Ranulf whirled when a hand touched his shoulder. Herne stood there.
“We have all come to the same answer. You agree with the stench of this matter? Have you found aught that is useful?” the guardsman asked.
Herne nodded at Ranulf’s answer, then continued, “We must go to prepare, for I do not think you wait for a message of ransom. We travel soon. I hear tell Ireland is a small place and so will be easily searched.”
Ranulf spent a day in preparation, allowing his men to rest and sleeping himself for a few hours. He knew little of Ireland, but he knew Dacre had cousins there. He sent messages to his friend and to Lorancourt. He thought he remembered his father-in-law mentioning relatives in Ireland. If Lyonene managed to escape, she would go to her kinfolk and Ranulf must know where they abided.
Through all his actions was a slow deliberateness, knowing the long battle that lay ahead for him and his men. He was no longer angry at his wife, but felt there was some flaw in him that made her doubt him.
The Black Guard met him in the courtyard, clad in their heaviest chain mail, their coarsest wool tabards. The heavy weapons of war hung from the saddles of horses that were also covered in the iron-link armor. There was neither word nor acknowledgment of one another as Ranulf mounted the enormous black Frisian. Their purpose together was united and held by a deathly bond.
It took them two days to reach Dunster, and there the answers to Ranulf’s messages awaited. Dacre offered help, if needed, and the names and places of his kin. William Dautry also gave the name of his daughter’s cousins, and Melite sent her word of continued prayers.
The ferry took days to reach Waterford on the coast of Ireland. The sight of the unknown land only heightened Ranulf’s fears, for it seemed impossible to search the entire island. He and his men broke into four pairs, Maularde beside Ranulf, and began the search.
The ship began to move and Lyonene felt the uneasiness in her stomach almost instantly. The nausea kept her mind from thinking of what she had done. She stretched out on the little bed, and Ranulf seemed to come to her from everywhere. She might never see him again or be able to touch him. Their child would be born and Ranulf might never even see the babe. A sharp pain in her stomach kept the tears from filling her eyes. Would the child be dark like Ranulf or have her light locks?
The door to the little cabin unlocked. “I have brought you food and wine.” Sir Morell paused, a frown creasing his brow. “Do not tell me you are given over to the sickness of the sea?”
Lyonene could only look at him, her stomach moving in waves of revulsion. The contents of her stomach rose in her throat, and she swallowed to keep it down, her hand covering her mouth.
Morell’s eyes turned hard, his mouth ugly as he glared at her. He angrily threw the charger onto the table, the wine upsetting and spilling, the smell of it sending new shudders through Lyonene.
“Amicia!” Morell threw open the door and bellowed.
Even through her pain and her ardent attempts at controlling her nausea, Lyonene was surprised, for she had not known the Frankish woman sailed with them. She was too ill to think more on the puzzle.
“How may I be of service to you, my sweet knight?” Amicia ran her hand across Sir Morell’s leather-covered chest.
“You may care for that sick woman you brought with you.”
“Sick! She is not ill. It is not the babe too soon?”
“Nay, it is but the motion of the ship. I had other plans for her than seeing her toss her stomach into a pot. Part of the plan was that I have her.”
Amicia cast a worried look past Morell to Lyonene, who lay curled almost into a ball on the bed. “We have a way to go yet, and I would keep our secret from her. She will be more docile if she knows naught of us. You will have her, soon, I swear. It takes twelve days to reach Ireland. This sickness will last but a few of them. Do not be so greedy.”
Amicia ran her hands across Morell’s shoulders, her arms going about his neck. “I do not see why the woman interests you so. There is naught she can give you that I cannot. Come and let me show you.”
He pulled her arms from his neck. “I do not like my women so well-used. Now see you to her and see that she is recovered quickly, or I shall lock you in your cabin and allow none of my crew near you, for opposite reasons than I lock away this lady.”
“You insult me and ask me to care for the woman you plan to bed, in the same breath?”
“Nay. I do not ask. No man should ask aught of such a woman as you. Now do as I say or I shall carry out my threats.” He roughly pushed her toward the huddled figure of Lyonene and quickly left the room, his revulsion of the sick woman obvious.
Lyonene could not remember much of the next few days, but she was aware of hands pushing at her, words that cursed her and, above all, a stomach that pained her greatly. Food was forced down her throat, and she felt it rise again almost instantly. Then there were more curses, sharp slaps on her hands and arms, a harsh cloth wiped across her soiled mouth.
She awoke one day, sane again, thinner and very weak, her head hurting. It took a few moments to remember where she was and why she was there. “Ranulf,” she whispered as she thought of the husband that she would never know again.
The whispered word came from a dry, parched throat and she looked about for some water. An aquamanile stood on the other side of the cabin. What had once seemed a tiny space now loomed enormous before her. She sat up slowly, her weakness making her head spin. The front of her tunic was soiled, encrusted with days of sickness. She sneered in revulsion at the filth, but was not strong enough to consider changing the gown. Her only thought was to slake her burning thirst.
She swung her legs over the bunk and put her bare feet on the oak floor. Supporting herself from one object to another, she slowly made her way to the pitcher of water. She was triumphant as her shaking fingers touched the handle and found it cool to touch, moist to her dry fingertips. She pulled it to her with difficulty, but knew it was empty before she brought it before her eyes. She turned it up over her tongue, one drop doing nothing to relieve the pain.
A burst of laughter, almost beside her, made her laboriously turn to the door. It was not quite closed and the laughter came from somewhere outside it. Maybe someone would give her a drink. She clumsily put the pitcher back on the shelf and made her way to the door, her feet scuffling, arms almost giving way once in their support of her.
The door swung open easily and she walked the few feet to the doorway next to her cabin. Light shone from within, and she could see two people sitting around a table, the coveted mugs of liquid in their hands. She watched greedily as Amicia drank from a sweat-coated vessel. She lifted her hand to push the partially opened door wider.
“To the Lady Lyonene!”