The Black Lyon Read online

  Her horrible dying words came to him. “I am glad she is dead, because I am dying also and I would take all from you that I could. I loved a man once, Leah’s father, but he was poor and my father would not have him. You were there with all your riches and all your men, and you took away the one I loved. Do you think I could ever bear your black ugliness, that any woman could? No, Ranulf de Warbrooke, no woman will ever love aught about you but your fine furs and gold cups. Go now and get a priest and never let me need to look on your devil’s blackness again.”

  He crumbled the silver cup he held, jewels flying about the room, blood-red wine covering his hand. He should not have betrothed himself again! There were too many likenesses between this marriage and the other—a father eager to have an earl for a son, a girl… He sat down again.

  No, there were no similarities between Isabel and Lyonene. But what of this young girl? She had seemed to feel the same for him as he for her, yet he had never felt so for another. For what he knew, she could have treated many men before him with the same eagerness, the same desire.

  The storm grew worse and his temper with it. It seemed that his every memory of his betrothed pointed to some falseness, some deceit.

  Hodder found his master asleep in the solar the next morn, and when he was awakened, the blackness of his mood matched his coloring. The thin valet watched his lord grow steadily worse in temper each day, eating little, drinking over much, remaining unwashed, unshaven.

  The rain continued, wetting everything, seeping into crevices and dulling moods. It was with joy that Corbet greeted the sun on the day they were to leave for Lorancourt. The seven men were ready and waiting in the courtyard for their master, but he did not come.

  Hugo Fitz Waren, oldest of the Black Guard, sought him out.

  “My lord, the sun is high. We must make haste to reach Lorancourt for the marriage.”

  “I do not go. I will send Sir William wagons of gold to repay him, but I do not marry again.”

  Hugo sat on a stool at Ranulf’s feet and tried to control his gasp at the sight of his master. “So the great Black Lion fears a girl half his age and less than half his size? And what will you send the girl to compensate her for the loss of the husband she loves?”

  “Do you not know the Earl of Malvoisin is too rich to ever be loved?”

  “He is not too rich to wallow in his own pity. You may look at me so, but I do not fear you. I know of this other wife of yours.”

  “Do not speak of her to me.”

  “Until I am forcibly silenced, I will speak. You cannot blame all women for the faults of one.”

  “They are alike, these wives of mine.”

  “They are somewhat akin, I agree, both being baron’s daughters. You are a man of honor and have not seen the girl for some time. When you see her again you will forget your fears.” Hugo leaned closer and saw his master was no little drunk.

  “Hodder! Throw some clothes on your master. We go to Lorancourt and return with a wife. Be sure his wedding garments are packed.”

  It was a tired, confused Ranulf who rode north to Lorancourt. His head ached and his stomach burned, but it was all better than thinking and hearing the voices that haunted him.

  Chapter Five

  Lyonene looked at the rays of the early sun as they slanted across the rush-covered floor. She had been ready for what seemed to be hours now. Her betrothed and the men from Malvoisin had arrived yester eve, and there were many baths to ready before they were presentable for the wedding. She had not seen Ranulf.

  Meg rushed into the little room. “You look lovely, my lady.”

  Lyonene smiled at her, feeling as if her stomach might leave her at any moment. “What is that you carry?”

  The girl gasped. “It is from his lordship, the great black one, your…”

  “Let me see. It is for me, is it not?”

  “Oh, yes, and lovely it is, too.”

  Both Melite and Lyonene gave her a harsh look for opening a gift meant for another. Meg handed the box to her young mistress carefully, with reverence.

  It was long and thin and covered with sheets of ivory on all sides and top and bottom. Each flat area, six in all, was covered with scenes of courtly love, a man and woman together. “It is lovely,” Lyonene gasped.

  “No! Open it; the true gift is inside.”

  Astonished that there could be more than the beautiful box, Lyonene lifted the lid on its silver hinges. The lion belt gleamed and the emeralds sparkled. Melite took the box as her daughter studied the tiny lions and lionesses. “I have never seen such as this,” she whispered. She held it to the light, feeling the thin gold wire, the smooth pearls and enamels. “Is it not lovely?”

  Melite smiled at her daughter, glad to see such happiness. “It is indeed lovely. Now fasten it or we shall miss your wedding.”

  Lovingly, Lyonene put the belt about her waist and let it fall just to the top of her hips. She caressed it and felt she could not take her eyes from it. “Did you send my husband my cups?”

  “Aye, my lady.”

  The hand that William took as he led his daughter down the stairs was trembling. He helped her onto the pretty little mare. She was to ride sidesaddle for the auspicious occasion; the rest of her family and important castle retainers followed on foot. William led the horse the short distance to the castle chapel. The day was cold and clear, and the ceremony would be held outside the church door, marriage as yet considered a legal matter and not completely a holy one.

  Lyonene smiled to see the two brothers side by side. They both wore the Malvoisin black and green. The younger brother was in green with a trim of black and a mantle lining of white fur; the older brother wore black with a thin green braid about the edges of his tabard, his mantle lined in the rich black sable. Her father helped her dismount.

  The look Ranulf gave her almost frightened her. He was not at all as she remembered. He seemed to frown at her and not be glad to see her. There were circles under his eyes.

  Father Hewitt asked who gave the woman in marriage and who took her. Her father relinquished her arm and she took Ranulf’s, but he did not look at her. She wanted some reassurance that he was the same man she’d betrothed.

  The priest’s questions were answered and the doors to the church thrown open. She released her pent-up breath and pulled on Ranulf’s arm until he looked down at her. He looked tired, but he was her Lion. She smiled up at him. “You ever forget when you are to kiss me,” she whispered.

  He gave her a faint smile and bent slightly toward her.

  “It is too late now, for now Father Hewitt must bless our marriage.”

  As they knelt before the altar for the wedding mass, she was more aware of some change in her husband, a change not caused by mere lack of sleep. The long ceremony ended, and they were once again in the early morning sunlight.

  Ranulf lifted Lyonene into the broad saddle of the Frisian and mounted behind her, his arms encircling her to hold the reins, while the wedding guests threw sundry grains at them and called, “Plenty! Plenty!”

  “Ride with me now, away from here, to Malvoisin.” His breath was soft in her ear.

  She turned in his arms. “I ever beg you to kiss me and you refuse, yet now you wish to carry me off and neglect our guests.”

  The reins were dropped as he pulled Lyonene to him, crushing her against him. It was not a sweet kiss, but one from the longing, the doubt he still held.

  She leaned against him, her arms yet about his neck.

  “Go with me now,” he urged.

  “I cannot. I could not think only of myself.”

  “Do but think of me then.”

  She looked into his eyes and saw the pain there. “On the morrow all my days will be yours, but this one belongs to my parents. Come, there will be dancing and we have cooked for days.”

  “And will there be many men guests?”

  “Of a surety, but women also. Ranulf, what is wrong? Has some misfortune befallen you? You do not smile at m