The Black Lyon

what she and Ranulf had spoken of but had no success. Maude’s laughter was infuriating, but Lyonene at least knew that Ranulf did not know his wife journeyed with him disguised as a serf.
    They left the main road and traveled to a castle on the third night, and the thought of a roaring fire pleased Lyonene as they neared the stone walls and the donjon towering above.
    They had just entered the bailey when a man came running toward them only half-dressed, in braies and a linen shirt that opened to show a hard, smooth chest. He was a handsome man, with blond hair, broad shoulders and slim hips. He ran to Ranulf with open arms and the two of them fell together, hugging and turning about, lifting one another from the ground.
    “Ranulf, you grow more ugly every time I see you.”
    Lyonene opened her mouth to speak, but felt Maude’s hand on her arm. It was not easy to remember to be a serf.
    “And you, you are as weak as a girl. Weaker than some girls.”
    They hugged again, kissing one another’s cheeks, and started toward the wooden steps leading to the second floor of the donjon, their arms entwined about one another’s shoulders.
    Lyonene impatiently waited as the Black Guard followed their master, and then she was allowed into the castle. Ranulf had taken a seat before the fire at one end of the hall. The other man stood beside another chair, leisurely dressing in clothes held by a servant.
    “What news of Malvoisin? I heard some tales of you, but I gave them no credit.”
    “And what tales are these? I am sure they hold at least half-truths. Come, Dacre, sit here and do not spend so much time worrying about your beauty.”
    Dacre laughed and sat in the chair beside Ranulf’s, dismissing the servant with a wave of his hand. “It is not for me to question the ways of our Lord, but at times I wonder that He gave you the look of a devil and the temper of an angel and me the body of an angel and the character of a devil.”
    Ranulf sipped the mug of hot wine. “There are many who would disagree on which is the devil body and which is the angel body.”
    Dacre’s laughter roared. “So you do agree on who has the temper of an angel. I would have thought as much.”
    Neither man noticed the young serf girl who stayed so close to the back of their chairs. Maude thrust a large basket with a little broom and shovel in it at Lyonene and motioned for her to go and clean the hearth. She did not reason with Maude that it was not her duty as Ranulf’s serf, but was glad to be able to hear the conversation between Dacre and her husband.
    Dacre continued. “I would know the truth of one tale though—that you married, a young girl but poor.”
    Lyonene wanted much to turn and see Ranulf’s face but busied herself with the hearth ashes.
    “It is true,” came Ranulf’s quiet answer at last.
    “And I heard she has some silly name for a lioness, named so at birth for her wide flat face, big nose, no lips…”
    “You heard wrong!”
    Dacre laughed at the vehemence in his friend’s voice. “Well, tell me of her then and what possessed a father to name a child after a lion.”
    Ranulf leaned back against the carved oak chair. His voice was quiet, as if coming from a great distance. “She has tawny hair the color of a lion’s, a great thick mane of it. Green eyes that would put an emerald to shame, a tiny nose and a full, soft mouth. When she is angry, one eyebrow…” He stopped abruptly and looked into his wine cup.
    “Go on. You must tell me more of this woman. What of the rest of her? Is she thick-waisted and what of her legs?”
    “Dacre!” Ranulf’s voice was angry. “You go too far. This is my wife of whom you speak. She is not a serving wench to be shared.”
    “I understand. She has legs the width of the Frisian’s neck and a waist the size of yours. Had I such a wife I would not speak of her either.”
    “She is…” Ranulf’s laughter came to Lyonene, a sound she had heard too seldom. “I will not rise to your bait. You must come to Malvoisin and see her.”
    “Or ask Corbet. I am sure he can give me a true opinion of this unknown wife of yours.”
    Ranulf frowned into his cup. “Corbet talks overmuch at times.”
    “Mmm. Jealousy so soon! She must indeed be beautiful. You must tell me what possessed you to marry her. I had thought Isabel soured you for all time.”
    Lyonene listened breathlessly for Ranulf’s answer, the reason he would give for the marriage.
    Too much time elapsed and