The Black Lyon

by Jude Deveraux

  “You have journeyed far to ask me this one question? Could you not have sent another messenger?”

  “Do not give me more questions, but answer me.”

  She looked down at her hands. “I did not think you cared for my answer. I am well, as you see, and am carrying your child. William runs your castle quite well.”

  “Lyonene! What has made you as this? I am tired. I have ridden all night and all this day without stop to come to you, and now you greet me coldly.”

  “ ’Tis not I who is cold.”

  He pulled the mail coif from over his head and bent to douse his face and hair in the little stream. “I understand naught of this. Have my letters displeased you? I am not used to writing such letters. Geoffrey says I am clumsy with a pen, though my studies have pleased my teachers.” He leaned back against a tree, the heavy armor dragging at him. “I did not mean to give offense, however I did so.”

  Lyonene could not hold her tears. Ranulf was usually so sure of himself. She remembered the last time they had been together in this glade, how he had boasted, how pleased he was at his child.

  “The babe does not trouble you?”

  She kept her head lowered so he could not see her tears and shook her head.

  “Has my blackness grown uglier while I was away that you can bear me no longer?”

  She again only shook her head.

  “By all that’s holy, Lyonene, look at me!” he shouted. “I leave a wife who laughs, one who kisses me, and in a month I return to one who hates me afresh.”

  Tears blurred her vision, choked her words. “I do not hate you.”

  “Then why do you send me flowers and a few days later naught but a few short words delivered by a nervous boy?”

  “You came just to see why I did such? Just for those few short words?”

  The pain she saw in his eyes made her heart tighten as if steel bands bound it. “Nay,” he said, seriously, “it was but an excuse. I came because I thought my Lioness awaited me with kisses and open arms. I tire of angry words and battle.” He held out his hand to her, palm upward, and before she thought, she was in his arms, the iron mail cutting into her soft flesh.

  She cried against him, tears running along his neck.

  “You rust my mail,” he teased. “Had I known I got but tears for my journey, I would have stayed with Maularde. Can you not spare me one kiss?”

  She put one hand on each side of his face and kissed him with a violence she had not known she possessed. He pulled her closer to him, deepening the kiss, lips crushed in one another, their stored desires released in a passion of liquid fire.

  He pulled back from her. “You do indeed remember me?”

  “Nay, I know you not. You are a great black beast of a man come to make love to me.”

  He ran his lips along her neck. “You would have me as I am, for I fear that even I quell at the stench I have worked up?”

  “Aye, I will have you no matter your smell or your treachery.”

  “What is this you speak of?”

  “Do you mean to waste so much time in talk?” She began unbuckling the heavy sword belt.

  “Nay,” he chuckled. “I need no more words.”

  A month apart had raised their desires for one another to fever pitch. They were frantic, clumsy, as they tore their clothes from their bodies. Ranulf, dressed for war, was slower, the iron mail difficult to remove. When Lyonene stood nude before him, the filtered sunlight showing golden on her skin, he paused, and she ran to him. The cold, iron mail bit into her flesh, pinching, nipping, but the slight pain only increased her need for him.

  “Nay, do not remove it, come to me.”

  She pulled him to her on the velvety ground, relishing in the contrast of his warm, sweet-dampened skin against her legs and the massive hardness, coldness, the total maleness of the iron against her soft breasts.

  They came together almost violently, Lyonene crying out at the first moments of painful pleasure. Her hips rose to meet his need of her and they soared together to new heights of fury, of storm-tossed seas and a bursting of lights of fulfillment.

  They lay together, locked tightly to one another, their hearts thundering, complete in the dewy aftermoments of their love. Ranulf rolled from her, but kept her to him with one leg over her thighs, his hand caressing her cheek, his eyes soft and happy.

  “I think you please me more than I remember.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” she smiled up at him. “I would but please a man as powerful as the Black Lion is at this moment.”

  “You give me overmuch credit. I fear the Black Lion has no power at this moment.”

  “You are wrong, for the stench of you may lay me low.”

  Ranulf grinned at her. “A wench who would have me come to her clad in iron is not a lady of delicate sensibilities.”

  She put her arms around his neck and pulled him to her in a fierce hug. “Nay, I fear I am not a lady when I am near you.” She pulled back and kissed him. “I will help you remove this heavy thing and then we may return home. Mayhaps I will share a tub of hot water with you.”

  “A delightful prospect.”

  She helped to pull the mail from him, and he pulled her close to him. “You have not told me the cause for your anger at me. Do not say you felt no anger, for I have come to know you.”

  “Nay, it matters not my reasons. The anger and the reasons are at an end now. You are with me and naught else matters.”

  “I have become as an old woman since I took you to wife and fret overmuch on too many things. I do not feel your troubles are at an end and will not be unless you tell me the causes. Am I so formidable a husband that I am not worthy of your trust?”

  “Nay, it is not your trust in me that plagues me, but mine in you. Do not question me more. It is gone now and we are together. I ask for no more.”

  He kissed her forehead, not really sure of her answer, but helpless to learn more. He held her at arms’ length, studying her body. There was a little more fullness in her breasts, her stomach harder, only slightly rounder. He ran his hands over her, impersonally.

  “I hope I meet with your approval and you make your purchase.”

  He ignored her. “I thought women were ill when they carried children. You do not seem affected by my son.”

  She shrugged. “I believe some women are. I am glad not to be ill. My husband causes me enough worry without his son adding to it.”

  “I am a sweet-tempered man and never give you cause for concern.”

  “Aye, it is me that creates my own troubles.”

  He frowned at her, her acquiescence more alarming than her anger. He held her against his chest, almost frightened by her strange words. “I will listen, whatever your troubles.” His grip on her tightened until she could not breathe. “There is no other man you desire?”

  She hit him with all her might, with her fist, just under his ribs. “You have a meager brain and I will not glory your question with an answer. Now dress yourself so we may return home.” As he turned away smugly, she could not resist a jibe. “There could be no other man, for you took all the most handsome when you took your guard.” His hand gripping her wrist caused such pain as to bring tears to her eyes. “Ranulf, you hurt me! I do but jest. I want no other man. Release me, you great oaf!”

  He let her wrist go and then smiled at her, as if ashamed. “I fear there are some jests I cannot see humor in. I have told you I will never share you.”

  Her eyes blazed intensely. “And what of you, my husband, am I to share you?” Her voice was serious, almost a whisper.

  He seemed startled, her question surprising him. “I have not thought of it. I think it is different with a man than a woman.”

  “Are my feelings of hurt and jealousy less than yours because you are a man?”

  “Nay, I cannot answer. I have never considered the idea ere now.” He was serious, his brow creased as he concentrated. “All men go to war and there are always women. I do not think it would be the sam
e.”

  “All women must wait while their husbands are at war and there are always men.”

  “It would matter to you that I had other women?”

  “Think you could bear another man’s hands on me? Nay, do not bruise me again, I but use words. I, also, do not like to think of another woman touching you.”

  He picked her up then, his arms about her waist, lifting her and holding her above his head. “I have heard that lions take only one mate; mayhaps I am a true lion. Your words are new to me and, in truth, the idea had never crossed my mind. Even King Edward … nay, I will spread no court gossip. I will think on this novel idea. Now I grow hungry. Can we not find that ugly animal you ride and return home?”

  “Loriage is beautiful! You are but jealous that he is docile for me and no other.”

  “Your words ring true. I hate all men near you, be they horse or even bird. Why could you not be as other females and ride a dappled mare?”

  “If I were as other women you would not have me. I am the only woman who neither fears you nor dotes on you. You have been overly spoiled in your life. I wonder what your mother could have been like to rear such as you.”

  “My mother was a lady, quiet and gentle, not unlike your own mother. I saw Lady Melite shudder more than once at your wayward behavior.”

  “I was never wayward!” she declared as he helped her into Loriage’s saddle. “It was your fawning over me. I could not help teasing a man who looked at me with such great, liquid eyes.”

  “ ’Twere I not exceedingly hungry, I would make you regret those words.” His arm flashed out and encircled her, pulling her onto Tighe’s back in front of him. “I think I may yet. Now try to play the lady for a few moments.”

  “Being a lady does not get me such rewards as being mauled by a handsome knight.” She wiggled her behind against him.

  “You are the mauler, I am…”

  “Spare me. You are ever kind and sweet-tempered, I have heard before. Tell me how you came by the name of the Spawn of the Devil, then?”

  He ran his teeth along her neck and the beginning of her shoulder, causing chills along her spine. “It was not from being led about by an insolent bit of a girl.” His arms tightened about her. “I have always been content wherever I was, but now I find I cannot bear to be far away from you. You are like food or drink to me, a thing I must have to live. You do not know how your anger made me feel. You will send no more ugly messages through my boy?”

  “Aye, I think I will, for it has brought you to me as no sweetly written words could have.”

  “You have no respect for the duties of your husband.”

  She lifted his hand from her waist and kissed it. “A husband has other duties besides war.”

  They rode together to the towering, gray walls of Malvoisin, content and happy at being together again. As hot water was brought to their chamber, the sky outside darkened and it began to rain. A small fire was lit against the chill.

  Lyonene bathed Ranulf, with both of them laughing and enjoying their loveplay. Only one moment marred Lyonene’s happiness.

  “What has become of our Frankish guest? Do not tell me you gave rein to your anger and slipped a dagger into her? Although I vow there were times when I wished someone had.”

  “And what times do you speak of? You know her but a few days. She could not have made her character so well known to you in so short a time.”

  Ranulf looked away from his wife’s intense stare. “I have come to know of the woman, but let us not waste our few hours with talk of her. For whatever reason, I am glad she is not here.”

  Lyonene did not wish to pursue the subject further either, for Ranulf’s manner showed he concealed something, and in this pleasant moment she did not wish to break the spell with talk of what had destroyed her peace for the month past.

  “When must you return to your men and your siege?”

  Ranulf stepped from the tub, nude, wet, his skin glowing in the golden firelight. He pulled her to him, the water from him wetting her clothes to the skin. He kissed her and she moved closer to him. “You are a grand substitute for a towel,” he murmured. “I leave on the morrow. Ssh,” he said, putting a finger to her lips. “Do not protest and make the leaving more difficult for me. I am not a man to leave my men to fight my causes alone. We have this night together and it is a long while till morn. Let us make the best use of our time. And do remove those wet clothes! You drip on my floor.”

  She grinned at him and began to peel the wet clothes from her body. They made love slowly, lingeringly, not hurrying as before, but exploring and searching one another’s body.

  Lyonene was exhausted from the tension of the past month, and the release from worry, from her concern for Ranulf’s wandering affections, gave her a blissful, peaceful sleep. When Ranulf began to move from her, she clutched at him in her sleep. He sighed with pleasure and held her to him.

  “Can you know how much I love you, little Lioness?” he whispered to her sleeping form. “Can you know the longing I feel when I am away from you?” He kissed her forehead and slept, his arms tightly holding his wife to him.

  Lyonene awoke first and opened her eyes to gaze on Ranulf’s sleeping face. The sooty lashes were almost like a girl’s, his lips soft and sweet. She moved a bit and kissed the thin scar along his cheek and he woke. He smiled into her eyes, one hand tenderly brushing a fat strand of hair from her face.

  “I am happy to see you again,” she said quietly. “I began to doubt you remembered me.”

  “I did forget at times, but a few things were there to remind me of you.”

  “And what were they, my lord?”

  “The sun, the moon, wind, grass, small things only.”

  She laughed and moved nearer to him. “I would that you did not return to your battle. I am afraid somehow.”

  “There is no danger, but fear of a drunk hurling a wooden cask at my head.”

  “Nay. I do not jest, and it is not the battle I fear, but else.”

  “You should fear the wrath of the Black Lion do you but talk his time away. Can you find no better way to send your knight into battle?”

  She turned in his arms and for a while her fears were forgotten, but later they haunted her again as she watched Hodder help his master dress in his heavy chain mail.

  “Do not look at me as if ’twere the last time. Go and tell Dawkin to prepare some food to carry back with me.”

  While she was gone, Ranulf’s eye caught a faint glow of something in a dark corner. He bent to retrieve it and saw it was the ribbon Lyonene had sewn to resemble her beloved belt. He frowned at it, not understanding how it could have gotten there, for he had last seen it in his own tent, far away at Gethen Castle. There was something that worried her and she refused to tell him its nature, but he knew the ribbon was connected with her troubles. He sighed and slipped the ribbon into the pouch at his waist. When she trusted him, she would confide her fears to him. Until then he must wait, for he guessed that anything less than torture would not force her to answer his questions.

  Lyonene did not cry when he rode away, his guard following, but stood silently in the courtyard. She had a heavy feeling in her breast, as if a weight pressed upon it. She sat alone in the garden for a time, trying to rid herself of the ugly feeling but could not.

  A week passed quietly and Lyonene almost forgot her fears. But noise below stairs one day set her heart racing. The solar door burst open and Kate pushed through.

  “My Lady Lyonene, forgive me, but she has caused a great ruckus. She says she must see you at once.”

  “Send her in.” Neither Lyonene nor her maid felt they needed to explain exactly who “she” was.

  Amicia came into the room slowly, looking about regally, as if appraising the beautiful proportions, the tapestries, the ornaments. She was, if possible, even thinner than before.

  “It is as I remembered.”

  “No greeting, Amicia?”

  Amicia smiled. “It is Lady Amicia, I t
hink you recall. Nay, no greeting. The Countess of Malvoisin need give no greeting to barons’ daughters.”

  “You have me guessing at your riddle, for I am both countess and the daughter of a baron.”

  “Such daughter you will always be, but I am not sure you hold your title as well.”

  Lyonene felt her anger rising. “Do not hide your meaning, but speak your words clearly. You have something to say to me, so get it done and be gone.”

  “Lady Lyonene, you betray your fear of me. I have news to give to you and would that we could have a peace between us.”

  “There can be no peace between us. What news do you bring?” Lyonene’s face lost color. “Ranulf! Has aught happened to my husband?”

  “Nay.” Amicia ran her hand across the mantel. “He is well, most well and vigorous when I saw him last. Your concern shows on your face. Do you love him well then?”

  “What I feel for my husband is my own concern. If you have naught else to say, then leave me.”

  “Nay, my lady, I have much to say. The love you bear your husband concerns me greatly, for it is a love we share.”

  “I will not begin this afresh. I believed your lies once, but now I do not. Go from my sight.” Lyonene rose in anger.

  “You will hear me, for your life may depend upon it.” Amicia’s voice was deadly. “Aye. Your very life may center upon my words.”

  Lyonene sat down again, unconvinced, but feeling the woman capable of anything. “Have your say quickly and be gone.”

  “Lord Ranulf has shown himself to be a fickle man, I believe, when it comes to women. Look at how he betrothed himself to you after but one day’s meeting with you. I have given you warnings which you heeded not and now you must pay for your disbelief, and most of all for your treatment of me.” Her pale eyes glinted like a snake’s. “As Ranulf de Warbrooke chose you in haste, so he will discard you in like haste.”

  “I believe not a word of your sayings. My husband has but left me not a week past. His behavior did not point to his tiring of me.”

  “You see, I know Ranulf as you do not. I know he needs women, many women, and I am willing to accept such behavior. Are you, Lady Lyonene?”