The Black Lyon

by Jude Deveraux

  Lyonene began to laugh. “I believe my story of dressing as a serf is mild. Tell me the rest of it!”

  “Travers came within three days with an army! Over three hundred men approached my father’s gate and my father, to tell the truth, was well pleased by so forceful a son-in-law. He said later he thought it would take such a man to be able to live with me, for he found it an arduous task.”

  “But what of you? You had not seen Travers since you were little more than a babe. Did you feel the same about him after all that time?”

  “Oh, yes. I ran to him when I was released from the tower and he held me and kissed me, only not on the forehead.” Her eyes twinkled. “Had I any doubts before, that kiss would have dispelled them.”

  Lyonene leaned against the wall and sighed. “And now you live in sweet contentment.”

  “Hah! There is naught sweet about my Travers. He has a temper as ugly as his face. If you could but see his arm you would see where I slashed him once.”

  “I do not understand. If you love him…”

  “Real love is not the pretty stuff of the jongleurs. It is a feeling inside that you are one with this man, no matter what he is. Were Travers to sell his soul to the Devil, I would still love him and mayhaps I would bargain for a good price myself.”

  Lyonene knew she should have been shocked at this, but instead, she stared at Ranulf and felt again the pain of the Welsh arrow in her shoulder. “I fear I would join my Black Devil also.”

  Berengaria smiled. “Come, let us eat and no more talk of devils. I fear the penance now for my sins will be too high.”

  They walked together to the tables.

  Later, Lyonene and Ranulf were alone in their room, Ranulf soaking in a hot tub.

  “I have wanted to ask you something,” Ranulf said.

  When he was quiet, she stopped her washing and looked at him. “Could it be so terrible?”

  “Some think so. Henry de Lacy has asked me to take his youngest son to page. The boy is only six years and should wait another year before leaving his home…” He paused and when she did not speak, he continued. “It would, of course, be for you to say, for a page is the woman’s responsibility until he is of an age to be a squire.”

  “What is this child’s name and why do you seem to think I should object?”

  “He is Brent and although young, he…”

  “Brent! Is he not the boy who tied old Sir John’s leg to the table at dinner?”

  “The same.”

  “The boy who loosed the pigeons in the monks’ study? The boy who…”

  “He is the one responsible for it all and I can see your answer to my request.”

  “So now you have turned sorcerer and know my thoughts! Then you must know I love the boy well already. He has but high spirits and his parents try too hard to still him.”

  She began to lather his face as she prepared to shave him, a new task.

  “You cannot know what you say, for the boy is a devil. He is the last of that great litter of de Lacy’s, and the parents are tired and need a rest. From what I see, Berengaria was enough to put them in their graves.”

  “What has Berengaria to do with my Brent?”

  “Your Brent! So now you adopt the boy already. He is your friend’s little brother. Did you know she was an earl’s daughter?”

  She scraped a patch of whiskers. “Being only a lowly baron’s daughter, I know little of the hierarchy of court,” she said loftily.

  Ranulf understood well her dig at his words. “You know little of raising children and yet you are anxious to take on this one. Could you know that four women have refused him so far? It is said that one of them near fainted at the mention of the little monster.”

  She could not shave him as he talked. “First you ask me to take him and now you work at dissuading me, and what is this you say of my lack of knowledge of raising children? I do not see that you have any great experience in this matter, yet you do not shrink from the idea of taking Brent.”

  “Aye, but I can always beat him if he misbehaves,” he said smugly. “I doubt if you are even as strong as the boy.”

  She gave him a look of disgust. “You talk overmuch of beating, first your weakling wife and now a boy who is not as big as … as your swollen head. Now stop arguing with me so that I may finish shaving you, and concentrate your arrogant thoughts on whether or not my hand slips and cuts your smug words from your throat.”

  He took her wrist as she brought the sharpened steel near his cheeks, his eyes showing his pleasure at her. “I begin to pity a poor child who must have a lioness for a mother. He will ever think he has had his own way, but in truth she will always win.”

  “There is only one prize I have ever wanted to win and I have done so.” She smiled down at him.

  He leaned his head back against the tub. “Finish my shave, wench, and contradict me no more.”

  She smiled at his closed eyes and finished the shave.

  They entered the Great Hall together and smells of food reached them. Ranulf introduced Lyonene to Henry de Lacy, Earl of Lincoln and Salisbury, the father of Berengaria and Brent. When the men began to talk of estate management, she went to sit alone on a bench by the wall. Brent came to his father’s side and the man pointed and sent the young boy to her.

  “You are Lady Lyonene?”

  “Aye, and you are Master Brent?”

  “I am, my lady.”

  She patted the seat and he sat near her. He stared at her with wide eyes and then with a curious expression at her hair. One small hand darted out and heartily pulled a lock.

  She quickly put a hand to her head against the pain. “What is your reason for that?”

  He looked little surprised at himself for his action. “I but wanted to see if it was real. I heard two ladies say it was not and another said you should cover it.”

  Lyonene smiled at him. “And what think you?”

  He shrugged. “It is no matter to me. I cannot interest myself in women’s hair, for I am going to train to be a knight.” He squared his little shoulders.

  “But is it not good for a knight to care for his ladies? Would you not protect me from danger if need be? For you have chosen to train at Malvoisin, and since I live there…”

  He relaxed again, pleased that she gave him a reason to be near her, for he liked her.

  “You are glad that you go to Malvoisin?”

  “Oh, yes,” he answered. “You are a good lady, for you are not old or ugly.”

  “I thank you for the compliment,” she smiled. “Now, tell me of these tricks I hear of you. Are they true?”

  He shrugged again. “See those girls? I made them cry yester eve.” His voice was proud.

  “And whatever did you do to make them cry?”

  “I told them a story of a dragon who flies through walls and eats girls, only girls,” he said grinning. “I heard their mother say they did not sleep all the night.” He gave her a sideways glance to see her reaction.

  “Silly girls! They should have told you worse stories and then you would not have slept.”

  He gave her a look of disdain. “No girl can make worse stories than I.”

  She leaned close to him. “I can, and when we are at Malvoisin I shall. I will not only write them but I will put them to music and sing them.” She made the last words seem like a horrible threat.

  He looked at her with new respect. “And what if I should put a dead rat under your pillow?”

  “I should chop it up and serve it to you for dinner and only tell you after you had eaten it.”

  His eyes widened and he made a face as if he imagined the taste of such a meal. He settled back against the wall, satisfied for the moment with her bravery. “My father has told me only that I am to live with you, but I do not know your husband, who is to be my master.”

  “See the man talking to your father? The man in black?”

  The little boy sat bolt upright, his shock portrayed on his face. “But that is the Black
Lion,” he whispered.

  She looked at him in puzzlement. “Do you not wish to be page to Lord Ranulf?”

  He gave an involuntary shudder and his voice was strained.

  “My cousin told me he chops boys my age apart for practice, to keep his sword edge sharp.”

  She grabbed his shoulders. “That is horrible! As you created a story for the girls, so your cousin made up the tale of my husband.”

  He looked at her in awe. “Are you not afraid of him?”

  She smiled. “In truth I am at times, but when I am, I make sure he does not see my fear. And you also must not show your fear.”

  The boy looked as if he might cry. “Or he will…”

  “Do not say that! Do not think it! Here, stay here and I will fetch him. You will watch and see how gentle he is. If I, a mere girl, am not afeared of him, certainly a knight’s page will not be.”

  Brent tried to lift his shoulders again, but his lower lip still trembled. “That is true.”

  Lyonene muttered some words about men starting young with their arrogance and made her way to Ranulf. He was engrossed in talk with Henry de Lacy, and when she put her hand on his arm, he merely held it, caressing each of her fingers. Lyonene stepped back so Brent could see, and the boy watched with fascination.

  “What is this you do?”

  “I beg your pardon, Lord Henry, but I would speak a few words to my husband.”

  “Young pup already giving you trouble? Well, if you want to go back on the agreement, I will understand.”

  “Oh, no,” Lyonene said at once. “I am most pleased with the boy and do not wish to relinquish him.”

  Henry laughed. “Well, you may wish you had answered differently in a few months. After twelve children, one would think I would be ready for all things, but that boy is beyond me. Mayhaps I am just getting old. Well, it is good speaking with you, my boy.” He clapped Ranulf’s shoulder and left.

  “Now, what is so wrong with the boy?”

  “It is not the boy, it is you.”

  “I? But I have not spoken to him.”

  “He is terrified of you. A cousin has filled his ears with horrible stories of you.”

  He gave her a half-smile. “And do you know they are not true?”

  She told him Brent’s story and Ranulf’s upper lip curled in disgust. He walked toward the boy and Brent nearly leaped from the wooden bench.

  Ranulf looked down at the bowed head and saw that the boy trembled. He stretched out a hand to touch the sandycolored hair, but did not. He sat on the bench.

  “I am honored, my lord, to be your p-p … page.” The boy’s voice was barely audible.

  “And, I am most honored to have you. So, you fear the Black Lion?”

  Brent did not answer, nor did he look at Ranulf, and his trembling increased.

  “Tell me, Brent, do you think the Black Guard fears their liege lord?”

  “Oh no, my lord.” His head came up. “For they belong to you; they also…” His fear increased at the memory.

  Ranulf’s voice was quiet, soothing, reassuring. “If it is as you say and they have no fear because they are part of my household, then you should not fear me. My page belongs to me just as do my Black Guard. Mayhaps you will be known as the Black Page.”

  Lyonene could see the boy’s face work as he digested this information; then a smile began to form, then a question. “How can I be the Black Page when I do not have black hair? All the Black Guard has hair of your color.”

  Ranulf held out his hand to the boy, showing him the back of it. “You see, I have enough black hair for both of us.”

  Lyonene could not help laughing. “It is true. His whole body is covered with black hair.”

  Ranulf gave her such an intense look that she felt the blood rush to her cheeks, and she turned away to become uncommonly interested in the figures of a tapestry opposite her.

  Brent did not yet dare to touch the hand held out to him. “Am I really to be your page, my lord? I may see your black stallion and meet your guard and touch your sword and…”

  “Aye, all that and more.” Ranulf’s eyes twinkled. “We go to supper now, but as soon as we are finished, you may come with us to the stables and see my horse.”

  The boy stood perfectly still, but somehow he gave the impression of jumping a few feet in joy. He grinned at Lyonene, turned and ran to a group of older boys on the other side of the hall. Within seconds, all the boys turned open-mouthed stares toward Ranulf.

  Lyonene whispered to her husband. “I have no doubt he tells them you eat three boys a day and he is chosen to help you in your gruesome slaughter.”

  Ranulf stood and held his arm for her. When she stood beside him, he gave her the same intense look of a moment before. “I am more concerned with your interest in the black hair that covers my body. Mayhaps you can demonstrate some of this interest to me.”

  “Mayhaps,” she said, looking at him with half-closed eyes.

  He pulled her arm closer to his body, as if he were afraid she might vanish. “Come, we must show the boy to Tighe, but later, Lioness,” he murmured, kissing her hand, “later.”

  Lyonene woke first the next morning and, donning her green robe, went to stoke the fire into life. Ranulf still slept as she looked down at him, the care lines in his face smooth in his sleep. She touched a sable curl as it curved toward his eye. His hand caught her wrist and she gasped in surprise.

  “Come to me, Lioness.” His voice was a commanding growl.

  She eagerly sought him, cursing the coverlet and robe that separated them. His lips did not tease this morn but demanded, and he pushed her beside him, his weight pressing her into the feather mattresses. Her arms tightened about him and she greedily returned his kiss.

  A knock sounded at the door, and the oath Ranulf uttered was so vile that it caused her to shudder. He did not seem to notice her trembling as he bellowed for the person to enter. A white-faced Brent carried a heavy pitcher of hot water.

  “I brought washing water, my lord.” His voice quivered.

  Lyonene saw the black scowl on her husband’s face and plunged a sharp elbow into his ribs. He grunted and turned the scowl on her. She gave him a sweet smile. “Your page has brought you washing water and means to help his lord dress for the procession to the lists.” She kissed the corner of his mouth, which was a hard, grim line. He immediately grabbed her and threatened to push her back on the bed.

  “Ranulf!” she cried and pushed against his chest. He seemed to recover himself, released her and stepped from the bed, wrapping the loincloth about his hips.

  Brent stopped before Ranulf and stared up at him in awe.

  “You are the Black Lion all over!” He did not understand the laughter he caused from his lord and lady, for he did not know that those were the very words said by Lyonene when she first saw an unclothed Ranulf.

  It was a while before Ranulf was readied for the procession, this day wearing the silver-coated mail that was used only for ceremony. Lyonene had to give Brent a hand in lifting the mail and, although the boy was not yet a squire, Ranulf allowed him to help.

  “I will see to the horses, and I will return for you in one hour. See that I am not kept waiting.”

  She tossed her hair. “I am not in the habit of causing you delay.”

  “Do not play the Lioness with me. Come here and kiss your knight.”

  He lifted her from the floor with one arm as he quickly kissed her, nearly crushing her ribs. He dropped her abruptly and winked at the staring Brent. “See you how to kiss women; let them know they kiss a man.”

  Little Brent nodded solemnly, as if he’d just learned an important lesson.

  “Come, Brent, we have had enough lessons on women this day,” he said, hastily ushering the boy from the room and giving Lyonene a broad grin before she slammed the door on him.

  She had arranged for a maid to help her dress for the procession and was careful with each fold of her green silk tunic, velvet surcoat and green, sab
le-lined mantle. Most of the women wore their husband’s colors or the colors of their liege lord, but too often they made the garments too gaudy for Lyonene’s taste. The maid sewed Lyonene’s tight silk sleeves in place. Many of the other women made their sleeves so that the top of the forearm was one color and the underside another color; then the rest of the tunic would be a third color. Lyonene thought the resulting multicolored costumes obliterated all color.

  The maid made tiny braids at Lyonene’s temple and loosely tied them in back with several green silk ribbons. She had liked Berengaria’s hair arrangement and hoped her friend did not mind her copying it. She opened a little box in the bottom of the trunk to assure herself that the ribbon was still there. It was a copy of the lion belt and she would present it to Ranulf at the joust, to wear on his helm. She had loved making every stitch of the black and gold lions.

  The maid scurried from the room as Ranulf entered. He stopped and stared at his wife.

  “Do I please you, my lord?” she curtsied.

  “You wear the colors of Malvoisin.”

  “What other colors would the Countess of Malvoisin wear?” she asked haughtily.

  He sat on the unmade bed. “Turn so that I may look at you. Is not that tunic overtight?”

  “It is loose, see?” She made as to move the fabric and show him, but her maid had laced the silk too securely. She looked up at him and laughed, then shrugged her shoulders. “It is the fashion. I dare say Lady Elizabeth’s will be as tight.”

  “Elizabeth is not my wife and I care naught how many men gape at her.”

  “Do you think men will gape at my poor form?” she asked in mock innocence.

  He squinted at her. “Do you try to make me jealous?”

  “And if I do?”

  “Then I would say you should not. I fear I need no aid. Now come below, for we begin soon. I have obtained a black horse for you. You will not mind not riding a white one as the other ladies?”

  She knew she would get no compliment from him. She put her hand on his mail-covered forearm. “The wife of the Black Lion cannot ride a white horse; it would not fit with the rest of her men.”