The Black Lyon Read online

The stallion did run for her, and the rain and wind cut them, lacerating the rider and horse that had become as one, their purpose agreed upon.

  There were many horses and men overlooking St. Agnes’ Point. Lyonene knew if she were seen, one of the Black Guard would return her to the castle. She left the horse near some rocks, not tying it, knowing it was trained to stand.

  No one noticed the dark form that followed the cliff wall down to the beach. When a streak of lightning showed her the boats, she saw she was too late. Three boats were already upon the turbulent water, Ranulf easily discerned in the farthest boat.

  She knelt in a shadow of the cliff and began to pray with more fervor than she had ever thought possible. The storm continued, soaking her, lashing her, pulling and plucking at her clothes, but she did not notice. She only prayed, keeping her face turned toward the black sea.

  It was hours later when she first saw the light specks of the returning boats. She ran to the shore, the salt water spraying her, heedless of the men who ran toward her. Someone’s arm went about her shoulders, but she did not look, for her concern was only on the returning boats.

  She saw instantly that he was not there.

  She began to run into the sea, but something about her waist stopped her, held her.

  The boats came near her and still she could not move.

  “I am sorry, my lady,” one of the men yelled over the fury of the storm. “He saw a head and fell over trying to save the bloke. We searched for hours but could not find him.”

  Strong arms pulled her around, and her face was buried against a wet shoulder, hands stroking her back, comforting her.

  “Nay!” The word bubbled inside her, boiling, festering. She pushed hard against the man who held her, and when she turned to the boatman again, the man took one step backward. The woman had gone mad! Her face was distorted with rage.

  The sweet-voiced Lyonene was no longer present. The voice that bellowed across the wind and rain was not even that of a woman.

  “You will know hell on earth do you not find him and return him to me—alive! There are no tortures even in Castile that will equal what I will do to you.” She stepped forward and the men around her retreated. She was possessed by something they did not wish to fight.

  “Are my words heard? Do not return without him.”

  No man protested as they returned to their boats and vigorously began to row themselves out into the deathgiving sea.

  There were no protecting hands now as Lyonene sank to her knees, but all hands were clasped together as they followed suit of their mistress and began to pray.

  There were watchers from the hill above, and the sight of the tiny girl kneeling in the sand and surf, surrounded by seven dark knights, also on their knees, made them forget the wet, the cold, and they joined in the prayers for the return of their beloved master. No one of them moved or lost fervor even when a faint light began to show and the storm lessened in its fury. There was not a man in the returning boats who did not cross himself and offer a silent prayer at the sight that greeted them.

  A hand on her shoulder made Lyonene look up to see the boats. Other hands helped her stand. She did not see him at first, his head bent low. When she was sure he was there, she collapsed, her face buried in her hands, the release making her shoulders droop, her body weak.

  Someone knelt beside her and put an arm about her shoulders. When she meant to rise again, she was supported.

  She walked to the side of the boat and saw Ranulf, intent upon a long, wet bundle across his lap. When he saw her, he was startled and then angry. He looked up at the man next to her.

  “She should not have been allowed here.”

  “She has saved your ungrateful life, so do not speak of her so!”

  Ranulf was even more startled at the tone of his man, for none had ever dared speak to him in such a manner. “We will speak of this later. Take this.” He handed the bundle to Sainneville. “It is a girl, so treat it with care.”

  The rain had dwindled to a drizzle, and the sun made a valiant effort to show itself. Ranulf stepped from the boat his clothes soggy and cold. He looked in puzzlement at the rather skittish behavior of one of the boatmen towards his wife. The man acted almost as if he were afraid of Ranulf’s little wife.

  “What have you done in these few hours that has caused my man to rebuke me and these others to fear you?” he asked, frowning.

  “Ranulf…” Her lip trembled and then she was in his arms, her sobs racking her body with their violence. He held her to him, frightened himself at the fierceness of her emotion. He pulled the hood away and stroked her wet hair, soothing her.

  “Come, my sweet. I am well. I am returned. Do not cry so. Please, you must cease; I can bear it no longer!”

  She sniffed and tried to calm herself. “When they returned without you, I could not bear it, I could not think… Oh, Ranulf, they would have left you.”

  He looked around at the men near him. “What is this? They would have left me to drown?”

  “Aye,” Corbet laughed. “We thought you done for, but your lady had other plans for you than a watery grave. She is tame now, but there has never been a storm to equal her. I vow she made my blood freeze with fear.”

  Ranulf frowned, for he knew Corbet jested, but there was a ring of truth in his words. Then he grinned, flashing straight white teeth. “She is a Lioness,” he said proudly as he swept her into his arms and carried her to the top of the hill.

  He set her down and left her for a moment to see to Tighe, who had stood faithfully by throughout the storm. Lyonene walked a few feet away to retrieve the waiting stallion from the rocks.

  “My lady!” She looked in astonishment as Maularde made a leap for her. She jumped back and avoided the powerful body that flew towards her and landed heavily at her feet.

  “Lyonene, be very still.”

  She looked in puzzlement at Ranulf and the men staring at her, Ranulf advancing slowly, stealthily. She sensed some danger, mayhaps a wild animal near and so did not move. She was stunned when Ranulf made one quick leap and did but grab the reins of the black horse from her hands.

  The horse threw his head back and neighed, his front feet prancing.

  “What is this you do?” she demanded. “You frighten the poor animal.” She took the reins and stroked the horse’s nose to calm it, and the animal lowered its head to nuzzle her shoulder.

  She looked back at her husband and his guard. There was open-mouthed astonishment on their faces and then, while she watched, all eight men began to laugh. It started slowly, but soon built into a torrent, gales of laughter. First one and then the other fell to their knees, holding their stomachs as they laughed. Eight men rolled about on the wet, mushy ground at her feet.

  “Pardon me, my lord,” Sainneville gasped, his eyes tearing, “but you will frighten my horse.”

  “The horse’s tail weighs more than she does.” Herne dissolved into more laughter.

  “The boatman’s face!” New laughter.

  Ranulf was louder than all of them. “She really did it? Edkins looked terrified!”

  “I was also! I vow she was twenty feet tall and the storm was silent compared to her booming voice!”

  “My lark?” Ranulf gasped. “I called her a lark to Edward. Would he could have seen her!”

  Lyonene knew they laughed at her. She had done nothing laughable! “I do not wish to keep you from your fun,” she said icily, “but I return to my home and a fire.”

  The men began to sober and sit up. Then each of them tensed and quieted as she first put her foot into the stirrup. When she sat atop the horse and gave them what she hoped was a quelling look, she felt disgusted when they fell again to the ground, their laughter harder and louder than before. She squared her shoulders and left them.

  “Lyonene!” Ranulf thundered to a halt on Tighe’s back beside her.

  She refused to look at him. “I hate you! You use me as a jest for all your men! You are detestable!”