The Black Lyon Read online

  The door to the little cabin unlocked. “I have brought you food and wine.” Sir Morell paused, a frown creasing his brow. “Do not tell me you are given over to the sickness of the sea?”

  Lyonene could only look at him, her stomach moving in waves of revulsion. The contents of her stomach rose in her throat, and she swallowed to keep it down, her hand covering her mouth.

  Morell’s eyes turned hard, his mouth ugly as he glared at her. He angrily threw the charger onto the table, the wine upsetting and spilling, the smell of it sending new shudders through Lyonene.

  “Amicia!” Morell threw open the door and bellowed.

  Even through her pain and her ardent attempts at controlling her nausea, Lyonene was surprised, for she had not known the Frankish woman sailed with them. She was too ill to think more on the puzzle.

  “How may I be of service to you, my sweet knight?” Amicia ran her hand across Sir Morell’s leather-covered chest.

  “You may care for that sick woman you brought with you.”

  “Sick! She is not ill. It is not the babe too soon?”

  “Nay, it is but the motion of the ship. I had other plans for her than seeing her toss her stomach into a pot. Part of the plan was that I have her.”

  Amicia cast a worried look past Morell to Lyonene, who lay curled almost into a ball on the bed. “We have a way to go yet, and I would keep our secret from her. She will be more docile if she knows naught of us. You will have her, soon, I swear. It takes twelve days to reach Ireland. This sickness will last but a few of them. Do not be so greedy.”

  Amicia ran her hands across Morell’s shoulders, her arms going about his neck. “I do not see why the woman interests you so. There is naught she can give you that I cannot. Come and let me show you.”

  He pulled her arms from his neck. “I do not like my women so well-used. Now see you to her and see that she is recovered quickly, or I shall lock you in your cabin and allow none of my crew near you, for opposite reasons than I lock away this lady.”

  “You insult me and ask me to care for the woman you plan to bed, in the same breath?”

  “Nay. I do not ask. No man should ask aught of such a woman as you. Now do as I say or I shall carry out my threats.” He roughly pushed her toward the huddled figure of Lyonene and quickly left the room, his revulsion of the sick woman obvious.

  Lyonene could not remember much of the next few days, but she was aware of hands pushing at her, words that cursed her and, above all, a stomach that pained her greatly. Food was forced down her throat, and she felt it rise again almost instantly. Then there were more curses, sharp slaps on her hands and arms, a harsh cloth wiped across her soiled mouth.

  She awoke one day, sane again, thinner and very weak, her head hurting. It took a few moments to remember where she was and why she was there. “Ranulf,” she whispered as she thought of the husband that she would never know again.

  The whispered word came from a dry, parched throat and she looked about for some water. An aquamanile stood on the other side of the cabin. What had once seemed a tiny space now loomed enormous before her. She sat up slowly, her weakness making her head spin. The front of her tunic was soiled, encrusted with days of sickness. She sneered in revulsion at the filth, but was not strong enough to consider changing the gown. Her only thought was to slake her burning thirst.

  She swung her legs over the bunk and put her bare feet on the oak floor. Supporting herself from one object to another, she slowly made her way to the pitcher of water. She was triumphant as her shaking fingers touched the handle and found it cool to touch, moist to her dry fingertips. She pulled it to her with difficulty, but knew it was empty before she brought it before her eyes. She turned it up over her tongue, one drop doing nothing to relieve the pain.

  A burst of laughter, almost beside her, made her laboriously turn to the door. It was not quite closed and the laughter came from somewhere outside it. Maybe someone would give her a drink. She clumsily put the pitcher back on the shelf and made her way to the door, her feet scuffling, arms almost giving way once in their support of her.

  The door swung open easily and she walked the few feet to the doorway next to her cabin. Light shone from within, and she could see two people sitting around a table, the coveted mugs of liquid in their hands. She watched greedily as Amicia drank from a sweat-coated vessel. She lifted her hand to push the partially opened door wider.

  “To the Lady Lyonene!”

  The sound of her name stopped her, and she blinked rapidly to clear her thirst-crazed mind. She recognized Sir Morell as the speaker.

  “To a plan of such perfection that we have been able to snatch the wife of the Earl of Malvoisin from beneath the husband’s nose. No other man has penetrated the barriers of that guarded island.”

  “Do not forget to include woman in that, my good sir, for I do not believe you were alone in the execution of the plan.”

  “Ah, but Amicia, you were but an instrument. It was I who watched her for months, I who planned every step. The day I saw her atop that hill outside his tent, I could not believe our good fortune!”

  “She was an easy mark. She is so lovesick for the man I knew she could not bear the idea of another woman near him.” Amicia took a sip of ale. “I can see why she favors the man. I have heard her cries at night.”

  “And you wished much to experience the joys she found, also, did you not? When he repulsed you so readily, I knew I had found a partner for the drama I planned.”

  Amicia threw him an ugly look. “Now that we have her, what do we do with her?”

  “That is arranged. I have a friend in Ireland, a widow who would do much for me. I will take her to my friend and there the little countess shall await her husband’s ransom. It will take him months, if not years, to collect what I will ask.”

  “And what do you plan for her in the years it takes?” Amicia’s voice had a hint of laughter.

  “This illness of hers plagues me much. I grew up always surrounded by illness and cannot abide it now. I do not see why she is not recovered from this sickness yet. We are but four days from Ireland. Do you add something to her food to prolong her sickness?” He grabbed the front of Amicia’s surcoat.

  She easily brushed him aside. “Food! The woman keeps naught down but heaves it up again. It may be the child that causes this, although I have not heard of her having pain from it before.”

  “That is another point. Although the child will bring a higher price in ransom, I will regret the loss of time when she will not share my bed.”

  “You are too womanish in your ways. Why should a swollen belly keep you from what you have risked your life for?”

  “You disgust me, Amicia. I have no desire to flounder about on top another man’s leavings. When she is free of her burden, she will be mine, but do not think on it. She will be well again soon, and there is time before she grows shapeless.”

  Amicia raised her mug to him. “I hope she is worth all the effort you have given to having her.”

  They both drank deeply.

  “Now, go back and see to her. You have been away long. See if you can get some food to stay down her.”

  Amicia reached for the pitcher and refilled her mug. “There is time. I do but watch her toss about and moan. She does not even heave now, but just lays there, calling his name o’er and o’er.”

  Morell frowned and refilled his cup.

  Lyonene leaned back against the wall, her heart pounding weakly. She began to edge back along the rough boards to the open door of her own chamber. She made her way to the bunk and collapsed on it. Had her face and body not been so dry she would have cried, but there was no moisture left in her, only the bleak, desolate knowledge of how she had fallen prey to an insidious plan.

  Lyonene heard Amicia come into the room and carefully kept her face averted. Even in her illness she had only one thought—she must remain ill or the fate that awaited her would be worse than a sick stomach. She must feign illness and somehow escape