The Black Lyon (2 page)

"He is an earl, and an earl does not marry a baron's daughter. I do not know how you could have such a thought. Know you his reason for coming to Lorancourt?"

"I did ... happen to hear a bit of conversation."

Lyonene tried not to smile.

"He has a brother who is squire to Sir Tompkin, and as that knight is soon to come, the earl wishes to visit a day or so with his brother."

"Well, I am glad this Black Lion is not above love for his own km. You say my mother talks easily with him and he is handsome?"

"M ost terribly handsome, but if you dawdle longer he will be an old man before you see him."

Lyonene descended the stone steps slowly, touching the worn walls as they spiraled to the lighted hall below. She found her hand trembling and tried to still it. The stories of this man rang in her head as everyone's opinions whirled together. She reached the bottom step, paused, and then smoothed her skirts and her hair, taking a deep breath to still the fluttering of her heart. From her vantage point on the dark stairs, she could view the scene in the Great Hall. The enormous fireplace roared with several logs blazing in it. At a small distance from the fire were two chairs, one occupied by the petite form of her mother, the other revealing only a mailed arm, the silver gleaming dully in the firelight.

She succeeded in calming herself and looked toward the other end of the hall, to the other fireplace, which also was blazing. On low benches or squatted on the floor rushes were seven men, all in mail, all with tabards bearing the Black Lion's coat of arms. Their voices were quiet and she heard one of them laugh. They did not seem to be the devilmen that Gressy spoke of. They looked rather tired, and Lyonene felt a desire to go to them to see that they were given what food and drink they needed. If the Black Guard were tame, mayhaps the Black Lion would be also. She stepped into the light.

"Lyonene, my daughter, is come."

Lyonene kept her face lowered. She must control her urge to stare and remember her manners. Her mother spoke to this man as if they had known one another for many years. She was aware that the Black Guard had come to their feet and that now the Black Lion also stood before her. Her nervousness increased.

Ranulf had not felt so at ease in a long time. Only Eleanora, the queen, had ever made him feel so comfortable as this woman had.

Even after having seen M elite and knowing that she had once been a beautiful woman, he was startled by Lyonene's extraordinary beauty. Her head was lowered and he could not see her face, but her thick, curling hair tumbled down her back past her waist. It was tawny, a dark blond with thousands of dancing lights caught by the fire. Her figure was amply revealed by the tight tunic, and it made his mouth dry. A tiny waist, curving hips, a soft, inviting bosom. He could not remember ever having been so affected by a pretty woman.

Lyonene raised timid eyes to Ranulf de Warbrooke, not sure what she expected but fearing the worst. He was dark, with eyes as black as coals and sable curls of hair that seemed to be ever unruly. The top of her head did not reach his shoulder.

But the expression in his eyes was what intrigued her. Like her mother, she could judge a person's character quickly. The Earl of M alvoisin's eyes reminded her of a dog she had seen once. The dog had been caught in a trap, his leg nearly cut in naif, and the pain had made him almost mad. It had taken a long time for Lyonene to soothe the animal and gain its trust so that she could release the iron jaws of the trap, and all the while the dog had looked at her with just such an expression of wariness, pain and near-dead hope as did the man who stood before her now.

"I am most pleased you could come to Lorancourt, my lord, and pray forgive me for my tardiness in welcoming you."

Ranulf extended a hand to her and she put her small hand into his warm, large one. His touch could not have affected her more if he'd put a lighted brand to her fingertips. She almost gasped at the sensation but was glad she had not, fearful of giving offense.

Gone was any knowledge of anyone else in the room. She became a disembodied hand, all feelings and thoughts transferred to the fingertips of that one small area. She stared stupidly at the two hands, one small and fair, the other large, bat-tiehardened and coated in short dark hairs.

He spoke again and she seemed to feel his voice through the tips of her fingers. "A beautiful woman need not ask forgiveness. A smile will be enough." His voice had lost some of its smoothness; there was a hesitation in it. He put his other hand beneath her chin and lifted her face so he could look at her.

She looked again at him, seeing a strong face, a jaw well-cut, slightly arched brows over the black eyes, a straight nose, the nostrils somewhat flared. Her gaze fell on his lips, which were well-shaped but held too rigid. Lucy had been correct; he was a handsome man. She smiled, timidly at first and then with more warmth. She looked behind the lips that did not smile and saw a ...

yes, a sweetness there, the same gentleness that her mother had seen. Of a sudden, she had an urge to laugh, so great was her relief at her findings. She moved against the fingers that held her chin. Never had a man's touch made her feel so alive.

Abruptly, Ranulf dropped his hand from her chin and relinquished the hand he held. "I must see to the Frisian," he mumbled and made his way to the door, the Black Guard following suit.

"Well!" William collapsed in the cushioned chair before the fire. "If a man were to live a thousand more years, lie would not understand the mind of a woman. M y wife treats the king's champion as a gossiping washerwoman, then my daughter fair faints at the mere sight of him, and then she laughs in his face. If my lands are not forfeit in two weeks, I will not know why."

"William," M elite began, but she knew she could not explain her own actions, much less those of her daughter. "He seems well content. Come, Lyonene, there are duties to see to."

Lyonene was anxious to leave the room, for she did not like to think her reactions to the man were so obvious. But it was true that she could not have felt more strongly if the slate roof of the donjon had rolled back and lightning had struck her.

Lyonene dreaded being alone with her mother for she knew there would be questions that she could not answer.

As if knowing her thoughts, M elite said, "No, there will be no questions. I ask only that you be kind to our guest, not because he is a great warrior or the king's earl, but because he deserves our kindness."

M utely, Lyonene nodded.

"Now, go see to those two silly maids of yours and see that our Black Lion has a fitting den." She smiled and smoothed her daughter's lovely hair.

Lyonene climbed the remaining stairs to the third floor's private sleeping chambers. There were six chambers, one for her parents, one of her own and four for guests. She was alone on the floor, the servants busy below in the kitchens. She could take her time in choosing a chamber for Lord Ranulf.

It was an hour later when she felt that the room was ready and went to her own chamber. Lucy had left some bread and cheese and a mug of milk on the mantelpiece. As Lyonene sipped the warm liquid, she adjusted the lowered slats in the wooden shutters so she could look across the bailey. As she watched, one man left the group of the Black Guard and made his way to the gate of the bailey wall; he carried a long stick at his side and a bag strapped to his waist and pushed to his back.

Without thinking what she was doing, Lyonene threw off her green mantle and surcoat and pulled on another surcoat—a woolen one—over the gold tunic. She withdrew

from a chest her warmest cloak, a heavy gray wool with a deep hood, completely lined in white rabbit's fur. Clutching the cloak tightly, she made her way down the stairs to the Great Hall, telling herself that she only wished for some fresher air. She took with her a large flagon of wine that had been set to warm on the mantel. She was amazed at how easy it was to pass unobserved across the open bailey yard and out the gate. The watch guards cared not who left the castle, only who entered.

* * *

Ranulf sat on the cold, hard ground, his back against a tree, heedless of the piercing wind. His thoughts were absorbed with a lovely, green-eyed girl. Ah, Warbrooke, he chided himself, she is not for your dalliance. She is a girl, an innocent intended for marriage, marriage to a young man near her own age, her own rank. But still he could not relinquish the vision of her. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the rough bark, the remembrance overwhelming him, a tangible thing: emerald eyes under high, arched brows, a small nose, and her mouth— lips full and soft, tempting. Her hair intrigued him as he thought of it spread about her, covering her shoulders and lying across her breasts, the color unusual, a tawny gold.

M on Dieui What ailed him so that he sat here dreaming of a bit of a girl when there was work to be done? He had seen pretty girls afore now—aye, many girls—but there was a difference, somehow, with this one. When he had touched her chin, he had thought he might disgrace himself by kissing her before her parents and his men. What would have been their reaction had he buried his hand in this unknown girl's hair and...

"I have brought you wine." Lyonene's soft voice shattered his thoughts.

He stared at her, unsmiling, studying her, not aware of the offered refreshment.

"It is cold and some time before dinner and . . ." She looked away from his intense stare, shy of a sudden, regretting her impulsive action.

He took the warm mug and sipped the delicious sweet wine, the smooth liquid trickling down his throat, his eyes never leaving hers. "You will share it with me?"

"Aye," she said, smiling at him, her fingers lightly grazing his as she took the cup. A drop of wine rested on the rim and she touched the spot with her lips, amazed at her boldness. She returned the mug and took a linen packet from under her mantle, unwrapping it to show bread and cheese.

Her smile at him was brilliant, and he found he could only watch her, her eyes sparkling like the finest jewels, her cheeks pinked by the cold air. The hood hid most of her lovely hair, but the white fur framed her face and contrasted beautifully with the thick, long lashes.

Neither of them seemed to need words, and both sat quietly enjoying the wine and food. A sudden gust of wind blew the dead leaves of the forest about them.

Lyonene covered one eye with her hand as a sudden sharp object struck it. "M y eye!" she cried, tears blinding her, the pain increasing each moment

"I will look." Warm hands held her face; strong, gentle fingers forced her to uncover the eye.

"It is a rock, a boulder," she sobbed.

"Nay, I do not think so. Look up at me and I will find it. Open your eye, slowly."

His voice was soft and soothing, and in spite of the pain, she made herself open her eye, her trust in him complete, sure in the knowledge that he would remove the pain.

"There! See, it was but a,speck of dirt, truly smaller than a boulder."

She blinked several times to remove the sting. From the moment he had touched her she had known that he would take away the pain. She was now very aware of his hands on the side of her face, the dark eyes that stared into hers, eyes bordered by short, thick lashes. The irises were truly black—yet, at this close distance, she could see that they had tiny gold flecks in them.

"You are well now? Your eye no longer pains you?"

She did not answer immediately, and as he began to draw his hand away she held it for a moment to her cheek. "Nay, the pain is gone. Thank you."

He moved his hand and looked away and Lyonene was afraid she had offended him. She felt as if a stranger were gradually overtaking her body, for she could not believe her forwardness of this morn. She tried to make conversation. "I wonder—however do you stay so warm when I am so cold, and it is I with the fur mantle?"

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Ranulf looked startled. "We will return to the castle to the fire." At the look of disappointment on Lyonene's face, his heart leaped. She did not want to leave his company any more than he hers. "Come then and I will show you a sport to make you warm."

They stood and she watched as Ranulf took the long stick and bent it to fasten a long string of silk to either end.

"Have you seen this ere now?"

She shook her head.

"It is a Welsh bow, and it is called by some, because of its length, a longbow."

"It does not look to be a bow at all." She gave him a skeptical look. "How can one fire an arrow from a mere stick?"

"You have not seen it used and already you decry it?"

She sniffed and put her chin into the air. "You must allow my father to show you the workings of a good crossbow."

Ranulf raised one eyebrow at her. "Find you a target that is as far as your father's best archer can shoot."

Lyonene pointed to a white-barked tree not far away. She watched as Ranulf pulled the six-foot longbow string to his ear, an arrow with black and green feathers held lightly between his fingers. The muscles on his arms stood out. The arrow was released with a sharp twang of silk. Lyonene gasped as she saw it land more than twice the distance of the tree she had chosen.

Ranulf merely looked at her, one quick glance that made her remember her boast of crossbows. Then, before she could recover from her surprise, he began to insert arrows, drawn from the leather bag at his waist, and fire them with a dazzling rapidity. In less than a minute, he had fired ten arrows, never once missing the tree.

She stared up at him. "I have never seen the like." She lifted her skirts and ran toward the distant tree. She struggled to pull an arrow from the tree and was startled when Ranulf appeared beside her and easily removed the arrow she could not. She had not heard him approach.