The Black Lyon

“There is time. I do but watch her toss about and moan. She does not even heave now, but just lays there, calling his name o’er and o’er.”
    Morell frowned and refilled his cup.
    Lyonene leaned back against the wall, her heart pounding weakly. She began to edge back along the rough boards to the open door of her own chamber. She made her way to the bunk and collapsed on it. Had her face and body not been so dry she would have cried, but there was no moisture left in her, only the bleak, desolate knowledge of how she had fallen prey to an insidious plan.
    Lyonene heard Amicia come into the room and carefully kept her face averted. Even in her illness she had only one thought—she must remain ill or the fate that awaited her would be worse than a sick stomach. She must feign illness and somehow escape her captors, and above all, she must not think of the past. “Forgive me, my sweet Ranulf,” she whispered.
    “Here, you filthy gutter rat.” Amicia roughly lifted Lyonene’s head and pushed a pewter cup to her lips, the metal striking her teeth. She drank greedily of the stale water. “A fine lady you be. Would that that husband could see you this day. Mayhaps he would think twice when he got within a yard of your stench. Here! Do not drown yourself.” She jerked Lyonene’s head up and stared into her eyes.
    Lyonene forced her eyes to go blank, lose focus.
    “It was too much to hope I would rid myself of the burden of you. Morell desires you. Men! It is all in their heads. One woman is the same as another, just as men are much the same.” She dropped Lyonene’s head and she fell back to the hard bunk.
    “At least you drink now, so I’ll soon get some broth down you.”
    For Lyonene, the hardest to bear was the filth and slime of her clothes. The smell made her weak stomach churn against holding even the water she had drunk. She would have to let Amicia know she had some semblance of coherence again, for she’d need the chamber pot soon. When the Frankish woman returned, she turned to look at her.
    “So, you are awake. It has been many days.”
    “How many?” Lyonene whispered.
    “Ten.”
    They were within two days of Ireland, then. “I have been a burden to you.”
    “Aye, you have.”
    “I did not know you traveled to Ireland. Should you not be … at Malovisin?”
    “Do not start your tears again. I have had enough of them. You must have had a fever caused by more than just the motion of the sea, and you have raved every moment you were ill. There is naught of you or Lord Ranulf I do not know. Now we will leave this ship soon and Morell would have you well. You must drink this and then sleep.” She thrust a warm mug of soup into Lyonene’s hand.
    Try as she would, she could not lift the heavy cup. Her fingers trembled and her arms would not obey her commands.
    “Here!” Amicia angrily lifted the mug, forcing Lyonene to drink. She tipped the cup and the invalid’s head back too far, and some of the contents spilled down her tunic, adding to the dirt-encrusted fabric. “You are no better than a babe. I have had to tend you as one, and I am fair sick of it. The smell of you puts me off, and there is little resemblance to a woman about you. If that child fled your belly, I would not blame it.”
    Lyonene put shaky fingers to her stomach, aware that it had increased in size in even the last few days. “My babe is not harmed?” she asked anxiously, fearful that something was wrong.
    “Nay. It sets in there firmly. Now I must go to Sir Morell. He wished to know when you woke.”
    Lyonene lay back on the cushionless cot, feeling as tired as if she had climbed a mountain, mayhaps several mountains. In spite of the discomfort of the horrible scratchy clothes, the smell, the matting of her hair, she was nearly asleep when Sir Morell opened the cabin door.
    “Mon Dieu! Amicia, I cannot enter this room! Take her from here and clean her, for I see you have left her in her own filth. I will see that the cabin is cleaned. You are an animal to treat any woman so. Get from my sight!”
    There was quiet and Lyonene felt the waves of sleep overtaking her again. Rough hands picked her from the cot.
    “I don’t mind her so badly. I have seen whores who were worse.”
    A harsh male voice boomed above her. She opened tired eyes just enough to realize she was being carried from the room.
    “Nay, she is not bad. Her eyes are the color of a jewel I once saw his lordship wear.”
    “Ranulf?” Lyonene