The Black Lyon

you always had your way, so that a man who goes to war must have the added burden of a woman to succor?”
    “War? There is no war,” she replied hotly.
    He glared at her. “You think I lie? The Welshman Rhys has decided he would be king. He rides north of here. King Edward sent me a message to find the man and stop his rebellion. Did you think I left my isle to travel to this cold country so that I might enjoy the scenery? Do you not think I have enough to care for in my men, but now I am also saddled with a noblewoman.”
    “Nay, I did not think—”
    “That is it! You did not think. Now you have had your fun, you have dressed as a serf and deceived me. But tell me, mistress, what purpose did you have in mind in all this? If my memory still serves me, we last spoke of your returning to your parents.”
    She deserved all of this, she knew. She had not thought when she had taken the disguise. How many times had her mother punished her for just such waywardness?
    “Speak up, woman! I know you have a tongue.”
    She lifted her chin and was glad anger was replacing her guilt feelings. “I did not want to … to leave. I wanted to…”
    “Go on, I am listening.”
    She stood and touched the silk, glad to have removed the rough wool mantle. She whirled to face him, eyes alight and hair in wild disarray. “You are my husband and I love you.” She waited breathlessly for his answer.
    His black eyes did not soften. “You have an odd way of showing your love. You rob me, you—”
    “Cease!” She put her hands over her ears. “I know it all. Have I not lived it, every horrible moment of it? Have I not been caught day after day between threats and rage? We had two days of love and we married because of that love. Is there no way I can bring about a return of love? Is there no way I can prove myself?”
    He watched her and then moved closer to her, his hand touching her cheek gently. “I do not know,” he said quietly.
    The sound of iron striking iron brought Ranulf’s head up.
    “What is it?” Lyonene gasped.
    Corbet burst into the tent, his eyes only briefly flickering over Lyonene. “Rhys attacks,” he said bluntly.
    “Guard her!” Ranulf commanded as he grabbed his shield and went outside the tent into the ever-increasing noise of a full-fledged battle.
    “This way,” Corbet said as he slit the serge of the tent at the back, and she followed him, her eyes constantly looking over her shoulder.
    The sunlight was bright outside, and already the smell of blood was strong, mixed with dust and the horrible noise of men’s screams, their dying gasps, the thundering of the horses’ hoofs.
    She saw Ranulf immediately, in the midst of the battle, on foot, having had no time to straddle his horse. She saw the glint of the sword as he swung with a two-handed grip at a man riding at him hard. Her breath stopped and the blood seemed to leave her body.
    Corbet roughly jerked her arm as he pulled her forward. She stumbled and fell to her knees, grasping at a tree trunk to steady herself. The guardsman again pulled her, but she could not take her eyes from her husband or stop the deafening roar of the battle that surrounded her. Ranulf was covered in blood now, yet still he fought.
    An arrow whistled into the tree, inches from her hand, and she stared at it incredulously. Vaguely she was aware that Corbet fought a man behind her, and still she stared at the arrow. Her fear began to make her tremble.
    A movement in the tree above her caught her eye and she saw a man hidden in the leaves pulling back on a crossbow and aiming an arrow at Ranulf. She screamed, but no one heard her.
    “No,” she whispered, “no.” She began to run, straight into the thick of the battle, toward Ranulf. She ran toward him and he stared at her in disbelief, his face smeared with sweat and blood.
    She reached him at the same second as the arrow. Her arms went about him and her right shoulder covered his heart. The arrow slashed through her skin and muscle as it made its way to Ranulf’s mail-covered chest. The steel tip pierced the iron armor, the hacketon, the linen and Ranulf’s flesh, but Lyonene’s body had slowed it and it went no further. She looked up at him as their bodies were held together by the thin piece of wood.
    “Lion, I…” she whispered and then fainted.
    Ranulf held her so she would not fall, and then he put his head back and gave his battle cry.
    Sainneville did not at first see the little form so hideously