The Black Lyon

the forest a while before. If it had been any other man, she would have sent a servant to bid Lyonene return, but she knew her daughter was safe with Ranulf. She never questioned her knowledge of this man, trusting only in her feelings and her senses. She smiled to herself—she was going to work hard to bring about a marriage between her daughter and the Earl of Malvoisin. She truly wished he were not an earl; then she would have a surer chance of bringing about her desire. Aye, desire. She laughed aloud, then looked to see if anyone had noticed. Desire is exactly what she planned. There was nothing surer than two young bodies close to one another. If William knew what she planned, he would be furious. He did not like men near his daughter, no matter what he said of marriage, but Melite planned to help nature by encouraging the flowering of this delicate young bud of love.
    Lyonene watched Ranulf from her shuttered window as he returned from the forest. She knelt and poked at the fire with an iron rod. The image of his smiling face appeared to her in the midst of the blaze. She didn’t seem able to see anything but him; she could hear his voice, feel his hands about her waist. She sat heavily on a bench by the fire and dropped her head into her hands. Everything was whirling together. She had never felt so strange in all her life.
    “Lyonene!” Lucy’s heavy form waddled into the room. “What are you about, girl, when your mother has so many guests below? And a fire in the room during the day! Have you a wee fairy in your head?”
    “No, Lucy, I am just happy. ’Tis naught awry at all. I am very hungry. Could we not go below?”

Chapter Two
    R anulf felt confused. For a long time now he had been near content. There had always been women and they had freely given of their bodies, but too often he had sensed that he had been only a conquest to them, that they boasted of having been in the Black Lion’s bed. Ranulf had never fooled himself as to his status in King Edward’s court. Of the eleven earls, only two were young and unmarried: his friend Dacre de la Saunay and himself. He knew that many women would sell their souls to become a countess. Yet for all their flirting, all their protestations of love for him, none had offered him laughter.
    He remembered Lyonene’s clear eyes, sparkling in the cold, and her reddened cheeks. Most of all he thought of her laughter. For a few minutes he had forgotten himself, forgotten the responsibility of being an earl, forgotten the past. Yes, most important, for a short time he had not been haunted by Isabel—Isabel, whose sneering remarks had so unmanned the young boy who had loved her. Ranulf looked up at the gray, overcast sky. He was no longer that young boy, but today the years between might never have been.
    “You sit here alone while there is a feast awaiting? I vow I have never known such hunger; it is long since we ate last.”
    Ranulf looked up to see Corbet, one of his Black Guard, standing over him. “I fear I have neglected my men. Is all well with you?” He rose to stand beside the knight, measuring an inch or two taller than Corbet. Were someone to observe them separately and together, they would say that Corbet was a strong and handsome knight but that his lord put him into shadow, so commanding was his appearance.
    “This is not Malvoisin, but neither is it a tent on cold Welsh soil. The Lady Melite is kind and the daughter would make any man warm to look upon her, even ’twere it a blizzard.”
    Ranulf turned on him. “Do not speak of her so.” Angrily, he left his vassal and strode ahead to the castle.
    Corbet watched Ranulf’s broad back and then smiled. If ever a man needed a wife, it was his lord. Unlike most of the other men, Ranulf was not content with several women; in truth, he seemed to avoid women altogether, using them only when necessary, although they plagued him much at court. Corbet was proud to be part of the elite Black Guard, and although Ranulf kept a distance from his men, they knew more about him than he would have supposed. They all saw the gentle man that lay under the fierce exterior. Corbet stopped his musings and followed his lord to the great stone donjon. For himself, he dearly wished the lovely Lady Lyonene would return to Malvoisin with them; a beauty such as hers would be a joy to look upon each day. He envied Ranulf.
    As Ranulf entered the door, he saw he was to sit by Lyonene and felt as giddy as a young boy. A