The Black Lyon

thought she sensed a smirk in the pale woman’s last words. She barely had time to snatch the lion belt from its hiding place beneath a cushioned seat. She did not know what instinct had caused her to hide it, but she had. The ivory box of Ranulf’s was not to be found. She fastened the belt under the folds of the loose wool surcoat, above her stomach, pulling cloth forward to add bulk to her enlarging stomach.
    Amicia noticed the increased width but said naught, and Lyonene was encouraged in the necessary deception.
    There was no mummery involved when she was led down the side of the ship. The horrible rope ladder swayed and fled from her feet as she tried to find her way. Her weak arms began to tremble violently, both from the exertion and her growing feeling of danger.
    A strong man took her waist, and she was pulled gently into the waiting rowboat.
    “Careful you do not show yourself too fond of the lady,” Sir Morell said, sneering at the big sailor who held her.
    “I will not see her or the babe harmed. You swore they would not be injured.”
    “Nay, I’ll not harm her. My plans for the lady bear little pain, but that is her decision. Amicia, can you not do something with her? She has no more life than a rag doll.”
    For an instant Amicia’s pale eyes met Lyonene’s green ones and an understanding passed between them. As Amicia ran her hand across Sir Morell’s thigh, she and Lyonene gazed steadily at one another. They reached a silent agreement, now two women—no longer one with a courtly rank but a prisoner and one a captor, but only women, with the knowledge of all women. Amicia gave the briefest of nods, and Lyonene closed her eyes again, her body limp.
    “She is still very ill, Morell. In truth, I fear for her life. The babe is farther along than I had thought and I think it pains her. You may of course take her as she is.” Amicia gestured to Lyonene’s pale, slumped body, a study in weakness.
    “Nay, I prefer a woman and not a useless bundle of rags. We will find a barber and see what he can do for her.”
    “I think we should go to the widow’s straightaway. When a ship of the Black Lion’s is found empty, it will cause much talk. We must go quickly and not be seen by others.”
    “Aye, you are right. I would not like to have Ranulf de Warbrooke find his wife before I have my ransom.”
    The climb down the rope was nothing compared to the hours astride a horse. It was all Lyonene could do to stay atop the animal. She tried to think of a way to escape, but they traveled always across barren land, the paths sometimes too rocky, steep, the struggles of her horse little helped by its rider’s weakness.
    Sir Morell often turned to look at her, and each time she managed to give some sign of great sickness. After the first day he stopped turning to her, and Amicia gave Lyonene a slight smile, which was neither acknowledged nor returned.
    At night they camped, with only a small fire lit against the night’s chill. Lyonene slipped a piece of charcoal under her surcoat and rubbed a blackened finger beneath her eyes. Then she created dark hollows below her cheekbones. Amicia looked at her oddly, but made no comment. When Sir Morell took her arm once, she leaned against him and gave him a wan smile. He pushed her away from him. She could not allow herself even the smallest smile of triumph.
    On the third day, they arrived at an old stone donjon, the battlements crumbling about the top, the up and down squares of the crenellations indistinct. They were nearly at the wall of the castle before a warning was called.
    “Sir Morell, late of Malvoisin,” the knight shouted, and the rusty, uncared-for iron wheels began to move and the gates were drawn up. The drawbridge that lay across the shallow, garbage-filled moat was useless, its chains limp and broken, so only the iron-tipped portcullis was in use.
    There was no more pretense that Lyonene was being taken to her relatives. The people around her talked freely of the ransom, either accepting that she knew of their plans or, she hoped, thinking her too ill to understand their words. Lyonene felt they were such fools. Only Amicia noticed the amount of food the prisoner consumed. The day before, Lyonene’s horse had shied at a rabbit and Lyonene had used a great deal of strength in controlling the animal. She did not wish to land on the hard ground, even to prove her illness to the others. Her horse calm again, she looked up to see Amicia smiling