The Black Lyon

  Melite flattened herself against the stone stairwell as the Black Guard carried their lord up the stairs, his feet higher than his head.

  “Now we learn what man we serve! If there is not a babe nine months hence, we go to serve Robert de Vere, who has six sons.”

  “A lion for his shield and a lioness for his bed. Could a man ask for more?”

  As the men entered the room, they quieted, for the sight of Lady Lyonene sitting in the bed, the soft globes of her breasts barely hidden by the sheets, her hair a thick halo about her, made each of them wonder at all the women he had ever seen, for none came near to rivaling Lyonene. Ranulf wondered at their silence, but then he, too, drew in his breath sharply at the sight of her.

  When he wore not a stitch, they lifted him and hastily tucked him into bed beside his wife. Corbet doused the candles until there remained only one at the foot of the bed. Sainneville, also of the Black Guard, stopped his fellow knight as he made to extinguish the last candle. He rolled his eyes toward the couple in the great bed. “Were you he, would you wish for a dark room when you rolled back that thin sheet?”

  There was silence as each man considered this. They left the room, laughing.

  “Ranulf,” she began when they were alone. He jumped from the hand she placed on his bare arm.

  “Do you reconcile yourself to a rich husband? Do you plan to bear my caress while you hunger for another? Or mayhaps you have known his well over the years.”

  “Giles is naught to me! Nor has he ever been.”

  “The boy did not seem to agree with your words. He could not have created his thoughts from air!”

  “But he has. We played together as children and often talked of when we’d marry, but I always spoke of a man unknown. It does not seem to have been so with him.”

  “I understand more fully. The boy loved you, but you denied his love, for you were after richer game. You have had good hunting and have brought to table the Earl of Malvoisin. Shall I tell you of my estates, my knights, the number of gold plates I own?”

  “Cease! I am innocent! He is but a boy filled with dreams and has meant naught to me. It is you, I…”

  “Love?” he sneered. “You can say you love me? Come, let us hear the soft words. Mayhaps they will appease the Lion’s wrath and make him sweet and malleable in your little hands again.”

  She turned an icy green stare toward him. “I do not lie and I cannot say I love you, or will ever love you.”

  With one powerful movement, he tore the sheet from her and involuntarily gasped at the sight of her, more lovely than he could have ever imagined.

  Lyonene saw his face, and fear replaced her anger, for she saw the face of the Black Lion, the face that had forced grown men to their knees in surrender. She would not have believed he could have had such a terrible look, and now it turned toward her.

  Instinctively, she attempted to cover herself when he tore the sheet away. One powerful hand cupped her breast, too hard. His mouth came down on hers and bruised her lips. One thigh forced its way between hers, and she fought him with her hands, but his strength was such that he did not seem to notice.

  She clawed at the skin on his arms and back and was satisfied by a grunt from him. She gasped for air as his lips moved to the corner of her mouth. His other leg parted hers, and she screamed at the first sharp stinging pain. The tears came to her eyes as he seemed to fill her until she would burst.

  He lay still and she felt the pain subside a bit, but then he began to move again and the pain began anew. A minute passed and he moved slowly, deliberately, and somewhere within her she felt a spark of pleasure. His breath came hard and fast in her ear, and as he began to move quickly, the pain still inhibited her.

  She felt him shudder against her and his body grow limp, his weight pressing down on her. Her arms clutched him close to her, their angry words forgotten for the moment.

  He rolled from her to the other side of the bed and did not speak or look at her, his manner telling her that his anger was not at all appeased.

  She moved to the far side of the bed, the tears silently flowing down her cheeks.

  Chapter Six

  Ranulf sat before the dying fire, his mantle slipping unnoticed from his bronzed shoulders, oblivious to the cold. He refilled his wine cup and drank deeply, his senses almost numb to the wine’s effects. He had not expected the girl to be a virgin. His red-rimmed eyes stared at the sputtering blaze. He had not expected many of the happenings of the last few weeks, and he was disgusted with himself now for his own lack of honor, his lack of control.

  He drank more of the strong wine as he heard a broken breath from behind him. When he had realized her pureness, he had hesitated, tried to redeem his harshness, but he had done a poor job of it. The fear he had seen in her eyes, and, no less, the hatred of him, had renewed his rage at her.

  When the boy had said she was his, that she had married for gold, Ranulf had been consumed with an anger of such violence that he could not see or think. It was good the women had taken his wife away, for he did not like to think what his actions could have been.

  His wife! Aye, he was married to her, a bit of a girl, whose green eyes haunted him, followed his thoughts even now. She had proven herself pure in one way, but did she in truth desire that other man—that boy? Were the words he had spoken true or were hers? Time would answer him, a life of time together which stretched blankly, darkly ahead of them.

  The weak winter sun lighted the room, making it seem colder, and Ranulf stood and dressed, his eyes careful not to stray to the sleeping girl in the bed.

  When he was ready, he stood above her, staring at her tangle of hair, her tear-streaked cheeks. “It is time to wake, for we leave soon,” he said quietly and watched as her eyes opened, wide, fearful, and he looked away.

  Lyonene moved one leg and winced at the bruises on her body. So, this was the act of love, she thought, the act her mother had said was a joyous union. She had found little joy and much pain in the vile act. Her husband stared through the wooden shutters while she hastily began to dress. She was thankful he did not plan to repeat the act this morn.

  She clenched her jaw and braced herself for more of his anger. “I am ready.”

  He turned to look at her and she was startled, for his face was void of all expression—empty, uncaring. “My men wait below, and we begin the journey soon. Your possessions are prepared for travel?”

  She lifted her chin into the air. “Aye, they are.” He lightly touched her waist, and she could not help her flinch at his touch. The memory of pain was too fresh, and she was relieved when he did not touch her again.

  They walked side by side down the stone stairs, and Ranulf paused before greeting the people who eagerly awaited them. “Gethen Castle shall be your dower castle. It is worth in the neighbor of twelve knights’ fees.”

  She did not understand why that should make her so angry, this offer of a gift of such magnitude, but it did. She could feel the anger in her rising. “I do not wish for your property,” she said, eyes flashing and showing her growing rage.

  “And I did not wish for…” He caught himself. “You will be paid for what you have lost,” he said more gently.

  Lyonene could but stare at him, anger pulling her scalp tight. Unbidden, curses from her father’s men came to her mind. She had lost more than the little blood that splattered the sheets when she had agreed to marry this man. He seemed to think all the world was his for the buying. The rich were not just an accounting of wealth, but a breed apart from ordinary folk, believing their riches gave them control over others, or attributes that others did not have. Her lip curled. “You cannot pay me for what I have lost.” She stepped ahead of him, going gratefully into the familiar hall of Lorancourt.

  “My brother!” Geoffrey called. “It is good to see you have survived the night.” His eyes twinkled but soon lost their shine as he studied the newlyweds, neither touching the other, each solemn and with eyes the hardness and sharpness of spl
intered glass. So they had quarreled already, and he was sure it was Ranulf’s fault.

  He took Lyonene’s arm and pulled her aside. “All is not well, my little sister?”

  She did not answer, and for a moment he lost himself in the crystal-clear depths of those twin pools of green fire. God! But she was a beautiful woman, and for a moment all thought of his brother was lost. He shook his head slightly to clear the fog. “My brother will not be an easy man for husband, for I fear he is haunted by many ghosts.”

  She gave him a slight smile, but it did not warm her eyes. “I am his wife, so I do not think it of importance as to my happiness or lack of such. I’m sure,” she added, giving a sidelong look to Ranulf as he stood talking to her mother, “that I will be well-rewarded for all that I do. Now you must excuse me as I must say good-bye to my mother.”

  Only then did Geoffrey see any sign of emotion in those eyes.

  Lyonene sat astride the little chestnut mare, trying not to think of the tearful farewell or the doubtful future ahead of her. She rode ahead of the guard, beside her silent husband, his thoughts unreadable.

  “Your ladyship, may I present the Black Guard?”

  Lyonene looked into the smiling eyes of a dark knight, a short, stout man, handsome. Glad for the diversion, she turned in her saddle to look at the seven men.

  “Herne, with the reddish beard, Roger, Gilbert, Sainneville, who tends to be a jester, Hugo Fitz Waren and Maularde.”

  Each knight bowed in the saddle to her; each looked at her pleasantly, and some of her spirit returned. “And your name, sir?”

  “Corbet, at your service; no deed too small or insignificant to be performed in the continuing duty of serving his lord’s fair lady.”

  Lyonene could not keep her laughter contained, and Hugo saw Ranulf’s back stiffen. “Sainneville may tend toward a jester,” she said with a smile, “but you, sir, are a flatterer of the first water.”

  “Madam, you must believe me. Until I saw the sparkle of those emerald eyes, I was as tongue-tied as my horse, no more words could I speak before a lady. I swear it was the sight of such superior beauty and the sound of your melodious laughter that has freed me from the bondage of my speechlessness.” He bowed low. “I am your servant forever.”

  Astonished, Lyonene turned to the men behind her. “Is he always so?”

  They smiled as a group. “Always,” they chorused.

  “Lord Ranulf,” Sainneville called. “You should see to your wife, for it seems Corbet has begun to coat her with his honey and we fear his catching more than flies.” There was laughter in his voice.

  The laughter ceased when Ranulf turned a scowling countenance to them. Lyonene was immediately aware of the fear her husband instilled in his men, and she turned back to stare ahead.

  They paused for dinner, and Ranulf helped her from her horse, his hands tight around her waist. “You are not overtired?”

  “Nay.” She managed a weak smile. “I am not, but it is good to stop. You also are well? Your eyes…” She looked away, shy and also confused at the memory of the previous night.

  He did not answer her, but led her to a tree and left her there as he gave orders to his men and the serfs who served them. He returned to her side with a napkin of cold meats, bread and cheese. He opened it and offered her first choice. The air between them was heavy with tension.

  “It is far to your island?” she asked at last.

  “Aye, it is five days’ ride, but we have the use of lodgings each night.” His dark eyes stared at her, hard and unreadable.

  She reached for another piece of cheese, and her hand touched his and she drew in her breath at the touch. Instantly, she found herself crushed against him, his face near hers, his breath soft, warm. He needed no words to say his thoughts, for his eyes told all. He wanted to believe her, so desperately wanted to believe in her again. The pain was there, a steel spike behind his eyes, an ancient wound, healed over and concealing the poison beneath. She saw his questioning, the silent pleas he gave her, and she answered him in the only way she knew how—by pulling his lips to hers.

  The sweet music of the birds joined in the rolling waves of desire that covered her body. The smell of grass mingled with the soft, delicious feel of Ranulf’s lips as he moved them against hers, so gently at first, searching, exploring, on a quest for treasure. His arms supported her, his strength in strong contrast to her growing weakness.

  She was aware of naught but him, but some instinct made him draw back and look at her as his hand held the back of her head and his thumb caressed her temple. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes, rubbing her head against his palm—how small he made her feel!

  “I would like to believe,” he whispered, and when she parted her lips to speak, he closed them with one fingertip. “I will know. Words are too easy, given too freely. I fear those little hands of yours hold much that is mine.”

  She did not know why the simple words caused her to experience such a violent tremor of fear, as if she had been given foreknowledge of some evil to come.

  They saw the fire even before they saw the towering walls of the donjon of Bedford Castle. Lyonene was startled at the instant reaction of the men, and she spurred her horse hard to keep up with the thundering black horses ahead of her.

  The entire village seemed to be ablaze, and the screams of the serfs and the animals caught in the raging heat tore at her, freezing her momentarily.

  “Get to the donjon,” Ranulf bellowed at her, his furious face towering above her.

  “I can help,” she screamed as she saw a child tearing across the courtyard. She started to dismount. Ranulf’s steel grip on her arm stopped her. The noise roared and the horrible light shadowed his face into a creature unknown, unearthly, a black devil.

  “I have no time for this. Obey me!”

  She could but do as he said and turned her nervous horse to the inner bailey, the gates locked in some semblance of protection against the threatening fires.

  No one was about except the lone gateman, for all the castlefolk had fled to help fight the fire. She found the stables and paused for a moment, watching the flames leaping, licking above the low stone wall as they sought more fuel, more sacrifice to their gluttony. She turned to the horse to unsaddle it and then to look for a chapel to offer her prayers for the safety of the people.

  “I knew he would not allow his precious little jewel so near such destruction,” a voice hissed near her.

  She whirled around. “Giles! What do you here?” She looked around her nervously. The roar of the fire seemed deafening even in the stable, or mayhaps it was her own fear and panic that threatened to drown her.

  “You did not think me so callous a lover that I would concede the battle so easily? Surely you knew me better.”

  “I do not know you at all. Why have you followed me?”

  “That is easy enough to answer.” His eyes raked her body as she backed to a wooden stall wall and braced herself there. There was no escape from the boy, once a childhood friend, now a glazed-eyed madman. “I was willing to admit defeat had I been beaten fairly, but how could I compete with the riches of your earl? I placed you second only to the Holy Mother, yet all the while you schemed to betray me.”

  “Giles, you are wrong.” She moved even closer to the wall, as if a door might appear by some magic. The heat increased in the stable, and a horse moved restlessly in fear.

  “You do not need to be frightened of me. I do not plan to hurt you. Nay, I have learned a great deal from your ways. I have lost what I so eagerly sought.” His eyes went to her breasts, outlined so clearly, heaving in her fright. “But as you sold yourself, so shall I sell what little of me is left. Do you remember this?”

  He waved a piece of paper before her face, and she was puzzled.

  “It is one of your letters.”

  “I wrote you no letters.”

  “Aye, that is true, but Lucy once let it be known that you often wrote stories and such. Remember your Gilbert?”
br />   Lyonene was truly bewildered, for she remembered no Gilbert at Lorancourt. Then the seed of a memory stung her. She stared at the paper and the dirty hand that held it. “You started the fire,” she whispered.

  “Aye,” he said and laughed. “I am glad you see how far I will go to get what I want.” He stepped forward and ran a caressing hand down her shoulder. “When I am wealthy, I will buy several women such as you.”

  “Giles…” she began.

  “Cease!” He pulled his arm back, and she turned her head in anticipation of the blow. He stepped back and watched her as he caressed the paper in his hand. “I have five of these letters, and it was an easy thing to change Gilbert to Giles. Shall I read to you what a fine letter of love you have written to me?”

  She shook her head, knowing now what he held. She had always been a bit of a dreamer as a child and when her indulgent father had allowed his only child to learn to read, she had studied not rhetoric or even the gospels but, instead, a small book of chivalrous stories, secretly purchased for her in London by her mother. Lyonene had read the stories again and again and begged the jongleurs for more stories. Soon she had begun to create her own stories, sometimes writing them and often setting them to music, singing them to her parents on quiet evenings. But there was a time, not long ago, when she had created a lover for herself, a young man, a knight, strong and brave, and she had written letters to this imaginary man. She knew what the letters said, knew what fate Giles held for her in that hand that had already caused so much destruction. He held the end of her thoughts of happiness with her new husband; the delicate thread that held them together could not stand another blow.

  “Lyonene, you are easy to read. Does he distrust you so much?”

  “You have yet to say what you want from me.” Her shoulders sank wearily.

  “Gold.”

  “I have naught but my clothes. He has given me nothing.”

  “Do not play the fool.” He looked outside the stable and saw that the flames no longer lifted above the stone wall. He returned his attention to Lyonene. “I see your husband succeeds in taming the fire more readily than I had thought. Listen to me now. He will be tired when he returns and will sleep heavily. When you are sure he will not wake, toss me a jewel from the pouch on his belt.”