The Black Lyon

odd, searching, calculating, and now they narrowed shrewdly, seeming to figure a method of approaching the handsome man before her.
    “Oh, my lord,” she said, pressing a tear from the corner of one eye. Her voice was high with a strange singsong quality to it. “I do not know what the maid has told you. I did but ask who was my rescuer. I owe you my worthless life.”
    Lyonene looked at Kate’s startled face and knew the woman lied. Ranulf went to sit by the woman and took her hand. “You are safe now and there is no reason for tears.”
    She leaned toward Ranulf and put one hand on his chest, the fingers twined in the thick hair. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and innocent. “I will ever be in debt to you. I cannot repay you, for all my worldly goods went down with my father, the Duke of Vernet.”
    “Your father is a duke? Then you must be Frankish.”
    She nodded and another tear came.
    “Then we are honored by your presence. You may stay with us until you can notify relatives of your whereabouts.”
    She leaned even closer, her head almost touching Ranulf’s shoulder. “Alas, my lord, I do not have more relatives.”
    “Well,” he responded, patting her hand, “you are welcome at Malvoisin for as long as need be. Now you must rest.” He rose. “Your name, my lady?”
    “Amicia.”
    “I am Ranulf, and this is my wife, Lady Lyonene.”
    The pale woman gave Lyonene her first look. It startled Lyonene by the coldness of it, and then the little smile made chills on her arms; it was almost deadly. Lyonene gave the woman a brilliant smile in return, but the eyes that met hers held a challenge, a dare.
    When they were alone in their room, they began to dress. “
    The woman has missed her call. She should be in London. She is far better than any other mummer I have seen.”
    “Of what do you speak?” Ranulf asked.
    “Why, our Lady Amicia, most assuredly. If she is a Frankish duke’s daughter, then I am Queen Eleanora’s sister. I especially liked the ‘my worthless life’ part. Tell me, did you like those skimpy tears she managed to produce?”
    He grabbed her arm and pulled her to his lap. “You are jealous.”
    “Nay, I am not, for there is little substance on which to base a jealousy.”
    “Oh! I think I like this. Tell me more. Did you not like the way her little hand touched my chest?”
    “Ranulf, I am serious! The woman is bad; she is not as she seems to you. Already she has lied about Kate and…”
    He pushed her from his lap and returned to dressing. “How can you judge her so harshly after but a few words? I found her but an ordinary woman, but she says she is a duke’s daughter, so she must be treated with respect. Now see to our food and do not complain to me of her again. She is but a woman. What harm can she do?”
    Lyonene went to the kitchen herself to order food. Ranulf was unreasonable! She knew there was naught she could do to persuade him that the woman’s words were all mummery.
    Dawkin met her at the door. “My lady, she is not to be pleased. She has sent her food back three times—it is not cooked enough, it is overcooked. Kate has near flooded my kitchen with her tears.”
    She tried to calm the chief cook as best she could. “I will speak to her, but do not take this to Lord Ranulf.” She remembered his reaction to her complaints. If more were said against her, he would perhaps ask her to make Malvoisin her permanent home. She took a large tray of food and carried it to the solar for herself and Ranulf.
    To her chagrin, Amicia sat near the fire, wrapped in a fur-lined quilt.
    “Oh, Lyonene,” Ranulf said, taking the tray, “Lady Amicia has decided she is well enough to join us for the evening meal.”
    “How thoughtful of her.” She met the woman’s eyes briefly.
    “Tell us of your homeland. I have not seen France for several years.”
    “Then you have seen it. I knew you to be an educated man when first I saw you. It is something in your eyes.”
    No one saw Lyonene’s lip curl at the woman or her disgust at the way Ranulf reacted to the syrupy words. She listened as they talked, watching how the Frankish woman leaned toward Ranulf at every opportunity and touched his arm often. The only consolation she had was that never once did Ranulf smile at the woman or laugh at her statements.
    Kate came and escorted Amicia back to her chamber.
    “You hardly spoke during supper. I do not like your being so rude to our guest.”
    “I was never rude. I am