“Oh, yes, there were four meetings with the baron, but none were successful and now tunnels are being prepared and… You must forgive me. I am sure he wrote you much the same.”
“I do not seem to know quite as much as you do. Perhaps the man who wrote you is a more prolific writer.”
“Aye, Lord Ranulf wrote me a great deal.”
“Ranulf! What is this you say?” Lyonene demanded.
“Why, my lady, I assumed you knew. You assured me my hints were most unsubtle.”
“Are you making an attempt to tell me that my husband sends messages to you?”
“You cannot blame a man if he is attracted to another woman.”
She rose from her chair. “I believe you not. You must show me this letter.”
“My Lady Lyonene, I can see this must be your husband’s first … infidelity, shall we say, and I do not wish to repay your kind hospitality by showing you something that will surely cause you distress.”
“I will go to my husband and he will deny your lies.”
“Most assuredly he will. You would not expect him to boast of his women to you? You did not think him to be a monk before his marriage, so why ever should he change just for a few vows before some witnesses? And he has fulfilled those vows; you certainly seem to have all a woman could desire. Please, you must eat. You must think of your child, who grows larger each day.”
The food stuck in Lyonene’s throat. She would not believe the woman’s words! She would ride to Ranulf and… Would she believe him if he denied an interest in this woman?
Amicia chattered about the food, the insolence of the Malvoisin servants, but Lyonene heard not a word, her thoughts too desolate to allow her to hear aught else.
The next day Lyonene donned old clothes and spent hours working in her garden. She pulled at weeds viciously.
“There you are, my lady.” Amicia’s voice made her carelessly grab another bunch of weeds, only to find her hand cut and bleeding from a sturdy thistle. She sat back on her heels and wiped the dirt from her palm.
“I do not know how you bear the dirt and sweat of gardening. I would have thought a lady … oh, yes, you are but a baron’s daughter, are you not?”
“I do not have time for your insults this morn. If you have aught to say to me, do so, but get to your meaning quickly.”
“I seem ever to displease you. I came but to the garden to enjoy it. It already holds many sweet memories for me.”
“My Lady Lyonene,” Kate called. “You must come inside from the sun. Lucy frets for you and the babe.”
Silently, Lyonene followed her to the kitchen. She knew Amicia would not enter such a room.
“Lady Lyonene, if your mother saw the way you worked and you carrying a babe.” Lyonene thought of her mother as a cool haven. “And Lord Ranulf,” Lucy continued, “he would be angry to know you would harm his babe.”
Lyonene slammed the mug of ale down. “Lord Ranulf! I hear naught but his name. I will deliver the child he so craves, but I do not know that I shelter his mistresses much longer.”
“What do you speak of, child? Lord Ranulf has no mistresses. Why, I have never seen a man love a wife so. The man dotes on you.”
“Oh, Lucy.” She clung to the fat old woman who had always been with her and began to weep on the ample bosom.
“Come, upstairs you go. You are to go to bed.”
Lyonene leaned on the woman and allowed her to undress her and put her to bed. Lucy stroked her forehead, too warm, and noticed circles under her eyes. “Tell me what troubles you, child. Lucy will listen.”
“He does not love me. He has never loved me.”
“How can you say that? The man never leaves your side when he can prevent it. Was there something in the letter that has made you sad?”
“There are other women.”
“Sweet, all men have other women. It is their way, but it does not mean he does not love you.”