The news of Lyonene’s safe return spread quickly throughout the kingdom, and guests began arriving. She ran to Berengaria’s arms as they clasped one another, joyous to see each other again. Travers was followed by his son, a seventeen-month-old boy who looked exactly like his mother and thus was a pretty child. It was a contrast to see the angelic boy near the ugliness of his father.
“I know what you think,” Berengaria whispered, “and I am glad also he has the look of me. But come, I would see what that great black husband of yours has produced.”
Berengaria exclaimed over the green-eyed child with pleasure, as everyone did, and Montgomery already seemed to preen under their affection. “He has the look of his father already,” Berengaria said, laughing.
When Ranulf returned to the castle with Brent, he walked beside Dacre and the two men laughed at some jest together.
“What have you done to him?” Berengaria asked of Lyonene. “He is changed and is not the same man I have seen for years.”
Lyonene shrugged. “He is always like that with Lord Dacre. They are no older than Brent when together.”
“Nay, you are wrong. I have seen Lord Ranulf and Lord Dacre wrestling with one another since I was a child, but never was there such a light in your husband’s eyes. You have tamed this Black Lion.”
“Nay, I hope I have not. If I remember correctly, there are some fierce ways about him that I enjoy overmuch.”
“Remember?” Berengaria questioned. “The boy is near a month old.”
Lyonene told her friend briefly of the months in Ireland.
Berengaria shuddered. “I do not think I wish to hear more of your time in Ireland. I would not like to be away from my family for so long. But I think you most fortunate in your husband. Had I been so stupid as you, I think Travers might have left me to them.”
Lyonene blinked a few times at the blunt words, but then agreed that the idea had plagued her a bit. Their words were halted by the entrance of Dacre and Ranulf.
“Here is that wife of yours and still as pretty as I remember. Do you draw a sword on me again if I touch her?” Dacre asked.
“If I challenged you, it would be the end of you,” Ranulf said quietly.
“We shall have time to test your words.” Dacre laughed and then turned and whirled Lyonene in his strong arms, tossing her into the air before pulling her close to lustily kiss her mouth. She cast one glance at Ranulf, and her suspicions were founded; her husband scowled blackly at them, his body held rigid in an attempt to control his emotions.
“You are a sweet little morsel, almost as fine as my Angharad.”
Lyonene pushed at Dacre’s shoulders; his hands were on her waist and her feet were high off the floor. “And how is your wife, Lord Dacre?” she said loudly. Then, in a quieter voice, she said, “Unhand me or I shall tell everyone something Lady Elizabeth told me of you.”
Dacre stared at her a moment, then set her to the floor and began to laugh. “Were not Angharad the size of my horse, I would have brought her here and you would be a fitting match for my hellion. Did you hear this bit of a girl your wife threaten me? Look at her.” Dacre stretched his arm above her head. “She dares much.”
Ranulf smiled at his wife, then looked back at his friend. “I would rather know what Lady Elizabeth says of you.”
Dacre’s face lost its smile. “Hmmm. Well, I think I might not like that known just yet.”
Ranulf threw back his head and laughed. “We will see my son and then my men wait for you. I believe there is a matter of some gold to be exchanged.”
Dacre thumped his friend’s back. “This is one debt I am willing to pay most eagerly, for in truth I did not think you man enough to do it.”
They left the solar in friendly argument and shortly the room was filled with women. Lucy, who had cried for hours at Lyonene’s return, Kate, Melite, Berengaria and Lyonene. They spent happy hours as they prepared the baby’s baptismal gown.
Lyonene still thrilled at the delight of nursing Montgomery and found a peaceful sharing between herself and the child. He grew bigger each day, his eyes searching faces and lights that loomed above him. Already he was beginning to distinguish his mother from all the other hands that held and touched him.
Malvoisin was overrun with guests and their retainers. Mattresses were brought from the cellars and aired and set up throughout the houses. The bedrooms of Black Hall were filled, and as was fitting, beds were set inside Ranulf and Lyonene’s chamber. At night the curtains to their own bed were drawn, but they were much aware of the sleeping noises of those around them.
Lyonene snuggled her nude body next to Ranulf’s, her breasts against his back, one leg across his thighs, her soft skin delighting in the hard, hair-covered surface. He turned to her quickly, pulling her close, her soft, round body in direct contrast to the steel-muscled Black Lion. His hand roughly caressed her, savoring the creamy skin, the fullness of each curve.
Lyonene moved her hips closer to him, feeling his ardent desire for her, and her excitement increased, her hunger for him, the pent-up yearning built up over the months of separation. She ran her hand down the long muscles of his back, her palm rubbing hard, her nails curled, unrestrained in her growing passion. She ran her mouth across the enormous roundness of his shoulder, touching the hot bronze skin with her lips, her teeth, her tongue. She nibbled the side of his neck, moving beside him, her breasts taut against the thick hair of his chest, the tickling softness sending shudders through her body.
She traveled to his earlobe and felt his breath against her hair, deep, quick breaths. She pushed him back against the sheets, rubbing her thigh between his legs, exalting in her power over him. Her hand trailed along his arms, feeling the restrained power, the strength that she alone could control, could use to her own advantage, for her own whims and fancies. Her breasts brushed against his chest, the pink peaks just grazing the skin, the soft hair. A low, deep, harsh sound came from her throat as she touched the tip of her tongue to his parted lips, and the sound changed to an animal laugh, guttural, as she felt him quiver beneath her. She bit his lower lip, twisting it, touching the fullness of it with her tongue, drawing it forward, purring, caressing him, her body moving ever nearer its goal.
“I am hungry, Melite. Fetch me some food or else send one of the maids to do it, but I cannot sleep in a strange place when I am hungry.”
William’s words reached them inside the curtained bed. Lyonene, through instinct, immediately rolled from atop her husband at the sound of her father’s voice. Ranulf pulled her back to him, but a loud crash brought his eyes open, stilled his hand on her hip. He sighed and clenched his teeth together in an effort to calm himself.
“Sir William, may I be of assistance?” he called through the curtains.
“Nay, Lord Ranulf, I but meant to find the door and then the kitchen, but it is strange here and I cannot find my way.” Another crash punctuated his words.
“I must go or your father may destroy my hall as well as my pleasure this night.” He looked in accusation to his wife. “You should be glad he is your kin or else I might throw him out my window and be done with his clumsy ways. I will dress and join him in his meal. I think it takes me a long while to sleep this night.” He leaned forward to kiss her cheek, but when her hand slipped to his stomach and caressed it, he drew away from her. “Nay, Lioness, I will not perform while your father thrashes about like a wounded boar.”
He stepped away quickly and left her. Lyonene slammed her fist into the pillow and then began to pray forgiveness, for the oath she had thought had been directed against her own father. She was asleep when Ranulf returned, a heavy smell of wine on his breath, and only sighed peacefully when he drew her to him and also slept.
The household was awake early the next morn, and Lyonene felt herself drawn into a whirl of preparations for Montgomery’s baptism. In the afternoon the solemn ceremony was held in the chapel of the Black Guard’s hall, the sunlight filtering through the beautiful windows of colored and leaded glass. Berengaria gave the quiet babe to Father Watte, who immersed him in the blessed water. Montgomery set up a loud howl which made Dacre grin at the strength of the child’s lungs.
Later, in the Black Hall, gifts were given, cups set with jewels and gold plates. Lord Dacre presented his godson with a saddle, small, made for a pony, with the leather embossed with the lion of Malvoisin. But of all the gifts, the favorite was Ranulf’s gift to his wife. It was a tall, covered beaker, the top and bottom of gold filigree, set with emeralds, pearls and diamonds. The belly of the vessel was rock crystal, hollowed and etched with a scene of a lion and his lioness sitting quietly, surrounded by four romping cubs. The gold foot was inscribed with words of Ranulf’s love for his beautiful young wife.
As Lyonene held the exquisite beaker and read the inscription, she raised cloudy eyes to Ranulf’s. “So you will not forget again,” he said, answering her unasked question. She put her hand behind his head and drew him down into a kiss that both showed her gratitude and told of feelings much stronger than gratitude.
A cheer filled the hall for both the birth of an heir and for the happiness of the day.
At night, Lyonene fell into bed exhausted, alone, while Ranulf sat and drank with Travers and Dacre. She felt his reluctance to join her in their bed was due to the previous night’s happening and tried not to wish their guests gone.
On the third day, entertainments were planned. William caught his wife and daughter in the Great Hall. “I wish to see this son of mine at his work. He has promised to instruct me in the proper training of my men.” He put an arm around Lyonene. “You have done more than well, my daughter. He is a fine man and does you proud.”
“Aye, he does, father.”
Lyonene spent the day with her mother and Berengaria, and she promised them both cuttings from King Edward’s roses. It was after dinner, when the house was quietest, that a boy brought her a message.
“A man gave it to me and said it was from Lord Ranulf.”
She smiled at him and sent him to the kitchen as she hastily removed the tablet from its pouch.
I wait for you at the spring north of Calbourne Church.
Ranulf
Her heart fluttered like a young girl’s, not at all the heart of a respectable wife and mother. She tossed the pouch on the bench. She could see no one or she knew that she would not neglect her guests for a love tryst with her husband. Quickly she went to the stables and bid Russell saddle Loriage for her. She had not ridden the stallion since her return, and even the feel of the black horse’s power further excited her as she hurried towards Ranulf and the joy she knew awaited her.
She laughed at herself as the hood fell away and the wind tore the sedate circlet and fillet from her head, tangling and tossing her hair in wild, abandoned disarray about her shoulders. It was wondrous to be free, free of demands and duties and responsibilities, and to be hurrying toward her lover, their meeting enhanced by its secrecy and forbidden air.
She kicked at Loriage’s side and the animal leaped forward, as exhilarated as his pretty mistress, mane and tail flying in the cool wind. They seemed to fly together, floating across the gently rolling fields, near houses, trees and watching people.
As they drew nearer the spring, Lyonene pulled back on Loriage’s reins. The last time she had seen Ranulf’s writing had been when Morell had forged the letters to Amicia. She looked around her, seeing the bushes and trees as hiding places, and suddenly she was afraid. She had never really known what had happened to Morell or Amicia and now the fact that she didn’t know haunted her.
Loriage felt his mistress’s change and tossed his head, flaring his nostrils, lifting one hoof in nervousness. “Hush, Lori,” she whispered, but she could not calm her own fears.
Neither the prancing horse nor the wary mistress saw the rabbit, and when the horse was aware of it, the little animal was beneath the slashing hoofs.
Loriage ducked his head and Lyonene, her thoughts turned elsewhere, went sailing over the animal’s head.
Ranulf came riding toward the spring just in time to see his little wife flying through the air and landing with a loud wet smack in the icy-cold spring. Quickly, he dismounted and ran toward her, but already she was sitting up, wiping the water from her eyes and looking about her in a bewildered manner.
Ranulf stood on the bank and grinned down at her, his hands on his hips. “I had thought to have an obedient wife, but there are extremes. I am sure, madam, I said ‘by’ the spring and not ‘in’ the spring.”
She looked up at him, startled, and then glared. “I should think you would be concerned for my welfare,” she said haughtily.
He walked down the bank and offered her his hand, and she did her best to pull him in with her but could not. He smiled at her as her teeth began to chatter and then swung her into his arms to carry her to dry ground. “What were you thinking to allow that devil horse of yours to throw you? Mayhaps I should feed him to the pigs.”
She moved closer to Ranulf, trying to get warm, but also thinking of how very long it had been since they had been truly alone. “It was not Loriage’s fault, but mine alone. I was … thinking of else.”
He moved her head from his shoulder and his black eyes were hard as he stared at her. “I have had enough of this. Am I so unworthy of your trust that you hide from me your thoughts?”
She stared back at him. They both had concealed their thoughts and feelings from each other too often, and the short time they’d had together had been fraught with difficulties because of their lack of trust. It was not easy to speak of the time in Ireland. “The letter you sent,” she began. “I was not sure it was yours. The forgeries—from before, I mean.”
He pulled her head back to his shoulder, relieved that her problems were so small and yet so sensible. He stroked her wet hair. “We have much to learn, do we not? I cannot blame you for what you did, thinking as you did. But we must learn to give, to trust. Here, what is this?” He could feel her hot tears even through the thick velvet of his tabard. “For once I am a good and chivalrous knight and my lady cries for it. That is not the way it should be.”
She smiled at him. “For me, you are always good and chivalrous, and I have always loved you.”
His eyes sparkled. “Always?” he teased.
She frowned slightly. “Except when you first made love to me and hurt me and when I saw Amicia in your arms and—”
He silenced her with his lips, moving quickly to her throat.
“Do you not think we have had enough talk? Are you not very cold in those wet clothes? What say you we remove them?”
“Tell me again that you love me.”
When he looked at her again, his eyes were very serious. “I love you completely and totally, more than my own life, and I beg your forgiveness for all the pain I have caused, for the weakness of my love that made you so mistrust me.”
She put her fingers to his lips. “These are wondrous words, but I do grow colder each moment and soon my son—our son—will need me. Or have you forgotten what to do with a woman you carry about in your arms?”
“You are an insolent baggage. See you how I punish such insolence.”
“I am a most willing and eager pupil,” she whispered as he pulled her closer to him.