The Black Lyon

One by one, the men solemnly nodded to her, telling her they believed her words, for in truth it had been easy to see the boy was not of his right mind.
    Only once on that long journey to Aylesbury Castle did Lyonene attempt to speak to her husband, and the black hate she saw there soon made her hold her tongue.
    “Your lordship,” Pask, the steward of Aylesbury Castle, warmly greeted Ranulf. “We are proud that you honor us again with your presence. The cook has worked for days preparing your meal, and it promises to be a meal worthy of you and your men. Ah, you bring a lady?”
    “She is my wife.” Ranulf’s tone caused the small man’s eyebrows to lift. “Put her things in the room across from Edward’s; I will take his.”
    Lyonene was too tired to care where she slept. She was plagued by memories of a childhood friend, now dead, and a husband who hated her. Lucy dropped on the narrow bed.
    “This has been an evil day. Sir John’s boy always was a bit odd. It was only you who gave of your time to him. I always knew…”
    “Please, Lucy, could we not speak of it again? I am tired and wish to rest.”
    “Aye, Lady Lyonene,” she said as she helped her young mistress to dress. “Shall I send a tray to you?”
    “No, I am not sure I shall ever eat again. I would just like to sleep, to lose myself in sleep.”
    Lucy tiptoed from the room.
    Ranulf paced, ignoring the tray of food that stood before him. He had been a fool to marry again and certainly to marry for any reason but advancement. The Castilian princess would not have caused him problems such as he had now.
    Lyonene—emerald-eyed beauty with tawny hair and thick, dark lashes—she was his wife now, and look at the hell he had been through for three days. Maularde had told him of Giles’s presence, and he had given her every chance to explain, to be honest with him, and yet she had not. He had tried not to kill the boy, but he had been mad, insane as he attacked. Ranulf rubbed his hand across his eyes as if to erase the memory. He knew too well what it was like to be young and so in love.
    Love? What did he know of love now? This girl had led him easily, yet now that she had her marriage to him she had changed. She was no longer eager for him, nor did she seem happy, as she once had at her father’s house. All seemed to point to a trick, to the truth in the boy’s words.
    Too many thoughts overlapped. Frustrated, he removed his clothes and walked to the bed, only to stare at the empty coldness of it, puzzled for a moment. Without dressing, he stepped into the cold hall and pushed open the door to Lyonene’s chamber. She did not waken until she felt herself roughly lifted, the bedclothes twisted about her sleepy body.
    Ranulf’s dark eyes were even darker in the dim light, his face shadowed by a day’s growth of his heavy black whiskers. He did not look at her as he silently carried her, and she longed for his glance, for the sound of his voice. He threw her onto the feather mattress of the wide bed. Only then did she notice his nudity, the sight of him riveting her eyes, making her heart beat faster as he looked at her, her leg and hip exposed by the twisted covers.
    “Whatever else you are, you are my wife, and you will not rid me from your bed.” He straightened the covers and climbed beneath them, pulling her to him.
    “Ranulf…” she began.
    “I do not wish to speak of this day, not now or ever again. The boy is dead now and whether his words be false or no, I will know.”
    “How will you know? I will tell you…”
    “Nay, I wish for only one thing from your lips now.” His hand caressed her stomach, and he felt her tense and hold herself rigid against him. Mayhaps she thinks of the boy, he thought as he fiercely pulled her to him, causing her to gasp in pain as his hand held her chin and pulled her mouth to his. “You think of him now? You wish you had him near you?”
    “Nay, I do not,” she gasped, trying to pull away from him. “Please do not hurt me more. I will lie still. It hurts less so.”
    He dropped his hand and moved away to stare at her thoughtfully. “Last night, after the fire, did I … hurt you again?”
    She nodded her head.
    “Damn, but you try me sorely! I have known you but weeks, yet you have upset my whole life, now as well as the past. This morn I read a letter writ by you, mayhaps to a boy I needs must kill. I have no proof of your innocence; in truth all seems to point to your guilt. The