As Ranulf entered the door, he saw he was to sit by Lyonene and felt as giddy as a young boy. A servant poured scented water over his hands from a dragon-headed aquamanile, and another boy gave him a clean linen towel. The priest blessed the meal, and they all sat. They watched silently as a boy cut a long, thick piece of bread and set it on the white tablecloth before Lyonene and Ranulf. The trencher was to be shared by every two diners. Each person had his own cup, and the honored guests’ and family cups were silver, encrusted with uncut jewels.
The first courses, the heavy meats, began to arrive: stag, boar’s head, pork, mutton.
“Your men are well-mannered. I like it that they do not make eating noises. My father’s men are not so considerate.” She nodded to the left lower table.
They both watched as the men grabbed huge pieces of meat, stuffing them into their mouths, not waiting to use their knives for cutting.
“I have a name for each of them. Would you like to hear them?”
Ranulf nodded.
“The two on the end are Hen and Rooster. Can you guess which is which? The next is Cat. See the way he moves his hands and eyes? Next is Bear. Once, when I cut my leg as a girl, there were tears in his eyes. Then Pigeon; his head moves so. And the last is Hawk. He is my favorite.”
Ranulf studied this man who was Lyonene’s favorite. “Why do you care for him?”
“He is kind. He thinks well, he can sing, and he is quite good to look at, do you not think?”
Ranulf stared at her. “I would not know when a man is such as you say, good to look at.” His voice was stiff.
She studied his black eyes, the thick curling hair, which he left uncovered. “I should think you would know.”
Ranulf, to his consternation, could feel the blood rushing to his face. Confused, he looked at his men and saw that they had paused in their eating to stare at him. He turned back to Lyonene, who smiled up at him mischievously. He returned her smile slightly. “You are an imp. What man is going to follow a knight who blushes?”
Lyonene’s laugh rang out, a pretty sound which was infectious. She put both hands on his arm and touched her forehead to his shoulder.
Ranulf tried to ignore the fascinated stares of his men. No one else in the hall seemed to think Lyonene’s laughter anything out of the ordinary. With relief he saw the next course arrive—capons, pigeons, pies of small birds.
Lyonene took a spoon and lifted half a fat capon covered in mustard sauce, placing it on the trencher before them. Never had she felt so at ease with a man before, yet there was a sense of excitement through her, as the few times she had touched him had shown her.
“I am sorry. I did not mean to laugh so. My father says I laugh at aught, and I fear he is right. You are not angry with me? I will give you the best part of the chicken.”
“I am not angry.” He smiled in earnest now. “And if I get any of the chicken, it will be better than the meat, for you ate all of it, sparing none for me.”
“Not so!” she cried, and then laughed again but covered her mouth. “You tease, Lion!” she whispered.
“Yes, Lioness.” He leaned close to her and wanted greatly to kiss those full, soft lips that had a smear of mustard on the corner. The tip of her tongue licked it away, and he felt cheated. He wondered if it were the wine, for he could swear the room was as hot as a tent in summer.
There were several people who watched the Earl of Malvoisin and Lady Lyonene. The Black Guard had never seen their lord act this way with anyone. The only person who made him smile was Queen Eleanora and sometimes Geoffrey or Dacre. Yet this young girl had transformed him into a knight’s page.
Melite sat next to Lyonene; she had arranged the seating herself. She did not wish her guest to feel he should divide his attention between the two women. At each laugh from her daughter, her resolutions set more firmly.
Father Hewitt, the castle priest, also looked on. Although many marriages were made for property, the church frowned upon that and encouraged marriages between people who cared for one another. He smiled now as he watched Lyonene with this great warrior knight. When he had seen the man with his seven Black Guards early this morn, they had seemed a formidable group and he had dreaded their presence, but Lyonene had so tamed the Black Lion that, when her head was turned, he looked upon her with the lovesick expression of a young squire gazing at his chosen lady.
“There are no swans at this meal, but Cook has promised one two days hence,” Lyonene said.
“I cannot stay for two days.”
“Oh!” Lyonene’s face and voice could not hide her disappointment. “I did not think. Mayhaps you find Lorancourt a poor place?”
“Nay. My steward sends word that I must return. There are cases to judge and my neighbors send mares for Tighe.”
“Tighe is your great black horse? I would think any mare would be afraid of him.”
“Tighe is a kitten, but you are right—he is used to no female, mare or woman.”
“I know little about you.” Her face went white and her arched brows lifted. “Do you not have a wife?”
Ranulf studied her. “Nay, I have no wife. Nor sister, nor mother.”
Color returned to Lyonene’s face. It could make no difference to her, of course, but she was glad he had no wife.
The meal was over, and now several of the men seemed to look about for a place to sleep. Lyonene sighed and knew her mother would have many chores for her in the castle. She had never minded them before, had even at times enjoyed them. Most certainly, she had never felt this way about a man before. She did not want to leave him, but wanted very much to stay with him.
“Now I must attend to Tighe’s needs.” Ranulf hesitated. “Would you like to see for yourself how gentle he is?”
“Aye.” Lyonene looked away. She was too eager. “I must come separately. My mother will need my help.”
Ranulf nodded.
Lyonene could not understand her mother. Everything she did, Melite corrected, so that only a little time had elapsed before Melite told her daughter to leave, saying that she was too clumsy this day. Lyonene did not see that she was any different from any other day, but she hurried to the stable before her mother changed her thinking.
Ranulf stroked Tighe’s thick mane and wondered at himself for jumping at every sound and looking constantly toward the stall door. His breath caught in his throat at the sight of Lyonene, her lips wide in a smile of triumph, her green eyes brilliant from a run through the cold air.
“I must return soon,” she whispered; they were like conspirators.
Ranulf whistled low and Tighe turned a finely shaped head to him. Cautiously, Lyonene approached and the beautiful black horse nuzzled her shoulder. Her laugh trickled out as she stroked the lovely head.
“You were right, he is sweet. It is just his size and his blackness that scared me.” She looked startled and stared at Ranulf, so near her. “Like you.” Before he could answer, she went on, “Why must he be so big?”
“Strength. A man’s armor gets heavier every year, and he needs a horse that can carry the weight and not tire easily. It is said that someday a knight will have a horse just for carrying him into battle; the horse will be too big to ride at other times.”
Lyonene rubbed the Frisian’s nose. “I do not believe any horse could be larger than Tighe, and certainly not more beautiful.”
From the far end of the stable, they heard two men begin to speak. Lyonene looked up in panic. “It is my father. He will not like my being here without Lucy. I must hide.”
War had taught Ranulf to be resourceful and to think quickly. Now he grabbed a russet cloak from a peg at the back of the stall and threw it across Lyonene’s shoulders, covering her hair with the hood. He moved her so her back was to the door and stood facing her. As she looked up at him with a slight smile and such complete trust, his arms went around her and his lips touched hers, gently at first.
William was forgotten, and neither heard his footsteps or knew when he looked
into the stall. He saw Ranulf kissing a serf girl, for only the serfs wore russet, and he left, chuckling to himself. He liked to know his guests were well entertained.
At the first touch of Ranulf’s lips, Lyonene thought all her senses had flown. She felt only his lips, his body next to hers, and she had never experienced anything that made her feel like this. She slanted her head to the side and put her arms around his neck, pulling him closer and closer to her. His arms tightened and she felt his strong, hard body pressed to her, every inch of her hungering for more of him.
His lips parted and she followed his example, moving her lips under his. She clung to him, meeting his demanding, searching mouth. Her heart beat wildly, thundering in her ears. She would never let go; she never wanted this moment to end.
Ranulf pushed her from him, his body aching at the sight of her closed eyes and moist, parted lips. “Go.” His voice was harsh.
She nodded and silently left the stall, her legs weak and trembling from the force of her emotion.
Melite watched her daughter enter the Great Hall. She studied the green eyes that stared vacantly about her. “Lyonene! I need you.”
Lyonene was glad to be recalled to the world. Her head spun with too many emotions and thoughts for her to be left alone.
“There are baths to be prepared for our guests, and you must help.” Each of the Black Guard was of noble birth and must be treated accordingly.
Lyonene looked up in surprise. Her father did not allow her to help bathe the guests. “I do not know what to do.”
“You must see that Meg and Gressy do as they are told and that there are soap and herbs for the water, that there are clean towels for each man. Of course you know what to do.”
One of the private chambers in the top of the donjon had been chosen for the bathing. Hot water was carried from the kitchen below and the great iron tub filled and refilled. Lyonene was very tired when, hours later, she saw Ranulf enter the bathing chamber. She knew her mother had left him, their most important guest, until last so that he would not need to rush, and that Lady Melite would reserve the honor of her help in bathing for Ranulf. She was so confused by this day, confused by this man who had entered her life on a great black horse and in these brief hours had taken over every emotion and thought she had.
Meg came to Lyonene and gave her a sly look. “You are to tell Lady Melite that Sir William needs her and she must come straight away.”
“I cannot… You must tell her, Meg.”
Meg looked at the chamber door in horror. “He is in there; I would be afeared.”
Lyonene narrowed her eyes at the girl and sent her scurrying. She knocked timidly on the door, opened it only a crack and began relaying her father’s message.
“Lyonene, are you daft! Come in and close the door, the heat will escape. Now tell me the message.”
Careful to avoid Ranulf’s eyes, eyes that she could feel burning into her back, she gave her message.
Melite hastily pulled her mantle across her shoulders. “I beg your pardon, my lord, but I must see to my husband. My daughter will help you with your bath, but I warn you, you must have patience, for she is inept at the task. Now, Lyonene, do but remember your last experience and be careful not to get your surcoat and mantle wet. I will return in a moment, but hurry now, for the water grows cold.”
Alone, Lyonene could not turn to look at him. His voice came to her, and the sadness in it changed her mood.
“I need no help; you do not need to stay.”
She turned to smile at him and found herself staring wideeyed as he sat in the steaming tub. His shoulders were wide, his chest thick and the great muscles on his arms clearly defined. The firelight gleamed on the smooth, damp skin, bronzed by the sun. His entire chest was covered in a thick fur of curling black hair. She could not help laughing. “You look to be the Black Lion all over.” She hurriedly looked away, appalled at her boldness.
Ranulf returned her smile, and they were at ease with one another again. “Your mother was right. The water grows cold, and my patience grows thin.” He held out a bar of soap. “Come, wash my back.”
As she stepped forward, she remembered her mother’s warning. She removed her mantle from her shoulders and then the sideless surcoat and the leather belt beneath. From a little leather pouch she took gold scissors and snipped the tight sleeves of her tunic, putting them with her other clothes. “Now I will not get wet.”
Ranulf watched her undress and was glad for the debilitating heat of the water. Dressed only in the gold tunic, which fitted her like a second skin, none of her lovely body was hidden. Her breasts rose with each breath, and he remembered too well the feel of them against his chest.
Silently, she took the soap from Ranulf’s hand and lathered it. She was hesitant about bathing him, not sure of where she should begin or exactly what she should do. She shrugged and thought she should bathe him as she did herself. All hesitancy fled as she touched the warm, smooth skin of his back. The thick muscles bunched beneath the glistening surface, creating hills and valleys, waves of smooth planes. Her hands delighted in the undulations, causing a not unpleasant tightening along the sinews at the back of her neck.
She followed the contours of the wide shoulders to his arms, her hands generously soaping the hair on his forearm. His fingers were long and beautifully shaped, the nails smooth and well cared for. There was an especial pleasure in the feel of her own sensitive fingertips against that hard palm, the callousing reminding her of the strength of the enormous man who sat docilely under her exploring hands.
His chest was of iron, the granite of it relieved only by the covering of bronzed flesh and the thick mat of curling black hair. She lathered the sable mat vigorously, watching it twine around her fingers, her hands small and light against the dark mass.
His neck was indicative of all the reserved, restrained power of the knight, the muscles lengthened and tightened from years of strenuous training. Her fingers traced the steel tendon that ran down the back of his neck to his spine. She pressed on it with a great deal of strength, but Ranulf seemed not to notice. She smiled and looked, for the first time, at his face.
He stared at her with the strangest expression on his face. For some reason, she felt the blood stain her cheeks. She did not know where she erred. Her mother had bid her bathe their guest, and she did but obey. She knew she enjoyed the task; was that showing on her face?
“I think I displease you. My mother has ever meant to train me in this bathing. Mayhaps I am too slow?”
“Nay.” His voice was hardly more than a whisper—harsh, ragged. “If you wish to cease…”
“But I have not finished.” She tried to conceal her blushes. “Close your eyes,” she ordered, no longer able to bear his scrutiny.
She could continue in peace, now, to look at him, still and quiet, trusting her, waiting patiently for her gentle washing. She ran light fingers over the handsome face, feeling the thin scar along his cheek, not able to resist the sculptured curves of his lips. Her own lips seemed to burn, even her teeth to tingle as her body remembered his kiss. His lashes moved, as if he were about to open his eyes, so she quickly ran a soapy finger over each eyelid. She did not want him to see her, for she feared her thoughts would show on her face. She must remember that this man was a king’s earl. When he left in a few days, she wanted no memories that would shame her.
She splashed warm water on his face to rinse it and then soaped his hair, a great thick down of black locks that curled and twisted in an unruly way. She rubbed his scalp hard.
“You must tell me if I hurt you.”
His grunt made her laugh, for he left no doubt as to his thoughts on her ability to hurt him. She poured a bucket of water over his head to rinse him.
She moved to the end of the tub and motioned for a leg to come out, and she ignored his muffled protest. She was delighted to find that his legs also were covered in short, dark hair.
With the last leg done, she looked up at him, seeing an
expression of contentment on his face, the muscles relaxed, his wet hair clinging closely to his head. She could not help but laugh, and he looked at her in surprise.
“My father, my maids and your men walk about you on their toes, as if they fear you, yet I do not think you look so fearful at this moment. The Black Lion looks more like a drowned puppy.”
Ranulf glared at her, but one corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. “I cannot see how such a lovely lady as your mother was cursed with such a mannerless daughter. Now stop your fun of me and fetch that rinse water.”
He stood up from the tub with his back to her, and she paused to look at his nude body, glistening with water, the firelight playing on the droplets that shadowed and highlighted the bronzed muscles.
Ranulf cast a glance over his shoulder, questioning her long pause. In spite of her good intentions, she had soaked the entire front of the figure-molding tunic, leaving little to his imagination. He turned away quickly. “Lyonene, that water grows cold!”
She did not seem to notice the unneeded sharpness in his tone, but quickly stood on the stool and poured water over his magnificent body. She turned away as he took one of the towels warming before the fire and did not look again until he stood before her clad in a brief loincloth.
He smiled at her, teasingly. “I vow I have not been bathed so since my mother bore me. Are you sure you have not done this many times?”
“Nay, only once.” The memory made her smile as she tried to control her laughter. “That time ended in such misfortune,” she said, putting her hand over her mouth, “that my father never again allowed me near when my mother helped with the bathing.”
The Black Lyon Page 3