“I think I feel a touch of spring in the air,” he said. “Or mayhaps it is just my hearty wishes that make it feel so.”
She laughed. “I, too, grow weary of this cold. On the morrow I shall follow the river and look for signs of early crocus.”
They both looked up to see Ranulf thundering down on them, his face black with rage. With one arm he pulled Sir Bradford from his horse and then leaped from the Frisian’s back to stand above the boy, hand on sword hilt.
Lyonene jumped from her own horse’s back and threw herself between them. “What is this you do?” she demanded. “Why do you draw sword against this boy?”
“That, I think, you can more easily answer than I. Did you think you could meet so that I would not know? I have warned you, but you have ever defied me, and now you have gone too far.”
She stood straight before him, refusing to bow to him. “What you say makes no sense. The boy did but ride by me this day and we talked, no more. It is you with your temper that has made it more.”
“Ah!” he said with a deathly coldness. “You have given me no reason to doubt you? On our wedding night you meet another boy, one I must later kill. You steal from me to pay your lover and now you start afresh with this boy. Do you wish to see his blood also? Does your greed include his death as well as his seed?”
Anger near blinded her. “You are the only man I have allowed to touch me, and each day I regret that anew. Would that I had gone away with Giles or anyone, better to have taken my own life before I said vows to one of your vile nature.”
Ranulf’s hand swung and hit her across the mouth, cutting her lip and sending her sprawling. “Then we will undo what we have done. On the morrow I travel to Wales and when I return, do not let me find you here.” He mounted his horse and rode away.
Lyonene lay still a while, blood trickling from her torn and bruised mouth. She waved away Sir Bradford, and the boy left her alone. Tears came first, tears of despair and desolation. She had not meant to say what she did, but always her temper made her words uncontrollable. So what now of her noble vows to prove her love? Her husband had ordered her away from him, and there would be no more opportunities to prove aught to him.
“Ranulf,” she cried into the grass, feeling the sobs tear through her. On the morrow he left for Wales and it was over between them.
Suddenly she sat up and stared through her tears into the distance. Was she named for a lioness for naught? Had she no more courage than a serf? She would not give up so easily as this.
Her head spun with ideas. If he traveled to Wales, he would not travel alone. There would be women to clean and cook for the men.
She wiped her tears away and began to smile secretly. He would not refuse her again once his anger was gone. She knew that if she had more time, she could make amends for what had passed. She knew she could find some way to prove her love for him.
Confident again, with a purpose in mind, she rode back to Black Hall. There were many things to do before the morrow.
Chapter Eight
The wagons stood ready in the outer bailey, and Lyonene pulled the russet cloak closer about her, the hood hiding her downturned face. It had taken quite a bit of preparation to execute this plan and she wasn’t going to ruin it through a chance recognition by someone in the courtyard. Her new maid, Kate, had been willing enough to follow her mistress’s plan, although Lyonene had felt her staring once with a strange expression on her face. The girl was to pretend that Lyonene had an illness and that no one was to disturb her except Kate. By the time the deception was discovered, Lyonene might well be in Wales.
She stamped her feet and scratched at the coarse wool of her serf’s garb; it was cold in the early morning half-light. Lyonene thought again of what she was doing, wondering at Ranulf’s reaction when she revealed herself to him. He had said he did not want to see her again and she dared much in this masquerade. She grimaced at her lack of clothing other than the rough serf’s wool. But try as she might, she could find no way to conceal a thick bundle of fur-lined garments in the wagons, for they were checked constantly by several men and the discovery of such a bundle would expose her and ruin her plan.
“You, girl!”
Lyonene looked to see a woman calling her. She ducked her head and fought the quick anger that threatened a rebellion at this coarse woman’s commands.
“Do not stand there all day! Come and help me with these barrels!”
Lyonene followed the woman into the inner bailey, her heart pounding, for before her stood the entire Black Guard mounted on their great steeds, and in their midst stood the riderless Frisian. Lyonene looked quickly at the beautiful black horse, the mane full and lush, the thick tail falling all the way to the ground, and the lovely hair that flowed from knee to hoof now moving gently as he lifted one great hoof in impatience to be gone. He was a fitting horse for such a master as the Black Lion.
Lyonene held the little wooden barrels, one under each arm, and began to follow the woman to the outer bailey, when she paused abruptly. Lyonene followed her eyes. Ranulf walked to his horse, and she felt a surge of pride as all eyes in the courtyard flew to him and his men straightened in their saddles, obviously proud of their master.
He swung one great leg across the Frisian’s broad back and paused as he stared at one of the windows in the second floor of the Black Hall. Lyonene gasped as she realized it was the window to her little bedchamber.
“May the tortures of hell descend upon that woman!” the woman beside Lyonene hissed between her teeth.
Lyonene looked at her for the first time. She was older, near as old as her mother, but the bones in her face showed that once she had been handsome. In fact, even now her eyes riveted Lyonene’s, for they were very unusual—narrow, slanted, almond-shaped and exceptionally beautiful. She narrowed them now as she stared ahead to the object of Ranulf’s gaze, and Lyonene was astonished at the malevolence they contained.
“It is said that she does not care for my Ranulf.”
A flash of anger tore its way through Lyonene and she controlled it only with great effort. “What mean you by your Ranulf, does he not have a wife?”
“Aye, he has a wife.” Her voice was a sneer and she turned to look with interest at Lyonene, but the younger woman looked away. She looked back at Ranulf, and Lyonene clenched her fists as the woman’s strange eyes melted into an adoring gaze. “He has a wife, but one who does not care for him as he deserves.” She gave a low, throaty laugh. “She is a fool to forsake my Lord Ranulf’s lovemaking for that of another.”
“What know you of my Lord Ranulf’s lovemaking?” Lyonene could not keep the anger from her voice nor help the slight emphasis she placed on the word “my.”