Ranulf sat before the dying fire, his mantle slipping unnoticed from his bronzed shoulders, oblivious to the cold. He refilled his wine cup and drank deeply, his senses almost numb to the wine’s effects. He had not expected the girl to be a virgin. His red-rimmed eyes stared at the sputtering blaze. He had not expected many of the happenings of the last few weeks, and he was disgusted with himself now for his own lack of honor, his lack of control.
He drank more of the strong wine as he heard a broken breath from behind him. When he had realized her pureness, he had hesitated, tried to redeem his harshness, but he had done a poor job of it. The fear he had seen in her eyes, and, no less, the hatred of him, had renewed his rage at her.
When the boy had said she was his, that she had married for gold, Ranulf had been consumed with an anger of such violence that he could not see or think. It was good the women had taken his wife away, for he did not like to think what his actions could have been.
His wife! Aye, he was married to her, a bit of a girl, whose green eyes haunted him, followed his thoughts even now. She had proven herself pure in one way, but did she in truth desire that other man—that boy? Were the words he had spoken true or were hers? Time would answer him, a life of time together which stretched blankly, darkly ahead of them.
The weak winter sun lighted the room, making it seem colder, and Ranulf stood and dressed, his eyes careful not to stray to the sleeping girl in the bed.
When he was ready, he stood above her, staring at her tangle of hair, her tear-streaked cheeks. “It is time to wake, for we leave soon,” he said quietly and watched as her eyes opened, wide, fearful, and he looked away.
Lyonene moved one leg and winced at the bruises on her body. So, this was the act of love, she thought, the act her mother had said was a joyous union. She had found little joy and much pain in the vile act. Her husband stared through the wooden shutters while she hastily began to dress. She was thankful he did not plan to repeat the act this morn.
She clenched her jaw and braced herself for more of his anger. “I am ready.”
He turned to look at her and she was startled, for his face was void of all expression—empty, uncaring. “My men wait below, and we begin the journey soon. Your possessions are prepared for travel?”
She lifted her chin into the air. “Aye, they are.” He lightly touched her waist, and she could not help her flinch at his touch. The memory of pain was too fresh, and she was relieved when he did not touch her again.
They walked side by side down the stone stairs, and Ranulf paused before greeting the people who eagerly awaited them. “Gethen Castle shall be your dower castle. It is worth in the neighbor of twelve knights’ fees.”
She did not understand why that should make her so angry, this offer of a gift of such magnitude, but it did. She could feel the anger in her rising. “I do not wish for your property,” she said, eyes flashing and showing her growing rage.
“And I did not wish for…” He caught himself. “You will be paid for what you have lost,” he said more gently.
Lyonene could but stare at him, anger pulling her scalp tight. Unbidden, curses from her father’s men came to her mind. She had lost more than the little blood that splattered the sheets when she had agreed to marry this man. He seemed to think all the world was his for the buying. The rich were not just an accounting of wealth, but a breed apart from ordinary folk, believing their riches gave them control over others, or attributes that others did not have. Her lip curled. “You cannot pay me for what I have lost.” She stepped ahead of him, going gratefully into the familiar hall of Lorancourt.
“My brother!” Geoffrey called. “It is good to see you have survived the night.” His eyes twinkled but soon lost their shine as he studied the newlyweds, neither touching the other, each solemn and with eyes the hardness and sharpness of splintered glass. So they had quarreled already, and he was sure it was Ranulf’s fault.
He took Lyonene’s arm and pulled her aside. “All is not well, my little sister?”
She did not answer, and for a moment he lost himself in the crystal-clear depths of those twin pools of green fire. God! But she was a beautiful woman, and for a moment all thought of his brother was lost. He shook his head slightly to clear the fog. “My brother will not be an easy man for husband, for I fear he is haunted by many ghosts.”
She gave him a slight smile, but it did not warm her eyes. “I am his wife, so I do not think it of importance as to my happiness or lack of such. I’m sure,” she added, giving a sidelong look to Ranulf as he stood talking to her mother, “that I will be well-rewarded for all that I do. Now you must excuse me as I must say good-bye to my mother.”
Only then did Geoffrey see any sign of emotion in those eyes.
Lyonene sat astride the little chestnut mare, trying not to think of the tearful farewell or the doubtful future ahead of her. She rode ahead of the guard, beside her silent husband, his thoughts unreadable.
“Your ladyship, may I present the Black Guard?”
Lyonene looked into the smiling eyes of a dark knight, a short, stout man, handsome. Glad for the diversion, she turned in her saddle to look at the seven men.
“Herne, with the reddish beard, Roger, Gilbert, Sainneville, who tends to be a jester, Hugo Fitz Waren and Maularde.”
Each knight bowed in the saddle to her; each looked at her pleasantly, and some of her spirit returned. “And your name, sir?”
“Corbet, at your service; no deed too small or insignificant to be performed in the continuing duty of serving his lord’s fair lady.”
Lyonene could not keep her laughter contained, and Hugo saw Ranulf’s back stiffen. “Sainneville may tend toward a jester,” she said with a smile, “but you, sir, are a flatterer of the first water.”
“Madam, you must believe me. Until I saw the sparkle of those emerald eyes, I was as tongue-tied as my horse, no more words could I speak before a lady. I swear it was the sight of such superior beauty and the sound of your melodious laughter that has freed me from the bondage of my speechlessness.” He bowed low. “I am your servant forever.”
Astonished, Lyonene turned to the men behind her. “Is he always so?”
They smiled as a group. “Always,” they chorused.
“Lord Ranulf,” Sainneville called. “You should see to your wife, for it seems Corbet has begun to coat her with his honey and we fear his catching more than flies.” There was laughter in his voice.
The laughter ceased when Ranulf turned a scowling countenance to them. Lyonene was immediately aware of the fear her husband instilled in his men, and she turned back to stare ahead.
They paused for dinner, and Ranulf helped her from her horse, his hands tight around her waist. “You are not overtired?”
“Nay.” She managed a weak smile. “I am not, but it is good to stop. You also are well? Your eyes…” She looked away, shy and also confused at the memory of the previous night.
He did not answer her, but led her to a tree and left her there as he gave orders to his men and the serfs who served them. He returned to her side with a napkin of cold meats, bread and cheese. He opened it and offered her first choice. The air between them was heavy with tension.
“It is far to your island?” she asked at last.
“Aye, it is five days’ ride, but we have the use of lodgings each night.” His dark eyes stared at her, hard and unreadable.
She reached for another piece of cheese, and her hand touched his and she drew in her breath at the touch. Instantly, she found herself crushed against him, his face near hers, his breath soft, warm. He needed no words to say his thoughts, for his eyes told all. He wanted to believe her, so desperately wanted to believe in her again. The pain was there, a steel spike behind his eyes, an ancient wound, healed over and concealing the poison beneath. She saw his questioning, the silent pleas he gave her, and she answered him in the only way she knew how—by pulling his lips to hers.
The sweet music of the birds joined in the rolling waves of desire that covered her body. The smell of grass mingled with the soft, delicious feel of Ranulf’s lips as he moved them against hers, so gently at first, searching, exploring, on a quest for treasure. His arms supported her, his strength in strong contrast to her growing weakness.
She was aware of naught but him, but some instinct made him draw back and look at her as his hand held the back of her head and his thumb caressed her temple. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes, rubbing her head against his palm—how small he made her feel!
“I would like to believe,” he whispered, and when she parted her lips to speak, he closed them with one fingertip. “I will know. Words are too easy, given too freely. I fear those little hands of yours hold much that is mine.”
She did not know why the simple words caused her to experience such a violent tremor of fear, as if she had been given foreknowledge of some evil to come.
They saw the fire even before they saw the towering walls of the donjon of Bedford Castle. Lyonene was startled at the instant reaction of the men, and she spurred her horse hard to keep up with the thundering black horses ahead of her.
The entire village seemed to be ablaze, and the screams of the serfs and the animals caught in the raging heat tore at her, freezing her momentarily.
“Get to the donjon,” Ranulf bellowed at her, his furious face towering above her.
“I can help,” she screamed as she saw a child tearing across the courtyard. She started to dismount. Ranulf’s steel grip on her arm stopped her. The noise roared and the horrible light shadowed his face into a creature unknown, unearthly, a black devil.
“I have no time for this. Obey me!”
She could but do as he said and turned her nervous horse to the inner bailey, the gates locked in some semblance of protection against the threatening fires.
No one was about except the lone gateman, for all the castlefolk had fled to help fight the fire. She found the stables and paused for a moment, watching the flames leaping, licking above the low stone wall as they sought more fuel, more sacrifice to their gluttony. She turned to the horse to unsaddle it and then to look for a chapel to offer her prayers for the safety of the people.
“I knew he would not allow his precious little jewel so near such destruction,” a voice hissed near her.
She whirled around. “Giles! What do you here?” She looked around her nervously. The roar of the fire seemed deafening even in the stable, or mayhaps it was her own fear and panic that threatened to drown her.
“You did not think me so callous a lover that I would concede the battle so easily? Surely you knew me better.”
“I do not know you at all. Why have you followed me?”
“That is easy enough to answer.” His eyes raked her body as she backed to a wooden stall wall and braced herself there. There was no escape from the boy, once a childhood friend, now a glazed-eyed madman. “I was willing to admit defeat had I been beaten fairly, but how could I compete with the riches of your earl? I placed you second only to the Holy Mother, yet all the while you schemed to betray me.”
“Giles, you are wrong.” She moved even closer to the wall, as if a door might appear by some magic. The heat increased in the stable, and a horse moved restlessly in fear.
“You do not need to be frightened of me. I do not plan to hurt you. Nay, I have learned a great deal from your ways. I have lost what I so eagerly sought.” His eyes went to her breasts, outlined so clearly, heaving in her fright. “But as you sold yourself, so shall I sell what little of me is left. Do you remember this?”
He waved a piece of paper before her face, and she was puzzled.
“It is one of your letters.”
“I wrote you no letters.”
“Aye, that is true, but Lucy once let it be known that you often wrote stories and such. Remember your Gilbert?”
Lyonene was truly bewildered, for she remembered no Gilbert at Lorancourt. Then the seed of a memory stung her. She stared at the paper and the dirty hand that held it. “You started the fire,” she whispered.
“Aye,” he said and laughed. “I am glad you see how far I will go to get what I want.” He stepped forward and ran a caressing hand down her shoulder. “When I am wealthy, I will buy several women such as you.”
“Giles…” she began.
“Cease!” He pulled his arm back, and she turned her head in anticipation of the blow. He stepped back and watched her as he caressed the paper in his hand. “I have five of these letters, and it was an easy thing to change Gilbert to Giles. Shall I read to you what a fine letter of love you have written to me?”
She shook her head, knowing now what he held. She had always been a bit of a dreamer as a child and when her indulgent father had allowed his only child to learn to read, she had studied not rhetoric or even the gospels but, instead, a small book of chivalrous stories, secretly purchased for her in London by her mother. Lyonene had read the stories again and again and begged the jongleurs for more stories. Soon she had begun to create her own stories, sometimes writing them and often setting them to music, singing them to her parents on quiet evenings. But there was a time, not long ago, when she had created a lover for herself, a young man, a knight, strong and brave, and she had written letters to this imaginary man. She knew what the letters said, knew what fate Giles held for her in that hand that had already caused so much destruction. He held the end of her thoughts of happiness with her new husband; the delicate thread that held them together could not stand another blow.
“Lyonene, you are easy to read. Does he distrust you so much?”
“You have yet to say what you want from me.” Her shoulders sank wearily.
“Gold.”
“I have naught but my clothes. He has given me nothing.”
“Do not play the fool.” He looked outside the stable and saw that the flames no longer lifted above the stone wall. He returned his attention to Lyonene. “I see your husband succeeds in taming the fire more readily than I had thought. Listen to me now. He will be tired when he returns and will sleep heavily. When you are sure he will not wake, toss me a jewel from the pouch on his belt.”
“Nay! I cannot.”
“This letter is the least I can use for payment if I am not obeyed. What think you of becoming a widow so soon?”
“You do not know what you say. Do you forget he is the Black Lion?”
“I see you do not forget,” he sneered. “I am not as these lordly knights of the kings, as you well know. They are governed by rules that have no hold for me. How think you I came to be inside these castle walls? No one sees a serf. Think you he will notice when a serf walks past him? He will not know until he finds a blade between his ribs.”
Lyonene could not speak, the terror climbing along her spine, crawling, creeping, a slimy, many-legged thing.
“Ah! I knew I guessed right. Now I must go. Do as I say and do not betray me.”
He left her alone, her breath shallow, her body trembling, but trembling deep inside, as if her very bones shook. What to do, she screamed inside her throbbing head—what to do! She made her way inside the deserted donjon, trying to run but finding herself unable to do so. A dark corner showed a stool, and she sat on it, nearly falling against the cold, plastered wall.
Her first thought was, “What if…” If she had gone away with Ranulf after the marriage, if she had not left him at all the day of the wedding, if she had not gone outside… Useless, wasteful thoughts. She wished her mother were near her, that she was not so alone with a husband who had fallen on her in violence one night and this day had offered her a truce—one that promised now to be shattered.
Giles was insane, for surely no man could act as he had and have all his mind. She could see it now, see what she had so long ago overlooked. Melite had once said that Lyonene always took the runt of any litter and made it her own, be it pig, dog or, at times, people, and, as everyone laughed, she added that she usually succeeded in making the runt into a peacock.
Giles was proof of her failure. She remembered the first time she had seen him, hiding in a corner, afraid of his own shadow, awed by his two handsome older brothers, awed by the lovely seven-year-old girl named for a lioness and adored by all. Lyonene had hardly looked at the two boys, but instantly sought out the puny, colorless Giles, his thin legs weak from lack of exercise.
Sir John had protested when the two children, the same age but so incredibly different, had clasped hands and walked together outside into the April sunlight. Melite had stopped him, and they watched the children leave.
Lyonene and Giles had spent much time together for the next ten years. She’d once heard Giles’s father protest that his son was no use at home anymore, and he’d stand and watch as the little girl would bully and badger the boy until Giles did what she wanted. That was what surprised Sir John the most, that she did not coax and plead as he would have thought. He himself had tried every way possible to get Giles to stay atop a horse, but he could not.
“What do you mean you cannot ride a horse? I can!” the eight-year-old girl had bragged. “Now get on and cease whining!” She had little patience with his excuses, and before Sir John’s eyes, the boy blossomed into a healthy lad.
Lyonene tried to focus on the present, to pull away from the memories, once so sweet but now lowered to the filth of the London streets. She could not, of course, have missed seeing some of the little things that had bothered her at the time, but she had not wanted to see them, remember them. There was the kitten that had scratched him. She shuddered and watched as one of the dogs nosed about in the rushes for the lost bones.
More memories came to her: the lacerated flanks of a horse that had thrown Giles, the burned hand of a serf girl who had fallen into the fire when she tripped on Giles’s outstretched foot.
She ground the heels of her hands into her eyes. But there was goodness, too, she thought, goodness that outweighed the few bad deeds. There was goodness enough that he was worth saving.
The sound of a horse’s hoof on the stones outside made her stir herself to life. She rose slowly, like an old, tired woman, and looked toward the door. One of the Black Guard stood there; she could not remember his name.
“My lady, you are well?” his voice was quiet and deep, and she remembered him as the quiet one who hardly spoke—Maularde.
She nodded to him and somehow managed a sliver of a smile, but she saw he was not relieved or convinced of her peace. “I may help you?” The words struggled from her throat.
“Aye, we need food. Where are the castlewomen?”
She looked about her for the first time, amazed to see the solid walls, that life had gone on in the last hour. “I do not know. I will look to your food.” She started to the door with the guardsman following.
The kitchen was away from the main dwellings to help prevent fires. The air was thick with smoke, but Lyonene did not notice, nor did she see the guardsman as he carefully scanned the deserted courtyard. She would have been interested in the way the man noted the lone serf, limping painfully, near the horses. The dark knight watched the man for a long while, thoughtfully, obviously considering some problem.
Lyonene found one of the kitchen girls wrapped about a young boy, and her own problems came back to her vividly. She had an abstracted air as she sent the boy to help with the fire and set the girl to preparing food. Soon baskets were ready to be taken to the hungry men. Maularde had found more of the castle servants and soon a sheep was turning over on the fireplace spit.
She helped Maularde load the wagons, and he did not protest when she climbed beside the driver as the guardsman mounted his horse. Lyonene wanted to occupy herself—anything to delay the time when she would need to make a decision as to Giles’s words.
Over half the village was gone, and since the wall had been allowed to decay in places, she saw more flames outside, heading toward the game forest. That was where she heard Ranulf’s voice, loud, giving orders that were not meant to be delayed. Lyonene nudged the driver and he directed the horses toward the sound.
“What do you do here?” Ranulf demanded. “Get back to the donjon.”
“But what of the injured? Can I not help?” She was horrified at his appearance; only the whites of his eyes were not covered with the black filth.
“Nay, the monks have come.”
She saw then the coarse brown robes, the tonsured heads, as the men quietly helped the burned people. She silently nodded at Ranulf and then looked ahead as the driver turned the horses and returned to the inner bailey.
Ranulf paused from his exhausting labors for a moment and stared after her, not sure of his thoughts, but the urgency of the fire gave him little time for else.
Lyonene went back to the kitchen to reassure herself that all there were working. The long day’s travel, the emotional upheaval began to tell on her and she limply dragged herself into the stone tower.
“You have thought on my words?” The boy seemed to appear from nowhere.
“Giles, you cannot ask this of me. We were friends once. How can you turn against me so?”
The young man stepped from the shadows, his blue eyes frenzied, penetrating. “It is you who have turned from me. I was naught before you made yourself into some heathen deity and decided my life for me.” He stepped close to her, and his expression changed to the one she had known for many years. “Remember you the brown mare, the one that tossed you into the water? Had I not been there…”
“Do not remind me of those far-away days.” She turned abruptly toward the door, but Giles’s hand caught her wrist.
“I know you too well. So now you will call a guard against me? Do not think I am fool enough to have come alone. My capture, my death, will grant you naught but riddance of me. Did you see the men near your husband? Know you which are my men, which will kill him if I am harmed?”
“I do not believe you.”
His eyes were feverish, burning. “You are prepared to risk my honesty? Do you know me to be a liar? Lyonene,” he murmured, touching a lock of her hair but then frowning when she drew back, “what can a jewel or two mean to such as him? You have seen his clothes are hemmed with jewels.”
“Leave me!”
“Aye, I will leave you, but beware all who go near him. The thought of gold will tempt even the most faithful knight.” He smiled when he saw she had his meaning, his hint that even one of the Black Guard could have a hand in his treachery. “This night, while he sleeps, I will wait for you beneath the window. If you are not there, then on the morrow he will have the letter or a knife in his stomach.” The boy shrugged. “I do not know which yet, but I do not think you want either.” Then he was gone.
Lyonene slowly made her way to the largest bedchamber and began to wash and ready herself for bed. She must trust Ranulf, she must tell him of Giles’s plan. She thought of that long-ago day of happiness she had spent with Ranulf, when she had called him her Lion; that man would understand, would believe her. If only Giles had not been drunk and said those things to Ranulf on her wedding night. No, she did not want a repeat of that rage.
As she pulled her green velvet robe from one of the bags that had been hastily thrown into the room, a small pouch fell from the bag. It was Ranulf’s, somehow mixed in with her clothes, and she knew too well what jewels it contained.
“No!” she said aloud and pushed it back into the bag. She could not begin her marriage with such lies and deceit. She clutched her hands again and again, their coldness making her skin white, her wedding ring loose. She absently toyed with the gold, felt the two clasped hands worked in the metal.
It was late when she heard the noise in the courtyard, the dogs barking, the sounds of water being poured, splashing. She knew they had returned and were washing the black from their bodies at the well. She sat very still, her heart pounding.
A torch flickered in the hallway and outlined Ranulf’s dark form in the doorway, his broad shoulders seeming to droop from tiredness He walked to the fire, holding his hands before it, and she could see his hair was damp. He turned to her so quickly that she cried out, a weak little sound as she saw his hand go to his sword.
“You remain awake?” He was too tired to show an emotion, either glad or otherwise. “It is near dawn. You should have slept.”
“I… I wished to speak to you.”
Ranulf sank to a stool by the fire, his head on his hands. What complaint did she have now, he wondered. He could not even think. All he saw was the burned flesh, the open mouths with their silent cries for water, the bones charred. “Can it not wait till the morrow? I am more than weary.”
“Aye, I guess it can.” She could not add to his burden; there was no jewel worth that. She rose and stood by him, touching a damp lock of the black hair gently, timidly, not knowing how he would react.
He took her hand and rubbed it against his jaw, the spiky whiskers near removing the skin from her hand. “I am grateful,” he said quietly, and she felt tears coming to her eyes.
As he rose and went to the bed, she knew what she must do—rid herself of Giles. The bond between Ranulf and her was too fragile yet, and a letter saying such things as she had written would shatter that bond too easily.
She heard the ropes creak as Ranulf stepped into bed. “Come to bed,” he said in low voice, heavy with sleep.
“Aye, in a moment. I but bank the fire.” As she had thought, she heard the heavy, steady rhythm of sleep almost instantly. Quickly, she found the pouch and a smooth, hard stone and walked silently to the shuttered window. She had only to move one slat and drop the jewel below. Her hands shook badly and she prayed she did the right thing. There was a slight noise below as she released the stone and she turned quickly to the sleeping Ranulf, but his breathing never changed.
Still trembling, she removed her robe and climbed into the big bed beside her husband. She lay frozen, rigid, so incredibly aware of the unfamiliar nearness of him. He rolled toward her and one arm moved out and landed heavily across her throat. Gasping, she lifted the weight as best she could, only to find that his hand had begun caressing her. His eyes were still closed, but his hand seemed to search her nude body as if in understanding. Without a word he pulled her beneath him, the weight of him, the remembered pain of the night before frightening her, tightening every muscle in her body.
His thigh forced her legs apart, and she felt hot tears gathering, then the first pains as he thrust himself upon her. At least it was over more quickly this time, but it was still a while before she slept, the hair at her temples wet from many tears.
Ranulf woke first the next morn, as he always did, just before the sun fully rose. Lyonene lay beside him, turned slightly on her side, facing him. His first thought was that ’twere it possible, she looked even younger, even prettier in her sleep. He hadn’t had any time with her in their two days of marriage. That boy’s words haunted him, words so like his first wife’s. He wanted so badly to believe in the girl beside him, that she did not try to deceive him, was not false with him. He did not ask for love. No? What then did he want? It seemed that women either feared him as the Black Lion or desired him for his riches. He remembered his father saying once that his eldest son could no more kill a man than become king’s champion in the joust. Ranulf wondered how his father would have reacted to that son, who had trained for the church, as he was today—feared by many, hated by a few, but little loved. A woman had changed all that.
Lyonene stirred in her sleep, bringing him back to the present. He was walking into battle again, unarmed, unclothed. What wounds he received this time he was not sure would heal. He touched her cheek, close to the tiny ear that curled in an intricate, mysterious way. Her eyes flew open instantly and the fear he saw there startled him.
Lyonene saw the soft curve of his lips, the gentle expression in his eyes and knew his thoughts. She was not ready yet for more of the painful lovemaking. She rolled from the bed and quickly donned her robe, kneeling before the fire, nervously jabbing at the coals with the iron poker. What if he called her back to bed? He was her husband and she could refuse him naught.
Ranulf turned on his back and frowned up at the dusty bedhangings. She had a right to fear him; he had used her hurtfully that first night. It was a shame that such should have been her introduction to lovemaking, but he would replace those memories tonight at Aylesbury Castle, when there would be time to show her the art.
He turned on his side, head propped on his hand. He was enjoying her nervous movements, her obvious avoidance of him. On the morrow he would ask her how she felt about the nights after the one he now planned for her.
“You will rise soon?” she asked, her voice a bit shaky.
Ranulf chuckled at some jest she did not share. “Aye, very soon.” He watched her push some clothes into a bag and saw her hastily stuff a brown leather pouch back into place. He frowned again at some memory, half-forgotten, that the pouch stirred. He seemed to see a shadowy figure, but could not grasp the whole picture. When Lyonene went to the window, he recalled the wispy memory. But surely it was a dream.
“You said you wished to speak to me last night. May I know your thoughts now?” He tried to keep his voice neutral, far different from what he felt inside. He tried to detach himself as he watched her clenched hands, saw she would not meet his eyes.
“It was naught. I only… Ranulf!” She ran to the bed and he pulled her into his arms.
She was shaking, and he held her tightly, wondering at the delicacy of her body, fearful of hurting her. Something had upset her greatly. He lifted her chin and marked that her eyes were dry. “What is it? What troubles you?”
“I… I wish you to be careful, to be on guard.” A lump closed her throat.
“It is the fire that has made you fearful of my safety?”
“Aye… Nay. It is else.”
“Then tell me. I will not harm you for a few words.”
“It is Giles, he…”
“You dare to speak his name to me!” He pushed her from him roughly. “Be you glad I did not kill your little friend. Had I found him to be your lover, to have gone where you now shun me, I would have killed him and you mayhaps also. You should be grateful I have tried to believe your words over his. Now call that maid of yours and dress, for we leave soon.”
He hastily threw aside the bedclothes and began to pull on his own clothes. Two days wed and she had caused him more anger than he had ever known—deep anger, going to the core of him, hurting more than his ax wounds, his anger at the Welsh during the years of war or the Saracens on Crusade. This girl came closer to him than aught else ever had. Only Isabel… He stopped his thoughts, regretful of any memory of her.
“Here, Lyonene, come here.” She stood before him, gathering her courage. “I fear I cannot abide your talk of another man.” It cost him some to say even this much. “I am recovered now and you may speak your mind.”
If the mere mention of Giles’s name caused such rage, how would he react to five letters addressed to another man? Was she so childish as to think he would listen to reason before tearing her to pieces? He might regret his action later, but she would not risk it now.
“There is naught to say,” she whispered and turned away.
Ranulf also turned away, for he knew she lied. He left the chamber without a further word to her. In the courtyard, he did not hear Maularde’s quiet voice at first. He was using all the control he could muster to believe in her, to try and recapture those first two days together of happiness. How could two people so attuned to one another have become so estranged?
“Lord Ranulf,” Maularde’s soft voice insisted. “I have news that you need to know.”
Ranulf listened intently, incredulously, to his guardsman, his scowl deepening with each word, each revelation. “I will watch for him,” Ranulf concluded.
“And my lady?”
“She is mine and must be my … responsibility.” Burden, he had almost said.