The Black Lyon

one. I do not think I have ever laughed so. Thank you.” He looked at her lovely face, eyes bright from laughter, and he imagined her at Malvoisin and liked the idea very much.
    Supper was a light meal, soups and stews, twice baked bread, fruit preserved in honey and spices and cheeses. The jongleur that William had hired finally arrived and the meal was quiet as they listened to the man’s long tales of ancient knights, Robin Hood and King Arthur’s court. Impromptu, he composed a song about Lyonene’s beauty. He sang it with gusto, for usually barons’ daughters were not so pretty, yet custom demanded a song of praise of the marriageable young women.
    Ranulf remembered the jongleur’s songs about Isabel, the songs that had great influence on a boy of only ten and six years. He looked at Lyonene as she smiled at the jongleur. In a pique of jealousy, he thought of taking the lute from the singer and singing to Lyonene himself, but he knew there would be time for such things. Yes, he was beginning to feel there would be time for such things. The smile that she flashed up at him warmed him and he returned it.
    The meal was ended and the tables stacked against the wall. It was dark outside, and the castle grew colder. Ranulf was reluctant for the day to end for he feared to wake and find it had been only a dream.
    Lyonene had no such fears, for she looked forward to the morrow as another day such as this. She bade her parents and her guests a good sleep and went up the winding stairs to her room. It was while she was before her door arguing with Lucy that Ranulf approached his chamber.
    “May I assist in any matter?”
    Lyonene gave him a look of desperation. “Lucy’s sister in the village is ill, but Lucy fears to leave me alone for even one night. I promise her I shall not come to harm surrounded by so many guards.”
    Ranulf took the old woman’s plump hand and kissed it. “Will it put you at your ease if I swear on oath to protect the lady with my life?”
    Lucy sniffed, but Ranulf’s treatment of her had more effect than she would admit—that the king’s earl should kiss her hand! “And who, pray tell, will protect my lady from handsome young gentlemen such as yourself?”
    “Lucy!” Lyonene gasped.
    Ranulf bowed low before the rotund little woman. “I have heard that Lady Lyonene keeps fierce dogs and a great hawk in her room that attack any intruders like a pack of demons.”
    Lucy could not keep from laughing for she knew the story well. “The two of you are a pair—nary a serious bone in your body. I’m off then and…” She threw up her hands. “I hope I do not live to regret this.”
    Lyonene and Ranulf watched as she waddled down the stairs, mumbling to herself. Awkward together in the ensuing silence, they were quiet.
    “I hope you will like your chamber and that everything pleases you.”
    Ranulf ran a finger along her jaw. “I am well pleased by Lorancourt and everything in it.” He knew he could not stand so close to her in the darkened hall and not pull her into his arms. “Good night,” he said abruptly and left her.
    Lyonene went to her own chamber and began to undress. It was a good feeling of freedom to be alone without Lucy. She stood in her chemise before the fire. So much had happened this day. She remembered their laughter over the race, and the story she told, his blush, and then she remembered his kiss and the feel of his skin as she bathed him. She moved away from the fire, for she had grown very warm.
    He had said he could not stay for two days more, and she dreaded his leaving.
    She climbed into the high feather bed, pulling the thick woolen comforter about her. Exhausted, she soon fell asleep.
    Ranulf paced the small chamber for a while, his soft leather shoes silent on the thick rushes. It had been ten and five years since the boy he once was had lain in a girl’s parents’ chamber and dreamed of a happy life. Since then he had changed, convincing himself that what he had once sought was not possible. There were few happy marriages, and he had no longer considered the possibility of such a future. King Edward pressed him to marry a Castilian princess, very rich and very ugly. He had almost resigned himself to the fate of such a marriage. But now there was Lyonene.
    He must consider. Was it love he felt for her or just the sin of lust? He dismissed this. Lust he had felt often, but never had he considered marriage to the woman.
    For a moment a picture formed