“Good, yes, good,” Maude murmured as she returned to her instrument. Lyonene closed her eyes and moved with the music. She heard little commands from Maude, so put that they seemed to blend with the music: “Bend your knees more. Now, slowly, yes. Now, faster. I want to hear the bells.”
Lyonene had been vaguely aware of the tinkling of little bells but now she realized that the sound came from her costume, that the bits of gold that covered the edges of the vest, belt and cuffs were hundreds of bells. The faster she moved, the more they gave out their sparkling little sound. It gave her a special delight to hear their sound, related as it was to her movements. The music became faster and the bells rang louder.
She could almost imagine Ranulf’s eyes, dark and inscrutable, as they watched her. She felt a sense of defeat when the music stopped and Maude bade her remove the dancing costume.
“You have done well. Tomorrow I will tell my lord of a new dancing girl, and he will be pleased. But now you need rest, for you will be tired on the morn.”
Still carrying the strange feeling of deflation, Lyonene went back to the camp to sleep near Maude under the clear stars. She was exhausted and slept heavily.
In the morning Lyonene’s muscles were sore and every movement astride the little donkey hurt. She was glad for the pain, because it kept her from thinking about what she was doing.
Again they paused only a short time for dinner, and Lyonene was very aware of the other two women who constantly hovered about Ranulf. She could hear Corbet’s voice as he made caustic remarks about the women and the way they flaunted themselves.
She still marveled at the demeanor of the Black Guard. She had never entered their Great Hall at Malvoisin, but at times she had seen women in the courtyard—quiet, welldressed women—and knew they lived with the Black Guard. She wondered at the discipline of such men, so unlike what she had known as a child.
Nightfall brought more practice of the new dance learned from Maude. Lyonene liked the graceful movements and learned quickly. Later, she was tired and sank heavily into the straw mattress.
A slight sound woke her and she looked toward Maude, sleeping soundly near her. On instinct, she looked toward the great black tent and saw Ranulf, standing outside, clad only in a white linen loincloth. She turned on her stomach and feigned sleep when he glanced toward the noise. Her chin propped on her hands, she watched as he sat on a rock not far from her. The moonlight glowed on his bronzed skin, and she saw his shoulders droop, not so much from tiredness but from … mayhaps sadness.
She had a sudden urge to go to him, to clasp his head of tousled hair to her breast, to soothe him. He stood up, yawned and stretched, his back muscles standing out under the golden skin. She shivered slightly and pulled the rough blanket closer about her, for the idea of comforting him had fled from her and had been replaced by another, stronger emotion.
They began the journey again before the sun rose, and Lyonene nodded sleepily as she rode the little donkey. At dinner the two women were even bolder in their pursuit of Ranulf. Angrily, Lyonene threw the iron cooking pot back into the wagon. Ranulf’s voice halted her. He was still beneath the tree, but she felt his gaze on her. Quickly, her face deeply shadowed by the hood, she turned toward him only for an instant. Maude leaned toward him, talking quietly as her lips near touched his ear. Ranulf made no effort to move away from her and directed his gaze toward Lyonene as she secured the cooking items to the side of the wagon. They were in truth talking of her!
The meal finished, Lyonene tried, subtly, to get Maude to tell her what she and Ranulf had spoken of but had no success. Maude’s laughter was infuriating, but Lyonene at least knew that Ranulf did not know his wife journeyed with him disguised as a serf.
They left the main road and traveled to a castle on the third night, and the thought of a roaring fire pleased Lyonene as they neared the stone walls and the donjon towering above.
They had just entered the bailey when a man came running toward them only half-dressed, in braies and a linen shirt that opened to show a hard, smooth chest. He was a handsome man, with blond hair, broad shoulders and slim hips. He ran to Ranulf with open arms and the two of them fell together, hugging and turning about, lifting one another from the ground.
“Ranulf, you grow more ugly every time I see you.”
Lyonene opened her mouth to speak, but felt Maude’s hand on her arm. It was not easy to remember to be a serf.
“And you, you are as weak as a girl. Weaker than some girls.”
They hugged again, kissing one another’s cheeks, and started toward the wooden steps leading to the second floor of the donjon, their arms entwined about one another’s shoulders.
Lyonene impatiently waited as the Black Guard followed their master, and then she was allowed into the castle. Ranulf had taken a seat before the fire at one end of the hall. The other man stood beside another chair, leisurely dressing in clothes held by a servant.
“What news of Malvoisin? I heard some tales of you, but I gave them no credit.”
“And what tales are these? I am sure they hold at least half-truths. Come, Dacre, sit here and do not spend so much time worrying about your beauty.”
Dacre laughed and sat in the chair beside Ranulf’s, dismissing the servant with a wave of his hand. “It is not for me to question the ways of our Lord, but at times I wonder that He gave you the look of a devil and the temper of an angel and me the body of an angel and the character of a devil.”
Ranulf sipped the mug of hot wine. “There are many who would disagree on which is the devil body and which is the angel body.”
Dacre’s laughter roared. “So you do agree on who has the temper of an angel. I would have thought as much.”
Neither man noticed the young serf girl who stayed so close to the back of their chairs. Maude thrust a large basket with a little broom and shovel in it at Lyonene and motioned for her to go and clean the hearth. She did not reason with Maude that it was not her duty as Ranulf’s serf, but was glad to be able to hear the conversation between Dacre and her husband.
Dacre continued. “I would know the truth of one tale though—that you married, a young girl but poor.”
Lyonene wanted much to turn and see Ranulf’s face but busied herself with the hearth ashes.
“It is true,” came Ranulf’s quiet answer at last.
“And I heard she has some silly name for a lioness, named so at birth for her wide flat face, big nose, no lips…”
“You heard wrong!”
Dacre laughed at the vehemence in his friend’s voice. “Well, tell me of her then and what possessed a father to name a child after a lion.”
Ranulf leaned back against the carved oak chair. His voice was quiet, as if coming from a great distance. “She has tawny hair the color of a lion’s, a great thick mane of it. Green eyes that would put an emerald to shame, a tiny nose and a full, soft mouth. When she is angry, one eyebrow…” He stopped abruptly and looked into his wine cup.
“Go on. You must tell me more of this woman. What of the rest of her? Is she thick-waisted and what of her legs?”
“Dacre!” Ranulf’s voice was angry. “You go too far. This is my wife of whom you speak. She is not a serving wench to be shared.”
“I understand. She has legs the width of the Frisian’s neck and a waist the size of yours. Had I such a wife I would not speak of her either.”
“She is…” Ranulf’s laughter came to Lyonene, a sound she had heard too seldom. “I will not rise to your bait. You must come to Malvoisin and see her.”
“Or ask Corbet. I am sure he can give me a true opinion of this unknown wife of yours.”
Ranulf frowned into his cup. “Corbet talks overmuch at times.”
“Mmm. Jealousy so soon! She must indeed be beautiful. You must tell me what possessed you to marry her. I had thought Isabel soured you for all time.”
Lyonene listened breathlessly for Ranulf’s answer, the reason he would give for the marriage.
To
o much time elapsed and Lyonene knew Ranulf would give no answer. She returned to the dirty job of removing ashes. At least it was warmer before the fire.
“Remember that red-haired wench in London Town? The one Corbet and Sainneville fought for?”
Ranulf laughed again. “They were well into their cups and…”
“Neither you nor I were too sober. Thank the heavens for Hugo Fitz Waren.”
“Aye, Hugo helped to pull them apart when I could not. I did not care who got the woman.”
“She was a smart one. She knew then who was the earl. I shall never forget your face when she plastered that plump little body to you, sobbing that you’d saved her life that she owed you everything. Such eye-rolling at the mention of ‘everything.’ ”
“Her ‘everything’ was not so bad after all.”
Dacre fair shouted. “And how would you know what she had to offer, for she came to me that night.”
“To you! Why would she want a weakling when she could have a man!”
“A weakling! Why, that little honey-fruit whispered that you frightened her more than the Devil himself.”
“And she said to me she would as soon spend the night with a girl as one of your prettiness.”
“Such prettiness I will show you!”
Lyonene turned to see Dacre leap at Ranulf’s throat, and then the two men fell together to the rushes, massive strength pitted against the other. Lyonene was disgusted. That two grown men should wrestle one another on the floor in such a manner, and worse that it should be over a woman! They rolled to her feet, locked together, and as their faces were only inches apart, she calmly dropped the nearly full basket of ashes from her waist to the rushes, very near their faces. She did not wait to see the damage she had done but sedately walked away from them. She smiled slightly when she heard their struggles cease and their coughs and curses begin.
Maude seemed to appear from nowhere, and she clasped Lyonene’s slight form to her much larger body, forcing her head to her ample shoulder.
“I will kill the wench,” Dacre bellowed, his voice very near where Maude stood holding Lyonene. “Maude, let her go. I have my own manner of punishment for her.”
“You scared the poor girl half to death.” Maude stroked Lyonene’s hair, completely hidden under the woolen veil that flowed down her back. “She is young and not used to the rough play of the king’s earls.” Her voice held such a sarcastic edge that Lyonene began to silently laugh, her shoulders shaking. Maude gave her a reproachful look. “You see, she is trembling with her fright.” This made Lyonene laugh harder and a sound escaped her that was surprisingly like a sob.
“That is the one you teach to dance, Maude?” Ranulf’s voice was gentle.
Maude nodded.
“Then keep her with you in the kitchen and send someone with water that we may remove this dust.”
Maude pushed Lyonene’s head back to her shoulder for the girl much wanted to see the havoc she had caused, feeling they wholly deserved it for their talk of tavern wenches. As Maude led her toward the kitchen, Lyonene heard Ranulf speak.
“Maude is teaching that one to dance. She says she is very good and will be ready to perform by the time we reach Wales.”
“Well, then, let us see her. We can forgive her if she dances well.”
“This one is mine, Dacre. She is young, too young for the rewards you have in mind. In a few years, when her dancing is better, then mayhaps you can ‘forgive’ her, but not yet.”
Maude led Lyonene into the kitchen and gave her a pile of onions to chop—punishment for her behavior. She chopped and slashed with a vengeance as she thought of Ranulf’s words about the London barmaid. She also remembered him saying, “This one is mine.” How many other women had Maude taught to dance for him? She did not know when the onion tears and the real ones began to mingle.
Lyonene felt that Maude made an effort to separate her from Ranulf, for there were always jobs to do that required her presence far from him. She was thoroughly exhausted when she fell onto the mattress before the fire. The straw was uncomfortable and she longed for the comfort of the feather mattresses of Malvoisin.
Morning came too early and she sleepily mounted her little donkey.
“This might well be the night, for tomorrow we reach Wales.”
Maude’s statement drew Lyonene awake, and all day she tried to dissuade herself from going ahead with the dance. When they stopped for dinner and she saw first one of the women running her finger down Ranulf’s jaw and then Ranulf holding the woman’s hand for a brief moment, Lyonene was decided. She would not think of the consequences of this night; she only knew she wanted him to see her, to hold her hand and no one else’s.
As Ranulf’s tent was erected, Lyonene saw Maude talking to him and knew he had agreed to the old woman’s suggestions. Her heart began to beat rapidly.
She had no time to think as Maude pulled her into the seclusion of the trees. The beginnings of a protest were stifled as her clothes were removed. Soon the silken dancing costume encircled her. It was as if she were no longer Lyonene but someone else: a dark beauty, a Saracen who had been trained from childhood to tempt and entice men with her fluid body motions. She could hear the strange music in her head and her hips began to move slowly, a secret smile on her face.
Maude took a silvered piece of glass, a mirror, from the wooden box and a jar of black powder. She applied the kohl to Lyonene’s eyelids, upper and lower, and darkened her eyebrows. There were transparent veils, soft, gentle colors, added to the costume, then one about her hair that hid the lower part of her face.
It was a different woman who stared back at her from the little mirror, and the dark, sultry eyes promised things Lyonene knew too little of—promises of passion and satin skin. She walked with ease and confidence to the candlelit tent.
Ranulf half-reclined on a low cot and did not see at first the dark girl who entered his tent, only hearing Maude’s music, joined by a flute and little vibrating instruments like drums. He was instantly surprised by the confidence exuded by the girl, her movements sure and seductive. He then forgot that he knew this to be a serf girl, for somehow she was transformed into such as he’d not seen since his years in the Holy Lands.
Each slow undulation was a gesture of love, and he began to feel that this girl danced for him alone in a way no other woman ever had. Her hips moved toward him, her arms beckoning, her smoky eyes caressing him. Always the dances that Maude knew so well had excited him, but this girl was more, giving him a feeling of longing as well as lust. A veil fell at his feet, revealing one long slim leg hidden and yet revealed beneath the silk trousers. The music increased its speed and the girl turned her back to him, glimpses of her hair showing through a dark veil.
Another scarf drifted through the heavy air and he saw a curved hip, the gold belt flashing in the reflected candlelight. Her hips moved faster, the tiny bells tinkling in rhythm to her movements. The exposed hip was golden, creamy, while the other teased his bewildered gaze as it moved from behind a folded veil and then disappeared.
She turned to the side, the shape of her body showing through the silks. Her breasts rose again and again as her hips moved forward and back, and always her eyes entranced him, smiling, frowning, tempting, shunning, ever changing. Her fluid arms emphasized her liquid movements.
Another veil fell and he saw more of her beautiful body. Her stomach undulated, showing the lovely secret of her navel. Ranulf was frozen where he lay, unable to break the paralyzing spell of desire and fascination she wove about him.
The music’s speed increased and his breath deepened as yet another veil fell to the floor. Her breasts rounded above the silk, gleaming, moving, quivering as she danced and he heard her low, throaty, lusty laugh, growling, filling his own body with tremors of unfulfilled passion.
He was afraid to move, afraid she was an apparition of pleasure that might disappear at his merest breath. She moved closer to him, slowly, tortuously, exquisitely, her skin giving of
f a delicate perfume. With fear but uncontrolled longings, he put out a hand to touch her. A brief whisper of creamed satin skin against his fingertips and she drew away, her head falling back as she near drove his senses mad with that laugh, so low, yet permeating him with its promise.
Her arm grazed his face, close to his lips, exciting him further to depths of what seemed to be a new part of his being. Then, abruptly, she moved away from him, far away, to a darkened side of the tent; her dark eyes and golden body were radiant against the cream-colored silk walls. He could not bear the void she had left behind. The music was reaching a frenzied peak and her eyes challenged him now, her hands reaching out, daring him, as her body increased the pulsating movements.
One powerful hand swept her to him, clasping tightly the deep curve of her waist, the other crushing her to him. The tent was dark, much too dark as he looked into her half-closed eyes, but he saw the mouth that waited below the veil, and the hunger it showed more than matched his own.
Enjoying and prolonging each exquisite moment, he stroked her skin, slightly damp from her dance, as was his own. She seemed to purr, a low, throaty sound, as he touched her. For only a very brief instant did her eyes open to meet his as he pulled the veil away and sought her lips, and then his eyes were closed too.
The music from outside the tent slowed to a sensuous rhythm as if sensing what was taking place inside.
Lyonene allowed her body to be supported totally by Ranulf’s strong hands. His lips touched hers gently, savoring the feel of them, the taste of them. His tongue ran across the edge of her teeth, delighting in the tiny chipped place. The agonizing slowness with which he took his pleasure of her weakened her body; she felt almost as if she were dying under his sweet torture. He ran his teeth along her lower lip, tasting the firmness of it, relishing its special flavor. The corners of her mouth received his unique attention, and then his urgency enveloped her, his lips crushing hers, moving as he delighted in the nectar of them.
The Black Lyon Page 12