The Black Lyon Read online

  “Nay, I prefer a woman and not a useless bundle of rags. We will find a barber and see what he can do for her.”

  “I think we should go to the widow’s straightaway. When a ship of the Black Lion’s is found empty, it will cause much talk. We must go quickly and not be seen by others.”

  “Aye, you are right. I would not like to have Ranulf de Warbrooke find his wife before I have my ransom.”

  The climb down the rope was nothing compared to the hours astride a horse. It was all Lyonene could do to stay atop the animal. She tried to think of a way to escape, but they traveled always across barren land, the paths sometimes too rocky, steep, the struggles of her horse little helped by its rider’s weakness.

  Sir Morell often turned to look at her, and each time she managed to give some sign of great sickness. After the first day he stopped turning to her, and Amicia gave Lyonene a slight smile, which was neither acknowledged nor returned.

  At night they camped, with only a small fire lit against the night’s chill. Lyonene slipped a piece of charcoal under her surcoat and rubbed a blackened finger beneath her eyes. Then she created dark hollows below her cheekbones. Amicia looked at her oddly, but made no comment. When Sir Morell took her arm once, she leaned against him and gave him a wan smile. He pushed her away from him. She could not allow herself even the smallest smile of triumph.

  On the third day, they arrived at an old stone donjon, the battlements crumbling about the top, the up and down squares of the crenellations indistinct. They were nearly at the wall of the castle before a warning was called.

  “Sir Morell, late of Malvoisin,” the knight shouted, and the rusty, uncared-for iron wheels began to move and the gates were drawn up. The drawbridge that lay across the shallow, garbage-filled moat was useless, its chains limp and broken, so only the iron-tipped portcullis was in use.

  There was no more pretense that Lyonene was being taken to her relatives. The people around her talked freely of the ransom, either accepting that she knew of their plans or, she hoped, thinking her too ill to understand their words. Lyonene felt they were such fools. Only Amicia noticed the amount of food the prisoner consumed. The day before, Lyonene’s horse had shied at a rabbit and Lyonene had used a great deal of strength in controlling the animal. She did not wish to land on the hard ground, even to prove her illness to the others. Her horse calm again, she looked up to see Amicia smiling at her, a smile showing that Lyonene did not deceive her and reaffirming their alliance.

  They rode across the rickety drawbridge and under the old portcullis, each person casting upward glances, fearful of the heavy gate falling on them.

  “Morell! You are as handsome as ever.”

  Lyonene watched from a bowed head as a tall, slim woman ran to Morell’s outstretched arms. Her hair was completely covered, as was her neck, by the concealing veil and barbette.

  “Come inside to the fire, I have much to tell you.” Her words were ordinary enough, but Lyonene looked away as the woman’s hands went inside Sir Morell’s tabard. Lyonene was too aware of memories, of glad greetings, sad partings from her own beloved to even look at these two, so obviously lovers.

  The sailor helped her from her horse. She took Amicia’s arm, and they walked toward the crumbling castle. The outer wooden steps leading to the second floor looked hazardous.

  “The widow sees to little besides her passion for men. Do not lean on me! I will not bear your weight longer. I am sure you know of the ransom.”

  “Aye, I do.” Lyonene’s voice was hard. “Such greed will see you dead.”

  Amicia smiled at her in the dim light of the cold hall. “You threaten me now, but I do not think you will easily forget that it was your greed for your child that brought you so quickly to my plan.”

  “Nay, it was not. I thought Ranulf loved you.”

  Amicia’s strange laugh rasped from her throat. “You are more a fool than I thought. You should have stayed and fought for him, then.”

  “But… King Edward…”

  “Be still! They will hear you. It is done and you will have long to brood on your foolishness.”

  “Aye,” Lyonene whispered. “My foolishness.”

  “Amicia,” Sir Morell called. “Bring our guest here to the light.”

  When Lyonene stood before the fire, she looked only briefly at the woman before her.

  “What ails her? It is not something to be caught? I will bring no such disease to my house.”

  “Nay,” Amicia answered. “It is but the sickness of the child. She will be well with rest and food.”

  “I hope this is worth my effort, Morell. Put her down somewhere… Amicia, is it? She wearies me just to look on her.” Lyonene sank heavily onto the uncushioned bench, there being only one chair before the fire and that occupied by the widow.

  “You are sure this husband of hers will not find her here? I have heard of the man and I do not desire to wage battle against him.”

  “Battle!” Morell sneered. “Lady Margaret, you could not win a battle against an unarmed troop of eels, less that of one such as the Earl of Malvoisin.”

  “Morell, I know my defenses are not as they were when my dear husband was alive, but they train most vigorously.”

  Sir Morell threw back his head and laughed. “Such training as you give your men does not prepare them for battle, but rather drains them of what little strength they have. Now tell me no more of your strengths. The very reason I chose this place was because no one would believe such a wreck of a castle held such a valuable captive as the Countess of Malvoisin.”

  Lady Margaret did not seem to be offended by Sir Morell’s words. “You underestimate me, as you always have.” She clapped her hands twice and four men appeared from the corners of the room. They were ugly men, scarred, their noses and cheeks distorted from many blows and wounds. Their hands clutched weapons, ugly weapons—the spiked mace, the chained flail, the sharp, hooked war hammer, the heavy battle ax. From their belts dangled other deadly weapons.

  “I am pleased to see you so well protected, Lady Margaret, but do you think a mere four men, even these four men, could hold out against the Black Lion, were he to make an attack? He is followed always by those seven devils of his.” His hands tightened in anger.

  “Do not destroy the cup, Morell! I know your campaign to be one of his guard, but he saw you early for what you are. No man wishes to guard his back from his own man. Nay! I would not advise you try to strike me. My own little guard would not take so kindly to your love taps as I have born them in the past. You do not seem to understand my guard. They are not to protect me, but they are for her.”

  Lyonene looked up to see the woman pointing at her.

  “My men will never leave her. Should one from Malvoisin attempt to take her, the men will kill her before they even look to the attacker.”

  Sir Morell grinned. “You are more than I thought. The man will attempt naught when her life is in danger. You could hold her in an open field, in the midst of his own castle, and he would do naught but hand us the ransom, wagonloads of it. Aye, you are clever.”

  “I thank you, fair knight.” She rose and slid her arms about Morell’s neck. “Now I will tell you that my men keep her from you also.”

  The knight pushed her from him. “Nay, I want the woman and will have her.”

  At a quick gesture from Lady Margaret, the four burly men surrounded Lyonene’s slight form on the bench. She looked even more lost, more alone, when they clustered around her, towering above her.

  “The woman will be held, but as befits her, not as a whore for your use. From what I hear of this Black Lion, such treatment would enrage him, cause him to forget his senses, and he might force an attack, out of anger. If the woman were killed, we would receive no ransom. If the earl were killed with no heir, Malvoisin would revert to the English king and there again we would lose our ransom.”

  “There is an heir, she carries him now!”

  “You are a sorcerer and know the child�€