“Oh, I trust he will make an effort to win from those men.”
They watched as Ranulf circled the enormous man, and Lyonene was pleased to see that her husband equaled him in size. The first hold brought Ranulf to his back with a loud thud. She saw his muscles strain as he pushed the man from him, their legs locked together, Ranulf’s darker skin prominent. They broke their holds and circled again, but this time Ranulf got in the first grip. Ranulf’s arm encircled the man’s neck and she saw Ranulf’s back as the strong man freed himself.
Their muscles strained as they pushed, each taking a hold or using his massive strength to break the other’s hold. They stood and locked arms, their legs pulling-pushing, expanding, as their bodies wrestled together. There were whole minutes when neither moved, and had it not been for the expanded cords in their necks, the knotted muscles in their backs, one would have thought they but rested.
“The man Ross is tiring,” Berengaria said. “His legs begin to quiver, but your Ranulf’s do not. He must be trained well for this match.”
She merely smiled, for all her attention was on her husband and she could only guess at the pain he felt at this long, long match.
They broke the hold and the crowd cheered, for the bald man showed visible signs of weariness and Ranulf took advantage and attacked.
“Lord Dacre does well, also, though his brother Ross is smaller than the one who fights Lord Ranulf.”
The two men continued to strain against one another until Ranulf brought the man down with an ankle locked about his opponent’s calf. The man could not break the fierce hold. The cry of “Lion” filled the air when the man cried, “Peace.” Ranulf stood and solemnly helped the bald man to stand beside him. He left the field and Ranulf stood in triumph. It was but a moment before Lord Dacre joined him, and together they strutted around the field.
Ranulf paused before Lyonene, and she kissed a ribbon and threw it to him. He caught it in the air and kissed it as he looked at her, a look that made her blush. He looped it and stuffed it into the side of his loincloth, the ends hanging down his hip and thigh. He gave her a one-sided grin, almost a leer. She covered her face with her hands as the crowd, and the men and women around her, cheered his gesture. She did not look up again until he was gone from the lists.
“You may show your face again, for he is gone and the trumpets sound for dinner.”
They joined the line that began to leave the tourney grounds.
“My lady. My Lady Lyonene.” She turned to a breathless, starry-eyed Brent. “Is he not the strongest knight? Did you see him?”
“Aye, I did.” She did not know her expression matched his.
“He bids you come to him, to his tent, for he dines there. He says he must not dress yet; there may be more men such as the brothers Ross to fight.” His face fell. “I must dine with my father.”
Berengaria laughed. “I fear our father is a poor substitute for the Black Lion. Come along, Brent, mayhaps you can make do with my poor Travers.”
Lyonene hurried to Ranulf’s tent. She did not see him at first, he lay so still on the cot.
“Lyonene?” he whispered.
She hurried to him. “Ranulf! You are hurt!”
“I am more than hurt, I am dying,” came his muffled reply. “There is naught of me that does not pain me. Neither of the ax wounds in my arm and leg, nor both together, caused me so much pain.”
She stroked his sweat-dampened hair, laughter in her voice. “But Brent has said you ready yourself to fight other men, men, of course, more fierce than the little one just finished.” She laughed at his groan.
“You are cruel. What would the boy say of me ’twere he to see me like this?”
“At least you do not think I needs must be impressed.” She tugged on the green ribbon that hung from his loincloth and his hand instantly covered hers, but not without his groaning in pain.
“That is mine; I won it and do not make me need to wrestle you to keep it.”
“Hmph! You could not even whip me now.”
His arm encircled her waist, and amid squeals of laughter, he pulled her down beside him on the cot. He threw one heavy leg across her thighs and an arm across her breasts, his face snuggled near her ear. “You delight in causing me pain. First I must strut before my page and then I must prove again my strength to my wife. Lie still and do not plague me.”
She did as he bid and was content with his nearness.
“Good morn, your lordship.” Brent greeted them below stairs, the next morning, his face solemn.
Ranulf frowned at the boy. “I seem to be somewhat weary this morn. Mayhaps you would oblige me and rid me of this burden until we are at the lists.” He unbuckled the long sword that hung in front of him.
Lyonene thought the boy’s eyelids might turn inside out, so wide did he open them.
“Oh, my lord,” he whispered. “This is the sword you used to kill the infidels in the Holy Lands?”