Happily, she gave her attention to her food and the songs of the jongleur. She had not even been aware that he had been singing.
The meal was cleared and the tables dismounted and stacked against the walls. Father Hewitt brought ink and quills and the betrothal papers to a small table set before the fire. Sir William signed them hastily, but Ranulf paused. The old priest put his hand on the man’s strong arm. “You are not sure, my lord?”
“I but remembered another time so much like this one.” He signed his name, a hard, black flou
rish.
“Now, it is customary for rings and kisses. Lady Lyonene, you have a ring I believe?”
She held out her hand for Ranulf’s and with trembling fingers placed a gold ring on the third finger of his left hand—the arm nearest his heart, the finger that contained a vein leading directly to his heart.
“I do not have…” Ranulf began, but then his face lighted and he put his hand into the fitchet opening of his tabard and unbuckled a leather pouch from his belt. He emptied the contents on the table—a few coins, several jewels including an enormous ruby, three iron keys and a bit of wool, ragged and worn. He took the wool and unwound it to reveal a ring—gold, with clasped hands on the back to represent unity and a sun and moon to signify the lifetime bond of marriage. There were three emeralds across the top.
“It was my mother’s ring. She bid me always carry it.”
“You cannot give it me, for then you will at times be without it.”
He took her hand and slid the ring into place. “I will wrap you in a bit of wool and carry you and the ring. Now go and find your mother, for I have sorely neglected my men, my horse and my brother.”
“You are to kiss me.” Her voice was almost hurt that he had forgotten.
He bent and kissed her cheek, but her arms went around his neck to hold him close. For a brief moment he crushed her to him. “Go,” he whispered, “before I shame myself and my king before your family.” He pulled her arms away. “Notice I do not include you in the shamed ones, for I vow you are a shameless hussy.”
She giggled at him. “Go to your horse then, and I will do my work and not give you another thought.”
Melite followed her daughter up the stairs. “Someday I shall pay for this,” she muttered. To see her daughter so happy was a joy to her, but she wondered where she had gone wrong that she had reared such a forward girl. “It is William’s fault,” she answered herself. “If he had named his daughter Joan as I wished, she would not be like this. No Joan ever threw her arms around a man not her husband and begged him for a kiss, at least not before her parents. But a girl named for a lioness!” She smiled. It was indeed fortunate that Lyonene was to marry a man like Ranulf and not a weakling like Giles, the young boy who lived on the neighboring estate and had since childhood vowed he’d someday marry Lyonene.
“Mother! Whatever are you saying? I believe you are talking to yourself!”
“You may be impertinent with Lord Ranulf, but you may not do so with me.”
Lyonene laughed and then sobered. “I am sorry, Mother. It is only that he has called me just so this day. Is he not a wondrous man?”
Melite sighed, for she saw several hours ahead of hearing of Lord Ranulf’s charms.
They spent the afternoon in the great bedchamber of William and Melite, which also acted as a solar. Lyonene could not concentrate on her sewing. She constantly held the ring to the light to catch the sparkle of the emeralds and too often ran to the window to look toward the lists.
“Lyonene,” Melite said casually, “this year’s apple crop was especially good. Go to the kitchen and have Cook give you a few.”
“I am not hungry.”
“Nay, but I thought mayhaps that black horse of Lord Ranulf’s would be.”
Lyonene jumped from her chair and ran to her mother to give her a quick hug and kiss her cheek. She had almost reached the door when a thought came to her and she looked back. “Someday, I shall ask you what message my father sent that was so urgent that I was left alone to bathe my Lord Ranulf.”
There was only a flicker across Melite’s face, but it was enough to answer her daughter. Laughing, Lyonene went to the kitchen.
The stables were warm and sweet-smelling as she carried a small basket of apples toward the enormous horse in the end stall.
She stroked his head and opened the door. The horse daintily ate the apples from her hand as she ran her hands over the powerful neck.
“Lyonene! What do you do? You should not be in Tighe’s stall. It is dangerous!” Geoffrey called to her.
She smiled at him over the low wooden wall. “He is as gentle as his master.” She rubbed the velvet nose, then took an iron comb from the wall and began to comb the long, profuse mane.
Geoffrey stood before the gate, an expression of awe on his face. “The horse is a stallion and not at all gentle. I have never seen him behave so with anyone besides Ranulf. Did you not know he nipped your father’s stable master?”
“The man, I am sure, deserved the punishment. See how sweet he is?” She stooped before one of Tighe’s legs and stroked the long hair that grew from knee to the floor. “I have never seen a horse with hair like this. Of course Tighe is very vain; a horse so beautiful would have to be.”