“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, incredulouly, 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.
The Black Lyon Page 9