The Black Lyon Read online

  Chapter Seven

  Lyonene watched Lucy climb into the wagon, too old and too fat now to ride a horse, and then turned to her own place beside her husband. Ranulf stared at her a moment, his black eyes intense, searching her face, before lifting her to her horse.

  They rode in silence, and several times Lyonene wanted desperately to tell Ranulf of Giles, but each time, the solemness, even the sheer size of him, stopped her.

  “We will stop early for dinner. The fire has taken much strength, and there is no rush.”

  He helped her from her horse, left her a moment to tend to the people in his charge and then returned. “You would walk with me?” He held his arm for her.

  Happily, she took it, and he led her into the woods, within sound of the others, but out of sight. “I fear I make a poor husband, as my brother has warned me. Here, let us sit and talk a while.”

  The cold ground seemed to seep through her, and she shivered.

  “You are cold.” He spread his mantle and pulled her near him, his arms and cloak surrounding her, his heart beating against her cheek.

  “You will be glad to be home again, my lord?” she asked.

  Ranulf could not suppress a small frown, so quickly had she gone from “Lion” to “my lord.” “Aye, the Welsh clime is too harsh since I have grown used to the softness of my isle.”

  “Tell me of it.”

  He described with pleasure the island, the meadows, the woods, the nearness to the sea.

  “You live there alone with just your men? No family?”

  “My parents died when I was very young.” He lifted a curl of her hair from his leg, rubbing it between his fingers. “It seems we know little of each other and must struggle for words, yet once we had not enough time to say all there was.”

  Lyonene blinked back tears, for she felt the same way. She turned her face to his and smiled at him slightly. He touched his lips to hers, and she lost herself to his demanding kiss. It was as if he sought to draw the essence of her soul from her with that kiss. Yet her growing passion was replaced by something more, something higher than mere earthly passion. The tears rolled down her cheeks, hot, wrenching tears.

  “Tell me.” Ranulf drew back from her. “What plagues you so?”

  “I will tell you,” came a quiet voice from the trees. Giles stepped into view. “Do you not wonder that a bride of three days should cry when her husband kisses her? You will draw sword with me, Lord Ranulf, and we will see who wins this woman.”

  “You are a boy. I cannot fight with you. My wife has told me of you and I trust her.”

  Lyonene could see the pain on Ranulf’s face as he said these words.

  “Then mayhaps these will persuade you of the truth of my words.” He tossed a leather pouch at Ranulf’s feet.

  “Nay!” Lyonene screamed and made a lunge for the letters, but Ranulf had them first.

  Slowly, he withdrew one, then the others, his face losing color, expression, emotion. When he had finished, he turned to his wife. Lyonene felt she could have handled rage, violence, any emotion but the look of total bewilderment and agony that flashed across Ranulf’s eyes.

  “You wrote these letters?” he asked quietly.

  “They were not written to Giles, I swear it. They were…”

  “To another?” He brushed her hand from his arm and looked across to the young man before him. “She is my wife now, for all her past deeds, and I will not kill boys.”

  “You bastard! You are so good, so pure you cannot dirty your sword with a commoner, but there is one sword you have bloodied when you wielded it against a baron’s daughter. Think you she loved you at first sight or mayhaps it was the silver on your mail? We planned all this, did you not guess? Already she has ransacked your goods and tossed me a jewel.” He flung the stone at Ranulf’s feet.

  When Ranulf looked from the ruby to his wife’s terrified face, she saw then the rage there, the hatred in his eyes. “Get you from me. I must kill this boy for you. Will you rejoice when he is dead? Will you seek another to replace him soon?”

  “Ranulf! You must hear me out. He lies! The letters were written to a man unknown, a girl’s dreams. He said he would kill you if I did not give him the jewel.”

  “I am to believe you think this boy threatened my life? That you stole from me to save me from this child? Nay, woman, I believed you once, but I can no more. Now get you from me.” He nodded his head to someone behind her, and one of the guardsmen grasped her arm and pulled her from the clearing. “Ranulf, please!” she cried.

  “It is too late for your pleas. Take her from here that she does not see the horror she has wrought.”

  Lyonene turned then and left, stopping by the horses when she heard the first clank of steel against steel. The battle did not actually take very long, but to Lyonene it seemed hours, and each clash, each sound, made her heart leap in agony.

  He stood before her and she looked into those cold, hard eyes. “See you the blood you have spilled this day. A boy who will never grow to be a man because of you.”

  He swung into the saddle of his horse, leaving his wife to be helped by Hugo Fitz Waren. She could look at none of the men, knowing they all must hate her, and so she was surprised when she felt a hand on her knee, a light touch, quickly gone, but reassuring. She turned to the others of the Black Guard. One by one, the men solemnly nodded to her, telling her they believed her words, for in truth it had been easy to see the boy was not of his right mind.

  Only once on that long journey to Aylesbury Castle did Lyonene attempt to speak to her husband, and the black hate she saw there soon made her hold her tongue.

  “Your lordship,” Pask, the steward of Aylesbury Castle, warmly greeted Ranulf. “We are proud that you honor us again with your presence. The cook has worked for days preparing your meal, and it promises to be a meal worthy of you and your men. Ah, you bring a lady?”

  “She is my wife.” Ranulf’s tone caused the small man’s eyebrows to lift. “Put her things in the room across from Edward’s; I will take his.”

  Lyonene was too tired to care where she slept. She was plagued by memories of a childhood friend, now dead, and a husband who hated her. Lucy dropped on the narrow bed.

  “This has been an evil day. Sir John’s boy always was a bit odd. It was only you who gave of your time to him. I always knew…”

  “Please, Lucy, could we not speak of it again? I am tired and wish to rest.”

  “Aye, Lady Lyonene,” she said as she helped her young mistress to dress. “Shall I send a tray to you?”

  “No, I am not sure I shall ever eat again. I would just like to sleep, to lose myself in sleep.”

  Lucy tiptoed from the room.

  Ranulf paced, ignoring the tray of food that stood before him. He had been a fool to marry again and certainly to marry for any reason but advancement. The Castilian princess would not have caused him problems such as he had now.

  Lyonene—emerald-eyed beauty with tawny hair and thick, dark lashes—she was his wife now, and look at the hell he had been through for three days. Maularde had told him of Giles’s presence, and he had given her every chance to explain, to be honest with him, and yet she had not. He had tried not to kill the boy, but he had been mad, insane as he attacked. Ranulf rubbed his hand across his eyes as if to erase the memory. He knew too well what it was like to be young and so in love.

  Love? What did he know of love now? This girl had led him easily, yet now that she had her marriage to him she had changed. She was no longer eager for him, nor did she seem happy, as she once had at her father’s house. All seemed to point to a trick, to the truth in the boy’s words.

  Too many thoughts overlapped. Frustrated, he removed his clothes and walked to the bed, only to stare at the empty coldness of it, puzzled for a moment. Without dressing, he stepped into the cold hall and pushed open the door to Lyonene’s chamber. She did not waken until she felt herself roughly lifted, the bedclothes twisted about her sleepy body.

&nbs