The Black Lyon

by Jude Deveraux

  The door to the little cabin unlocked. “I have brought you food and wine.” Sir Morell paused, a frown creasing his brow. “Do not tell me you are given over to the sickness of the sea?”

  Lyonene could only look at him, her stomach moving in waves of revulsion. The contents of her stomach rose in her throat, and she swallowed to keep it down, her hand covering her mouth.

  Morell’s eyes turned hard, his mouth ugly as he glared at her. He angrily threw the charger onto the table, the wine upsetting and spilling, the smell of it sending new shudders through Lyonene.

  “Amicia!” Morell threw open the door and bellowed.

  Even through her pain and her ardent attempts at controlling her nausea, Lyonene was surprised, for she had not known the Frankish woman sailed with them. She was too ill to think more on the puzzle.

  “How may I be of service to you, my sweet knight?” Amicia ran her hand across Sir Morell’s leather-covered chest.

  “You may care for that sick woman you brought with you.”

  “Sick! She is not ill. It is not the babe too soon?”

  “Nay, it is but the motion of the ship. I had other plans for her than seeing her toss her stomach into a pot. Part of the plan was that I have her.”

  Amicia cast a worried look past Morell to Lyonene, who lay curled almost into a ball on the bed. “We have a way to go yet, and I would keep our secret from her. She will be more docile if she knows naught of us. You will have her, soon, I swear. It takes twelve days to reach Ireland. This sickness will last but a few of them. Do not be so greedy.”

  Amicia ran her hands across Morell’s shoulders, her arms going about his neck. “I do not see why the woman interests you so. There is naught she can give you that I cannot. Come and let me show you.”

  He pulled her arms from his neck. “I do not like my women so well-used. Now see you to her and see that she is recovered quickly, or I shall lock you in your cabin and allow none of my crew near you, for opposite reasons than I lock away this lady.”

  “You insult me and ask me to care for the woman you plan to bed, in the same breath?”

  “Nay. I do not ask. No man should ask aught of such a woman as you. Now do as I say or I shall carry out my threats.” He roughly pushed her toward the huddled figure of Lyonene and quickly left the room, his revulsion of the sick woman obvious.

  Lyonene could not remember much of the next few days, but she was aware of hands pushing at her, words that cursed her and, above all, a stomach that pained her greatly. Food was forced down her throat, and she felt it rise again almost instantly. Then there were more curses, sharp slaps on her hands and arms, a harsh cloth wiped across her soiled mouth.

  She awoke one day, sane again, thinner and very weak, her head hurting. It took a few moments to remember where she was and why she was there. “Ranulf,” she whispered as she thought of the husband that she would never know again.

  The whispered word came from a dry, parched throat and she looked about for some water. An aquamanile stood on the other side of the cabin. What had once seemed a tiny space now loomed enormous before her. She sat up slowly, her weakness making her head spin. The front of her tunic was soiled, encrusted with days of sickness. She sneered in revulsion at the filth, but was not strong enough to consider changing the gown. Her only thought was to slake her burning thirst.

  She swung her legs over the bunk and put her bare feet on the oak floor. Supporting herself from one object to another, she slowly made her way to the pitcher of water. She was triumphant as her shaking fingers touched the handle and found it cool to touch, moist to her dry fingertips. She pulled it to her with difficulty, but knew it was empty before she brought it before her eyes. She turned it up over her tongue, one drop doing nothing to relieve the pain.

  A burst of laughter, almost beside her, made her laboriously turn to the door. It was not quite closed and the laughter came from somewhere outside it. Maybe someone would give her a drink. She clumsily put the pitcher back on the shelf and made her way to the door, her feet scuffling, arms almost giving way once in their support of her.

  The door swung open easily and she walked the few feet to the doorway next to her cabin. Light shone from within, and she could see two people sitting around a table, the coveted mugs of liquid in their hands. She watched greedily as Amicia drank from a sweat-coated vessel. She lifted her hand to push the partially opened door wider.

  “To the Lady Lyonene!”

  The sound of her name stopped her, and she blinked rapidly to clear her thirst-crazed mind. She recognized Sir Morell as the speaker.

  “To a plan of such perfection that we have been able to snatch the wife of the Earl of Malvoisin from beneath the husband’s nose. No other man has penetrated the barriers of that guarded island.”

  “Do not forget to include woman in that, my good sir, for I do not believe you were alone in the execution of the plan.”

  “Ah, but Amicia, you were but an instrument. It was I who watched her for months, I who planned every step. The day I saw her atop that hill outside his tent, I could not believe our good fortune!”

  “She was an easy mark. She is so lovesick for the man I knew she could not bear the idea of another woman near him.” Amicia took a sip of ale. “I can see why she favors the man. I have heard her cries at night.”

  “And you wished much to experience the joys she found, also, did you not? When he repulsed you so readily, I knew I had found a partner for the drama I planned.”

  Amicia threw him an ugly look. “Now that we have her, what do we do with her?”

  “That is arranged. I have a friend in Ireland, a widow who would do much for me. I will take her to my friend and there the little countess shall await her husband’s ransom. It will take him months, if not years, to collect what I will ask.”

  “And what do you plan for her in the years it takes?” Amicia’s voice had a hint of laughter.

  “This illness of hers plagues me much. I grew up always surrounded by illness and cannot abide it now. I do not see why she is not recovered from this sickness yet. We are but four days from Ireland. Do you add something to her food to prolong her sickness?” He grabbed the front of Amicia’s surcoat.

  She easily brushed him aside. “Food! The woman keeps naught down but heaves it up again. It may be the child that causes this, although I have not heard of her having pain from it before.”

  “That is another point. Although the child will bring a higher price in ransom, I will regret the loss of time when she will not share my bed.”

  “You are too womanish in your ways. Why should a swollen belly keep you from what you have risked your life for?”

  “You disgust me, Amicia. I have no desire to flounder about on top another man’s leavings. When she is free of her burden, she will be mine, but do not think on it. She will be well again soon, and there is time before she grows shapeless.”

  Amicia raised her mug to him. “I hope she is worth all the effort you have given to having her.”

  They both drank deeply.

  “Now, go back and see to her. You have been away long. See if you can get some food to stay down her.”

  Amicia reached for the pitcher and refilled her mug. “There is time. I do but watch her toss about and moan. She does not even heave now, but just lays there, calling his name o’er and o’er.”

  Morell frowned and refilled his cup.

  Lyonene leaned back against the wall, her heart pounding weakly. She began to edge back along the rough boards to the open door of her own chamber. She made her way to the bunk and collapsed on it. Had her face and body not been so dry she would have cried, but there was no moisture left in her, only the bleak, desolate knowledge of how she had fallen prey to an insidious plan.

  Lyonene heard Amicia come into the room and carefully kept her face averted. Even in her illness she had only one thought—she must remain ill or the fate that awaited her would be worse than a sick stomach. She must feign illness and somehow escape
her captors, and above all, she must not think of the past. “Forgive me, my sweet Ranulf,” she whispered.

  “Here, you filthy gutter rat.” Amicia roughly lifted Lyonene’s head and pushed a pewter cup to her lips, the metal striking her teeth. She drank greedily of the stale water. “A fine lady you be. Would that that husband could see you this day. Mayhaps he would think twice when he got within a yard of your stench. Here! Do not drown yourself.” She jerked Lyonene’s head up and stared into her eyes.

  Lyonene forced her eyes to go blank, lose focus.

  “It was too much to hope I would rid myself of the burden of you. Morell desires you. Men! It is all in their heads. One woman is the same as another, just as men are much the same.” She dropped Lyonene’s head and she fell back to the hard bunk.

  “At least you drink now, so I’ll soon get some broth down you.”

  For Lyonene, the hardest to bear was the filth and slime of her clothes. The smell made her weak stomach churn against holding even the water she had drunk. She would have to let Amicia know she had some semblance of coherence again, for she’d need the chamber pot soon. When the Frankish woman returned, she turned to look at her.

  “So, you are awake. It has been many days.”

  “How many?” Lyonene whispered.

  “Ten.”

  They were within two days of Ireland, then. “I have been a burden to you.”

  “Aye, you have.”

  “I did not know you traveled to Ireland. Should you not be … at Malovisin?”

  “Do not start your tears again. I have had enough of them. You must have had a fever caused by more than just the motion of the sea, and you have raved every moment you were ill. There is naught of you or Lord Ranulf I do not know. Now we will leave this ship soon and Morell would have you well. You must drink this and then sleep.” She thrust a warm mug of soup into Lyonene’s hand.

  Try as she would, she could not lift the heavy cup. Her fingers trembled and her arms would not obey her commands.

  “Here!” Amicia angrily lifted the mug, forcing Lyonene to drink. She tipped the cup and the invalid’s head back too far, and some of the contents spilled down her tunic, adding to the dirt-encrusted fabric. “You are no better than a babe. I have had to tend you as one, and I am fair sick of it. The smell of you puts me off, and there is little resemblance to a woman about you. If that child fled your belly, I would not blame it.”

  Lyonene put shaky fingers to her stomach, aware that it had increased in size in even the last few days. “My babe is not harmed?” she asked anxiously, fearful that something was wrong.

  “Nay. It sets in there firmly. Now I must go to Sir Morell. He wished to know when you woke.”

  Lyonene lay back on the cushionless cot, feeling as tired as if she had climbed a mountain, mayhaps several mountains. In spite of the discomfort of the horrible scratchy clothes, the smell, the matting of her hair, she was nearly asleep when Sir Morell opened the cabin door.

  “Mon Dieu! Amicia, I cannot enter this room! Take her from here and clean her, for I see you have left her in her own filth. I will see that the cabin is cleaned. You are an animal to treat any woman so. Get from my sight!”

  There was quiet and Lyonene felt the waves of sleep overtaking her again. Rough hands picked her from the cot.

  “I don’t mind her so badly. I have seen whores who were worse.”

  A harsh male voice boomed above her. She opened tired eyes just enough to realize she was being carried from the room.

  “Nay, she is not bad. Her eyes are the color of a jewel I once saw his lordship wear.”

  “Ranulf?” Lyonene whispered.

  “Aye, Lord Ranulf it is I speak of. Now, you need not worry, for he will buy you back. Nay, he would not let you go.”

  “Keep your mouth closed, sailor!” Sir Morell’s voice came to her through a haze. She must not let them know she was aware of their plans. “Ranulf?” she whispered again.

  “See, she knows naught of what I speak. The lady’s too sick to hear me. She weighs no more than a feather, for all she carries a babe.”

  “Just tend to your duties and say no more to her. She may remember your words later.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Lyonene was deposited in a hard wooden chair, too tired to even open her eyes. She was aware of dampness and heat near her, increasing her need for sleep.

  “Nay, you cannot sleep now. My fine knight would have you bathed. I do not believe in so much washing as he; it is not good for the skin. Now here! Do not fall! He will make me answer for your injuries. I cannot believe you could smell so horrible in but ten days.”

  Lyonene felt cool air as her clothes were torn from her.

  “Now, step up, higher.”

  The water felt wonderful, wetting her skin, filling her parched pores as no amount of water drunk could have. She even enjoyed the roughness of Amicia’s washing of her. She wanted more than anyone else to rid herself of the ugly grime of her illness. Her hair was washed, the woman’s fingers scouring Lyonene’s scalp, removing days of filth.

  Lyonene felt almost alive as she stood in the tub while Amicia poured hot water over her. A thin towel was rubbed briskly over her, and the clean linen touched her skin.

  “No more fine silk hose for you, my lady. The clothes are warm and loose and will allow for the growth of the babe. It seems to be growing fast.” She laughed at a private jest. “Morell will not like that.”

  Lyonene gave no hint that she understood the woman’s words, reveling for a moment in the freshness of clean skin and unsoiled clothing. The pale woman opened the door and a large man entered, dressed in coarse wools, his long hair matted and dirty.

  “She looks to be a real lady now, like when she rode beside Lord Ranulf.”

  Lyonene closed her eyes and feigned an insensibility she did not feel. The sailor carried her back to the little room that was her cabin and gently deposited her on a fresh-smelling bed, the sheets hinting of salt water and sunshine. She relaxed on them gratefully, taking a perverse pleasure in such purely physical comfort, which belied her true situation.

  “She is pretty. Did you know the Black Guard calls her their Lady Lioness? I tried to speak to her once but that Corbet drew a sword on me. They let no one near her but the favored of his lordship.”

  “Leave her, you oaf! I do not need your calf-sick stories to entertain me. You would not have thought her such a fine lady did you hold her head over the pot.”

  “Nay, a true lady is at all times a lady.” The sneer in his words, directed toward Amicia, was unmistakable.

  Lyonene slept for a long while, waking once when the cabin was dark but sleeping immediately again. When she woke next, the cabin was bright and she felt much better; hungry, thirsty, weak, but alive, with a conviction that she was going to remain so.

  It was not long until Amicia came into the cabin with a charger of food. “You look as if you might live now.”

  Lyonene drank deeply of the hot soup and ate a piece of bread.

  “Morell will be glad to know you are soon to be recovered.” She gave Lyonene a sly look.

  The countess knew her meaning, and when she had eaten her fill—much less than she had thought she could—she lay back on the pillows, wearily. “I must sleep now,” she muttered, aware of Amicia’s scrutiny. At all costs, she must make them think she was still very ill. Then there would be a possibility that Sir Morell would leave her to herself.

  The next day Lyonene felt much stronger, but she did not let it show to Amicia. Sir Morell came to visit her, and Lyonene mumbled something about the child she carried and clapped a hand over her mouth. She saw the knight’s look of disgust before he fled. She was also very aware of Amicia’s amusement and felt that the woman enjoyed the mummery and would not give her away.

  Late in the day the ship stopped moving and shouts and orders were given as the vessel settled to a halt. Amicia came to her.

  “We journey to … to your kin now. You are to ride near m
e and keep from Sir Morell until you are well.”

  Lyonene thought she sensed a smirk in the pale woman’s last words. She barely had time to snatch the lion belt from its hiding place beneath a cushioned seat. She did not know what instinct had caused her to hide it, but she had. The ivory box of Ranulf’s was not to be found. She fastened the belt under the folds of the loose wool surcoat, above her stomach, pulling cloth forward to add bulk to her enlarging stomach.

  Amicia noticed the increased width but said naught, and Lyonene was encouraged in the necessary deception.

  There was no mummery involved when she was led down the side of the ship. The horrible rope ladder swayed and fled from her feet as she tried to find her way. Her weak arms began to tremble violently, both from the exertion and her growing feeling of danger.

  A strong man took her waist, and she was pulled gently into the waiting rowboat.

  “Careful you do not show yourself too fond of the lady,” Sir Morell said, sneering at the big sailor who held her.

  “I will not see her or the babe harmed. You swore they would not be injured.”

  “Nay, I’ll not harm her. My plans for the lady bear little pain, but that is her decision. Amicia, can you not do something with her? She has no more life than a rag doll.”

  For an instant Amicia’s pale eyes met Lyonene’s green ones and an understanding passed between them. As Amicia ran her hand across Sir Morell’s thigh, she and Lyonene gazed steadily at one another. They reached a silent agreement, now two women—no longer one with a courtly rank but a prisoner and one a captor, but only women, with the knowledge of all women. Amicia gave the briefest of nods, and Lyonene closed her eyes again, her body limp.

  “She is still very ill, Morell. In truth, I fear for her life. The babe is farther along than I had thought and I think it pains her. You may of course take her as she is.” Amicia gestured to Lyonene’s pale, slumped body, a study in weakness.