The Black Lyon

to be believed. Even dressed as a serf, this beauty could be recognized. She would be a lady no matter what she wore. My lady, you have a fool for a husband. You should have married me and I would know you even should you dress as a man.”
    Ranulf remained smiling. “Remember the night at your castle as we talked and a serf girl cleaned the hearth?”
    Dacre looked in astonishment to Lyonene, who looked away, the blood beginning to rise to her cheeks.
    Dacre’s laugh roared out again. “Then it was you who dropped the basket of ashes in our eyes!” He snatched her from Ranulf’s grasp and lifted her above his head. “I vowed you would be punished for that and so you shall.”
    “Do not!” Her frantic words were directed to Ranulf. Dacre recognized the warning in her tone and, his hands still on Lyonene’s waist, hastily turned to Ranulf.
    Dacre frowned for a moment at the Black Lion scowl on Ranulf’s face and the half-drawn anelace. He released Lyonene and clapped a heavy hand on his friend’s shoulder, his lips twisting into a half-controlled smile.
    “I do not jest, Dacre. She is…”
    The people in the Great Hall had stopped their talking, the musicians in the gallery had fallen silent. Not many men had seen the Warbrooke wrath and lived. Lyonene put herself between her husband and Lord Dacre.
    “So that old affliction has finally taken you, and now you wish to tell me a noble speech of how you will protect your wife with your life,” Dacre teased.
    Ranulf’s body relaxed and his hand left the scabbard. He looked away, a sheepish expression on his face. “It is true; I would protect her.”
    “Well, then, my friend, if I promise not to spirit her away, may I look more clearly at her?”
    Ranulf returned his friend’s grin and pulled Lyonene into the light. The guests went back to their talk and the music resumed.
    Lyonene tried to control her anger as Ranulf turned her in the bright candlelight. She felt as if she were a piece of horseflesh that they were considering for purchase.
    “You have done well, Ranulf.” Dacre clapped Ranulf’s back. “That much hair alone was worth losing your freedom.”
    Lyonene whirled on them, her emerald eyes flashing. Her voice held contempt. “If you gentle knights have finished your inspection, the cattle of this castle have work that needs to be done.” She turned on her heel in the midst of a swirl of tawny hair and angrily stalked away. She heard Ranulf’s low voice, but not his words as he spoke behind her. She clenched her hands into fists at Dacre’s answering laugh.
    Dacre and Ranulf were quickly forgotten as Queen Eleanora introduced her to Berengaria. Lyonene had never had many friends as a child, every visitor to Lorancourt being either too old or too young, yet when she saw Berengaria, she knew she had found a friend. Queen Eleanora introduced them to one another and they clasped hands like long lost friends.
    “I think you feel as I do, that we have been friends for long. We shall cause a stir wherever we go, you and I.”
    “What do you mean? I can see no reason why there be any confusion?”
    “You are an innocent babe! Look about you at the men in the room and the narrowed eyes of their wives. And look at that great handsome husband of yours as he watches you. He looks ready to spring in attack if any man so much as speaks to you.”
    “But why…”
    “I will not explain, for you will learn soon enough.”
    Ranulf did indeed watch his wife, for her beauty was suddenly enhanced by that of Lady Berengaria. The two women were of a height, one fair with tawny locks that hung past her waist in a profusion of fat curls, the other with dark auburn hair and eyes the same color. Her hair fell a few inches short of her waist and gently rolled under in a perfect curve. There were three tiny braids on each side of her forehead, pulled to the back of her head and fastened with a long red ribbon embroidered with tiny white seed pearls. The silk tunic that outlined her voluptuous figure was the color of her hair, covered by a spotless white velvet sleeveless surcoat.
    Lyonene wore blue, a blue-green tunic that reflected in her eyes and a rich darker blue velvet surcoat. The two women, both extraordinarily beautiful, delicate, their exchanged words quiet, were indeed causing a stir in the Great Hall, a stir of envy, jealousy, desire, and from two husbands, a wary protectiveness.
    “Come, let us sit here.” Berengaria motioned to a bench along a