The Black Lyon Read online

  “You may … wonder at my chaining so small a girl,” Edward continued, “but she has killed one of my guards, and you can see the wounds born by these men.”

  Lyonene noticed the long furrows on the men’s faces where she had raked them with her nails.

  Berengaria nudged her friend. “ ’Twere I in her place, I would act just so. I hear the Welsh do not think their David a traitor.”

  “Her … name is Angharad, and I now offer her in … marriage to any knight worthy of the woman’s rank.”

  At this the girl lifted her face and the crowd exclaimed at her beauty. The black hair framed a pretty face with a small nose and full lips, but her eyes were what was startling, for they were a brilliant, vibrant blue. They burned now as if from a fever, and her look of defiance and contempt was easily read.

  Berengaria directed Lyonene’s attention to Lord Dacre, a few places from them. He stared at the girl open-mouthed, his eyes glazed as if there were no reason left in his brain. Lyonene nudged Ranulf so he could see his friend.

  “Dacre has more sense than that,” he whispered under his breath.

  Even as he spoke, Dacre threw back his chair, the loud sound it made as it struck the floor causing many of the guests to jump. He bounded across the table to the girl, startling her so that she could not react. He grabbed her to him, crushing the chained hands helplessly between their bodies as his lips came down on hers.

  Dacre drew back with a cry of pain, and everyone could see the drop of blood on his lip.

  “You will regret that lost blood in future, for I swear before God that someday you will love me more than your own life. You are mine!”

  She screamed at him in a torrent of words of the Welsh language. The silent diners gasped when she spit on him. Dacre but grinned at her and rubbed his wet cheek against hers. She tried to move her arms, but could not.

  Dacre turned to his king. “I claim her now, and if a priest is not come soon, I bed her unwed.”

  The tension was broken as the crowd laughed.

  King Edward nodded toward a man at a far table. “Stewart! Draw up the p … papers. There is no dowry, for her father lost all for his traitor’s deeds.”

  Angharad lunged toward the king and he drew back, although Lord Dacre held her fast. “My father was no traitor!” Her words were oddly spoken as she struggled with a language foreign to her.

  “Take her L… Lord Dacre, and I do not envy you. See that she does not kill you on your wedding night also.”

  Dacre lifted her to his arms, her violent struggles effortless against the man’s strength. He smiled up at his king. “Have no fear for my life. She is but a woman who has not met a man. This night she will, and she will be tamed.”

  The crowd broke into gales of laughter as Dacre took the struggling girl from the hall. All agreed that naught had ever so enlivened a meal before.

  “What think you of your friend now?” a laughing Lyonene asked her husband.

  “Dacre has ever had little sense about women.” He took her small hand and kissed it. “I have fought in two wars and I do not care for the constant battle. I wish for peace in my own bedchamber.”

  “And you find our encounters … peaceful?”

  The laugh rumbled in his throat. “Nay, my Lioness, I find your nearness aught but peaceful. ’Twere it not that I must participate in Edward’s games, I would join the sport Dacre enjoys this day.”

  She felt her checks redden and looked to see who listened to his words. She returned her hand to her own lap. “Many will wonder at our actions and think we are but just married. After so long a time, we should by now be tired of each other and turn to lovers.”

  His hand clenched her wrist, causing her pain. “Do not say such!”

  “Ranulf, I do but jest. Do not hurt me. I will not look at any other man, I swear it. Can you not see I jest?”

  He released her. “I am sorry I hurt you, but I cannot laugh at such things.”

  “You will tell me someday who has hurt you so to give you such pain?”

  He looked away, not answering.

  They were silent for the rest of the meal, but by its end, Ranulf’s good humor was restored. She walked with him to his tent at the far end of the lists. Brent waited impatiently for his lord. Ranulf gave her a chaste kiss as she left to join Berengaria in the stands.

  The lance casting came first. Gilbert de Clare, another earl, and a knight of Robert de Vere’s took the event.

  Ranulf appeared in a short garment of the Malvoisin colors and demonstrated the longbow. It seemed to Lyonene that there were too many female exclamations of joy near her. Berengaria laughed at her friend’s intense frown. The crowd of serfs and free men were not restrained by the rules of chivalry, as the knights were, and their cheers at the speed and distance of the new longbow were thunderous, for Ranulf was among their favorite knights. He waved to them, enjoying their adoration.

  After the exhibition, Lyonene joined Ranulf in his tent.

  “You were pleased with my shooting?” he asked, grinning at her. “Brent is torn between his father’s words and his new lord. I think he will see my way, do you not?”

  “I am sure he will, for have you not won me to your way of thinking?”

  He pulled her to his lap, kissing her. “I am more pleased with winning you than my page. What say you we miss dinner and stay in my tent?” He muffled her protests with his lips, and she could aught but submit as his lips slowly worked their way down the side of her neck.

  Their lovemaking was as passionate as if they had not been together for months instead of for just a few hours. Later, Lyonene and Ranulf lay together, their bare flesh moist and satisfied.

  “You have bewitched me. How shall I win the joust on the morrow when my mind is ever on you?”

  “I do not care if you enter or no. Stay all day with me and we will watch from the stands.”

  He grabbed her shoulders and held her away from him, frowning into her eyes. “You would dishonor me. The Black Lion must fight or he will lose the men who follow him.” He dismissed the subject. “I wonder how Dacre fares with that new wife of his.”

  “Did you think her pretty?”

  “Beautiful.”

  “More so than me?”

  “By far. You are a slug compared to her.” He only laughed when she struck his chest.

  Lyonene woke early the next day, and she slowly turned her head to look at Ranulf as he slept near her. One of his hands was tangled in her hair, another held her firmly by the waist. She smiled as she thought that even in sleep he would not loose her.

  “You seem to plan some devilment this morn.”

  “Nay, I but look at you.” She moved closer to him, putting her arms around his neck. “We will return home soon?”

  “I think you grow as weary of court as I. What say you we leave early on the morrow.

  She gave him a quick kiss. “I look forward to the journey.”

  He pushed her down on the mattress and rolled on top her. “And what entertainment do you plan on the return? It could not equal the dance.”

  She shot him a wicked look with her emerald eyes. Her hands ran down his body until she found what she sought. “Think you not?” she whispered before speech deserted them.

  At the lists, Lyonene looked with trepidation at each of Ranulf’s opponents. Ranulf himself was splendidly clad in his silvered mail, with her ribbon, the copy of the lion belt, tied to his helm. Three charges with each man were allowed. The thundering of the horses’ hoofs, the splintering lances, the cheers and jeers of the crowd were overpowering. The man who so confidently sat astride the great black horse was a stranger to her. Gone was the smiling, teasing man she had spent so many hours of pleasure with and in his place was the intense, dark face of the king’s champion—the Black Lion. She did not wonder at the fear he instilled in so many men.

  The jousting was not stopped for dinner; instead, servants brought food to the stands, and the spectators ate and drank heartily as they