her.”
Ranulf smiled from his friend to his wife. “She followed me to Wales in my train, dressed as a serf.” His voice was proud.
“I find that a tale not to be believed. Even dressed as a serf, this beauty could be recognized. She would be a lady no matter what she wore. My lady, you have a fool for a husband. You should have married me and I would know you even should you dress as a man.”
Ranulf remained smiling. “Remember the night at your castle as we talked and a serf girl cleaned the hearth?”
Dacre looked in astonishment to Lyonene, who looked away, the blood beginning to rise to her cheeks.
Dacre’s laugh roared out again. “Then it was you who dropped the basket of ashes in our eyes!” He snatched her from Ranulf’s grasp and lifted her above his head. “I vowed you would be punished for that and so you shall.”
“Do not!” Her frantic words were directed to Ranulf. Dacre recognized the warning in her tone and, his hands still on Lyonene’s waist, hastily turned to Ranulf.
Dacre frowned for a moment at the Black Lion scowl on Ranulf’s face and the half-drawn anelace. He released Lyonene and clapped a heavy hand on his friend’s shoulder, his lips twisting into a half-controlled smile.
“I do not jest, Dacre. She is…”
The people in the Great Hall had stopped their talking, the musicians in the gallery had fallen silent. Not many men had seen the Warbrooke wrath and lived. Lyonene put herself between her husband and Lord Dacre.
“So that old affliction has finally taken you, and now you wish to tell me a noble speech of how you will protect your wife with your life,” Dacre teased.
Ranulf’s body relaxed and his hand left the scabbard. He looked away, a sheepish expression on his face. “It is true; I would protect her.”
“Well, then, my friend, if I promise not to spirit her away, may I look more clearly at her?”
Ranulf returned his friend’s grin and pulled Lyonene into the light. The guests went back to their talk and the music resumed.
Lyonene tried to control her anger as Ranulf turned her in the bright candlelight. She felt as if she were a piece of horseflesh that they were considering for purchase.
“You have done well, Ranulf.” Dacre clapped Ranulf’s back. “That much hair alone was worth losing your freedom.”
Lyonene whirled on them, her emerald eyes flashing. Her voice held contempt. “If you gentle knights have finished your inspection, the cattle of this castle have work that needs to be done.” She turned on her heel in the midst of a swirl of tawny hair and angrily stalked away. She heard Ranulf’s low voice, but not his words as he spoke behind her. She clenched her hands into fists at Dacre’s answering laugh.
Dacre and Ranulf were quickly forgotten as Queen Eleanora introduced her to Berengaria. Lyonene had never had many friends as a child, every visitor to Lorancourt being either too old or too young, yet when she saw Berengaria, she knew she had found a friend. Queen Eleanora introduced them to one another and they clasped hands like long lost friends.
“I think you feel as I do, that we have been friends for long. We shall cause a stir wherever we go, you and I.”
“What do you mean? I can see no reason why there be any confusion?”
“You are an innocent babe! Look about you at the men in the room and the narrowed eyes of their wives. And look at that great handsome husband of yours as he watches you. He looks ready to spring in attack if any man so much as speaks to you.”
“But why…”
“I will not explain, for you will learn soon enough.”
Ranulf did indeed watch his wife, for her beauty was suddenly enhanced by that of Lady Berengaria. The two women were of a height, one fair with tawny locks that hung past her waist in a profusion of fat curls, the other with dark auburn hair and eyes the same color. Her hair fell a few inches short of her waist and gently rolled under in a perfect curve. There were three tiny braids on each side of her forehead, pulled to the back of her head and fastened with a long red ribbon embroidered with tiny white seed pearls. The silk tunic that outlined her voluptuous figure was the color of her hair, covered by a spotless white velvet sleeveless surcoat.
Lyonene wore blue, a blue-green tunic that reflected in her eyes and a rich darker blue velvet surcoat. The two women, both extraordinarily beautiful, delicate, their exchanged words quiet, were indeed causing a stir in the Great Hall, a stir of envy, jealousy, desire, and from two husbands, a wary protectiveness.
“Come, let us sit here.” Berengaria motioned to a bench along a wall where they would have a clear view of the people in the hall. “You must tell me how you captured Lord Ranulf, for there have been many women who have lusted for his money and that handsome form of his. Although I have heard that he is willing enough to share one of those.”
Lyonene shook her head. “Do not tell me which, for I vow every woman but the queen has told me of my husband’s past adventures.”
Berengaria laughed, causing several heads to turn, heads which had been waiting for a chance to gaze again at the loveliness of the two women. “I can well imagine their words. But you did not answer what magic potion you used to snare him, and, if the gossip be correct, in but two days.”
Lyonene shrugged. “I did but make him laugh.”
Berengaria considered this for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, I can see why he would love the woman who made him laugh.”
Before Lyonene could protest, her friend continued.
“Is it wondrous to be so very rich? Do you have twenty maids to see to your every whim, to bring you hummingbird’s tongues roasted in three sauces?”
Lyonene laughed aloud. It was good to be near someone so honest, someone who did not say one thing and mean another unpleasant thing. “You will not believe this, but I have no maid at all.”
At the disbelief on Berengaria’s face, she told of taking Kate’s place on the journey to Wales and, since no mention had been made of a maid, she had not requested one. There seemed to be hundreds of servants about Caernarvon with little to do, so all her needs were cared for.
“I can see we will be good friends, and I long to tell Travers that I am not the only woman who perpetrates misadventures. He swears that it is only I who still gets into mischief; all other women are the height of decorum at all times.”
“Ranulf was very angry, but Queen Eleanora was pleased that I came and scolded Ranulf for forcing me to go to such extremes to get here.”
They laughed together.
“We are most fortunate in having such a queen. My father still tells horror stories of the last one.”
“This Travers is your husband?”
Berengaria’s face lit at the mention of her husband. “Look you about the hall and see if you can guess which man is my Travers.”
Lyonene guessed several men, all handsome men, and Berengaria snorted at each one, giving some derogatory quip, such as, “Beats his wife,” “Does not like women” or “Greedy,” and wiggling her brows. When Lyonene surrendered, Berengaria pointed.
“He talks now to Lord Dacre,” she said and watched Lyonene with twinkling eyes as she saw the expected reaction on her new friend’s face.
The man talking to Lord Dacre was the ugliest man Lyonene had ever seen. He was of average height and seemed to be built of stone, so square was his form; there was no grace or ease of movement about him—only an unshakable solidity. But his face was what was almost frightening. His ears were huge, his hair a faded mixture of nondescript colors, an unruly, wiry mess. His forehead overhung his eyes by what seemed to be several inches, the brows grown into a single line. Deep creases ran beside his nose to a lipless mouth. His eyes were mere slits.
She tried to compose herself as she turned back to Berengaria. Surely the woman only jested.
Berengaria grinned at her. “Is he not a troll? But I will tell you that I have loved him since I was but three years and I shall continue to do so until I die.”
“Tell me of this, for I sense a good story here.”
“I tell it gladly, though to few people. My family is a large one. I have six brothers and five sisters. My father has always been glad that his daughters are pretty and docile, his sons handsome and independent. But for me. From my birth I seemed to be the wrong sex, for I ever did things a young lady should not.
“One day when I was a little past my third birthday, I walked with my nurse in the fields by our castle. When she looked away for a moment, I hid from her in the tall grasses and watched as she searched and called for me.”
“How can you remember a thing so long ago? I do not recall events of when I was three.”
“I remember no others, but this could have been last week, it is so clear. When my nurse returned to the castle path to search for me, I made my way to the duck pond, a place she ever refused to take me. Silly woman! She constantly feared I would end myself in every conceivable manner, so she kept me from most pleasant things. When I got to the pond, a face peered at me from the reeds. I indeed thought it was a troll at first, but I kept staring at it even when it stepped from the reeds and I saw it was but a boy. We stared long at one another and an overpowering feeling came to me that this boy was mine and would always be so. He was twelve years then and near as big as he is now.
“I put my arms up to him and he lifted me. He carried me for hours, talking to me and showing me birds’ nests, little crawly things and sharing his bag of food with me. Neither of us thought of time and so it was late when we returned to the castle.
“Everyone was frantic by then and sure I was dead. My mother came to take me from Travers, but I would not leave and when my father finally pulled me away, I kicked and screamed until Travers came and kissed my forehead and told me to do what was wanted of me.”
“Your parents must have wondered greatly at your behavior.”
Berengaria shrugged. “I have ever demanded my way. All the next day I refused to leave Travers’s side. I rode with him on his horse as his father and mine inspected a piece of land my father wished to sell. On the morn I knew he was to leave, I cried and said I loved him and that he must not grow and instead, wait for me. He kissed my forehead and said that when I was ready for marriage he would come for me.”
“You cannot tell me that that is just what happened!”
“Aye. When I was ten and five my father brought a young man and his father to me and said I was to marry the man. I knew my father thought to have his way so I said before all that I was secretly married already and now carried my husband’s child.”
“You did not! Of course it was not true!”
“No. It could not be, for I had not seen Travers since that one day, and I would allow no other man to touch me.”
“Your father must have been very angry.”
Berengaria rolled her eyes. “That is a mild statement for my father’s temper. He had a midwife examine me and found I lied and then he locked me into a tower room with only bread and water to eat. I pleaded great illness and my old nurse brought me pen and paper to write my will. I wrote Travers that it was time for him to come or else my father would marry me to another. I tossed the letter out the arrowslit with a gold ring to a serf boy.”
Lyonene began to laugh. “I believe my story of dressing as a serf is mild. Tell me the rest of it!”
“Travers came within three days with an army! Over three hundred men approached my father’s gate and my father, to tell the truth, was well pleased by so forceful a son-in-law. He said later he thought it would take such a man to be able to live with me, for he found it an arduous task.”
“But what of you? You had not seen Travers since you were little more than a babe. Did you feel the same about him after all that time?”
“Oh, yes. I ran to him when I was released from the tower and he held me and kissed me, only not on the forehead.” Her eyes twinkled. “Had I any doubts before, that kiss would have dispelled them.”
Lyonene leaned against the wall and sighed. “And now you live in sweet contentment.”
“Hah! There is naught sweet about my Travers. He has a temper as ugly as his face. If you could but see his arm you would see where I slashed him once.”
“I do not understand. If you love him…”
“Real love is not the pretty stuff of the jongleurs. It is a feeling inside that you are one with this man, no matter what he is. Were Travers to sell his soul to the Devil, I would still love him and mayhaps I would bargain for a good price myself.”
Lyonene knew she should have been shocked at this, but instead, she stared at Ranulf and felt again the pain of the Welsh arrow in her shoulder. “I fear I would join my Black Devil also.”
Berengaria smiled. “Come, let us eat and no more talk of devils. I fear the penance now for my sins will be too high.”
They walked together to the tables.
Later, Lyonene and Ranulf were alone in their room, Ranulf soaking in a hot tub.
“I have wanted to ask you something,” Ranulf said.
When he was quiet, she stopped her washing and looked at him. “Could it be so terrible?”
“Some think so. Henry de Lacy has asked me to take his youngest son to page. The boy is only six years and should wait another year before leaving his home…” He paused and when she did not speak, he continued. “It would, of course, be for you to say, for a page is the woman’s responsibility until he is of an age to be a squire.”
“What is this child’s name and why do you seem to think I should object?”
“He is Brent and although young, he…”
“Brent! Is he not the boy who tied old Sir John’s leg to the table at dinner?”
“The same.”
“The boy who loosed the pigeons in the monks’ study? The boy who…”
“He is the one responsible for it all and I can see your answer to my request.”
“So now you have turned sorcerer and know my thoughts! Then you must know I love the boy well already. He has but high spirits and his parents try too hard to still him.”
She began to lather his face as she prepared to shave him, a new task.
“You cannot know what you say, for the boy is a devil. He is the last of that great litter of de Lacy’s, and the parents are tired and need a rest. From what I see, Berengaria was enough to put them in their graves.”
“What has Berengaria to do with my Brent?”
“Your Brent! So now you adopt the boy already. He is your friend’s little brother. Did you know she was an earl’s daughter?”
She scraped a patch of whiskers. “Being only a lowly baron’s daughter, I know little of the hierarchy of court,” she said loftily.
Ranulf understood well her dig at his words. “You know little of raising children and yet you are anxious to take on this one. Could you know that four women have refused him so far? It is said that one of them near fainted at the mention of the little monster.”
She could not shave him as he talked. “First you ask me to take him and now you work at dissuading me, and what is this you say of my lack of knowledge of raising children? I do not see that you have any great experience in this matter, yet you do not shrink from the idea of taking Brent.”
“Aye, but I can always beat him if he misbehaves,” he said smugly. “I doubt if you are even as strong as the boy.”
She gave him a look of disgust. “You talk overmuch of beating, first your weakling wife and now a boy who is not as big as … as your swollen head. Now stop arguing with me so that I may finish shaving you, and concentrate your arrogant thoughts on whether or not my hand slips and cuts your smug words from your throat.”
He took her wrist as she brought the sharpened steel near his cheeks, his eyes showing his pleasure at her. “I begin to pity a poor child who must have a lioness for a mother. He will ever think he has had his own way, but in truth she will always win.”
“There is only one prize I have ever wanted to win and I have done so.” She smiled down at him.
He leaned his head back against the tub. “Finish my shave, wench, and contradict me no more.”
She smiled at his closed eyes and finished the shave.
They entered the Great Hall together and smells of food reached them. Ranulf introduced Lyonene to Henry de Lacy, Earl of Lincoln and Salisbury, the father of Berengaria and Brent. When the men began to talk of estate management, she went to sit alone on a bench by the wall. Brent came to his father’s side and the man pointed and sent the young boy to her.
“You are Lady Lyonene?”
“Aye, and you are Master Brent?”
“I am, my lady.”
She patted the seat and he sat near her. He stared at her with wide eyes and then with a curious expression at her hair. One small hand darted out and heartily pulled a lock.
She quickly put a hand to her head against the pain. “What is your reason for that?”
He looked little surprised at himself for his action. “I but wanted to see if it was real. I heard two ladies say it was not and another said you should cover it.”
Lyonene smiled at him. “And what think you?”
He shrugged. “It is no matter to me. I cannot interest myself in women’s hair, for I am going to train to be a knight.” He squared his little shoulders.
“But is it not good for a knight to care for his ladies? Would you not protect me from danger if need be? For you have chosen to train at Malvoisin, and since I live there…”
He relaxed again, pleased that she gave him a reason to be near her, for he liked her.
“You are glad that you go to Malvoisin?”
“Oh, yes,” he answered. “You are a good lady, for you are not old or ugly.”
“I thank you for the compliment,” she smiled. “Now, tell me of these tricks I hear of you. Are they true?”
He shrugged again. “See those girls? I made them cry yester eve.” His voice was proud.
“And whatever did you do to make them cry?”
“I told them a story of a dragon who flies through walls and eats girls, only girls,” he said grinning. “I heard their mother say they did not sleep all the night.” He gave her a sideways glance to see her reaction.
“Silly girls! They should have told you worse stories and then you would not have slept.”
He gave her a look of disdain. “No girl can make worse stories than I.”
She leaned close to him. “I can, and when we are at Malvoisin I shall. I will not only write them but I will put them to music and sing them.” She made the last words seem like a horrible threat.
He looked at her with new respect. “And what if I should put a dead rat under your pillow?”
“I should chop it up and serve it to you for dinner and only tell you after you had eaten it.”
His eyes widened and he made a face as if he imagined the taste of such a meal. He settled back against the wall, satisfied for the moment with her bravery. “My father has told me only that I am to live with you, but I do not know your husband, who is to be my master.”
“See the man talking to your father? The man in black?”
The little boy sat bolt upright, his shock portrayed on his face. “But that is the Black Lion,” he whispered.
She looked at him in puzzlement. “Do you not wish to be page to Lord Ranulf?”
He gave an involuntary shudder and his voice was strained.
“My cousin told me he chops boys my age apart for practice, to keep his sword edge sharp.”
She grabbed his shoulders. “That is horrible! As you created a story for the girls, so your cousin made up the tale of my husband.”
He looked at her in awe. “Are you not afraid of him?”
She smiled. “In truth I am at times, but when I am, I make sure he does not see my fear. And you also must not show your fear.”
The boy looked as if he might cry. “Or he will…”
“Do not say that! Do not think it! Here, stay here and I will fetch him. You will watch and see how gentle he is. If I, a mere girl, am not afeared of him, certainly a knight’s page will not be.”
Brent tried to lift his shoulders again, but his lower lip still trembled. “That is true.”
Lyonene muttered some words about men starting young with their arrogance and made her way to Ranulf. He was engrossed in talk with Henry de Lacy, and when she put her hand on his arm, he merely held it, caressing each of her fingers. Lyonene stepped back so Brent could see, and the boy watched with fascination.
“What is this you do?”
“I beg your pardon, Lord Henry, but I would speak a few words to my husband.”
“Young pup already giving you trouble? Well, if you want to go back on the agreement, I will understand.”
“Oh, no,” Lyonene said at once. “I am most pleased with the boy and do not wish to relinquish him.”
Henry laughed. “Well, you may wish you had answered differently in a few months. After twelve children, one would think I would be ready for all things, but that boy is beyond me. Mayhaps I am just getting old. Well, it is good speaking with you, my boy.” He clapped Ranulf’s shoulder and left.
“Now, what is so wrong with the boy?”
“It is not the boy, it is you.”
“I? But I have not spoken to him.”
“He is terrified of you. A cousin has filled his ears with horrible stories of you.”
He gave her a half-smile. “And do you know they are not true?”
She told him Brent’s story and Ranulf’s upper lip curled in disgust. He walked toward the boy and Brent nearly leaped from the wooden bench.
Ranulf looked down at the bowed head and saw that the boy trembled. He stretched out a hand to touch the sandycolored hair, but did not. He sat on the bench.
“I am honored, my lord, to be your p-p … page.” The boy’s voice was barely audible.
“And, I am most honored to have you. So, you fear the Black Lion?”
Brent did not answer, nor did he look at Ranulf, and his trembling increased.
“Tell me, Brent, do you think the Black Guard fears their liege lord?”
“Oh no, my lord.” His head came up. “For they belong to you; they also…” His fear increased at the memory.
Ranulf’s voice was quiet, soothing, reassuring. “If it is as you say and they have no fear because they are part of my household, then you should not fear me. My page belongs to me just as do my Black Guard. Mayhaps you will be known as the Black Page.”
Lyonene could see the boy’s face work as he digested this information; then a smile began to form, then a question. “How can I be the Black Page when I do not have black hair? All the Black Guard has hair of your color.”
Ranulf held out his hand to the boy, showing him the back of it. “You see, I have enough black hair for both of us.”
Lyonene could not help laughing. “It is true. His whole body is covered with black hair.”
Ranulf gave her such an intense look that she felt the blood rush to her cheeks, and she turned away to become uncommonly interested in the figures of a tapestry opposite her.
Brent did not yet dare to touch the hand held out to him. “Am I really to be your page, my lord? I may see your black stallion and meet your guard and touch your sword and…”
“Aye, all that and more.” Ranulf’s eyes twinkled. “We go to supper now, but as soon as we are finished, you may come with us to the stables and see my horse.”
The boy stood perfectly still, but somehow he gave the impression of jumping a few feet in joy. He grinned at Lyonene, turned and ran to a group of older boys on the other side of the hall. Within seconds, all the boys turned open-mouthed stares toward Ranulf.
Lyonene whispered to her husband. “I have no doubt he tells them you eat three boys a day and he is chosen to help you in your gruesome slaughter.”
Ranulf stood and held his arm for her. When she stood beside him, he gave her the same intense look of a moment before. “I am more concerned with your interest in the black hair that covers my body. Mayhaps you can demonstrate some of this interest to me.”
“Mayhaps,” she said, looking at him with half-closed eyes.
He pulled her arm closer to his body, as if he were afraid she might vanish. “Come, we must show the boy to Tighe, but later, Lioness,” he murmured, kissing her hand, “later.”
Lyonene woke first the next morning and, donning her green robe, went to stoke the fire into life. Ranulf still slept as she looked down at him, the care lines in his face smooth in his sleep. She touched a sable curl as it curved toward his eye. His hand caught her wrist and she gasped in surprise.
“Come to me, Lioness.” His voice was a commanding growl.
She eagerly sought him, cursing the coverlet and robe that separated them. His lips did not tease this morn but demanded, and he pushed her beside him, his weight pressing her into the feather mattresses. Her arms tightened about him and she greedily returned his kiss.
A knock sounded at the door, and the oath Ranulf uttered was so vile that it caused her to shudder. He did not seem to notice her trembling as he bellowed for the person to enter. A white-faced Brent carried a heavy pitcher of hot water.
“I brought washing water, my lord.” His voice quivered.
Lyonene saw the black scowl on her husband’s face and plunged a sharp elbow into his ribs. He grunted and turned the scowl on her. She gave him a sweet smile. “Your page has brought you washing water and means to help his lord dress for the procession to the lists.” She kissed the corner of his mouth, which was a hard, grim line. He immediately grabbed her and threatened to push her back on the bed.
“Ranulf!” she cried and pushed against his chest. He seemed to recover himself, released her and stepped from the bed, wrapping the loincloth about his hips.
Brent stopped before Ranulf and stared up at him in awe.
“You are the Black Lion all over!” He did not understand the laughter he caused from his lord and lady, for he did not know that those were the very words said by Lyonene when she first saw an unclothed Ranulf.
It was a while before Ranulf was readied for the procession, this day wearing the silver-coated mail that was used only for ceremony. Lyonene had to give Brent a hand in lifting the mail and, although the boy was not yet a squire, Ranulf allowed him to help.
“I will see to the horses, and I will return for you in one hour. See that I am not kept waiting.”
She tossed her hair. “I am not in the habit of causing you delay.”
“Do not play the Lioness with me. Come here and kiss your knight.”
He lifted her from the floor with one arm as he quickly kissed her, nearly crushing her ribs. He dropped her abruptly and winked at the staring Brent. “See you how to kiss women; let them know they kiss a man.”
Little Brent nodded solemnly, as if he’d just learned an important lesson.
“Come, Brent, we have had enough lessons on women this day,” he said, hastily ushering the boy from the room and giving Lyonene a broad grin before she slammed the door on him.
She had arranged for a maid to help her dress for the procession and was careful with each fold of her green silk tunic, velvet surcoat and green, sable-lined mantle. Most of the women wore their husband’s colors or the colors of their liege lord, but too often they made the garments too gaudy for Lyonene’s taste. The maid sewed Lyonene’s tight silk sleeves in place. Many of the other women made their sleeves so that the top of the forearm was one color and the underside another color; then the rest of the tunic would be a third color. Lyonene thought the resulting multicolored costumes obliterated all color.
The maid made tiny braids at Lyonene’s temple and loosely tied them in back with several green silk ribbons. She had liked Berengaria’s hair arrangement and hoped her friend did not mind her copying it. She opened a little box in the bottom of the trunk to assure herself that the ribbon was still there. It was a copy of the lion belt and she would present it to Ranulf at the joust, to wear on his helm. She had loved making every stitch of the black and gold lions.
The maid scurried from the room as Ranulf entered. He stopped and stared at his wife.
“Do I please you, my lord?” she curtsied.
“You wear the colors of Malvoisin.”
“What other colors would the Countess of Malvoisin wear?” she asked haughtily.
He sat on the unmade bed. “Turn so that I may look at you. Is not that tunic overtight?”
“It is loose, see?” She made as to move the fabric and show him, but her maid had laced the silk too securely. She looked up at him and laughed, then shrugged her shoulders. “It is the fashion. I dare say Lady Elizabeth’s will be as tight.”
“Elizabeth is not my wife and I care naught how many men gape at her.”
“Do you think men will gape at my poor form?” she asked in mock innocence.
He squinted at her. “Do you try to make me jealous?”
“And if I do?”
“Then I would say you should not. I fear I need no aid. Now come below, for we begin soon. I have obtained a black horse for you. You will not mind not riding a white one as the other ladies?”
She knew she would get no compliment from him. She put her hand on his mail-covered forearm. “The wife of the Black Lion cannot ride a white horse; it would not fit with the rest of her men.”
His eyes glowed as he looked down at her, and he touched the gold lion brooches that fastened her mantle, the emerald eyes matching hers. He kissed her cheek tenderly.
The Black Guard waited below, and they were resplendent. They stood in order, ready for the procession to the lists. Hugo Fitz Waren rode first, his mail painted green, his tabard black with the rampant black lion on a green field. The Frisian and a black mare stood ready for Ranulf and Lyonene.
When she stood before her horse, Ranulf took something from his saddle pommel. He removed the customary gold circlet from Lyonene’s head, tossing it to a castle servant. In its place he put a coronet—gold, with emeralds and black pearls. “A countess cannot appear as an ordinary lady,” he said, smiling at her.
She pulled a green ribbon from her hair and tied it to his upper arm, the silk showing well against the gleaming silver.
He lifted her onto the horse, and she adjusted her leg to fit the sidesaddle. Her hair spread about her, grazing the horse’s rump behind her.
They slowly made their way to take their places in the long line of people. Hugo Fitz Waren held the black and green banner of Malvoisin aloft, the snarling lion vivid against the emerald ground. His black tabard swirled against the green serge trappings that covered his horse.
Ranulf headed the double line that followed the chief of his Black Guard. Both his tabard and Tighe’s coverings were of the darkest black. Behind him rode Corbet, with green clothing and black horse drapes. The colors alternated down the line. Lyonene was totally clad in green as was her horse, with the men that followed her also alternating in color.
Ahead of her and behind her waved the banners of the king and his earls. There was Lord Dacre’s blue and gold unicorn, Humphrey de Bohun’s six lioncels, Robert de Vere’s three crowns, John de Montfort’s sable markings—and the three leopards of Edmund, the king’s brother. The colors and the jewels sparkled, and the horses felt the excitement and pranced, threatening to overcome their riders.
Lyonene thought of Brent and knew he rode with his father. She wished there had been time to sew him a garment of the Malvoisin colors.
The great oak gate to the new castle walls was lowered, and the procession began. The noise of the waiting people drowned all thought as the riders slowly made their way to the lists. For weeks the people had been arriving: freemen, serfs whose masters attended the celebrations, women whose profession was to entertain, and merchants—hundreds of merchants.
The lists themselves stood atop a small rise, and they were alive with banners and buntings. Two sets of raised benches had been built on either side of the barrier fence, one for the nobility and canopied in a red and white striped serge, the other for the ladies of the lesser knights who entered the contests, with its roof open to the spring sky. At each end of the long, narrow field were tents. One end held the tents of the challengers, the other the comers. Lyonene could see the pennant of the Black Lion among the challengers’ tents.
Behind the wooden seats and the tents were the small tents and wagons of the merchants, the guild pennants easily discernible. Among the cheering crowd were many men with flat boxes strapped to them that held food, drink, cloth, saints’ relics, medicines guaranteed to cure all and ornaments from the world over.
The fences threatened to break with the teeming masses that strained against them to see the richly clad men and women. As Hugo Fitz Waren entered the gate, his horse stepping onto the soft, sand-covered field, a cry went up for the Black Lion. Lyonene was especially pleased and smiled at the people, but a quick glance at Ranulf showed he did not acknowledge the cheer. In truth, he was more than a little formidable in his black attire, his back straight as a steel rod.
The next group waited as the Earl of Malvoisin rode with his wife and his men around the edges of the jousting field. It seemed to Lyonene that the people cheered louder for them, but of course, she chided herself, that was her vain pride telling her so.
They left the far gate and entered the tent grounds at the far end. This area too was enclosed, reserved for the use of the king’s chosen men only.
There were three tents sporting the Malvoisin colors, two for his men and one for Ranulf. It was the largest tent that the Earl and Countess of Malvoisin now entered.
Lyonene could not help the memories of her dance that filled her at the sight of the cream silk walls. Ranulf stopped his undressing to stare at her. Then a slow smile curved his lips. He began humming a tune from that night.
Lyonene laughed. “I think you have forgiven me for hiding away and coming to Wales.”
“I have said I would forgive you aught.”
She did not like his smugness. “I should test that.”
“Do not dare,” he growled and then saw she teased.
Brent burst into the tent. “I come, my lord, to help you dress. Is it proper that a lady be present in a knight’s tent?”
Lyonene narrowed her eyes at Brent’s back.
“It is an honor, Brent,” Ranulf said to the boy. “No knight may go into battle, even mock battle, without his lady’s favor. Now, come and help me prepare for the wrestling. You may help apply the oil over my body.”
Lyonene muttered something about pages having most delightful duties and turned away when Ranulf stared at her. She called out when she heard Berengaria’s voice, and her friend entered.
“I have ever wanted to see this tent.” She fingered the silk of the walls. “Lord Ranulf, I think you take the wrestling this day.”
“Aye. I have had Edward make eight gold cups, each set with emeralds for the prizes.”
Berengaria raised her eyebrows to Lyonene, who smiled in answer.
“My lord, is it an honor for two ladies to be present?” Brent’s voice was exasperated.
Berengaria laughed. “He is a de Lacy, ever impatient and rude. You have taken on a monster, Lyonene. Come and let us find a seat and watch your husband’s triumph.
“You may sit with my wife in the section for Malvoisin. I do not think you will find it difficult to see from there.”
The two women left the tent. “How do we women bear such arrogance?” They looked at each other and laughed.
Ranulf had been correct; green and black ropes sectioned off a good piece of the tiered benches. There was room for about a dozen people. Lyonene and Berengaria took their places on the front row. There would be a while before the wrestling began, so they purchased flawns, a kind of cheesecake, from a shouting merchant.
The trumpets sounded and split the air; the people hushed in anticipation. The men began to come from both ends of the lists, dressed only in small white loincloths. Lord Dacre with his five men caused no little commotion—his body a light gold color, his chest lightly covered in fair hair.
When Ranulf entered the field, followed by his seven dark men, Lyonene gripped Berengaria’s arm.
Berengaria exclaimed, “I can see why you love the man—he is magnificent!”
Lyonene smiled proudly.
Favors from the women in the stands rained upon the field—flowers, ribbons, sleeves. Around her, Lyonene heard shouts of the names of the men of the Black Guard, especially those of Corbet and Maularde. Corbet acknowledged all shouts with thrown kisses and tossed all favors to a waiting servant. Maularde took only one ribbon tossed to him and smiled to someone behind Lyonene. She turned to see a young girl dimpling prettily at the guardsman’s attentions.
Ranulf nodded to her, and she saw that her green ribbon was tied about his upper arm.
“Travers would never allow such men near me. It would not be easy to choose one of them.”
“But my Ranulf is by far the best, do you not agree?”
“It is said that love is blind, but it is not so in your case.”
Dacre did not wrestle against Ranulf as the Black Lion had hoped, for he had wished to best his friend, but the two earls and their men challenged all comers. First the men of the guard fought the comers. If any bested the king’s men, he went on to fight Ranulf or Lord Dacre.
The matches began with Ranulf and Dacre looking on as five groups of men circled one another. Their oiled bodies glistened in the early sun and the cheers of the many people urged them on. One of Dacre’s men was thrown and held until a king’s official declared him bested. Lyonene saw Ranulf punch his friend heartily.
The three men of the Black Guard easily won their matches, and Lyonene knew that the other men could not have been as trained in wrestling as her husband’s men were.
The trumpets sounded again and eleven men entered to challenge the knights. Lord Dacre and Ranulf looked on again and saw the comer who had bested Dacre’s man easily felled by Sainneville.
The second round was won also, and Lyonene could see the smugness on Ranulf and Dacre’s faces, their mock yawns.
The trumpets sounded again and the field cleared, but there were no new comers. Ranulf and his friend stood straighter as the trumpets blared again and again. The gates at the far end slowly opened, and two covered litters were carried into the midst of the lists.
A hush fell on the crowd as every eye went to those litters, their contents secret. Two men ran from behind and blew more horns, and the serge of the litters fell back, the dark interiors revealing nothing. The men shouldering the carriages lowered them and two men stepped from them—enormous men, powerful men, their heads and bodies completely shaved and oiled to a slick sheen. The litters were quickly taken away, and the two men stood with legs apart, hands on hips. “We are from Angilliam, the brothers Ross, and we challenge Lord Dacre and Lord Ranulf to a fight until one cries, ‘Peace.’”
The cry from the crowd was deafening, a roar that vibrated the benches. Berengaria laughed and clapped her hands, then looked toward Lyonene’s pleased smile.
“You seem confident of the outcome of this match.”
“Ranulf will win, but he will need to work hard to win. I am glad he does not receive his gold cups without effort.”
“Oh, I trust he will make an effort to win from those men.”
They watched as Ranulf circled the enormous man, and Lyonene was pleased to see that her husband equaled him in size. The first hold brought Ranulf to his back with a loud thud. She saw his muscles strain as he pushed the man from him, their legs locked together, Ranulf’s darker skin prominent. They broke their holds and circled again, but this time Ranulf got in the first grip. Ranulf’s arm encircled the man’s neck and she saw Ranulf’s back as the strong man freed himself.
Their muscles strained as they pushed, each taking a hold or using his massive strength to break the other’s hold. They stood and locked arms, their legs pulling-pushing, expanding, as their bodies wrestled together. There were whole minutes when neither moved, and had it not been for the expanded cords in their necks, the knotted muscles in their backs, one would have thought they but rested.
“The man Ross is tiring,” Berengaria said. “His legs begin to quiver, but your Ranulf’s do not. He must be trained well for this match.”
She merely smiled, for all her attention was on her husband and she could only guess at the pain he felt at this long, long match.
They broke the hold and the crowd cheered, for the bald man showed visible signs of weariness and Ranulf took advantage and attacked.
“Lord Dacre does well, also, though his brother Ross is smaller than the one who fights Lord Ranulf.”
The two men continued to strain against one another until Ranulf brought the man down with an ankle locked about his opponent’s calf. The man could not break the fierce hold. The cry of “Lion” filled the air when the man cried, “Peace.” Ranulf stood and solemnly helped the bald man to stand beside him. He left the field and Ranulf stood in triumph. It was but a moment before Lord Dacre joined him, and together they strutted around the field.
Ranulf paused before Lyonene, and she kissed a ribbon and threw it to him. He caught it in the air and kissed it as he looked at her, a look that made her blush. He looped it and stuffed it into the side of his loincloth, the ends hanging down his hip and thigh. He gave her a one-sided grin, almost a leer. She covered her face with her hands as the crowd, and the men and women around her, cheered his gesture. She did not look up again until he was gone from the lists.
“You may show your face again, for he is gone and the trumpets sound for dinner.”
They joined the line that began to leave the tourney grounds.
“My lady. My Lady Lyonene.” She turned to a breathless, starry-eyed Brent. “Is he not the strongest knight? Did you see him?”
“Aye, I did.” She did not know her expression matched his.
“He bids you come to him, to his tent, for he dines there. He says he must not dress yet; there may be more men such as the brothers Ross to fight.” His face fell. “I must dine with my father.”
Berengaria laughed. “I fear our father is a poor substitute for the Black Lion. Come along, Brent, mayhaps you can make do with my poor Travers.”
Lyonene hurried to Ranulf’s tent. She did not see him at first, he lay so still on the cot.
“Lyonene?” he whispered.
She hurried to him. “Ranulf! You are hurt!”
“I am more than hurt, I am dying,” came his muffled reply. “There is naught of me that does not pain me. Neither of the ax wounds in my arm and leg, nor both together, caused me so much pain.”
She stroked his sweat-dampened hair, laughter in her voice. “But Brent has said you ready yourself to fight other men, men, of course, more fierce than the little one just finished.” She laughed at his groan.
“You are cruel. What would the boy say of me ’twere he to see me like this?”
“At least you do not think I needs must be impressed.” She tugged on the green ribbon that hung from his loincloth and his hand instantly covered hers, but not without his groaning in pain.
“That is mine; I won it and do not make me need to wrestle you to keep it.”
“Hmph! You could not even whip me now.”
His arm encircled her waist, and amid squeals of laughter, he pulled her down beside him on the cot. He threw one heavy leg across her thighs and an arm across her breasts, his face snuggled near her ear. “You delight in causing me pain. First I must strut before my page and then I must prove again my strength to my wife. Lie still and do not plague me.”
She did as he bid and was content with his nearness.
“Good morn, your lordship.” Brent greeted them below stairs, the next morning, his face solemn.
Ranulf frowned at the boy. “I seem to be somewhat weary this morn. Mayhaps you would oblige me and rid me of this burden until we are at the lists.” He unbuckled the long sword that hung in front of him.
Lyonene thought the boy’s eyelids might turn inside out, so wide did he open them.
“Oh, my lord,” he whispered. “This is the sword you used to kill the infidels in the Holy Lands?”
“Aye, it is.”
“And what is its name?”
“Challouns. It is written here,” he said, pointing, “on the blade. There is a splinter of the true cross in the glass ball on the hilt, and this emerald is said to come from King Arthur’s crown.”
Brent reverently held the sword before him, his head back and his arms lifted.
Lyonene and Ranulf followed, and she squeezed his arm. “You are most kind to the boy. I can see why he near worships you. My father has never spent so much time with his pages, or even his squires.”
“I like children.” He looked pointedly at her stomach. “Mayhaps you could give me a few.”
“I shall fill every nook at Malvoisin with lion cubs.”
He grinned mischievously. “If I but last through the nights required of me.”
She tossed her hair and refused to answer him, which made him laugh and kiss her cheek.
At the lists, the benches were already full and several of the Black Guard occupied the section set aside for the Earl of Malvoisin; they rose until Lyonene was seated. She spoke to each of the four men and congratulated them on their win at wrestling the day before. Corbet and Maularde sat apart, each beside a pretty girl. To her surprise, Hugo Fitz Waren did also. She nudged Ranulf.
“Hugo is so solemn, I did not think him to be…”
Ranulf’s eyes sparkled. “None of my men find it difficult to have a woman. They are most honored to be of the Black Guard. For all the bragging of the others, Hugo has many women who work to bind him to them.”
She sat near Ranulf, their thighs and arms pressed close. “As I have bound you to me?”
He pushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “Aye, as you have done so to me.”
The blaring of the trumpets turned their attention to the sand-covered field. The jumping events occupied the morn—jumping high hurdles and across long distances. Lord Dacre’s men took one of these events.
The trumpets again sounded to announce that dinner was served. For this meal, Berengaria sat at Lyonene’s left and Ranulf at her right. They were pleasantly entertained by three young girls who played and sang.
King Edward stood, and the room was silent. “I have an announcement … this day. We strove to conquer Llewellyn and did so, yet all … know the story of his traitor brother, David. When David was … captured, his family was taken to Rhuddlan Castle. There were two sons and s … seven daughters. The sons, twins of three years, have been g … given to my knights to raise. The … daughters and wife all asked to go to nunneries. The … wife and four of the daughters I have allowed to do so… Now I have tried to wed the other three. One killed herself.”
The crowd gasped at the horror of this mortal sin.
“The other daughter I married to Sir John of Bohum. Some of you may have … known him. The girl killed him on their … wedding night and then herself.”
The hall was totally silent, each face a mask of horror. “
Now I try to … keep the last daughter from a wasted life.” He motioned to a man near the door, and everyone turned to watch.
Two enormous, mail-clad men came into the room with the sounds of a dragging chain behind them. The girl was almost too small to be seen at first. Her head was down, face hidden, but her black hair cascaded over her blue velvet surcoat.
“You may … wonder at my chaining so small a girl,” Edward continued, “but she has killed one of my guards, and you can see the wounds born by these men.”
Lyonene noticed the long furrows on the men’s faces where she had raked them with her nails.
Berengaria nudged her friend. “ ’Twere I in her place, I would act just so. I hear the Welsh do not think their David a traitor.”
“Her … name is Angharad, and I now offer her in … marriage to any knight worthy of the woman’s rank.”
At this the girl lifted her face and the crowd exclaimed at her beauty. The black hair framed a pretty face with a small nose and full lips, but her eyes were what was startling, for they were a brilliant, vibrant blue. They burned now as if from a fever, and her look of defiance and contempt was easily read.
Berengaria directed Lyonene’s attention to Lord Dacre, a few places from them. He stared at the girl open-mouthed, his eyes glazed as if there were no reason left in his brain. Lyonene nudged Ranulf so he could see his friend.
“Dacre has more sense than that,” he whispered under his breath.
Even as he spoke, Dacre threw back his chair, the loud sound it made as it struck the floor causing many of the guests to jump. He bounded across the table to the girl, startling her so that she could not react. He grabbed her to him, crushing the chained hands helplessly between their bodies as his lips came down on hers.
Dacre drew back with a cry of pain, and everyone could see the drop of blood on his lip.
“You will regret that lost blood in future, for I swear before God that someday you will love me more than your own life. You are mine!”
She screamed at him in a torrent of words of the Welsh language. The silent diners gasped when she spit on him. Dacre but grinned at her and rubbed his wet cheek against hers. She tried to move her arms, but could not.
Dacre turned to his king. “I claim her now, and if a priest is not come soon, I bed her unwed.”
The tension was broken as the crowd laughed.
King Edward nodded toward a man at a far table. “Stewart! Draw up the p … papers. There is no dowry, for her father lost all for his traitor’s deeds.”
Angharad lunged toward the king and he drew back, although Lord Dacre held her fast. “My father was no traitor!” Her words were oddly spoken as she struggled with a language foreign to her.
“Take her L… Lord Dacre, and I do not envy you. See that she does not kill you on your wedding night also.”
Dacre lifted her to his arms, her violent struggles effortless against the man’s strength. He smiled up at his king. “Have no fear for my life. She is but a woman who has not met a man. This night she will, and she will be tamed.”
The crowd broke into gales of laughter as Dacre took the struggling girl from the hall. All agreed that naught had ever so enlivened a meal before.
“What think you of your friend now?” a laughing Lyonene asked her husband.
“Dacre has ever had little sense about women.” He took her small hand and kissed it. “I have fought in two wars and I do not care for the constant battle. I wish for peace in my own bedchamber.”
“And you find our encounters … peaceful?”
The laugh rumbled in his throat. “Nay, my Lioness, I find your nearness aught but peaceful. ’Twere it not that I must participate in Edward’s games, I would join the sport Dacre enjoys this day.”
She felt her checks redden and looked to see who listened to his words. She returned her hand to her own lap. “Many will wonder at our actions and think we are but just married. After so long a time, we should by now be tired of each other and turn to lovers.”
His hand clenched her wrist, causing her pain. “Do not say such!”
“Ranulf, I do but jest. Do not hurt me. I will not look at any other man, I swear it. Can you not see I jest?”
He released her. “I am sorry I hurt you, but I cannot laugh at such things.”
“You will tell me someday who has hurt you so to give you such pain?”
He looked away, not answering.
They were silent for the rest of the meal, but by its end, Ranulf’s good humor was restored. She walked with him to his tent at the far end of the lists. Brent waited impatiently for his lord. Ranulf gave her a chaste kiss as she left to join Berengaria in the stands.
The lance casting came first. Gilbert de Clare, another earl, and a knight of Robert de Vere’s took the event.
Ranulf appeared in a short garment of the Malvoisin colors and demonstrated the longbow. It seemed to Lyonene that there were too many female exclamations of joy near her. Berengaria laughed at her friend’s intense frown. The crowd of serfs and free men were not restrained by the rules of chivalry, as the knights were, and their cheers at the speed and distance of the new longbow were thunderous, for Ranulf was among their favorite knights. He waved to them, enjoying their adoration.
After the exhibition, Lyonene joined Ranulf in his tent.
“You were pleased with my shooting?” he asked, grinning at her. “Brent is torn between his father’s words and his new lord. I think he will see my way, do you not?”
“I am sure he will, for have you not won me to your way of thinking?”
He pulled her to his lap, kissing her. “I am more pleased with winning you than my page. What say you we miss dinner and stay in my tent?” He muffled her protests with his lips, and she could aught but submit as his lips slowly worked their way down the side of her neck.
Their lovemaking was as passionate as if they had not been together for months instead of for just a few hours. Later, Lyonene and Ranulf lay together, their bare flesh moist and satisfied.
“You have bewitched me. How shall I win the joust on the morrow when my mind is ever on you?”
“I do not care if you enter or no. Stay all day with me and we will watch from the stands.”
He grabbed her shoulders and held her away from him, frowning into her eyes. “You would dishonor me. The Black Lion must fight or he will lose the men who follow him.” He dismissed the subject. “I wonder how Dacre fares with that new wife of his.”
“Did you think her pretty?”
“Beautiful.”
“More so than me?”
“By far. You are a slug compared to her.” He only laughed when she struck his chest.
Lyonene woke early the next day, and she slowly turned her head to look at Ranulf as he slept near her. One of his hands was tangled in her hair, another held her firmly by the waist. She smiled as she thought that even in sleep he would not loose her.
“You seem to plan some devilment this morn.”
“Nay, I but look at you.” She moved closer to him, putting her arms around his neck. “We will return home soon?”
“I think you grow as weary of court as I. What say you we leave early on the morrow.
She gave him a quick kiss. “I look forward to the journey.”
He pushed her down on the mattress and rolled on top her. “And what entertainment do you plan on the return? It could not equal the dance.”
She shot him a wicked look with her emerald eyes. Her hands ran down his body until she found what she sought. “Think you not?” she whispered before speech deserted them.
At the lists, Lyonene looked with trepidation at each of Ranulf’s opponents. Ranulf himself was splendidly clad in his silvered mail, with her ribbon, the copy of the lion belt, tied to his helm. Three charges with each man were allowed. The thundering of the horses’ hoofs, the splintering lances, the cheers and jeers of the crowd were overpowering. The man who so confidently sat astride the great black horse was a stranger to her. Gone was the smiling, teasing man she had spent so many hours of pleasure with and in his place was the intense, dark face of the king’s champion—the Black Lion. She did not wonder at the fear he instilled in so many men.
The jousting was not stopped for dinner; instead, servants brought food to the stands, and the spectators ate and drank heartily as they cheered their favorites. Lyonene could not help her flush of pride that none of the Malvoisin men were bested.
The mercenary knights required large ransoms of the men they felled, and more than one poor knight made no little fortune on this day. Occasionally Lyonene spotted Brent, an exhilarated, tired, dirty boy.
Lady Aleen, Brent’s mother, came to express her appreciation that Lyonene had taken her burdensome son. She laughed as she recounted the boy’s tales of Lord Ranulf and told of his complete adoration of the knight.
It was late when the jousting ended. Lyonene and Berengaria laughed over the sight of several young girls who wore only their tunics, having torn their other apparel and cast it as favors to their favorite knights. Already the tents were being dismantled as the two women made their way back to the castle.
Lyonene heard the sound of water even as she opened the door to their bedchamber. Ranulf sat in a large tub of steaming water.
“Come and wash my back. I am glad I can now turn my mind to other matters.
“Do you not fear to wet your clothes? I did not think only of the sleeves.” He grinned at her.
It was but minutes before Lyonene found herself pressed to Ranulf inside the tub, the water flowing over the sides onto the floor. They laughed as they ran soapy fingers over one another, exploring sensuous places.
There were two very clean people who joined the other guests for the feast at the end of the tourney.
Edward’s chief falconer had brought several hawks into the hall, and after the first two courses the trumpets blared. A dozen enormous pies were brought from the kitchens, each pie taking two boys to carry it. As the pies were cut, live birds flew into the air, the flapping of their wings filling the hall. The clapping and cheers of the people added to the general confusion. As the hawks swooped down on the birds, the guests covered their heads, peeking through their arms at the slashing hawks.
Some time later, the birds were removed, but the excitement remained. Dancing girls were now brought in and the jesting became louder and cruder.
Too much wine made Lyonene’s head spin. She asked for water to dilute the intoxicating beverage.
“Hear, my L… Lord Ranulf, give your wife s … some water.” King Edward’s eyes twinkled as he handed a silver pitcher to his earl.
Ranulf hesitated for a moment, then grinned roguishly at his king. “I see your meaning. Mayhaps a little water will help.”
The watered wine did not seem at all weaker to Lyonene, but the dizziness was not unpleasant. She looked at Ranulf and seemed to forget the presence of other people. A quick movement caught her eye and she saw a knight grab one of the dancing women and tear her tunic away, burying his face in her too full breasts.
It seemed to Lyonene that all her senses were on fire. She raked her tongue across her teeth, enjoying the sharpness. Her fingers were tingling and they seemed more sensitive than they had ever been. She studied Ranulf’s profile and felt an incredible hunger to taste his skin beneath her mouth. She had never felt so strange.
“Warbrooke!” someone called above the general din. “See to your wife. I think our king’s ‘water’ has not quenched her thirst.”
Ranulf turned startled eyes to his wife and then a slow smile overtook him. He lifted her fingers to kiss them. He turned serious when she ran one finger firmly across his lips. He did not hesitate. He lifted her in his arms, ignoring the howls of laughter behind him, and carried her to their bedchamber.
Lyonene, later, did not remember too clearly all the events of that night. It seemed that they were instantly without clothes and on the bed. She remembered that she fought Ranulf and that he let her win. She satisfied herself at last by hungrily running her mouth over his entire body. When he sought to pull her to him, she pushed him away until she was ready for him.
She growled and laughed because she knew she had power over him, that she had bested the Black Lion as no other could. She ran her hands over his body, using her nails as she explored every inch of him.
Almost violently, he threw her down beside him. Their lovemaking was angry, turbulent, crashing waves of a raging storm, lightning causing fire as she ran her nails across his back, the inside of his thighs.
The storm abated with the same violence as it had begun. They rolled away from one another, not speaking, not touching, content, and slept.