The Black Lyon

between his teeth. She released the arrow.
    “I hit it!”
    She turned in his arms, and he held her, lightly, not even daring to breathe for fear he’d crush her in his surging desire.
    Lyonene felt her heart would burst, it was beating so hard. His arms were about her, his hands on her back, and she could feel the warmth of him through her heavy woolen surcoat. She looked from his eyes to his lips, and she hoped he would kiss her, yes, she wanted him to kiss her, and her heart beat faster as unconsciously she swayed toward him, her soft breasts touching his chest. She felt his sharp intake of breath. His face was so close that she could feel his breath, so warm and soft. How would it feel to kiss a man?
    His arms dropped away.
    “Dinner will be served and my mother will expect me.” She searched for something calming to say. She smiled up at him. “Thank you for the archer’s lesson, and now, Lion, we needs must return to the castle, for my father’s temper would make even a lion tremble when his viands are late.”
    At his look of puzzlement at her name for him, she continued. “It is strange, is it not, that we are both named for lions? My father vows that on the day of my birth I gave him such a look of contempt that he named me for a lioness, but my mother says he thought of the name Lyonene because of the color of my hair.”
    Ranulf lightly touched a strand of her tawny hair. “I could not think you could give anyone a look of contempt.”
    She laughed. “You do not know me, for I am possessed by a terrible temper.”
    “Then the name well suits you, as I fear mine does also. At least you are not cursed with an ugly blackness such as mine.”
    “Bah! It is only the jongleurs who demand all men be fair with eyes of blue. You would make other men seem colorless.” She turned quickly. “See the tree at the edge of the wood? I will race you.” She gathered her skirts and mantle edge over her arm and ran.
    Ranulf stood quietly and watched the lovely sight of firm, shapely calves and little feet running so inexpertly across the forest’s floor. When she was halfway to the tree, he caught up with her in a few easy strides.
    Lyonene looked over her shoulder to see him easily gaining on her. She remembered a trick she had used as a child to win races against the boys of Lorancourt. When Ranulf was nearly beside her, she sidestepped into his path, throwing him off balance as he swerved to keep from hitting her, and thus she gained a few seconds’ time.
    She heard Ranulf’s snort behind her and laughed in satisfaction at her successful trick. Then the breath was near taken from her as he threw a strong arm around her waist, lifting her from the ground, still running, not even hesitating when he took on the added burden of her weight.
    When Lyonene recovered from her surprise, she began laughing, and by the time they reached the tree she was near helpless. He sat her down and she leaned against the tree, tears rolling down her cheeks, blurring her vision. “I won,” she gasped.
    “Won! You did not even race with honor. You cheated.”
    She wiped her tears and saw to her joy that Ranulf was smiling and that his features had softened. He looked like a boy. “My head reached the tree first, before any of you arrived, so I won the race.” She could hardly keep the laughter inside her.
    Ranulf pulled one of the curls that lay wildly about her cheeks, her hood having fallen away. “You would never make a knight. Your lies would dishonor your liege lord.”
    Lyonene opened her mouth in mock horror. “And you, Lion, would be worse as a woman with your picking up of whatever great objects lie in your path.”
    “Great objects!” His hands encircled Lyonene’s waist and lifted her, her head high in the air, her hands on his shoulders. “You weigh less than my armor.”
    Suddenly she was serious. Looking down at him as he smiled up at her, she smiled back. “Whatever my trick, it is rewarded by seeing a lion smile.”
    Gently, Ranulf lowered her. He, too, was serious now, and his desire for her returned. He could not touch her without the blood in his veins fair boiling. “Go to the hall; I will follow. You mother will not like her lioness spending the morning alone with a man.”
    Without a word she left him, running to the castle, up the worn stone steps and into her room. Only then did she stop, flinging herself on the feather mattress of her bed.
    Melite had seen both Ranulf and her daughter enter