“Mother! Whatever are you saying? I believe you are talking to yourself!”
“You may be impertinent with Lord Ranulf, but you may not do so with me.”
Lyonene laughed and then sobered. “I am sorry, Mother. It is only that he has called me just so this day. Is he not a wondrous man?”
Melite sighed, for she saw several hours ahead of hearing of Lord Ranulf’s charms.
They spent the afternoon in the great bedchamber of William and Melite, which also acted as a solar. Lyonene could not concentrate on her sewing. She constantly held the ring to the light to catch the sparkle of the emeralds and too often ran to the window to look toward the lists.
“Lyonene,” Melite said casually, “this year’s apple crop was especially good. Go to the kitchen and have Cook give you a few.”
“I am not hungry.”
“Nay, but I thought mayhaps that black horse of Lord Ranulf’s would be.”
Lyonene jumped from her chair and ran to her mother to give her a quick hug and kiss her cheek. She had almost reached the door when a thought came to her and she looked back. “Someday, I shall ask you what message my father sent that was so urgent that I was left alone to bathe my Lord Ranulf.”
There was only a flicker across Melite’s face, but it was enough to answer her daughter. Laughing, Lyonene went to the kitchen.
The stables were warm and sweet-smelling as she carried a small basket of apples toward the enormous horse in the end stall.
She stroked his head and opened the door. The horse daintily ate the apples from her hand as she ran her hands over the powerful neck.
“Lyonene! What do you do? You should not be in Tighe’s stall. It is dangerous!” Geoffrey called to her.
She smiled at him over the low wooden wall. “He is as gentle as his master.” She rubbed the velvet nose, then took an iron comb from the wall and began to comb the long, profuse mane.
Geoffrey stood before the gate, an expression of awe on his face. “The horse is a stallion and not at all gentle. I have never seen him behave so with anyone besides Ranulf. Did you not know he nipped your father’s stable master?”
“The man, I am sure, deserved the punishment. See how sweet he is?” She stooped before one of Tighe’s legs and stroked the long hair that grew from knee to the floor. “I have never seen a horse with hair like this. Of course Tighe is very vain; a horse so beautiful would have to be.”
“Lyonene, I have never seen a girl such as you. My brother is most fortunate.”
She stood and fed Tighe more apples. “Something I do not understand is why he is not married. I know he was married before, but that was long ago. How the women of King Edward’s court have let such a gentle, kind man escape is beyond me.”
“Oh, but they have tried. But always there is something in their eyes and manner that shows too well, and that is their greed.”
Lyonene felt the blood rush to her cheeks and looked away. “But I, too, am greedy for him.”
Geoffrey laughed. “The women of the court are greedy for his wealth as much as for him. It is this that is easy to see. They appraise his clothes, the sable lining of his mantle, the jewels on his hem, even the accounts of his estates.”
“Estates? But there is only Malvoisin, an island south of England.”
“Malvoisin is only one of many. There is…”
“Do not tell me! I do not like to think of my Ranulf as one of the king’s earls. It frightens me more than a little. I almost wish he were a farmer like my father; then he would stay at home and play with our children.”
“What is this I hear of children?” Ranulf came toward them. “I have yet to touch the girl and already she believes herself to be a mother.”
Geoffrey looked from one to the other. “I will go and talk to Maularde.”
Ranulf chuckled as his brother left.
“What is so amusing?”
“Maularde rarely talks to anyone.” He turned back to her, the stall gate separating them. “I think you marry me for my horse.” He watched her comb the long mane. “When we are at Malvoisin I will find a suitable mare and mayhaps Tighe can produce a daughter for you.” The big stallion hit Ranulf’s shoulder with his head. “See, even the idea pleases him. Now, come out here to me. I will have to sell him if you spoil him more.”
He put his hands on her shoulders and stared at her intensely. “I wish to remember you well, for I leave in the morn.”
“You cannot! Not so soon.” She swayed toward him. “Could you not stay until the banns are read, until the marriage? Then we may leave together for my new home.”
“I cannot. I have told my steward I will be there, but I could not stay near you for so long. I will return on the day of the marriage and you will be mine. Now you must return to your mother.”
She backed away from him. “You ever send me to my mother. I would stay with you.”
“You cannot stay with me until you are my wife—I could not bear it. Now go or I will carry you.”
She grinned at him wickedly and did not move an inch.
He unceremoniously tossed her over his shoulder, a most unladylike position. She screamed for him to release her, which he did before they reached the stable door.
“I am sure I am the most abused bride in all of England and sure the only one who was not kissed properly at her betrothal.”
“You do not know… I cannot kiss you every moment and naught else. I leave early on the morrow. If you meet me then, I will kiss you before I go. Now do not tempt me further.”
She walked slowly back to the old stone donjon and up the wooden stairs.
At supper the betrothal was announced and a cheer given. The Black Guard stood and lifted their cups to her, and each man said a sentence to Lyonene’s beauty and charm.
“They are pleasant men,” Lyonene said, laughing. She did not notice Ranulf’s whitened knuckles or the deep scowl on his face.
After the meal, Lyonene played her psaltery, a harp-like instrument, and sang. Her voice was clear and pretty and she looked only at Ranulf as she sang the old love songs.
He kissed her hand as he bade her good sleep, and they parted for the night, both very aware of the one thin wall separating them. Ranulf was glad Lucy had returned from the village so he would not be tempted to enter her room as he’d done the night before.
For a brief instant, before he slept, questions came to his brain, questions as to the wisdom of marriage with this unknown girl. It was true that she looked at him as no other woman ever had, but did she also look at other men so? Was she a better mummer than the women at court, to make him believe she cared for him and not the wealth of Malvoisin? He dismissed the thoughts, but they were to haunt him later.
* * *
Lyonene stretched luxuriously—a tawny cat. She felt that something good was to happen today, an excitement she could not name. Then, eyes fully open, she sprang nude from the bed, careful not to wake Lucy, and hastily dressed. Lion would leave this morn and she must see him.
In the Great Hall below in the dim light she saw that her father’s men yet slept soundly, but the Black Guard were not present. Silently, she made her way to the door and toward the stables. The sun did not even show pink yet, it was so early.
She stood at the stable door, her eyes focusing in the dark building.
“My Lioness awakes early.” His voice was low, his breath soft as he sent shivers of pleasure through her body.
She whirled and sent him a brilliant smile. “And so does my Lion, it seems.”
“Careful with those smiles, Lioness, or I may find a den for us.” He rolled his eyes in meaning.
She covered her mouth over the giggles that trilled out. It was then that she saw Geoffrey standing so close. Over his shoulder was a horse’s bridle. “You go also?”
Geoffrey was very aware of the scowl that grew on his brother’s face, but it scared him not. This new jealousy of Ranulf’s deserved some teasing.
Lyonene looked into the blue
eyes of her brother-in-law. He was more handsome at close range, with lashes that shadowed his cheeks. She watched with interest as he lifted her limp hand and kissed the back of it. His eyes sparkled into hers. “I may kiss you before we leave?”
As he took her slim shoulders in his hands, his eyes met Ranulf’s, teasing his older brother. His lips met Lyonene’s briefly, and they were pleasant and sweet. With a smile, he left her to finish with his horse. Lyonene turned to watch him mount. “Well, my brother,” he said, “why do you tarry? Kiss Lady Lyonene and let us be off.” He motioned his horse out the stable door, leaving Lyonene and Ranulf alone.
Her heart and breath had changed at the mere thought of kissing her Lion again. She turned to him, her face as serious as his. A big hand buried itself in her hair, and he roughly pulled her to him, his chest steel against her woman’s softness. His lips met hers in an urgency that she eagerly met. Her arms twined themselves about his strong body, pulling him closer to her. She could feel his thighs against her, and she instinctively moved her hips against his.
He almost threw her from him, and she leaned against the stable wall, her breast heaving, her lips parted and exceedingly soft.
“You expect too much of me. It is well that I leave.” His voice was harsh and low. “See that your mother keeps you safe.”
“You will not forget me?”
“Never, my Lioness. I will think of naught else.”
“Nor I.” Tears choked her words.
He kissed away each tear that formed on her lashes and then he was gone. Lyonene did not know how long she stood there, and even though the sun was shining when she entered the stone castle, for her all thought of sun was gone.
Chapter Four
Melite saw the lost expression on her daughter’s face when Lyonene came into the Great Hall. She knew her son-in-law had gone, and now the long three weeks’ wait stretched before them. Melite sighed. To her daughter it would be an eternity, but to herself there didn’t seem to be enough time for all that had to be done.
First of all, there were clothes to be made. Although there was not a big enough dowry for Lyonene to make a difference to an earl, Melite planned to dress her daughter as befitted a countess. She set out to look for William, for only he had the key to the storeroom that held most of the portable wealth of Lorancourt.
William complained somewhat, but he finally agreed with his wife that Lyonene must be clothed properly. Jewels and furs, satins, silks, velvets and fine wools were brought from the dark, cool room. Lyonene gasped at the beauty of the stuffs, afraid to cut them and chance ruining the materials.
For three weeks, Gressy, Meg, Lucy, Melite and Lyonene sewed. They outlined tiny lions with green silk thread along the border of one tunic, filled the space with lamb’s wool and covered it to make padded animals. Each lion was bordered with tiny seed pearls.
Her wedding gown was given special attention. It was a tunic of saffron samite silk, very tight, and its sleeves were fastened with a row of tiny buttons from wrist to elbow. The sideless surcoat of tawny velvet was cut away drastically to reveal the generous curves of Lyonene’s breasts and hips. The wedding mantle was of green brocade from Sicily. Palegreen phoenix with tails ready to burst into flame were woven onto a darker green background, and the entire cloak and hood were lined in rabbit fur that had been dyed a third shade of green.
Lyonene wished fervently that she had gotten her betrothed’s measurements for a tabard to make as a wedding gift, but she finally settled on two gold cups. She did not notice her father’s white face as he arranged for a goldsmith to come to Lorancourt to hammer two of his four precious gold plates into stemmed, jewel-encrusted goblets. To Lyonene, it was reassuring to hear the man and his apprentice hammering for hours each day as they formed the gold sheets around iron balls to make the shape of the cups. She knew that as the cups took shape, the time came closer for her wedding day.
Each night she fell into bed exhausted, as Melite had planned, but always there was the sweet vision of Ranulf before she slept. There were things she began to remember that had not bothered her when they were together. She thought often of his earldom, of the court of King Edward, where Ranulf would be a frequent visitor. She began to question his reasons for marrying her, and as the day approached she found herself jumping at every little noise and crying often. Gressy’s added stories of the horrors of the Black Lion did not help her growing anxiety.
Geoffrey grimaced. If his besotted brother asked once more if Lady Lyonene were not beautiful, he would use his estoc and calmly slip the blade between the man’s ribs. They had ridden hard to reach London in one night, and Geoffrey looked forward to a soft bed, with maybe a barmaid to keep him warm.
Ranulf did not like London with its open sewer trenches along the streets and all the scavenging pigs that roamed about eating the slops. The streets were narrow, and no air reached the riders between the three-and four-story buildings. The inn where they had spent the night was only fairly clean.
He rode along the street of the goldsmiths until he found the sign he wanted. Only three of the Black Guard had accompanied him, the other four tending to Geoffrey, who refused to leave his bed and his plump barmaid so early in the morning.
Alone, Ranulf entered the cramped little shop. A small, dark man came forward.
“I would purchase a gift, a bride gift, and I would have your finest work.”
“All my work is my finest. What is your desire?”
Both men stared at one another, both unsmiling but understanding the other.
“I would have a belt, a very special belt. It is to be of your purest gold and your finest wire. There are to be lions—a lion and his lioness, and there are to be scenes in the manner of lions hunting together, at the kill…” Ranulf stopped, feeling embarrassment before this solemn little man.
“I understand. Now what of colors?”
“The male lion is to be enameled in the blackest of black and in the gold eye is to be a black pearl. The lioness…” Ranulf closed his eyes for a second in delicious memory. “The lioness is to be the true tawny gold of a lioness, and the eye is to be set with an emerald.” Ranulf paused, remembering Lyonene’s emerald eyes. “It is to be links, each link containing a scene, and no longer than my finger to the first joint, no wider than my thumb. Can you do such delicate work?”
“If I am paid enough gold, I can do anything.”
Ranulf stiffened. “There will be gold aplenty.”
“What size is the lady? How many links?”
Ranulf was puzzled. He held up his hands, forming a circle. “I can span her waist with my hands.”
The jeweler made some mental notes. “Ten and five lengths. Now the clasp. Of what is it to be made?”
Ranulf considered for a moment. “A black pearl and an emerald.” They talked for a few moments of price and set a date to have the completed piece. He returned to the inn satisfied. Geoffrey had spent the day in a more leisurely fashion and was now ready to leave. The two brothers prepared to leave. Geoffrey parted from his brother to return to his duties as squire to Sir Tompkin.
It took two long, grueling days to reach Malvoisin, and Ranulf again marveled at the even, gray stone walls as they towered before him. He and his men made their way through the west barbican into the outer bailey amid cheers and hallos from the many castlefolk. They dismounted as they entered the maze wall that protected the private inner bailey. His steward, chief falconer, master cook and head stableman lived with their families in the apartments in the quiet inner bailey.
The Black Guard went to their own abode while Ranulf made his way to Black Hall.
For the entire time he was at Malvoisin it rained, and although he judged many cases in the hundred court, too often the people could not venture out in the deep mud.
The rain kept him inside the stone walls of Black Hall. A few times he had joined his men, but they had their own women and were content. He was anxious, and the constant pounding of the rain made him more so
.
He sat before the fire, another cup of strong wine in his hand. The house was silent, for it was late and the servants abed. He tried to remember the two days he had spent at Lorancourt but could not grasp a clear picture. Too long he had had no reason for laughter, too many years he had been haunted by the words of a dying woman.
A flash of lightning lit the room briefly. It had been raining that night, too. She, the woman who was called his wife, had come home late, the little three-year-old Leah, her daughter, trying hard to keep pace with her mother.
He had been married to her for three years and had never once bedded her. At first he had been awed by her, green young boy that he was and she years older. She’d laughed and said Ranulf might love her when he was worthy of her, when he had become the strongest knight in all of England.
Men thought he trained now, but in those days he had rarely slept or eaten, so determined was he to please his wife. He had not protested when he knew a child was to be born, and later the little girl had been a joy to him, a balm against his evil, adulterous wife.
By the time he realized she slept with other men—many other men—he was too attached to Leah to think of sending the child’s mother away.
Ranulf stood and walked closer to the fire, his head on his hands against the stone mantel. He had not thought she hated him enough to kill the little girl he’d grown to love.
When they’d returned home on that wet night, there had been a triumphant look on Isabel’s face as she’d watched Ranulf lift the shivering child. He never left Leah’s side during the three days that the fever consumed her. It was only after her death that he had heard of his wife’s illness, that she too lay on her deathbed.