The Black Lyon

by Jude Deveraux

  His eyes glowed as he looked down at her, and he touched the gold lion brooches that fastened her mantle, the emerald eyes matching hers. He kissed her cheek tenderly.

  The Black Guard waited below, and they were resplendent. They stood in order, ready for the procession to the lists. Hugo Fitz Waren rode first, his mail painted green, his tabard black with the rampant black lion on a green field. The Frisian and a black mare stood ready for Ranulf and Lyonene.

  When she stood before her horse, Ranulf took something from his saddle pommel. He removed the customary gold circlet from Lyonene’s head, tossing it to a castle servant. In its place he put a coronet—gold, with emeralds and black pearls. “A countess cannot appear as an ordinary lady,” he said, smiling at her.

  She pulled a green ribbon from her hair and tied it to his upper arm, the silk showing well against the gleaming silver.

  He lifted her onto the horse, and she adjusted her leg to fit the sidesaddle. Her hair spread about her, grazing the horse’s rump behind her.

  They slowly made their way to take their places in the long line of people. Hugo Fitz Waren held the black and green banner of Malvoisin aloft, the snarling lion vivid against the emerald ground. His black tabard swirled against the green serge trappings that covered his horse.

  Ranulf headed the double line that followed the chief of his Black Guard. Both his tabard and Tighe’s coverings were of the darkest black. Behind him rode Corbet, with green clothing and black horse drapes. The colors alternated down the line. Lyonene was totally clad in green as was her horse, with the men that followed her also alternating in color.

  Ahead of her and behind her waved the banners of the king and his earls. There was Lord Dacre’s blue and gold unicorn, Humphrey de Bohun’s six lioncels, Robert de Vere’s three crowns, John de Montfort’s sable markings—and the three leopards of Edmund, the king’s brother. The colors and the jewels sparkled, and the horses felt the excitement and pranced, threatening to overcome their riders.

  Lyonene thought of Brent and knew he rode with his father. She wished there had been time to sew him a garment of the Malvoisin colors.

  The great oak gate to the new castle walls was lowered, and the procession began. The noise of the waiting people drowned all thought as the riders slowly made their way to the lists. For weeks the people had been arriving: freemen, serfs whose masters attended the celebrations, women whose profession was to entertain, and merchants—hundreds of merchants.

  The lists themselves stood atop a small rise, and they were alive with banners and buntings. Two sets of raised benches had been built on either side of the barrier fence, one for the nobility and canopied in a red and white striped serge, the other for the ladies of the lesser knights who entered the contests, with its roof open to the spring sky. At each end of the long, narrow field were tents. One end held the tents of the challengers, the other the comers. Lyonene could see the pennant of the Black Lion among the challengers’ tents.

  Behind the wooden seats and the tents were the small tents and wagons of the merchants, the guild pennants easily discernible. Among the cheering crowd were many men with flat boxes strapped to them that held food, drink, cloth, saints’ relics, medicines guaranteed to cure all and ornaments from the world over.

  The fences threatened to break with the teeming masses that strained against them to see the richly clad men and women. As Hugo Fitz Waren entered the gate, his horse stepping onto the soft, sand-covered field, a cry went up for the Black Lion. Lyonene was especially pleased and smiled at the people, but a quick glance at Ranulf showed he did not acknowledge the cheer. In truth, he was more than a little formidable in his black attire, his back straight as a steel rod.

  The next group waited as the Earl of Malvoisin rode with his wife and his men around the edges of the jousting field. It seemed to Lyonene that the people cheered louder for them, but of course, she chided herself, that was her vain pride telling her so.

  They left the far gate and entered the tent grounds at the far end. This area too was enclosed, reserved for the use of the king’s chosen men only.

  There were three tents sporting the Malvoisin colors, two for his men and one for Ranulf. It was the largest tent that the Earl and Countess of Malvoisin now entered.

  Lyonene could not help the memories of her dance that filled her at the sight of the cream silk walls. Ranulf stopped his undressing to stare at her. Then a slow smile curved his lips. He began humming a tune from that night.

  Lyonene laughed. “I think you have forgiven me for hiding away and coming to Wales.”

  “I have said I would forgive you aught.”

  She did not like his smugness. “I should test that.”

  “Do not dare,” he growled and then saw she teased.

  Brent burst into the tent. “I come, my lord, to help you dress. Is it proper that a lady be present in a knight’s tent?”

  Lyonene narrowed her eyes at Brent’s back.

  “It is an honor, Brent,” Ranulf said to the boy. “No knight may go into battle, even mock battle, without his lady’s favor. Now, come and help me prepare for the wrestling. You may help apply the oil over my body.”

  Lyonene muttered something about pages having most delightful duties and turned away when Ranulf stared at her. She called out when she heard Berengaria’s voice, and her friend entered.

  “I have ever wanted to see this tent.” She fingered the silk of the walls. “Lord Ranulf, I think you take the wrestling this day.”

  “Aye. I have had Edward make eight gold cups, each set with emeralds for the prizes.”

  Berengaria raised her eyebrows to Lyonene, who smiled in answer.

  “My lord, is it an honor for two ladies to be present?” Brent’s voice was exasperated.

  Berengaria laughed. “He is a de Lacy, ever impatient and rude. You have taken on a monster, Lyonene. Come and let us find a seat and watch your husband’s triumph.

  “You may sit with my wife in the section for Malvoisin. I do not think you will find it difficult to see from there.”

  The two women left the tent. “How do we women bear such arrogance?” They looked at each other and laughed.

  Ranulf had been correct; green and black ropes sectioned off a good piece of the tiered benches. There was room for about a dozen people. Lyonene and Berengaria took their places on the front row. There would be a while before the wrestling began, so they purchased flawns, a kind of cheesecake, from a shouting merchant.

  The trumpets sounded and split the air; the people hushed in anticipation. The men began to come from both ends of the lists, dressed only in small white loincloths. Lord Dacre with his five men caused no little commotion—his body a light gold color, his chest lightly covered in fair hair.

  When Ranulf entered the field, followed by his seven dark men, Lyonene gripped Berengaria’s arm.

  Berengaria exclaimed, “I can see why you love the man—he is magnificent!”

  Lyonene smiled proudly.

  Favors from the women in the stands rained upon the field—flowers, ribbons, sleeves. Around her, Lyonene heard shouts of the names of the men of the Black Guard, especially those of Corbet and Maularde. Corbet acknowledged all shouts with thrown kisses and tossed all favors to a waiting servant. Maularde took only one ribbon tossed to him and smiled to someone behind Lyonene. She turned to see a young girl dimpling prettily at the guardsman’s attentions.

  Ranulf nodded to her, and she saw that her green ribbon was tied about his upper arm.

  “Travers would never allow such men near me. It would not be easy to choose one of them.”

  “But my Ranulf is by far the best, do you not agree?”

  “It is said that love is blind, but it is not so in your case.”

  Dacre did not wrestle against Ranulf as the Black Lion had hoped, for he had wished to best his friend, but the two earls and their men challenged all comers. First the men of the guard fought the comers. If any bested the king’s men, he went on to fight R
anulf or Lord Dacre.

  The matches began with Ranulf and Dacre looking on as five groups of men circled one another. Their oiled bodies glistened in the early sun and the cheers of the many people urged them on. One of Dacre’s men was thrown and held until a king’s official declared him bested. Lyonene saw Ranulf punch his friend heartily.

  The three men of the Black Guard easily won their matches, and Lyonene knew that the other men could not have been as trained in wrestling as her husband’s men were.

  The trumpets sounded again and eleven men entered to challenge the knights. Lord Dacre and Ranulf looked on again and saw the comer who had bested Dacre’s man easily felled by Sainneville.

  The second round was won also, and Lyonene could see the smugness on Ranulf and Dacre’s faces, their mock yawns.

  The trumpets sounded again and the field cleared, but there were no new comers. Ranulf and his friend stood straighter as the trumpets blared again and again. The gates at the far end slowly opened, and two covered litters were carried into the midst of the lists.

  A hush fell on the crowd as every eye went to those litters, their contents secret. Two men ran from behind and blew more horns, and the serge of the litters fell back, the dark interiors revealing nothing. The men shouldering the carriages lowered them and two men stepped from them—enormous men, powerful men, their heads and bodies completely shaved and oiled to a slick sheen. The litters were quickly taken away, and the two men stood with legs apart, hands on hips. “We are from Angilliam, the brothers Ross, and we challenge Lord Dacre and Lord Ranulf to a fight until one cries, ‘Peace.’”

  The cry from the crowd was deafening, a roar that vibrated the benches. Berengaria laughed and clapped her hands, then looked toward Lyonene’s pleased smile.

  “You seem confident of the outcome of this match.”

  “Ranulf will win, but he will need to work hard to win. I am glad he does not receive his gold cups without effort.”

  “Oh, I trust he will make an effort to win from those men.”

  They watched as Ranulf circled the enormous man, and Lyonene was pleased to see that her husband equaled him in size. The first hold brought Ranulf to his back with a loud thud. She saw his muscles strain as he pushed the man from him, their legs locked together, Ranulf’s darker skin prominent. They broke their holds and circled again, but this time Ranulf got in the first grip. Ranulf’s arm encircled the man’s neck and she saw Ranulf’s back as the strong man freed himself.

  Their muscles strained as they pushed, each taking a hold or using his massive strength to break the other’s hold. They stood and locked arms, their legs pulling-pushing, expanding, as their bodies wrestled together. There were whole minutes when neither moved, and had it not been for the expanded cords in their necks, the knotted muscles in their backs, one would have thought they but rested.

  “The man Ross is tiring,” Berengaria said. “His legs begin to quiver, but your Ranulf’s do not. He must be trained well for this match.”

  She merely smiled, for all her attention was on her husband and she could only guess at the pain he felt at this long, long match.

  They broke the hold and the crowd cheered, for the bald man showed visible signs of weariness and Ranulf took advantage and attacked.

  “Lord Dacre does well, also, though his brother Ross is smaller than the one who fights Lord Ranulf.”

  The two men continued to strain against one another until Ranulf brought the man down with an ankle locked about his opponent’s calf. The man could not break the fierce hold. The cry of “Lion” filled the air when the man cried, “Peace.” Ranulf stood and solemnly helped the bald man to stand beside him. He left the field and Ranulf stood in triumph. It was but a moment before Lord Dacre joined him, and together they strutted around the field.

  Ranulf paused before Lyonene, and she kissed a ribbon and threw it to him. He caught it in the air and kissed it as he looked at her, a look that made her blush. He looped it and stuffed it into the side of his loincloth, the ends hanging down his hip and thigh. He gave her a one-sided grin, almost a leer. She covered her face with her hands as the crowd, and the men and women around her, cheered his gesture. She did not look up again until he was gone from the lists.

  “You may show your face again, for he is gone and the trumpets sound for dinner.”

  They joined the line that began to leave the tourney grounds.

  “My lady. My Lady Lyonene.” She turned to a breathless, starry-eyed Brent. “Is he not the strongest knight? Did you see him?”

  “Aye, I did.” She did not know her expression matched his.

  “He bids you come to him, to his tent, for he dines there. He says he must not dress yet; there may be more men such as the brothers Ross to fight.” His face fell. “I must dine with my father.”

  Berengaria laughed. “I fear our father is a poor substitute for the Black Lion. Come along, Brent, mayhaps you can make do with my poor Travers.”

  Lyonene hurried to Ranulf’s tent. She did not see him at first, he lay so still on the cot.

  “Lyonene?” he whispered.

  She hurried to him. “Ranulf! You are hurt!”

  “I am more than hurt, I am dying,” came his muffled reply. “There is naught of me that does not pain me. Neither of the ax wounds in my arm and leg, nor both together, caused me so much pain.”

  She stroked his sweat-dampened hair, laughter in her voice. “But Brent has said you ready yourself to fight other men, men, of course, more fierce than the little one just finished.” She laughed at his groan.

  “You are cruel. What would the boy say of me ’twere he to see me like this?”

  “At least you do not think I needs must be impressed.” She tugged on the green ribbon that hung from his loincloth and his hand instantly covered hers, but not without his groaning in pain.

  “That is mine; I won it and do not make me need to wrestle you to keep it.”

  “Hmph! You could not even whip me now.”

  His arm encircled her waist, and amid squeals of laughter, he pulled her down beside him on the cot. He threw one heavy leg across her thighs and an arm across her breasts, his face snuggled near her ear. “You delight in causing me pain. First I must strut before my page and then I must prove again my strength to my wife. Lie still and do not plague me.”

  She did as he bid and was content with his nearness.

  “Good morn, your lordship.” Brent greeted them below stairs, the next morning, his face solemn.

  Ranulf frowned at the boy. “I seem to be somewhat weary this morn. Mayhaps you would oblige me and rid me of this burden until we are at the lists.” He unbuckled the long sword that hung in front of him.

  Lyonene thought the boy’s eyelids might turn inside out, so wide did he open them.

  “Oh, my lord,” he whispered. “This is the sword you used to kill the infidels in the Holy Lands?”

  “Aye, it is.”

  “And what is its name?”

  “Challouns. It is written here,” he said, pointing, “on the blade. There is a splinter of the true cross in the glass ball on the hilt, and this emerald is said to come from King Arthur’s crown.”

  Brent reverently held the sword before him, his head back and his arms lifted.

  Lyonene and Ranulf followed, and she squeezed his arm. “You are most kind to the boy. I can see why he near worships you. My father has never spent so much time with his pages, or even his squires.”

  “I like children.” He looked pointedly at her stomach. “Mayhaps you could give me a few.”

  “I shall fill every nook at Malvoisin with lion cubs.”

  He grinned mischievously. “If I but last through the nights required of me.”

  She tossed her hair and refused to answer him, which made him laugh and kiss her cheek.

  At the lists, the benches were already full and several of the Black Guard occupied the section set aside for the Earl of Malvoisin; they rose until Lyonene was seated. She spoke to each of
the four men and congratulated them on their win at wrestling the day before. Corbet and Maularde sat apart, each beside a pretty girl. To her surprise, Hugo Fitz Waren did also. She nudged Ranulf.

  “Hugo is so solemn, I did not think him to be…”

  Ranulf’s eyes sparkled. “None of my men find it difficult to have a woman. They are most honored to be of the Black Guard. For all the bragging of the others, Hugo has many women who work to bind him to them.”

  She sat near Ranulf, their thighs and arms pressed close. “As I have bound you to me?”

  He pushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “Aye, as you have done so to me.”

  The blaring of the trumpets turned their attention to the sand-covered field. The jumping events occupied the morn—jumping high hurdles and across long distances. Lord Dacre’s men took one of these events.

  The trumpets again sounded to announce that dinner was served. For this meal, Berengaria sat at Lyonene’s left and Ranulf at her right. They were pleasantly entertained by three young girls who played and sang.

  King Edward stood, and the room was silent. “I have an announcement … this day. We strove to conquer Llewellyn and did so, yet all … know the story of his traitor brother, David. When David was … captured, his family was taken to Rhuddlan Castle. There were two sons and s … seven daughters. The sons, twins of three years, have been g … given to my knights to raise. The … daughters and wife all asked to go to nunneries. The … wife and four of the daughters I have allowed to do so… Now I have tried to wed the other three. One killed herself.”

  The crowd gasped at the horror of this mortal sin.

  “The other daughter I married to Sir John of Bohum. Some of you may have … known him. The girl killed him on their … wedding night and then herself.”

  The hall was totally silent, each face a mask of horror. “

  Now I try to … keep the last daughter from a wasted life.” He motioned to a man near the door, and everyone turned to watch.

  Two enormous, mail-clad men came into the room with the sounds of a dragging chain behind them. The girl was almost too small to be seen at first. Her head was down, face hidden, but her black hair cascaded over her blue velvet surcoat.