Lyonene pulled him to her, closer, ever closer, and ran her hands across the great muscles of his back, glorifying in the reserved power they held. The feel of his fingers caressing her bare skin made her mad to feel his dark, smooth skin under her hands. His lips moved to her ear, and soft words came to her, unknown words, meaningless yet allmeaning.
It may have been a discordant sound from the music that made Lyonene return to herself, to know that she was Ranulf’s unwanted wife and not a serf girl as he now believed. He made love to a serf girl, a girl who danced for him, but he did not hold and caress his wife. Her pride, the pride of a lioness, returned to her and she knew that she could not continue with their lovemaking when he thought she was another.
She steeled herself and refused to hear the words of love, and harder still, to feel the lips that traveled along her throat. She released him so quickly that she had a second before he realized she had fled the tent. She ran as hard and as fast as she was able before stopping. The built-up tears poured forth in a violent torrent. She cursed herself for a hundred times a fool. Her mind rang with her confusion. How could this man’s touch inflame her so, and how could he make such sweet love to one he thought to be only a serf girl, someone he cared for not at all?
Maude found her and helped her to bathe her swollen face and change her clothes. No words were spoken as they made their way to the camp, and the old woman carefully shielded Lyonene’s view of Ranulf’s dark tent, silent now from the rages of an hour ago. Only Maude’s long understanding of Ranulf had been able to calm him from the anger he carried toward the girl. Lyonene breathed a ragged sigh in her sleep, and Maude shook her head in disgust.
Maude sent Lyonene away from the camp for water early the next morning. Ranulf would appear soon, and he would easily know which of the four women had danced for him the night before. All she could do was prolong the inevitable.
Lyonene’s thoughts still warred within her as she pulled the heavy bucket from the water. So loud were her thoughts that she did not hear the horses approach. Before she could protest, strong arms pulled her against a bony body, hands groping her beneath her serf’s garb. A mouth that gave a foul odor found hers. She began to kick and claw.
“Sir Henry!” a familiar, laughing voice called. “I don’t believe you know how to treat a lady.”
The old man released her and she spun around, her back to the voice. Keeping her head down, she raised a cautious glance to see Geoffrey before the man who had just attacked her.
“Lady?” Sir Henry spat. “She is but a serf girl.”
Geoffrey’s voice hid his contempt. “May I suggest, sir, that all pretty young women are ladies.”
Lyonene felt the gratitude rising in her breast.
Sir Henry laughed. “I see what you mean.”
“You do not mind if I try?”
“My experience bows to your pretty form.”
Without even looking at her face, Geoffrey whirled Lyonene into his arms and began to kiss her. She was aghast that he would do this to her. He had no more respect for her than Sir Henry had.
“I see my little brother has found entertainment that pleasures him. Mayhaps you can excite this one more than I, for she runs from my caresses. There are some young women who prefer pretty boys rather than men—Dacre has proven that.”
Geoffrey looked up to see Ranulf astride Tighe’s broad back and lazily smiled. “She seems to find me acceptable enough, and my thanks for the comparison to Lord Dacre.” He looked down at Lyonene’s face, her jaw set against the inevitable exposure of her identity. Geoffrey stared at her in horror and turned her to face Ranulf.
Ranulf’s look of pain before it turned to blackest hate startled her. He sneered at her. “I see now why she finds you so … acceptable. You must ask her to dance for you. She is…” The pained look crossed his face again and then he turned his horse and left them.
Chapter Nine
“Lyonene, what is the meaning of this? No, do not tell me, for I am sure it is Ranulf’s doing. Is he so unbearable to live with?”
Lyonene could only shake her head, for a great lump was forming in her throat and she could not speak. Maude appeared from nowhere and took Lyonene away to the little donkey. She was too distraught to notice that Geoffrey rode to his brother.
“Ranulf,” Geoffrey implored his stone-faced brother, “what has caused you to treat her so? Why is she dressed as a serf and made to ride a donkey?” He waited for an answer but none came. “I cannot understand your treatment of her. She is beautiful and desirable; how can you shun her?” Still no answer was given him and he sighed in exasperation. “I go now to Sir Tompkin. We are off to Cornwall this day. Remember, Ranulf, she is your wife.”
“It is she who forgets.”
Geoffrey frowned up at Ranulf. “Do you hint that she had a hand in what happened this morn? That she perhaps desires the attention of other men?”
Ranulf shrugged in answer.
“If I were not your brother and loved not life so well, I would challenge you for that. Any lady who is falsely accused and forced to act as a serf deserves a champion.”
“You are so sure she is falsely accused? What proof have you of her innocence?”
Geoffrey smiled. “Because I know you. You care for your possessions and on that island of yours you would know when she sneezed or no. And that Black Guard would kill any man who came near to Lady Lyonene. I am correct, am I not? You have always known of her whereabouts, even to each minute.”
“Aye. Until we left for Wales. She was clever in hiding.”
“Hiding! Then you are indeed fortunate to have a wife who loves you so that she will dress as a serf to follow her beloved. Tell me, would any of your court ladies so love their husbands? I worry overmuch. Lyonene will have her way, and if that way includes a glowering, angry, accusing…” He laughed at Ranulf’s black look. “There is no understanding women. I cannot fathom her choice of such a husband. I would give much to be chosen by such as she.” Geoffrey frowned at the fierceness of the look given him by Ranulf. “I go now. Mayhaps I can leave Cornwall and return to Malvoisin later this year. Go in peace, my brother.”
Lyonene was unaware of Geoffrey’s going; in truth, she was aware of little around her. Her own thoughts raged with one another.
She did not even hear the thundering hoofs of Tighe as Ranulf rode toward the little donkey. She only felt herself being lifted into the air, coming to rest, sidesaddle, on the Frisian’s back, held firmly in Ranulf’s arms. She knew he was angry but she did not care. At least for the moment he held her close. They rode to the head of the line of people. Ranulf roughly tore the russet cloak from Lyonene, flinging it to the ground. Then he thrust his hands in her hair, pulling her head back, her face toward him. In spite of the pain he knew he caused her, she smiled up at him, her eyes shining.
“Hear me now, wife, and hear me well. You are mine and I do not share you.”
Her eyes held his. “I have never been other, my Lion.”
He stared at her for a moment and then looked away. She leaned back against him, and they traveled in silence.
“And now tell me what I am to do with you.” Ranulf’s voice was harsh as he stared at her, the silk walls of his tent surrounding them. “Did you think I rode to Wales for pleasure? Tell me, have you always had your way, so that a man who goes to war must have the added burden of a woman to succor?”
“War? There is no war,” she replied hotly.
He glared at her. “You think I lie? The Welshman Rhys has decided he would be king. He rides north of here. King Edward sent me a message to find the man and stop his rebellion. Did you think I left my isle to travel to this cold country so that I might enjoy the scenery? Do you not think I have enough to care for in my men, but now I am also saddled with a noblewoman.”
“Nay, I did not think—”
“That is it! You did not think. Now you have had your fun, you have dressed as a serf and deceived me. But tell me, mistress, what purpose d
id you have in mind in all this? If my memory still serves me, we last spoke of your returning to your parents.”
She deserved all of this, she knew. She had not thought when she had taken the disguise. How many times had her mother punished her for just such waywardness?
“Speak up, woman! I know you have a tongue.”
She lifted her chin and was glad anger was replacing her guilt feelings. “I did not want to … to leave. I wanted to…”
“Go on, I am listening.”
She stood and touched the silk, glad to have removed the rough wool mantle. She whirled to face him, eyes alight and hair in wild disarray. “You are my husband and I love you.” She waited breathlessly for his answer.
His black eyes did not soften. “You have an odd way of showing your love. You rob me, you—”
“Cease!” She put her hands over her ears. “I know it all. Have I not lived it, every horrible moment of it? Have I not been caught day after day between threats and rage? We had two days of love and we married because of that love. Is there no way I can bring about a return of love? Is there no way I can prove myself?”
He watched her and then moved closer to her, his hand touching her cheek gently. “I do not know,” he said quietly.
The sound of iron striking iron brought Ranulf’s head up.
“What is it?” Lyonene gasped.
Corbet burst into the tent, his eyes only briefly flickering over Lyonene. “Rhys attacks,” he said bluntly.
“Guard her!” Ranulf commanded as he grabbed his shield and went outside the tent into the ever-increasing noise of a full-fledged battle.
“This way,” Corbet said as he slit the serge of the tent at the back, and she followed him, her eyes constantly looking over her shoulder.
The sunlight was bright outside, and already the smell of blood was strong, mixed with dust and the horrible noise of men’s screams, their dying gasps, the thundering of the horses’ hoofs.
She saw Ranulf immediately, in the midst of the battle, on foot, having had no time to straddle his horse. She saw the glint of the sword as he swung with a two-handed grip at a man riding at him hard. Her breath stopped and the blood seemed to leave her body.
Corbet roughly jerked her arm as he pulled her forward. She stumbled and fell to her knees, grasping at a tree trunk to steady herself. The guardsman again pulled her, but she could not take her eyes from her husband or stop the deafening roar of the battle that surrounded her. Ranulf was covered in blood now, yet still he fought.
An arrow whistled into the tree, inches from her hand, and she stared at it incredulously. Vaguely she was aware that Corbet fought a man behind her, and still she stared at the arrow. Her fear began to make her tremble.
A movement in the tree above her caught her eye and she saw a man hidden in the leaves pulling back on a crossbow and aiming an arrow at Ranulf. She screamed, but no one heard her.
“No,” she whispered, “no.” She began to run, straight into the thick of the battle, toward Ranulf. She ran toward him and he stared at her in disbelief, his face smeared with sweat and blood.
She reached him at the same second as the arrow. Her arms went about him and her right shoulder covered his heart. The arrow slashed through her skin and muscle as it made its way to Ranulf’s mail-covered chest. The steel tip pierced the iron armor, the hacketon, the linen and Ranulf’s flesh, but Lyonene’s body had slowed it and it went no further. She looked up at him as their bodies were held together by the thin piece of wood.
“Lion, I…” she whispered and then fainted.
Ranulf held her so she would not fall, and then he put his head back and gave his battle cry.
Sainneville did not at first see the little form so hideously attached to his master.
“Break it off, man! Do not stand there,” Ranulf said, his voice harsh and shaking.
Hugo appeared, gave one look at his lady and turned away to guard his lord’s back. Sainneville broke the feathered end of the arrow off, trying not to look at Lyonene’s lifeless face.
“Can you get it out of the iron? It binds us together.”
“Aye, my lord.” Sainneville lifted trembling fingers.
“Fitz Waren!” Ranulf commanded. “Come and do this. Quickly! She begins to rouse. I do not wish her to feel more pain.”
Hugo deftly put his fingers between Lyonene’s shoulder and Ranulf’s chest. The arrow was embedded deeply and intertwined with the mail links. To twist the arrow out without also twisting the shaft, was very difficult.
“Here, my lord,” Hugo said at last. “Let me have the girl and I will pull her off the thing. Hold the arrow and do not let it move.”
Ranulf did as his man bid, and Hugo carefully pulled Lyonene away. Ranulf jerked the steel point from his chest and angrily tossed it to the ground. Then he picked Lyonene up in his arms, her blood flowing on him.
“Ranulf,” she whispered. “It hurts. My shoulder hurts. You are well? The arrow did not harm you?”
He did not answer her but strode quickly to his tent.
“What is wrong? She has fainted?” Maude asked, then gasped at the blood that covered both Ranulf and Lyonene. “I will care for her,” she said as Ranulf carefully put his wife on the bed.
“Nay!” Ranulf said. “Go. I need no help. Bring me water and clean linen and then leave us.”
Maude went out of the tent quickly, and Ranulf gave his whole attention to Lyonene. Her eyes were open but she didn’t seem to see. He took an estoc from its sheath and slit her clothes away, tenderly covering her with the velvet bedclothes. When Maude brought the water he washed and bound the wound. Only then did he sit quietly and look at her.
“My lord?” Hugo stood at the doorway. “She is well?”
Ranulf turned to him, his eyes bright, his face and body still covered with the dirt and stench of battle. “She is well for a child who protects her husband with her own frail body. The Welshman who shot the arrow—”
“He is dead. Maularde saw to him. The battle is ended and won.” He looked at the pale woman on the bed. “We will pray for her this night.”
Ranulf nodded and the man left. Night came, and he stayed by her bed, on his knees, his prayers constant. He neither saw nor heard Maude set candles throughout the tent.
“Ranulf.”
His head came up at Lyonene’s whisper. He stroked her forehead, noticing for the first time the excessive warmth there. “Be still, love, do not speak.”
“You still wear your armor,” she whispered as she touched the iron links on his wrist.
“Aye. It does not matter.”
“You are not angry with me?”
“Aye, I am angry with you, but I will wait until you are well to scold you.”
“I did not mean to disobey. I saw the man and knew he meant to shoot you. I screamed, but you did not hear me.”
“So you used your own body as a shield,” he said flatly.
She moved so that her left hand touched the spot over his heart where the mail was torn and covered with dried blood. “Had I not done so you would have died.”
“Yes, my love. You have saved my life. For what reason I do not know.”
“Because I love you, my Lion, because I have loved you from the first moment I saw you, because I shall always love you.”
By morning, Lyonene’s fever raged. Ranulf often had to hold her to keep her from tossing about the narrow cot.
“My lord, you will eat,” Hugo commanded his master, after two days of food hardly touched. “You do not help the girl any by your fast.”
Absently, the earl ate, never taking his eyes from his wife.
Ranulf had hours, long, painful hours to think about the girl who lay before him, her face red and hot with fever. How many times had she told him she loved him? And how often had he jeered at her for her avowals of love? He knew she was a woman of much pride, yet she had swallowed that pride to follow him after he had struck her and said he wished to cast her aside.
He d
ipped the cloth in warm water and wiped her forehead, touching her mouth gently. He remembered vividly the blood on her lips when he had struck her, and his stomach tightened in disgust and remorse.
She did not move, but lay there perfectly still, deathlike. He lifted the small hot hand to his lips. She had asked what she had to do to prove her love.
He had loved her once. No, he thought as he rubbed her hand against his cheek, he had loved her at once, from the first moment he had seen her, when she had stared up at him with sparkling green eyes. Why had he forgotten those first few days?
He remembered Giles and his first wife, Isabel, and it suddenly seemed so clear to him. Giles had been mad. He had willed his own death, using Ranulf as a means, and Ranulf had believed the boy over his wife’s words. Yet he had only to look and he would have seen the unnatural light in the boy’s eyes. Had not Lyonene seen pain in his eyes when they first met, the same pain as he was sure she had seen in Giles’s eyes?
He began to realize how much he had wronged her, and the pain and fever she bore now set more heavily upon him. She was no more like Isabel than he was like Geoffrey, and he had been wrong to compare them. Never had Isabel given him any avowal of love. She had given nothing but hate.
“She is the same?”
Ranulf had not heard Hugo enter the tent. “Aye, she is the same.”
“The men pray for her. They have already come to love her and admire her courage.”
Ranulf turned a black face to his man. “And what good does their love do her now that she lies so near death? Why did they not ‘love’ her in the thick of battle, when she must protect her husband with her own frail body? Why did not someone stop her from coming on this journey? Why—?”
He broke off as Hugo put a hand on his lord’s shoulder, and Ranulf buried his face in his hands, giving way to the tears long buried in his breast.
“Water.”
Ranulf sat still, his eyes half-closed, and did not hear the faint whisper. For five days he had not left the tent and he had eaten nothing in the last three. Now he was weak, his grief having worn him away.
The Black Lyon Page 13