“You may … wonder at my chaining so small a girl,” Edward continued, “but she has killed one of my guards, and you can see the wounds born by these men.”
Lyonene noticed the long furrows on the men’s faces where she had raked them with her nails.
Berengaria nudged her friend. “ ’Twere I in her place, I would act just so. I hear the Welsh do not think their David a traitor.”
“Her … name is Angharad, and I now offer her in … marriage to any knight worthy of the woman’s rank.”
At this the girl lifted her face and the crowd exclaimed at her beauty. The black hair framed a pretty face with a small nose and full lips, but her eyes were what was startling, for they were a brilliant, vibrant blue. They burned now as if from a fever, and her look of defiance and contempt was easily read.
Berengaria directed Lyonene’s attention to Lord Dacre, a few places from them. He stared at the girl open-mouthed, his eyes glazed as if there were no reason left in his brain. Lyonene nudged Ranulf so he could see his friend.
“Dacre has more sense than that,” he whispered under his breath.
Even as he spoke, Dacre threw back his chair, the loud sound it made as it struck the floor causing many of the guests to jump. He bounded across the table to the girl, startling her so that she could not react. He grabbed her to him, crushing the chained hands helplessly between their bodies as his lips came down on hers.
Dacre drew back with a cry of pain, and everyone could see the drop of blood on his lip.
“You will regret that lost blood in future, for I swear before God that someday you will love me more than your own life. You are mine!”
She screamed at him in a torrent of words of the Welsh language. The silent diners gasped when she spit on him. Dacre but grinned at her and rubbed his wet cheek against hers. She tried to move her arms, but could not.
Dacre turned to his king. “I claim her now, and if a priest is not come soon, I bed her unwed.”
The tension was broken as the crowd laughed.
King Edward nodded toward a man at a far table. “Stewart! Draw up the p … papers. There is no dowry, for her father lost all for his traitor’s deeds.”
Angharad lunged toward the king and he drew back, although Lord Dacre held her fast. “My father was no traitor!” Her words were oddly spoken as she struggled with a language foreign to her.
“Take her L… Lord Dacre, and I do not envy you. See that she does not kill you on your wedding night also.”
Dacre lifted her to his arms, her violent struggles effortless against the man’s strength. He smiled up at his king. “Have no fear for my life. She is but a woman who has not met a man. This night she will, and she will be tamed.”
The crowd broke into gales of laughter as Dacre took the struggling girl from the hall. All agreed that naught had ever so enlivened a meal before.
“What think you of your friend now?” a laughing Lyonene asked her husband.
“Dacre has ever had little sense about women.” He took her small hand and kissed it. “I have fought in two wars and I do not care for the constant battle. I wish for peace in my own bedchamber.”
“And you find our encounters … peaceful?”
The laugh rumbled in his throat. “Nay, my Lioness, I find your nearness aught but peaceful. ’Twere it not that I must participate in Edward’s games, I would join the sport Dacre enjoys this day.”
She felt her checks redden and looked to see who listened to his words. She returned her hand to her own lap. “Many will wonder at our actions and think we are but just married. After so long a time, we should by now be tired of each other and turn to lovers.”
His hand clenched her wrist, causing her pain. “Do not say such!”
“Ranulf, I do but jest. Do not hurt me. I will not look at any other man, I swear it. Can you not see I jest?”
He released her. “I am sorry I hurt you, but I cannot laugh at such things.”
“You will tell me someday who has hurt you so to give you such pain?”
He looked away, not answering.
They were silent for the rest of the meal, but by its end, Ranulf’s good humor was restored. She walked with him to his tent at the far end of the lists. Brent waited impatiently for his lord. Ranulf gave her a chaste kiss as she left to join Berengaria in the stands.
The lance casting came first. Gilbert de Clare, another earl, and a knight of Robert de Vere’s took the event.
Ranulf appeared in a short garment of the Malvoisin colors and demonstrated the longbow. It seemed to Lyonene that there were too many female exclamations of joy near her. Berengaria laughed at her friend’s intense frown. The crowd of serfs and free men were not restrained by the rules of chivalry, as the knights were, and their cheers at the speed and distance of the new longbow were thunderous, for Ranulf was among their favorite knights. He waved to them, enjoying their adoration.
After the exhibition, Lyonene joined Ranulf in his tent.
“You were pleased with my shooting?” he asked, grinning at her. “Brent is torn between his father’s words and his new lord. I think he will see my way, do you not?”
“I am sure he will, for have you not won me to your way of thinking?”
He pulled her to his lap, kissing her. “I am more pleased with winning you than my page. What say you we miss dinner and stay in my tent?” He muffled her protests with his lips, and she could aught but submit as his lips slowly worked their way down the side of her neck.
Their lovemaking was as passionate as if they had not been together for months instead of for just a few hours. Later, Lyonene and Ranulf lay together, their bare flesh moist and satisfied.
“You have bewitched me. How shall I win the joust on the morrow when my mind is ever on you?”
“I do not care if you enter or no. Stay all day with me and we will watch from the stands.”
He grabbed her shoulders and held her away from him, frowning into her eyes. “You would dishonor me. The Black Lion must fight or he will lose the men who follow him.” He dismissed the subject. “I wonder how Dacre fares with that new wife of his.”
“Did you think her pretty?”
“Beautiful.”
“More so than me?”
“By far. You are a slug compared to her.” He only laughed when she struck his chest.
Lyonene woke early the next day, and she slowly turned her head to look at Ranulf as he slept near her. One of his hands was tangled in her hair, another held her firmly by the waist. She smiled as she thought that even in sleep he would not loose her.
“You seem to plan some devilment this morn.”
“Nay, I but look at you.” She moved closer to him, putting her arms around his neck. “We will return home soon?”
“I think you grow as weary of court as I. What say you we leave early on the morrow.
She gave him a quick kiss. “I look forward to the journey.”
He pushed her down on the mattress and rolled on top her. “And what entertainment do you plan on the return? It could not equal the dance.”
She shot him a wicked look with her emerald eyes. Her hands ran down his body until she found what she sought. “Think you not?” she whispered before speech deserted them.
At the lists, Lyonene looked with trepidation at each of Ranulf’s opponents. Ranulf himself was splendidly clad in his silvered mail, with her ribbon, the copy of the lion belt, tied to his helm. Three charges with each man were allowed. The thundering of the horses’ hoofs, the splintering lances, the cheers and jeers of the crowd were overpowering. The man who so confidently sat astride the great black horse was a stranger to her. Gone was the smiling, teasing man she had spent so many hours of pleasure with and in his place was the intense, dark face of the king’s champion—the Black Lion. She did not wonder at the fear he instilled in so many men.
The jousting was not stopped for dinner; instead, servants brought food to the stands, and the spectators ate and drank heartily as they
cheered their favorites. Lyonene could not help her flush of pride that none of the Malvoisin men were bested.
The mercenary knights required large ransoms of the men they felled, and more than one poor knight made no little fortune on this day. Occasionally Lyonene spotted Brent, an exhilarated, tired, dirty boy.
Lady Aleen, Brent’s mother, came to express her appreciation that Lyonene had taken her burdensome son. She laughed as she recounted the boy’s tales of Lord Ranulf and told of his complete adoration of the knight.
It was late when the jousting ended. Lyonene and Berengaria laughed over the sight of several young girls who wore only their tunics, having torn their other apparel and cast it as favors to their favorite knights. Already the tents were being dismantled as the two women made their way back to the castle.
Lyonene heard the sound of water even as she opened the door to their bedchamber. Ranulf sat in a large tub of steaming water.
“Come and wash my back. I am glad I can now turn my mind to other matters.
“Do you not fear to wet your clothes? I did not think only of the sleeves.” He grinned at her.
It was but minutes before Lyonene found herself pressed to Ranulf inside the tub, the water flowing over the sides onto the floor. They laughed as they ran soapy fingers over one another, exploring sensuous places.
There were two very clean people who joined the other guests for the feast at the end of the tourney.
Edward’s chief falconer had brought several hawks into the hall, and after the first two courses the trumpets blared. A dozen enormous pies were brought from the kitchens, each pie taking two boys to carry it. As the pies were cut, live birds flew into the air, the flapping of their wings filling the hall. The clapping and cheers of the people added to the general confusion. As the hawks swooped down on the birds, the guests covered their heads, peeking through their arms at the slashing hawks.
Some time later, the birds were removed, but the excitement remained. Dancing girls were now brought in and the jesting became louder and cruder.
Too much wine made Lyonene’s head spin. She asked for water to dilute the intoxicating beverage.
“Hear, my L… Lord Ranulf, give your wife s … some water.” King Edward’s eyes twinkled as he handed a silver pitcher to his earl.
Ranulf hesitated for a moment, then grinned roguishly at his king. “I see your meaning. Mayhaps a little water will help.”
The watered wine did not seem at all weaker to Lyonene, but the dizziness was not unpleasant. She looked at Ranulf and seemed to forget the presence of other people. A quick movement caught her eye and she saw a knight grab one of the dancing women and tear her tunic away, burying his face in her too full breasts.
It seemed to Lyonene that all her senses were on fire. She raked her tongue across her teeth, enjoying the sharpness. Her fingers were tingling and they seemed more sensitive than they had ever been. She studied Ranulf’s profile and felt an incredible hunger to taste his skin beneath her mouth. She had never felt so strange.
“Warbrooke!” someone called above the general din. “See to your wife. I think our king’s ‘water’ has not quenched her thirst.”
Ranulf turned startled eyes to his wife and then a slow smile overtook him. He lifted her fingers to kiss them. He turned serious when she ran one finger firmly across his lips. He did not hesitate. He lifted her in his arms, ignoring the howls of laughter behind him, and carried her to their bedchamber.
Lyonene, later, did not remember too clearly all the events of that night. It seemed that they were instantly without clothes and on the bed. She remembered that she fought Ranulf and that he let her win. She satisfied herself at last by hungrily running her mouth over his entire body. When he sought to pull her to him, she pushed him away until she was ready for him.
She growled and laughed because she knew she had power over him, that she had bested the Black Lion as no other could. She ran her hands over his body, using her nails as she explored every inch of him.
Almost violently, he threw her down beside him. Their lovemaking was angry, turbulent, crashing waves of a raging storm, lightning causing fire as she ran her nails across his back, the inside of his thighs.
The storm abated with the same violence as it had begun. They rolled away from one another, not speaking, not touching, content, and slept.
Chapter Eleven
Lyonene tried to still her aching head the next morn, but Ranulf’s jests did not help. She looked away when he teased her for her actions during the night. Her stomach turned over several times when he pulled her from the bed and clasped her to him.
“Edward ever likes his tricks. He gave me white wine to use to dilute your red. I must thank him, for the results were…” He bit her earlobe. “There is not an inch of skin left on my back. How will I explain such wounds to my page?”
She could feel the hot blood flooding her face, and she refused to meet his laughing eyes.
“Mmm, my Lioness.” He buried his face in her neck. “I regret the time we have lost. I know you are not well, but are you too ill to begin the return journey to Malvoisin?”
In spite of her head and her stomach, she managed a timid smile. “Aye,” she whispered, “I am ready to return home.”
It was late in the day before they could begin the journey. Clothes, food, weapons, armor, tents had to be packed in wagons, Maude and the other two women from Malvoisin found and good-byes said. Lyonene regretted leaving Berengaria, and they exchanged promises to visit one another.
Brent gave one mournful look to his mother, and then even a hint of sadness left him as Ranulf led a solid-black pony into the courtyard and handed the reins to his new page. Henry de Lacy laughed and accused Ranulf of spoiling the boy, but Ranulf stated that all his men were treated with honor, as they deserved. Lyonene hid her smile at the solemn man-face on the six-year-old child.
A quick glance at the Black Guard showed Corbet and Sainneville to be in much worse shape than Lyonene. Ranulf heartily slapped both men on the back and asked if they did not think it a lovely day. He winked at Lyonene, who could not see the humor of the jest since her own stomach refused to remain still.
The return journey to Malvoisin was slow, taking a full week. They stayed at no castles, preferring to pitch their tents and spend the night with just a thin sheet of fabric separating them from the warm spring air. They often walked hand-in-hand among the trees, laughing, kissing, enjoying.
From the time they crossed the ferry to the Isle of Malvoisin, Lyonene felt a tense excitement. When the first sight of the pennants came into view, she and Ranulf exchanged looks and secret smiles, then spurred their horses ahead. They entered through the west barbican, as before, only this time Lyonene bent to touch the offered hands also.
There was only one blot on their joyous homecoming: the sight of a knight who glared at them, half-concealed by the stable walls. She remembered having seen him once before on guard duty. He gave her a smirking look, and she turned away quickly.
Ranulf swung Lyonene from her horse, his hands lingering on her tiny waist. He held her aloft a moment and they smiled into one another’s eyes.
“My lady, you are returned! I near died of fright every moment you were away.” Lucy waddled toward her mistress.
“Her fretting does not seem to have affected her appetite,” Ranulf whispered as they both saw that Lucy had added weight.
“And this baggage! It seems she helped you in your wicked plot.” She tossed her head back to the maid, Kate, who smiled nervously. Lyonene knew that for all Lucy’s words, she would never be mean to Kate or anyone else. The old woman turned to Ranulf for the first time. “You seem to have come to your senses,” she sniffed, eyeing the ease between them, the touches.
Ranulf did not smile but Lyonene could see the amusement in his eyes. “If you mean about this Lioness, I had no choice. She spent many hours working at ways to seduce me. A man can resist only so long.”
“Ranulf!” Lyonene gave him a h
orrified look.
Lucy looked from one to the other, serious. “I have told her to do so. A woman should not need to depend upon the infrequent thoughts of a man to get what she wants.”
Lyonene could not speak, she was so embarrassed.
Ranulf grinned then and took Lyonene’s hand and held it to his lips, his eyes never leaving Lucy’s. “She has gotten what she wants now. But it has not been easy for me—all day and all night.” He ignored Lyonene’s half-scream, holding her hand firmly to him.
Lucy grinned. “It certainly looks as if her wants have agreed with you.”
Lyonene gave a violent jerk to her hand and drew it from Ranulf’s. “I will not be discussed like a … tavern wench!” Her head held high, she marched to the front door of Black Hall. She had to use all her strength to keep from losing her slight composure when she heard Ranulf say something about, “…best tavern wench I’ve ever had…” and Lucy’s giggle of delight.
Brent, his excitement at the unusual castle no longer contained, burst past her. She was happy to show the boy all the beauties of Malvoisin, and experienced anew the wonder of glass windows, tapestries and carpets.
The day was spent in hearing reports of happenings in the near two months they had been away. William de Bec, the steward, reported problems at Lyonene’s dower castle, Gethen. It seemed a neighbor had decided to declare that a large portion of the estate belonged to him. Ranulf sent William and six garrison knights to report on the matter.
The days lengthened and ran together in a blur of happiness for Lyonene. She and Bassett, the gardener, worked together to fill the Queen’s Garden with roses, lilies, marigolds, poppies, daffodils and many herbs. Espaliered cherry, apple and peach trees covered the walls. On the warm nights, she and Ranulf often sat together by the tiled fountain and talked or sang.
Ranulf spent near two weeks tending to his other manors. When he returned, their reunion was joyous. They spent many hours together in the solar, drinking from one another’s cups, telling stories of their separate happenings.
The Black Lyon Page 17