The Black Lyon

pitcher to his earl.
    Ranulf hesitated for a moment, then grinned roguishly at his king. “I see your meaning. Mayhaps a little water will help.”
    The watered wine did not seem at all weaker to Lyonene, but the dizziness was not unpleasant. She looked at Ranulf and seemed to forget the presence of other people. A quick movement caught her eye and she saw a knight grab one of the dancing women and tear her tunic away, burying his face in her too full breasts.
    It seemed to Lyonene that all her senses were on fire. She raked her tongue across her teeth, enjoying the sharpness. Her fingers were tingling and they seemed more sensitive than they had ever been. She studied Ranulf’s profile and felt an incredible hunger to taste his skin beneath her mouth. She had never felt so strange.
    “Warbrooke!” someone called above the general din. “See to your wife. I think our king’s ‘water’ has not quenched her thirst.”
    Ranulf turned startled eyes to his wife and then a slow smile overtook him. He lifted her fingers to kiss them. He turned serious when she ran one finger firmly across his lips. He did not hesitate. He lifted her in his arms, ignoring the howls of laughter behind him, and carried her to their bedchamber.
    Lyonene, later, did not remember too clearly all the events of that night. It seemed that they were instantly without clothes and on the bed. She remembered that she fought Ranulf and that he let her win. She satisfied herself at last by hungrily running her mouth over his entire body. When he sought to pull her to him, she pushed him away until she was ready for him.
    She growled and laughed because she knew she had power over him, that she had bested the Black Lion as no other could. She ran her hands over his body, using her nails as she explored every inch of him.
    Almost violently, he threw her down beside him. Their lovemaking was angry, turbulent, crashing waves of a raging storm, lightning causing fire as she ran her nails across his back, the inside of his thighs.
    The storm abated with the same violence as it had begun. They rolled away from one another, not speaking, not touching, content, and slept.

Chapter Eleven
    L yonene tried to still her aching head the next morn, but Ranulf’s jests did not help. She looked away when he teased her for her actions during the night. Her stomach turned over several times when he pulled her from the bed and clasped her to him.
    “Edward ever likes his tricks. He gave me white wine to use to dilute your red. I must thank him, for the results were…” He bit her earlobe. “There is not an inch of skin left on my back. How will I explain such wounds to my page?”
    She could feel the hot blood flooding her face, and she refused to meet his laughing eyes.
    “Mmm, my Lioness.” He buried his face in her neck. “I regret the time we have lost. I know you are not well, but are you too ill to begin the return journey to Malvoisin?”
    In spite of her head and her stomach, she managed a timid smile. “Aye,” she whispered, “I am ready to return home.”
    It was late in the day before they could begin the journey. Clothes, food, weapons, armor, tents had to be packed in wagons, Maude and the other two women from Malvoisin found and good-byes said. Lyonene regretted leaving Berengaria, and they exchanged promises to visit one another.
    Brent gave one mournful look to his mother, and then even a hint of sadness left him as Ranulf led a solid-black pony into the courtyard and handed the reins to his new page. Henry de Lacy laughed and accused Ranulf of spoiling the boy, but Ranulf stated that all his men were treated with honor, as they deserved. Lyonene hid her smile at the solemn man-face on the six-year-old child.
    A quick glance at the Black Guard showed Corbet and Sainneville to be in much worse shape than Lyonene. Ranulf heartily slapped both men on the back and asked if they did not think it a lovely day. He winked at Lyonene, who could not see the humor of the jest since her own stomach refused to remain still.
    The return journey to Malvoisin was slow, taking a full week. They stayed at no castles, preferring to pitch their tents and spend the night with just a thin sheet of fabric separating them from the warm spring air. They often walked hand-in-hand among the trees, laughing, kissing, enjoying.
    From the time they crossed the ferry to the Isle of Malvoisin, Lyonene felt a tense excitement. When the first sight of the pennants came into