The Black Lyon

by Jude Deveraux

  “Water,” Lyonene repeated.

  Ranulf jumped and stared with disbelief at his wife’s open eyes. It was seconds before he recovered himself enough to take her in his arms and lift a cool mug of water to her lips.

  “I do not remember. Why am I here?”

  He held her close to him, feeling his heart pounding. She would be well! “Hush now, love, do not speak. You took an arrow meant for me.” He blinked back tears and worked hard to keep from crushing her to him.

  “You are unhurt?” she whispered.

  Suddenly, he felt joyous because he’d have a lifetime to love her, to make her forget his anger and hostility. He pulled back and smiled at her. “Unhurt! I am more than unhurt! You have saved my life and I owe all to you. And you, my sweet Lioness, will be well. And now you will eat.”

  She managed to smile at him. “And if I do not?”

  He lifted one eyebrow at her. “I had not thought on it, but knowing your constant disobedience, I shall probably have to force you to eat.”

  She put her hand on his. “I wish…” she said quietly. “Aye? What is it you wish?”

  “This morn is different. It is as if we were at Lorancourt and you were the man I met and there were no more hate between us.”

  “I would also that the hate was gone,” he said quietly. No other words he could have said would have meant more to her.

  What followed were, for Lyonene, blissful days of learning to know her husband, of laughter, of surcease from the fear she had grown to feel.

  “My lord!” Corbet shouted. “A messenger is come from King Edward to cry a tourney.”

  “A tourney?” Lyonene said from her seat on the mossy bank. “It is safe? What of this man Rhys? If he wishes to take the king’s place, is it safe to be so near?”

  “Rhys and his three sons were killed in the battle. His men will cause no more harm with no leader.” He stared down at her. “You would care to see the court and a tournament?”

  “Oh yes, Ranulf, oh yes, I would much like to go.”

  He knelt and put a hand on her shoulder. “Then we shall.” He turned to Corbet. “Tell the messenger that the Black Lion and his Black Guard challenge all.”

  Corbet grinned. “We have done so, my lord.”

  Ranulf’s face hardened, but before he could speak, Lyonene laughed. “It is good your men know their lord so well, is it not?”

  He stared for a moment and then relaxed. “Aye, that it is. Go now and ready yourselves. We leave on the morrow.”

  When they were alone, he turned to Lyonene. “You are well enough to travel? The wound does not plague you overmuch?”

  “Nay, it does not.” She held up her hand for his and pulled him to sit down beside her. “Tell me about the court and the king and the queen and the other earls and—”

  “You go too fast. Be still and I will tell you all I can about a round table.”

  “A round table? As in King Arthur’s tales?”

  “Aye, the name is the same but it describes three days of games, jousting and eating. Think you can survive the excitement?” His eyes twinkled.

  She knew he teased. “Tell me of the queen, is she a great beauty?”

  Ranulf laughed and began to talk of a life so familiar to him, so new and awesome to his wife.

  Chapter Ten

  Lyonene and Ranulf had been at the new Caernarvon Castle for six days, and she had spent the time in getting to know the people of the court and Queen Eleanora. The queen was a short, quiet woman, much more interested in her children than in state politics. She and Lyonene got on famously. The king was a formidably tall man with red hair and enormous energy. To Lyonene he never seemed to sit still for very long.

  In the evenings Ranulf and Lyonene sang duets, she playing a psaltery, he a lute. They were much favored by the many guests, who began to arrive in great numbers. Each guest was treated according to his rank. The earls were given first priority and the finest that could be had, while the lesser knights, the mercenaries, were given a place to stand their tents, fodder and the privilege of one meal a day with King Edward.

  The growing excitement affected Lyonene and she enjoyed herself. Queen Eleanora came to depend on her, and Lyonene found herself to be an easy hostess.

  “You spend much time with these men.” A strong arm encircled her narrow waist and pulled her into a dark corner of the house.

  She had stiffened at first, but relaxed when she realized she stood so closely, so intimately, pressed to Ranulf. Her teeth showed clearly in the dim light as she grinned up at him. “I would but make them comfortable. There was a lady, a Lady Elizabeth I believe, who seemed overinterested in the cut of your tabard, especially your shoulders and arms, at least it looked so from the manner in which she ran her hands over your … ah, tabard.”

  He pulled her tight against him till she could hardly breathe. “Mayhaps she felt me to be neglected by my own wife. I have not seen you much these past days. Mayhaps I should pretend to be a guest to get your attentions.”

  Her heart beat rapidly and she could feel his under her hands. She worked her arms away until she clasped the great bulk of his chest. “Of course, my lord, you are most welcome to Caernarvon Castle. And, pray tell, what would you desire of our meager assets? Could I fetch wine or food or…”

  “A dancer. I would have a veiled Saracen dancer for my room. One who entices and shows her tawny body as she casts away the veils. Do you think such could be found? Mind, I want only the best.”

  “You did like my dance then?”

  In answer, he kissed her, a fierce, demanding, crushing kiss that made her draw him closer to her and answer with equal fire.

  “He is here!” A voice near them called. “I find my friend has changed little, for all his marriage to a baron’s daughter. Leave the girl, Ranulf, and come talk to me. The night is young and she will wait for you, no doubt.”

  Ranulf pulled away from her, and she felt him to be as reluctant as she.

  “There are times, Dacre, when you are more a curse than a friend.”

  The handsome blond man placed hands on hips, legs apart, and his laughter rang, causing many people to turn and stare. They clasped one another, each seeming to try to break the other’s ribs. They smiled at one another with the special look of old friends who had seen much together.

  “I hear of this marriage of yours and not two months later, I find you locked together with one of the castle ladies. I said you should have brought her with you to Wales. At least I hope this one is not so well-used as Lady Adela whom you bedded so often last year.” He stopped at Ranulf’s scowl.

  Lyonene had stood behind Ranulf as he talked to his friend and now Ranulf pulled her to stand beside him, holding her forearm and hand possessively in his two hands.

  “This is my wife, Lady Lyonene. And you, I believe, have met Lord Dacre.”

  “What story is this? I would remember this beauty had I met her.”

  Ranulf smiled from his friend to his wife. “She followed me to Wales in my train, dressed as a serf.” His voice was proud.

  “I find that a tale not to be believed. Even dressed as a serf, this beauty could be recognized. She would be a lady no matter what she wore. My lady, you have a fool for a husband. You should have married me and I would know you even should you dress as a man.”

  Ranulf remained smiling. “Remember the night at your castle as we talked and a serf girl cleaned the hearth?”

  Dacre looked in astonishment to Lyonene, who looked away, the blood beginning to rise to her cheeks.

  Dacre’s laugh roared out again. “Then it was you who dropped the basket of ashes in our eyes!” He snatched her from Ranulf’s grasp and lifted her above his head. “I vowed you would be punished for that and so you shall.”

  “Do not!” Her frantic words were directed to Ranulf. Dacre recognized the warning in her tone and, his hands still on Lyonene’s waist, hastily turned to Ranulf.

  Dacre frowned for a moment at the Black Lion scowl
on Ranulf’s face and the half-drawn anelace. He released Lyonene and clapped a heavy hand on his friend’s shoulder, his lips twisting into a half-controlled smile.

  “I do not jest, Dacre. She is…”

  The people in the Great Hall had stopped their talking, the musicians in the gallery had fallen silent. Not many men had seen the Warbrooke wrath and lived. Lyonene put herself between her husband and Lord Dacre.

  “So that old affliction has finally taken you, and now you wish to tell me a noble speech of how you will protect your wife with your life,” Dacre teased.

  Ranulf’s body relaxed and his hand left the scabbard. He looked away, a sheepish expression on his face. “It is true; I would protect her.”

  “Well, then, my friend, if I promise not to spirit her away, may I look more clearly at her?”

  Ranulf returned his friend’s grin and pulled Lyonene into the light. The guests went back to their talk and the music resumed.

  Lyonene tried to control her anger as Ranulf turned her in the bright candlelight. She felt as if she were a piece of horseflesh that they were considering for purchase.

  “You have done well, Ranulf.” Dacre clapped Ranulf’s back. “That much hair alone was worth losing your freedom.”

  Lyonene whirled on them, her emerald eyes flashing. Her voice held contempt. “If you gentle knights have finished your inspection, the cattle of this castle have work that needs to be done.” She turned on her heel in the midst of a swirl of tawny hair and angrily stalked away. She heard Ranulf’s low voice, but not his words as he spoke behind her. She clenched her hands into fists at Dacre’s answering laugh.

  Dacre and Ranulf were quickly forgotten as Queen Eleanora introduced her to Berengaria. Lyonene had never had many friends as a child, every visitor to Lorancourt being either too old or too young, yet when she saw Berengaria, she knew she had found a friend. Queen Eleanora introduced them to one another and they clasped hands like long lost friends.

  “I think you feel as I do, that we have been friends for long. We shall cause a stir wherever we go, you and I.”

  “What do you mean? I can see no reason why there be any confusion?”

  “You are an innocent babe! Look about you at the men in the room and the narrowed eyes of their wives. And look at that great handsome husband of yours as he watches you. He looks ready to spring in attack if any man so much as speaks to you.”

  “But why…”

  “I will not explain, for you will learn soon enough.”

  Ranulf did indeed watch his wife, for her beauty was suddenly enhanced by that of Lady Berengaria. The two women were of a height, one fair with tawny locks that hung past her waist in a profusion of fat curls, the other with dark auburn hair and eyes the same color. Her hair fell a few inches short of her waist and gently rolled under in a perfect curve. There were three tiny braids on each side of her forehead, pulled to the back of her head and fastened with a long red ribbon embroidered with tiny white seed pearls. The silk tunic that outlined her voluptuous figure was the color of her hair, covered by a spotless white velvet sleeveless surcoat.

  Lyonene wore blue, a blue-green tunic that reflected in her eyes and a rich darker blue velvet surcoat. The two women, both extraordinarily beautiful, delicate, their exchanged words quiet, were indeed causing a stir in the Great Hall, a stir of envy, jealousy, desire, and from two husbands, a wary protectiveness.

  “Come, let us sit here.” Berengaria motioned to a bench along a wall where they would have a clear view of the people in the hall. “You must tell me how you captured Lord Ranulf, for there have been many women who have lusted for his money and that handsome form of his. Although I have heard that he is willing enough to share one of those.”

  Lyonene shook her head. “Do not tell me which, for I vow every woman but the queen has told me of my husband’s past adventures.”

  Berengaria laughed, causing several heads to turn, heads which had been waiting for a chance to gaze again at the loveliness of the two women. “I can well imagine their words. But you did not answer what magic potion you used to snare him, and, if the gossip be correct, in but two days.”

  Lyonene shrugged. “I did but make him laugh.”

  Berengaria considered this for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, I can see why he would love the woman who made him laugh.”

  Before Lyonene could protest, her friend continued.

  “Is it wondrous to be so very rich? Do you have twenty maids to see to your every whim, to bring you hummingbird’s tongues roasted in three sauces?”

  Lyonene laughed aloud. It was good to be near someone so honest, someone who did not say one thing and mean another unpleasant thing. “You will not believe this, but I have no maid at all.”

  At the disbelief on Berengaria’s face, she told of taking Kate’s place on the journey to Wales and, since no mention had been made of a maid, she had not requested one. There seemed to be hundreds of servants about Caernarvon with little to do, so all her needs were cared for.

  “I can see we will be good friends, and I long to tell Travers that I am not the only woman who perpetrates misadventures. He swears that it is only I who still gets into mischief; all other women are the height of decorum at all times.”

  “Ranulf was very angry, but Queen Eleanora was pleased that I came and scolded Ranulf for forcing me to go to such extremes to get here.”

  They laughed together.

  “We are most fortunate in having such a queen. My father still tells horror stories of the last one.”

  “This Travers is your husband?”

  Berengaria’s face lit at the mention of her husband. “Look you about the hall and see if you can guess which man is my Travers.”

  Lyonene guessed several men, all handsome men, and Berengaria snorted at each one, giving some derogatory quip, such as, “Beats his wife,” “Does not like women” or “Greedy,” and wiggling her brows. When Lyonene surrendered, Berengaria pointed.

  “He talks now to Lord Dacre,” she said and watched Lyonene with twinkling eyes as she saw the expected reaction on her new friend’s face.

  The man talking to Lord Dacre was the ugliest man Lyonene had ever seen. He was of average height and seemed to be built of stone, so square was his form; there was no grace or ease of movement about him—only an unshakable solidity. But his face was what was almost frightening. His ears were huge, his hair a faded mixture of nondescript colors, an unruly, wiry mess. His forehead overhung his eyes by what seemed to be several inches, the brows grown into a single line. Deep creases ran beside his nose to a lipless mouth. His eyes were mere slits.

  She tried to compose herself as she turned back to Berengaria. Surely the woman only jested.

  Berengaria grinned at her. “Is he not a troll? But I will tell you that I have loved him since I was but three years and I shall continue to do so until I die.”

  “Tell me of this, for I sense a good story here.”

  “I tell it gladly, though to few people. My family is a large one. I have six brothers and five sisters. My father has always been glad that his daughters are pretty and docile, his sons handsome and independent. But for me. From my birth I seemed to be the wrong sex, for I ever did things a young lady should not.

  “One day when I was a little past my third birthday, I walked with my nurse in the fields by our castle. When she looked away for a moment, I hid from her in the tall grasses and watched as she searched and called for me.”

  “How can you remember a thing so long ago? I do not recall events of when I was three.”

  “I remember no others, but this could have been last week, it is so clear. When my nurse returned to the castle path to search for me, I made my way to the duck pond, a place she ever refused to take me. Silly woman! She constantly feared I would end myself in every conceivable manner, so she kept me from most pleasant things. When I got to the pond, a face peered at me from the reeds. I indeed thought it was a troll at first, but I kept staring at it even when it steppe
d from the reeds and I saw it was but a boy. We stared long at one another and an overpowering feeling came to me that this boy was mine and would always be so. He was twelve years then and near as big as he is now.

  “I put my arms up to him and he lifted me. He carried me for hours, talking to me and showing me birds’ nests, little crawly things and sharing his bag of food with me. Neither of us thought of time and so it was late when we returned to the castle.

  “Everyone was frantic by then and sure I was dead. My mother came to take me from Travers, but I would not leave and when my father finally pulled me away, I kicked and screamed until Travers came and kissed my forehead and told me to do what was wanted of me.”

  “Your parents must have wondered greatly at your behavior.”

  Berengaria shrugged. “I have ever demanded my way. All the next day I refused to leave Travers’s side. I rode with him on his horse as his father and mine inspected a piece of land my father wished to sell. On the morn I knew he was to leave, I cried and said I loved him and that he must not grow and instead, wait for me. He kissed my forehead and said that when I was ready for marriage he would come for me.”

  “You cannot tell me that that is just what happened!”

  “Aye. When I was ten and five my father brought a young man and his father to me and said I was to marry the man. I knew my father thought to have his way so I said before all that I was secretly married already and now carried my husband’s child.”

  “You did not! Of course it was not true!”

  “No. It could not be, for I had not seen Travers since that one day, and I would allow no other man to touch me.”

  “Your father must have been very angry.”

  Berengaria rolled her eyes. “That is a mild statement for my father’s temper. He had a midwife examine me and found I lied and then he locked me into a tower room with only bread and water to eat. I pleaded great illness and my old nurse brought me pen and paper to write my will. I wrote Travers that it was time for him to come or else my father would marry me to another. I tossed the letter out the arrowslit with a gold ring to a serf boy.”