The Black Lyon

sure I spoke whenever there was a chance to insert a word.”
    “Come here.” He pulled her to his lap. “I am not so sure I like this much jealousy. I have never seen you treat another so. Even Lady Elizabeth at court did not cause you so much anger.”
    “You do not understand. This Amicia is not as they are. They cared for you, in a way. This woman cares for naught but herself.”
    “How can you say such when you have but met the woman?”
    She sighed against him. It was hopeless to continue. She had heard her mother spend hours trying to persuade her father of the character of a person, a person just met, and Melite had always ended in failure. She seemed doomed to wait until Ranulf slowly came to the same conclusion that she had already reached. She just hoped it was not long.
    The morning dawned bright, the sun hot, as the earth tried to repair itself from the damage of the storm.
    “I will spend the day with my men and will not return until supper. See you that our guest is made welcome.”
    She grimaced but nodded that she would attempt the task.
    When Amicia arrived in the solar, she wore Lyonene’s clothes, and the countess wondered at her boldness, for she had never been asked for the loan. Amicia’s eyes dared Lyonene to question her use of them, but Lyonene merely laughed, for the clothes hung on the woman’s boyish frame.
    “It seems we must spend this day together, for my husband’s escapades of yester eve have torn his clothes badly. Would you care for the wherewithal to embroider?”
    Amicia did not deign to look at Lyonene. “Nay, I do not sew. A lady has servants to perform those duties for her.”
    “Of course. I must then inform Queen Eleanora, for she ever embroiders her own clothing.”
    Amicia shot her a quick hateful look before turning to the window seat, her finger running along the diamond-shaped panes of glass. “Lord Ranulf is the Black Lion, is he not?” She did not wait for an answer. “I have heard of him even in France. My father, the duke”—she made sure Lyonene heard the words—“often spoke of him. He even once considered him for my husband.”
    Lyonene did not look up from her needle. “My husband is an amiable man and might have agreed to the marriage, for he proved in his first marriage that he does not object to a wife older than himself.”
    There was silence between them.
    “You seem secure in your marriage… Lyonene, is it not? An odd name. I suppose you brought his lordship an enormous dowry.”
    “In truth, I did not, but I do not see that that is something for us to discuss.”
    Amicia ignored her. “Then it is a love match.”
    Lyonene stopped and considered. “I believe it to be.”
    “Lord Ranulf does not swear his love for you each moment of the day, then?”
    “You are a guest in my house and I must treat you so, but I will not discuss the private lives of my husband and myself with you.” She tossed the sewing down on the nearest stool and left the room. She did not hear the little laugh of triumph Amicia gave.
    Lyonene went toward the Jewel Tower, intending to see if there were any people hurt in the storm. Amicia had put a seed of doubt in her mind that had never been there before. Of course Ranulf loved her; had not theirs been a love match? But he had never said the words. She was a silly woman, she told herself. Words were not important. Of course he loved her, just as she had told him many times of the love she bore him.
    She shook her head and made herself attend to her work, but the question plagued her: Would he care for her when she was old and ugly?
    Amicia joined them again for supper. She was all smiles and apologies for all the work she caused and hung on Ranulf’s every word. He did not discourage her.
    Alone, at last, in their room, Ranulf asked after her health. “
    The babe does not trouble you overmuch? You seem quiet.”
    She pulled away from him. “The babe troubles me naught. I sometimes think he is the only perfect thing in my life.”
    He held her close to him, stroking her hair. “What troubles you? I would make it well if I could.”
    “Would you? Would you make me able to bear your son and not grow fat, or grow old with the years?”
    He smiled down at her, his thumb brushing the corner of her eye. “You do well to be concerned. I detect a fold in your skin already.”
    She pushed away. “I do not jest.”
    He frowned at her. “There is something which troubles you. It could not hurt to share it with