“Ranulf, I am serious! The woman is bad; she is not as she seems to you. Already she has lied about Kate and…”
He pushed her from his lap and returned to dressing. “How can you judge her so harshly after but a few words? I found her but an ordinary woman, but she says she is a duke’s daughter, so she must be treated with respect. Now see to our food and do not complain to me of her again. She is but a woman. What harm can she do?”
Lyonene went to the kitchen herself to order food. Ranulf was unreasonable! She knew there was naught she could do to persuade him that the woman’s words were all mummery.
Dawkin met her at the door. “My lady, she is not to be pleased. She has sent her food back three times—it is not cooked enough, it is overcooked. Kate has near flooded my kitchen with her tears.”
She tried to calm the chief cook as best she could. “I will speak to her, but do not take this to Lord Ranulf.” She remembered his reaction to her complaints. If more were said against her, he would perhaps ask her to make Malvoisin her permanent home. She took a large tray of food and carried it to the solar for herself and Ranulf.
To her chagrin, Amicia sat near the fire, wrapped in a fur-lined quilt.
“Oh, Lyonene,” Ranulf said, taking the tray, “Lady Amicia has decided she is well enough to join us for the evening meal.”
“How thoughtful of her.” She met the woman’s eyes briefly.
“Tell us of your homeland. I have not seen France for several years.”
“Then you have seen it. I knew you to be an educated man when first I saw you. It is something in your eyes.”
No one saw Lyonene’s lip curl at the woman or her disgust at the way Ranulf reacted to the syrupy words. She listened as they talked, watching how the Frankish woman leaned toward Ranulf at every opportunity and touched his arm often. The only consolation she had was that never once did Ranulf smile at the woman or laugh at her statements.
Kate came and escorted Amicia back to her chamber.
“You hardly spoke during supper. I do not like your being so rude to our guest.”
“I was never rude. I am sure I spoke whenever there was a chance to insert a word.”
“Come here.” He pulled her to his lap. “I am not so sure I like this much jealousy. I have never seen you treat another so. Even Lady Elizabeth at court did not cause you so much anger.”
“You do not understand. This Amicia is not as they are. They cared for you, in a way. This woman cares for naught but herself.”
“How can you say such when you have but met the woman?”
She sighed against him. It was hopeless to continue. She had heard her mother spend hours trying to persuade her father of the character of a person, a person just met, and Melite had always ended in failure. She seemed doomed to wait until Ranulf slowly came to the same conclusion that she had already reached. She just hoped it was not long.
The morning dawned bright, the sun hot, as the earth tried to repair itself from the damage of the storm.
“I will spend the day with my men and will not return until supper. See you that our guest is made welcome.”
She grimaced but nodded that she would attempt the task.
When Amicia arrived in the solar, she wore Lyonene’s clothes, and the countess wondered at her boldness, for she had never been asked for the loan. Amicia’s eyes dared Lyonene to question her use of them, but Lyonene merely laughed, for the clothes hung on the woman’s boyish frame.
“It seems we must spend this day together, for my husband’s escapades of yester eve have torn his clothes badly. Would you care for the wherewithal to embroider?”
Amicia did not deign to look at Lyonene. “Nay, I do not sew. A lady has servants to perform those duties for her.”
“Of course. I must then inform Queen Eleanora, for she ever embroiders her own clothing.”
Amicia shot her a quick hateful look before turning to the window seat, her finger running along the diamond-shaped panes of glass. “Lord Ranulf is the Black Lion, is he not?” She did not wait for an answer. “I have heard of him even in France. My father, the duke”—she made sure Lyonene heard the words—“often spoke of him. He even once considered him for my husband.”
Lyonene did not look up from her needle. “My husband is an amiable man and might have agreed to the marriage, for he proved in his first marriage that he does not object to a wife older than himself.”
There was silence between them.
“You seem secure in your marriage… Lyonene, is it not? An odd name. I suppose you brought his lordship an enormous dowry.”
“In truth, I did not, but I do not see that that is something for us to discuss.”