The Black Lyon

to show an emotion, either glad or otherwise. “It is near dawn. You should have slept.”
    “I… I wished to speak to you.”
    Ranulf sank to a stool by the fire, his head on his hands. What complaint did she have now, he wondered. He could not even think. All he saw was the burned flesh, the open mouths with their silent cries for water, the bones charred. “Can it not wait till the morrow? I am more than weary.”
    “Aye, I guess it can.” She could not add to his burden; there was no jewel worth that. She rose and stood by him, touching a damp lock of the black hair gently, timidly, not knowing how he would react.
    He took her hand and rubbed it against his jaw, the spiky whiskers near removing the skin from her hand. “I am grateful,” he said quietly, and she felt tears coming to her eyes.
    As he rose and went to the bed, she knew what she must do—rid herself of Giles. The bond between Ranulf and her was too fragile yet, and a letter saying such things as she had written would shatter that bond too easily.
    She heard the ropes creak as Ranulf stepped into bed. “Come to bed,” he said in low voice, heavy with sleep.
    “Aye, in a moment. I but bank the fire.” As she had thought, she heard the heavy, steady rhythm of sleep almost instantly. Quickly, she found the pouch and a smooth, hard stone and walked silently to the shuttered window. She had only to move one slat and drop the jewel below. Her hands shook badly and she prayed she did the right thing. There was a slight noise below as she released the stone and she turned quickly to the sleeping Ranulf, but his breathing never changed.
    Still trembling, she removed her robe and climbed into the big bed beside her husband. She lay frozen, rigid, so incredibly aware of the unfamiliar nearness of him. He rolled toward her and one arm moved out and landed heavily across her throat. Gasping, she lifted the weight as best she could, only to find that his hand had begun caressing her. His eyes were still closed, but his hand seemed to search her nude body as if in understanding. Without a word he pulled her beneath him, the weight of him, the remembered pain of the night before frightening her, tightening every muscle in her body.
    His thigh forced her legs apart, and she felt hot tears gathering, then the first pains as he thrust himself upon her. At least it was over more quickly this time, but it was still a while before she slept, the hair at her temples wet from many tears.
    Ranulf woke first the next morn, as he always did, just before the sun fully rose. Lyonene lay beside him, turned slightly on her side, facing him. His first thought was that ’twere it possible, she looked even younger, even prettier in her sleep. He hadn’t had any time with her in their two days of marriage. That boy’s words haunted him, words so like his first wife’s. He wanted so badly to believe in the girl beside him, that she did not try to deceive him, was not false with him. He did not ask for love. No? What then did he want? It seemed that women either feared him as the Black Lion or desired him for his riches. He remembered his father saying once that his eldest son could no more kill a man than become king’s champion in the joust. Ranulf wondered how his father would have reacted to that son, who had trained for the church, as he was today—feared by many, hated by a few, but little loved. A woman had changed all that.
    Lyonene stirred in her sleep, bringing him back to the present. He was walking into battle again, unarmed, unclothed. What wounds he received this time he was not sure would heal. He touched her cheek, close to the tiny ear that curled in an intricate, mysterious way. Her eyes flew open instantly and the fear he saw there startled him.
    Lyonene saw the soft curve of his lips, the gentle expression in his eyes and knew his thoughts. She was not ready yet for more of the painful lovemaking. She rolled from the bed and quickly donned her robe, kneeling before the fire, nervously jabbing at the coals with the iron poker. What if he called her back to bed? He was her husband and she could refuse him naught.
    Ranulf turned on his back and frowned up at the dusty bedhangings. She had a right to fear him; he had used her hurtfully that first night. It was a shame that such should have been her introduction to lovemaking, but he would replace those memories tonight at Aylesbury Castle, when there would be time to show her the art.
    He turned on his