The Black Lyon

spite of the pain, she made herself open her eye, her trust in him complete, sure in the knowledge that he would remove the pain.
    “There! See, it was but a speck of dirt, truly smaller than a boulder.”
    She blinked several times to remove the sting. From the moment he had touched her she had known that he would take away the pain. She was now very aware of his hands on the side of her face, the dark eyes that stared into hers, eyes bordered by short, thick lashes. The irises were truly black—yet, at this close distance, she could see that they had tiny gold flecks in them.
    “You are well now? Your eye no longer pains you?”
    She did not answer immediately, and as he began to draw his hand away she held it for a moment to her cheek. “Nay, the pain is gone. Thank you.”
    He moved his hand and looked away and Lyonene was afraid she had offended him. She felt as if a stranger were gradually overtaking her body, for she could not believe her forwardness of this morn. She tried to make conversation. “I wonder—however do you stay so warm when I am so cold, and it is I with the fur mantle?”
    Ranulf looked startled. “We will return to the castle to the fire.” At the look of disappointment on Lyonene’s face, his heart leaped. She did not want to leave his company any more than he hers. “Come then and I will show you a sport to make you warm.”
    They stood and she watched as Ranulf took the long stick and bent it to fasten a long string of silk to either end.
    “Have you seen this ere now?”
    She shook her head.
    “It is a Welsh bow, and it is called by some, because of its length, a longbow.”
    “It does not look to be a bow at all.” She gave him a skeptical look. “How can one fire an arrow from a mere stick?”
    “You have not seen it used and already you decry it?”
    She sniffed and put her chin into the air. “You must allow my father to show you the workings of a good crossbow.”
    Ranulf raised one eyebrow at her. “Find you a target that is as far as your father’s best archer can shoot.”
    Lyonene pointed to a white-barked tree not far away. She watched as Ranulf pulled the six-foot longbow string to his ear, an arrow with black and green feathers held lightly between his fingers. The muscles on his arms stood out. The arrow was released with a sharp twang of silk. Lyonene gasped as she saw it land more than twice the distance of the tree she had chosen.
    Ranulf merely looked at her, one quick glance that made her remember her boast of crossbows. Then, before she could recover from her surprise, he began to insert arrows, drawn from the leather bag at his waist, and fire them with a dazzling rapidity. In less than a minute, he had fired ten arrows, never once missing the tree.
    She stared up at him. “I have never seen the like.” She lifted her skirts and ran toward the distant tree. She struggled to pull an arrow from the tree and was startled when Ranulf appeared beside her and easily removed the arrow she could not. She had not heard him approach.
    She turned to him, laughing. “I think there is little that my father can teach you.”
    Ranulf said not a word, but his expression showed that he agreed with her.
    “You must show this Welsh longbow to him. He will train his men to use it.”
    “Nay, I do not think so. Even my own men refuse to use it. They think it an unchivalrous weapon and have a fear that it will somehow reduce them to foot soldiers.”
    “I see that you do not have such a fear yourself.” Her eyes twinkled and laughter threatened to escape as he raised one eyebrow at her. “Think I could learn to shoot this long stick?”
    “You may try.” Ranulf demonstrated the proper handling of the new weapon.
    Lyonene took it in all confidence but found she could not bend the bow more than an inch or two. She looked in exasperation to Ranulf.
    Quickly, he stood behind her, his great arms about her, and pulled the strong bow back. As Ranulf bent to sight the arrow, he was aware of the fragrance of her—roses and smoke—and of her cool cheek so near his. He could feel every luscious curve of her against him, her buttocks pressed against his groin. He ached to turn her to him, longed to feel her softness near him, to kiss her moist lips, parted slightly now in concentration. He tried to give directions to her concerning the bow but found that his voice betrayed his desire since her ear was so close to his lips; he could almost taste the flesh of her earlobe