The Black Lyon

him everything! I was not sunk to the character I am now.”
    She met his stare, feeling inside her that Ranulf had seen then the man Morell could have been. Her husband was not so vain as to turn aside a good knight for so little a flaw as the color of his hair. “Is a man today what he was not yesterday?”
    Morell’s face had turned red and he had taken a step toward her, and then he felt the heavy hand of a guard on his shoulder. He had shaken it off, his eyes still on Lyonene’s. “He will pay for what he has done,” he said hoarsely, “and neither will I forget your words.” He turned and angrily strode from the hall.
    Lyonene shook her head as if to clear away the ugly thoughts and looked down at her enormous stomach.
    Alice ran firm hands over the mound each day to check the progress of the growing child. Lyonene was sure her skin would split, so tautly was it pulled, but Alice reassured her it would not and that the babe was already turned correctly for its birth. Lyonene was growing anxious to deliver the child and rid herself of the heavy burden. She closed her eyes and thought of the moment of joy when she’d hold a black-haired, black-eyed babe in her arms.
    Alice touched her on the shoulder and she jumped.
    “I did not hear you come in. Aye, I would like to go to the Great Hall. I get some pleasure in seeing Morell’s disgust at my waddling. If I were not so tired of carrying my own stomach about, I would wish I could remain so for a long while. Think you he would tire of me if I remained so for several years?” She rubbed her stomach happily. “What think you of twins? Ranulf once said… Nay, I will not cry again.” She laughed at Alice’s quelling look.
    “Well, I see our countess deigns to visit with us—two days together. We are indeed honored,” Amicia said, greeting her. The Frankish woman smiled as Sir Morell looked away. “Morell, does she not look fit? I am sure she carries at least two children in that great belly of hers.”
    Morell gave Amicia a quick look of contempt and left the hall, and the woman smiled triumphantly.
    Alice led her mistress to a stool by the fire. Lyonene smoothed her skirts as she looked about the hall. Lady Margaret knelt on the floor, the rushes swept back to make a place for her to roll dice with two of her men. Her laugh rang out across the hall. Occasionally, she ran her hand over the thigh of one of the men, and Lyonene looked away. Amicia was making her way to the gambling group. Some serfs—two men followed by another—carried firewood into the hall. The man behind was large, and something about him made her stare. Alice touched her shoulder and frowned; it was not seemly that Lyonene should stare at the serfs, especially not at men.
    Lyonene looked away, but when she saw Alice return to her sewing, she could not help another quick glance. There was something about the man… Alice again caught her attention, and the maid left to fetch more thread. The four guards that were always near watched the people in the corner at their dice game.
    The three serfs came to the fireplace before her. She looked away, fascinated by the weave of her woolen gown. She lectured herself for her stupidity. She had seen hundreds of serfs in her life and not one of them had interested her in even the slightest way, yet now she found she wanted to see this man’s face. His hand took a poker and moved the logs in the fireplace. The action caught her eye, and as she stared at the dark hand covered in short, dark hairs, it stopped moving. She knew he stared at her, that all she had to do was lift her eyes and meet the owner of that familiar hand.
    She looked up slowly, very, very slowly, fearful of what she would or would not see.
    Ranulf’s eyes met hers in an expressionless stare, the black irises pinpointed as they looked at the emerald-green gaze. His eyes swept the length of her, quickly, and then seemed to dismiss her altered form as he returned to her face.
    She could but look at him in wonder that he should be standing before her, obviously unarmed. Should he be recognized, he would have little chance of defending himself against a man armed with a morgenstern. Yet underlying her fears was sheer joy that he should risk so much for her, that he had sought her out, that he did not lounge at court and forget her. She struggled to give him a word, a sign of her love, to tell him all her heart felt for him, to warn him of the danger he faced for her.
    “They