Hodder rode straight through the night and only by chance met the Earl of Malvoisin as he returned home from the long siege. Corbet helped the tired little man from his horse.
“I must speak to Lord Ranulf.”
“I am here. What has happened? Why have you traveled without guards?”
“My lord…” he gasped, sitting on a rock. The moonlight made eerie figures of the seven dark guardsmen and their even darker lord. “She has gone,” he continued, panting to catch his breath.
“Who has gone? That Frankish woman? I am well rid of her.”
“Nay. It is the Lady Lyonene who has flown.”
Hodder found himself lifted from the rock by his shoulders. Eight faces glared at him, and he couldn’t help his shudder of fright. “I could not hear what was said and so did not know her plans. She rode into the village this morn with cloth for some of the serfs, but at sunset she still had not returned. I alerted the guards, and the island was searched. We spent hours, but she was nowhere to be found.”
“We ride.” Ranulf turned to his men. “Hugo, assign a man to care for the baggage. My guard goes with me to Malvoisin. Hodder comes with us. I would hear more of the searches made.”
It was not easy to talk on the long journey back to the island. Hodder’s head near burst with the pressure of yelling above the horse’s thundering hoofs, but Ranulf showed no mercy to the man. After awhile, Ranulf stopped and put Hodder on the back of the Frisian and the man continued his story.
Ranulf knew that Hodder was an accomplished eavesdropper, but even he was unaware of the valet’s expertise. He doubted if there was a word he’d ever said to anyone in his own house that Hodder had not heard.
Hodder told Ranulf all of Amicia’s treachery. He told of the letters, the ribbon, the woman’s braggings.
“Lyonene did not believe these things the woman said?”
“Aye, she did, but not at first. She was angry when she felt the woman’s words to be true, but she believed you meant no ill toward her as your wife.”
“That was good of her,” Ranulf muttered sarcastically, barely heard above the noise of their fast travel.
“You cannot blame Lady Lyonene. Even I would have believed the woman’s threats did I not know you so well.”
Ranulf half-turned in the saddle to stare at his valet. “And what reason do you have to believe in me when confronted with such proof?”
Hodder shrugged. “I but looked at Lady Lyonene and then the bony Amicia. I have come to know the type of woman your greedy lust leads you to.”
Ranulf would have laughed had not the moment been so serious. “These letters are what caused my wife to refuse to answer my letter. I knew something was awry when I returned home. The woman is a fool, a brainless fool, to think I write words of love to one woman and then neglect my duties when I but think my wife has a low mood. There is joy in a wife, but there is much pain. Think you twice before you take a wife, Hodder.”
The valet was indignant. He recovered himself and continued. “She was happier after your visit, but Amicia brought more news.”
“What news—more letters?”
“Nay, my lord. She came with the news that she carried your child.”
“My child! That any man’s seed could take root in that barren ground is a wonder. Lyonene did not believe her?”
“Nay, she did not. She said she would go to you and see that there was naught between you.”
“This is the only bit of sense I have heard. She did not come, though.”
“Nay, but she did. Kate and I rode with her to your camp.”
Ranulf was silent for a moment, cursing the foolhardiness of a wife who would travel across the turbulent Engish countryside with only a girl of a maid and a thin, weak man for protection.
Hodder understood his master. “We dressed as merchants’ apprentices. We had no trouble.”
“Why did I not see her then?”
“We sat on a hill by your tent and watched.”
“Go on, man! There must have been more reason as to why my wife refused to see me, why she has fled me.”
“She saw the woman Amicia in your embrace, my lord.”
“Nay, she could not have!” Then he remembered the time when Amicia had barged into his tent and he had gone outside to escape her. There she had kissed him, and he had had to control himself from striking her. She was no better than a bitch in heat. She came often to his camp during the siege, and from the sounds, several of his garrison knights had enjoyed her favors. She had made numerous advances to Ranulf, but he had been repulsed by her—her long thin arms, her whining voice, her false avowals of being a duke’s daughter.
The day after the storm Ranulf had sent a message to France to learn of the Duke of Vernet. The answer had arrived only this morn. The Duke had indeed been on the wrecked ship, but the man was near eighty years and had never had a daughter. Amicia had merely used the story for a purpose as yet unknown to Ranulf.
Filled with foreboding, Ranulf urged Hodder to continue his story.
Hodder told of Amicia’s last visit, how she said King Edward would force Ranulf to marry Amicia to prevent a war. Ranulf could only shake his head in amazement that Lyonene could believe such a story.
“What of the rest of it? You have not explained where or why my wife is hiding. Have you searched all the cabins, the glade?”
“Aye, everywhere, and she is not to be found.”
“I shall shake her teeth from her body when I find her,” he said through a clenched jaw.
“I believe the woman Amicia had some hand in planning Lady Lyonene’s hiding.”
“I do not understand you.”
“The woman is most clever. I could not listen longer for she routed me from my place and fell into whispers. I should have guessed her intentions.”
They rode on, silently, to Malvoisin, Ranulf alternately cursing and praying for his wife. His pride wounded, he berated her for her lack of trust, for believing that he would choose such a woman as Amicia for the reasons that had been given. He cursed himself for leaving her to such a villainous woman, for not forcing her, when he had returned to Malvoisin, to tell him what plagued her.
Hodder repeated more of Amicia’s words concerning the babe; how Ranulf intended the child to be servant to Amicia’s and how Lyonene’s child would be known as bastard. Finally, he revealed Amicia’s offer of the earldom to Lyonene’s babe.
Ranulf began to see what had caused his wife’s fears. She knew little of court laws. Ranulf could choose what son or even adopted son he desired to pass on his wealth and title to. It did not go by birth, as Amicia had insisted.
The ferry to the island seemed to go tediously slowly, and the expressions on the faces of his men were as grim as Ranulf’s. He told them briefly of the treachery that had been wrought in his absence, for he had begun to suspect a plot from Hodder’s story. The men were divided into pairs and given areas of the island to search. Before the ferry came to rest, men and horses were already wading ashore.
The Black Guard went first to the castle to change horses, but Ranulf stayed on Tighe, the horse having been bred for stamina and endurance.
The entire island was roused, torches lit, and not one person was not called into the search. Beginning to fear that she had been taken to be held for ransom, Ranulf sought to find the hiding place of her captors.
No one had crossed the ferry to the coast of England who could have been Lyonene, so he did not believe her to have left the island. The hounds were brought into the search and given free rein in following the scents they found.
Dawn came and still no sign of her or of Amicia. The beginnings of fatigue and blind grief blurred his thoughts and his vision. He went into the chapel at Mottistone and began to pray, the only course he knew to take to clear his cobwebbed brain. After a few moments’ meditation, he knew—knew the island search to be fruitless, knew there had been a ship that had taken her away, knew for sure that this was no simple case of a jealous wife running away, but the result of a careful plan.
He left the altar, grateful to the saints for giving him the answer.
He rode quickly to St. Agnes’ Point, tearing up the stone steps to the guard’s post at the top of the stone tower.
“Did a ship leave here this day?”
“Aye, my lord.” The man was more than a little frightened at his master’s black, stormy face. “Two ships; your own, both of them.”
“Two! There are no ships that should sail today. What excuse was given for my ships sailing unbeknownst to me, and who sailed them?”
“William de Bec sent one to France with the cargo of wool to be woven; the other went to Ireland to buy more cloth.”
“What cargo went to Ireland?”
“None, your lordship. It sailed empty.”
Ranulf’s eyes bored into the man, his voice deadly. “Have you ever known one of my ships to either leave or return empty?”
“Nay, my lord, but Sir Morell said you were in a great hurry to purchase more finery for the new wife you dote on. He said…”
“Sir Morell!” Ranulf sneered. “The man has ever plagued me. Who went with him?”
“Only his crew, my lord, and some serfs and … that Frankish woman. She went to choose the colors, they said.”
“They said! You have proven you have ears but naught between. They found you an easy mark. Go from my sight before I remove you from the earth. They have taken my wife on their empty boat, no doubt dressed as a serf. A moment more and you shall answer for your indulgences.”
The man near fell down the stairs in his haste.
Ranulf whirled when a hand touched his shoulder. Herne stood there.
“We have all come to the same answer. You agree with the stench of this matter? Have you found aught that is useful?” the guardsman asked.
Herne nodded at Ranulf’s answer, then continued, “We must go to prepare, for I do not think you wait for a message of ransom. We travel soon. I hear tell Ireland is a small place and so will be easily searched.”
Ranulf spent a day in preparation, allowing his men to rest and sleeping himself for a few hours. He knew little of Ireland, but he knew Dacre had cousins there. He sent messages to his friend and to Lorancourt. He thought he remembered his father-in-law mentioning relatives in Ireland. If Lyonene managed to escape, she would go to her kinfolk and Ranulf must know where they abided.
Through all his actions was a slow deliberateness, knowing the long battle that lay ahead for him and his men. He was no longer angry at his wife, but felt there was some flaw in him that made her doubt him.
The Black Guard met him in the courtyard, clad in their heaviest chain mail, their coarsest wool tabards. The heavy weapons of war hung from the saddles of horses that were also covered in the iron-link armor. There was neither word nor acknowledgment of one another as Ranulf mounted the enormous black Frisian. Their purpose together was united and held by a deathly bond.
It took them two days to reach Dunster, and there the answers to Ranulf’s messages awaited. Dacre offered help, if needed, and the names and places of his kin. William Dautry also gave the name of his daughter’s cousins, and Melite sent her word of continued prayers.
The ferry took days to reach Waterford on the coast of Ireland. The sight of the unknown land only heightened Ranulf’s fears, for it seemed impossible to search the entire island. He and his men broke into four pairs, Maularde beside Ranulf, and began the search.
The ship began to move and Lyonene felt the uneasiness in her stomach almost instantly. The nausea kept her mind from thinking of what she had done. She stretched out on the little bed, and Ranulf seemed to come to her from everywhere. She might never see him again or be able to touch him. Their child would be born and Ranulf might never even see the babe. A sharp pain in her stomach kept the tears from filling her eyes. Would the child be dark like Ranulf or have her light locks?
The door to the little cabin unlocked. “I have brought you food and wine.” Sir Morell paused, a frown creasing his brow. “Do not tell me you are given over to the sickness of the sea?”
Lyonene could only look at him, her stomach moving in waves of revulsion. The contents of her stomach rose in her throat, and she swallowed to keep it down, her hand covering her mouth.
Morell’s eyes turned hard, his mouth ugly as he glared at her. He angrily threw the charger onto the table, the wine upsetting and spilling, the smell of it sending new shudders through Lyonene.
“Amicia!” Morell threw open the door and bellowed.
Even through her pain and her ardent attempts at controlling her nausea, Lyonene was surprised, for she had not known the Frankish woman sailed with them. She was too ill to think more on the puzzle.
“How may I be of service to you, my sweet knight?” Amicia ran her hand across Sir Morell’s leather-covered chest.
“You may care for that sick woman you brought with you.”
“Sick! She is not ill. It is not the babe too soon?”
“Nay, it is but the motion of the ship. I had other plans for her than seeing her toss her stomach into a pot. Part of the plan was that I have her.”
Amicia cast a worried look past Morell to Lyonene, who lay curled almost into a ball on the bed. “We have a way to go yet, and I would keep our secret from her. She will be more docile if she knows naught of us. You will have her, soon, I swear. It takes twelve days to reach Ireland. This sickness will last but a few of them. Do not be so greedy.”
Amicia ran her hands across Morell’s shoulders, her arms going about his neck. “I do not see why the woman interests you so. There is naught she can give you that I cannot. Come and let me show you.”
He pulled her arms from his neck. “I do not like my women so well-used. Now see you to her and see that she is recovered quickly, or I shall lock you in your cabin and allow none of my crew near you, for opposite reasons than I lock away this lady.”
“You insult me and ask me to care for the woman you plan to bed, in the same breath?”
“Nay. I do not ask. No man should ask aught of such a woman as you. Now do as I say or I shall carry out my threats.” He roughly pushed her toward the huddled figure of Lyonene and quickly left the room, his revulsion of the sick woman obvious.
Lyonene could not remember much of the next few days, but she was aware of hands pushing at her, words that cursed her and, above all, a stomach that pained her greatly. Food was forced down her throat, and she felt it rise again almost instantly. Then there were more curses, sharp slaps on her hands and arms, a harsh cloth wiped across her soiled mouth.
She awoke one day, sane again, thinner and very weak, her head hurting. It took a few moments to remember where she was and why she was there. “Ranulf,” she whispered as she thought of the husband that she would never know again.
The whispered word came from a dry, parched throat and she looked about for some water. An aquamanile stood on the other side of the cabin. What had once seemed a tiny space now loomed enormous before her. She sat up slowly, her weakness making her head spin. The front of her tunic was soiled, encrusted with days of sickness. She sneered in revulsion at the filth, but was not strong enough to consider changing the gown. Her only thought was to slake her burning thirst.
She swung her legs over the bunk and put her bare feet on the oak floor. Supporting herself from one object to another, she slowly made her way to the pitcher of water. She was triumphant as her shaking fingers touched the handle and found it cool to touch, moist to her dry fingertips. She pulled it to her with difficulty, but knew it was empty before she brought it before her eyes. She turned it up over her tongue, one drop doing nothing to relieve the pain.
A burst of laughter, almost beside her, made her laboriously turn to the door. It was not quite closed and the laughter came from somewhere outside it. Maybe someone would give her a drink. She clumsily put the pitcher back on the shelf and made her way to the door, her feet scuffling, arms almost giving way once in their support of her.
The door swung open easily and she walked the few feet to the doorway next to her cabin. Light shone from within, and she could see two people sitting around a table, the coveted mugs of liquid in their hands. She watched greedily as Amicia drank from a sweat-coated vessel. She lifted her hand to push the partially opened door wider.
“To the Lady Lyonene!”
The sound of her name stopped her, and she blinked rapidly to clear her thirst-crazed mind. She recognized Sir Morell as the speaker.
“To a plan of such perfection that we have been able to snatch the wife of the Earl of Malvoisin from beneath the husband’s nose. No other man has penetrated the barriers of that guarded island.”
“Do not forget to include woman in that, my good sir, for I do not believe you were alone in the execution of the plan.”
“Ah, but Amicia, you were but an instrument. It was I who watched her for months, I who planned every step. The day I saw her atop that hill outside his tent, I could not believe our good fortune!”
“She was an easy mark. She is so lovesick for the man I knew she could not bear the idea of another woman near him.” Amicia took a sip of ale. “I can see why she favors the man. I have heard her cries at night.”
“And you wished much to experience the joys she found, also, did you not? When he repulsed you so readily, I knew I had found a partner for the drama I planned.”
Amicia threw him an ugly look. “Now that we have her, what do we do with her?”
“That is arranged. I have a friend in Ireland, a widow who would do much for me. I will take her to my friend and there the little countess shall await her husband’s ransom. It will take him months, if not years, to collect what I will ask.”
“And what do you plan for her in the years it takes?” Amicia’s voice had a hint of laughter.
“This illness of hers plagues me much. I grew up always surrounded by illness and cannot abide it now. I do not see why she is not recovered from this sickness yet. We are but four days from Ireland. Do you add something to her food to prolong her sickness?” He grabbed the front of Amicia’s surcoat.
She easily brushed him aside. “Food! The woman keeps naught down but heaves it up again. It may be the child that causes this, although I have not heard of her having pain from it before.”
“That is another point. Although the child will bring a higher price in ransom, I will regret the loss of time when she will not share my bed.”
“You are too womanish in your ways. Why should a swollen belly keep you from what you have risked your life for?”
“You disgust me, Amicia. I have no desire to flounder about on top another man’s leavings. When she is free of her burden, she will be mine, but do not think on it. She will be well again soon, and there is time before she grows shapeless.”
Amicia raised her mug to him. “I hope she is worth all the effort you have given to having her.”
They both drank deeply.
“Now, go back and see to her. You have been away long. See if you can get some food to stay down her.”
Amicia reached for the pitcher and refilled her mug. “There is time. I do but watch her toss about and moan. She does not even heave now, but just lays there, calling his name o’er and o’er.”
Morell frowned and refilled his cup.
Lyonene leaned back against the wall, her heart pounding weakly. She began to edge back along the rough boards to the open door of her own chamber. She made her way to the bunk and collapsed on it. Had her face and body not been so dry she would have cried, but there was no moisture left in her, only the bleak, desolate knowledge of how she had fallen prey to an insidious plan.
Lyonene heard Amicia come into the room and carefully kept her face averted. Even in her illness she had only one thought—she must remain ill or the fate that awaited her would be worse than a sick stomach. She must feign illness and somehow escape her captors, and above all, she must not think of the past. “Forgive me, my sweet Ranulf,” she whispered.
“Here, you filthy gutter rat.” Amicia roughly lifted Lyonene’s head and pushed a pewter cup to her lips, the metal striking her teeth. She drank greedily of the stale water. “A fine lady you be. Would that that husband could see you this day. Mayhaps he would think twice when he got within a yard of your stench. Here! Do not drown yourself.” She jerked Lyonene’s head up and stared into her eyes.
Lyonene forced her eyes to go blank, lose focus.
“It was too much to hope I would rid myself of the burden of you. Morell desires you. Men! It is all in their heads. One woman is the same as another, just as men are much the same.” She dropped Lyonene’s head and she fell back to the hard bunk.
“At least you drink now, so I’ll soon get some broth down you.”
For Lyonene, the hardest to bear was the filth and slime of her clothes. The smell made her weak stomach churn against holding even the water she had drunk. She would have to let Amicia know she had some semblance of coherence again, for she’d need the chamber pot soon. When the Frankish woman returned, she turned to look at her.
“So, you are awake. It has been many days.”
“How many?” Lyonene whispered.
“Ten.”
They were within two days of Ireland, then. “I have been a burden to you.”
“Aye, you have.”
“I did not know you traveled to Ireland. Should you not be … at Malovisin?”
“Do not start your tears again. I have had enough of them. You must have had a fever caused by more than just the motion of the sea, and you have raved every moment you were ill. There is naught of you or Lord Ranulf I do not know. Now we will leave this ship soon and Morell would have you well. You must drink this and then sleep.” She thrust a warm mug of soup into Lyonene’s hand.
Try as she would, she could not lift the heavy cup. Her fingers trembled and her arms would not obey her commands.
“Here!” Amicia angrily lifted the mug, forcing Lyonene to drink. She tipped the cup and the invalid’s head back too far, and some of the contents spilled down her tunic, adding to the dirt-encrusted fabric. “You are no better than a babe. I have had to tend you as one, and I am fair sick of it. The smell of you puts me off, and there is little resemblance to a woman about you. If that child fled your belly, I would not blame it.”
Lyonene put shaky fingers to her stomach, aware that it had increased in size in even the last few days. “My babe is not harmed?” she asked anxiously, fearful that something was wrong.
“Nay. It sets in there firmly. Now I must go to Sir Morell. He wished to know when you woke.”
Lyonene lay back on the cushionless cot, feeling as tired as if she had climbed a mountain, mayhaps several mountains. In spite of the discomfort of the horrible scratchy clothes, the smell, the matting of her hair, she was nearly asleep when Sir Morell opened the cabin door.
“Mon Dieu! Amicia, I cannot enter this room! Take her from here and clean her, for I see you have left her in her own filth. I will see that the cabin is cleaned. You are an animal to treat any woman so. Get from my sight!”
There was quiet and Lyonene felt the waves of sleep overtaking her again. Rough hands picked her from the cot.
“I don’t mind her so badly. I have seen whores who were worse.”
A harsh male voice boomed above her. She opened tired eyes just enough to realize she was being carried from the room.
“Nay, she is not bad. Her eyes are the color of a jewel I once saw his lordship wear.”
“Ranulf?” Lyonene whispered.
“Aye, Lord Ranulf it is I speak of. Now, you need not worry, for he will buy you back. Nay, he would not let you go.”
“Keep your mouth closed, sailor!” Sir Morell’s voice came to her through a haze. She must not let them know she was aware of their plans. “Ranulf?” she whispered again.
“See, she knows naught of what I speak. The lady’s too sick to hear me. She weighs no more than a feather, for all she carries a babe.”
“Just tend to your duties and say no more to her. She may remember your words later.”
“Aye, sir.”
Lyonene was deposited in a hard wooden chair, too tired to even open her eyes. She was aware of dampness and heat near her, increasing her need for sleep.
“Nay, you cannot sleep now. My fine knight would have you bathed. I do not believe in so much washing as he; it is not good for the skin. Now here! Do not fall! He will make me answer for your injuries. I cannot believe you could smell so horrible in but ten days.”
Lyonene felt cool air as her clothes were torn from her.
“Now, step up, higher.”
The water felt wonderful, wetting her skin, filling her parched pores as no amount of water drunk could have. She even enjoyed the roughness of Amicia’s washing of her. She wanted more than anyone else to rid herself of the ugly grime of her illness. Her hair was washed, the woman’s fingers scouring Lyonene’s scalp, removing days of filth.
Lyonene felt almost alive as she stood in the tub while Amicia poured hot water over her. A thin towel was rubbed briskly over her, and the clean linen touched her skin.
“No more fine silk hose for you, my lady. The clothes are warm and loose and will allow for the growth of the babe. It seems to be growing fast.” She laughed at a private jest. “Morell will not like that.”
Lyonene gave no hint that she understood the woman’s words, reveling for a moment in the freshness of clean skin and unsoiled clothing. The pale woman opened the door and a large man entered, dressed in coarse wools, his long hair matted and dirty.
“She looks to be a real lady now, like when she rode beside Lord Ranulf.”
Lyonene closed her eyes and feigned an insensibility she did not feel. The sailor carried her back to the little room that was her cabin and gently deposited her on a fresh-smelling bed, the sheets hinting of salt water and sunshine. She relaxed on them gratefully, taking a perverse pleasure in such purely physical comfort, which belied her true situation.
“She is pretty. Did you know the Black Guard calls her their Lady Lioness? I tried to speak to her once but that Corbet drew a sword on me. They let no one near her but the favored of his lordship.”
“Leave her, you oaf! I do not need your calf-sick stories to entertain me. You would not have thought her such a fine lady did you hold her head over the pot.”
“Nay, a true lady is at all times a lady.” The sneer in his words, directed toward Amicia, was unmistakable.
Lyonene slept for a long while, waking once when the cabin was dark but sleeping immediately again. When she woke next, the cabin was bright and she felt much better; hungry, thirsty, weak, but alive, with a conviction that she was going to remain so.
It was not long until Amicia came into the cabin with a charger of food. “You look as if you might live now.”
Lyonene drank deeply of the hot soup and ate a piece of bread.
“Morell will be glad to know you are soon to be recovered.” She gave Lyonene a sly look.
The countess knew her meaning, and when she had eaten her fill—much less than she had thought she could—she lay back on the pillows, wearily. “I must sleep now,” she muttered, aware of Amicia’s scrutiny. At all costs, she must make them think she was still very ill. Then there would be a possibility that Sir Morell would leave her to herself.
The next day Lyonene felt much stronger, but she did not let it show to Amicia. Sir Morell came to visit her, and Lyonene mumbled something about the child she carried and clapped a hand over her mouth. She saw the knight’s look of disgust before he fled. She was also very aware of Amicia’s amusement and felt that the woman enjoyed the mummery and would not give her away.
Late in the day the ship stopped moving and shouts and orders were given as the vessel settled to a halt. Amicia came to her.
“We journey to … to your kin now. You are to ride near me and keep from Sir Morell until you are well.”
Lyonene thought she sensed a smirk in the pale woman’s last words. She barely had time to snatch the lion belt from its hiding place beneath a cushioned seat. She did not know what instinct had caused her to hide it, but she had. The ivory box of Ranulf’s was not to be found. She fastened the belt under the folds of the loose wool surcoat, above her stomach, pulling cloth forward to add bulk to her enlarging stomach.
Amicia noticed the increased width but said naught, and Lyonene was encouraged in the necessary deception.
There was no mummery involved when she was led down the side of the ship. The horrible rope ladder swayed and fled from her feet as she tried to find her way. Her weak arms began to tremble violently, both from the exertion and her growing feeling of danger.
A strong man took her waist, and she was pulled gently into the waiting rowboat.
“Careful you do not show yourself too fond of the lady,” Sir Morell said, sneering at the big sailor who held her.
“I will not see her or the babe harmed. You swore they would not be injured.”
“Nay, I’ll not harm her. My plans for the lady bear little pain, but that is her decision. Amicia, can you not do something with her? She has no more life than a rag doll.”
For an instant Amicia’s pale eyes met Lyonene’s green ones and an understanding passed between them. As Amicia ran her hand across Sir Morell’s thigh, she and Lyonene gazed steadily at one another. They reached a silent agreement, now two women—no longer one with a courtly rank but a prisoner and one a captor, but only women, with the knowledge of all women. Amicia gave the briefest of nods, and Lyonene closed her eyes again, her body limp.
“She is still very ill, Morell. In truth, I fear for her life. The babe is farther along than I had thought and I think it pains her. You may of course take her as she is.” Amicia gestured to Lyonene’s pale, slumped body, a study in weakness.
“Nay, I prefer a woman and not a useless bundle of rags. We will find a barber and see what he can do for her.”
“I think we should go to the widow’s straightaway. When a ship of the Black Lion’s is found empty, it will cause much talk. We must go quickly and not be seen by others.”
“Aye, you are right. I would not like to have Ranulf de Warbrooke find his wife before I have my ransom.”
The climb down the rope was nothing compared to the hours astride a horse. It was all Lyonene could do to stay atop the animal. She tried to think of a way to escape, but they traveled always across barren land, the paths sometimes too rocky, steep, the struggles of her horse little helped by its rider’s weakness.
Sir Morell often turned to look at her, and each time she managed to give some sign of great sickness. After the first day he stopped turning to her, and Amicia gave Lyonene a slight smile, which was neither acknowledged nor returned.
At night they camped, with only a small fire lit against the night’s chill. Lyonene slipped a piece of charcoal under her surcoat and rubbed a blackened finger beneath her eyes. Then she created dark hollows below her cheekbones. Amicia looked at her oddly, but made no comment. When Sir Morell took her arm once, she leaned against him and gave him a wan smile. He pushed her away from him. She could not allow herself even the smallest smile of triumph.
On the third day, they arrived at an old stone donjon, the battlements crumbling about the top, the up and down squares of the crenellations indistinct. They were nearly at the wall of the castle before a warning was called.
“Sir Morell, late of Malvoisin,” the knight shouted, and the rusty, uncared-for iron wheels began to move and the gates were drawn up. The drawbridge that lay across the shallow, garbage-filled moat was useless, its chains limp and broken, so only the iron-tipped portcullis was in use.
There was no more pretense that Lyonene was being taken to her relatives. The people around her talked freely of the ransom, either accepting that she knew of their plans or, she hoped, thinking her too ill to understand their words. Lyonene felt they were such fools. Only Amicia noticed the amount of food the prisoner consumed. The day before, Lyonene’s horse had shied at a rabbit and Lyonene had used a great deal of strength in controlling the animal. She did not wish to land on the hard ground, even to prove her illness to the others. Her horse calm again, she looked up to see Amicia smiling at her, a smile showing that Lyonene did not deceive her and reaffirming their alliance.
They rode across the rickety drawbridge and under the old portcullis, each person casting upward glances, fearful of the heavy gate falling on them.
“Morell! You are as handsome as ever.”
Lyonene watched from a bowed head as a tall, slim woman ran to Morell’s outstretched arms. Her hair was completely covered, as was her neck, by the concealing veil and barbette.
“Come inside to the fire, I have much to tell you.” Her words were ordinary enough, but Lyonene looked away as the woman’s hands went inside Sir Morell’s tabard. Lyonene was too aware of memories, of glad greetings, sad partings from her own beloved to even look at these two, so obviously lovers.
The sailor helped her from her horse. She took Amicia’s arm, and they walked toward the crumbling castle. The outer wooden steps leading to the second floor looked hazardous.
“The widow sees too little besides her passion for men. Do not lean on me! I will not bear your weight longer. I am sure you know of the ransom.”
“Aye, I do.” Lyonene’s voice was hard. “Such greed will see you dead.”
Amicia smiled at her in the dim light of the cold hall. “You threaten me now, but I do not think you will easily forget that it was your greed for your child that brought you so quickly to my plan.”
“Nay, it was not. I thought Ranulf loved you.”
Amicia’s strange laugh rasped from her throat. “You are more a fool than I thought. You should have stayed and fought for him, then.”
“But… King Edward…”
“Be still! They will hear you. It is done and you will have long to brood on your foolishness.”
“Aye,” Lyonene whispered. “My foolishness.”
“Amicia,” Sir Morell called. “Bring our guest here to the light.”
When Lyonene stood before the fire, she looked only briefly at the woman before her.
“What ails her? It is not something to be caught? I will bring no such disease to my house.”
“Nay,” Amicia answered. “It is but the sickness of the child. She will be well with rest and food.”
“I hope this is worth my effort, Morell. Put her down somewhere… Amicia, is it? She wearies me just to look on her.” Lyonene sank heavily onto the uncushioned bench, there being only one chair before the fire and that occupied by the widow.
“You are sure this husband of hers will not find her here? I have heard of the man and I do not desire to wage battle against him.”
“Battle!” Morell sneered. “Lady Margaret, you could not win a battle against an unarmed troop of eels, less that of one such as the Earl of Malvoisin.”
“Morell, I know my defenses are not as they were when my dear husband was alive, but they train most vigorously.”
Sir Morell threw back his head and laughed. “Such training as you give your men does not prepare them for battle, but rather drains them of what little strength they have. Now tell me no more of your strengths. The very reason I chose this place was because no one would believe such a wreck of a castle held such a valuable captive as the Countess of Malvoisin.”
Lady Margaret did not seem to be offended by Sir Morell’s words. “You underestimate me, as you always have.” She clapped her hands twice and four men appeared from the corners of the room. They were ugly men, scarred, their noses and cheeks distorted from many blows and wounds. Their hands clutched weapons, ugly weapons—the spiked mace, the chained flail, the sharp, hooked war hammer, the heavy battle ax. From their belts dangled other deadly weapons.
“I am pleased to see you so well protected, Lady Margaret, but do you think a mere four men, even these four men, could hold out against the Black Lion, were he to make an attack? He is followed always by those seven devils of his.” His hands tightened in anger.
“Do not destroy the cup, Morell! I know your campaign to be one of his guard, but he saw you early for what you are. No man wishes to guard his back from his own man. Nay! I would not advise you try to strike me. My own little guard would not take so kindly to your love taps as I have born them in the past. You do not seem to understand my guard. They are not to protect me, but they are for her.”
Lyonene looked up to see the woman pointing at her.
“My men will never leave her. Should one from Malvoisin attempt to take her, the men will kill her before they even look to the attacker.”
Sir Morell grinned. “You are more than I thought. The man will attempt naught when her life is in danger. You could hold her in an open field, in the midst of his own castle, and he would do naught but hand us the ransom, wagonloads of it. Aye, you are clever.”
“I thank you, fair knight.” She rose and slid her arms about Morell’s neck. “Now I will tell you that my men keep her from you also.”
The knight pushed her from him. “Nay, I want the woman and will have her.”
At a quick gesture from Lady Margaret, the four burly men surrounded Lyonene’s slight form on the bench. She looked even more lost, more alone, when they clustered around her, towering above her.
“The woman will be held, but as befits her, not as a whore for your use. From what I hear of this Black Lion, such treatment would enrage him, cause him to forget his senses, and he might force an attack, out of anger. If the woman were killed, we would receive no ransom. If the earl were killed with no heir, Malvoisin would revert to the English king and there again we would lose our ransom.”
“There is an heir, she carries him now!”
“You are a sorcerer and know the child’s sex or even that it will live? The woman looks even now to be at death’s door.” Her voice was heavy with sarcasm. “Nay, she will be well-cared for while she stays here. Alice!” She turned to a large, heavy woman who emerged from the shadows. “This is Lady Lyonene. She is to be your charge. Take her to the tower room that has been prepared and care for her. Do you remember all I have told you?”
The woman nodded and walked toward Lyonene, taking her arm in hers, firmly but kindly.
“That woman is to be trusted?” Amicia asked as she watched the two leave the room. “Lyonene has a way of endearing herself to servants.”
“I am sure you have no such problems.” Lady Margaret’s eyes raked Amicia’s emaciated form. “Alice is a mute and so cannot tell our secret. She is also simpleminded. I have told her of the coming child and she will care well for the precious little countess.” She sneered at the closed door through which Lyonene had gone. “The woman’s life seems to have no hardship. Born a baron’s daughter, married for love to a handsome, rich earl … there is naught she does not have.”
“Aye,” Amicia said, grinning. “It is time she shared some of her happiness with others.”