The Black Lyon

and created a colorful tale from what Lyonene considered rather ordinary happenings.
    Brent watched her with awe. “Can you do it again? Can you make your voice so loud it will crack the stone walls?”
    “Ranulf! The boy believes your lies.”
    Both Brent and Ranulf were indignant. “A true knight does not lie,” they both exclaimed, echoing one another.
    She could not help laughing; they were so much alike.
    Amicia, ignored for so long, destroyed the gaiety. “I must not intrude on so happy a family scene. I am feeling a bit weak and must retire.”
    “Pardon our rudeness, Lady Amicia,” Ranulf answered her. “Supper will be served in here and you must dine with us.”
    “You do not set a table with your retainers?”
    “Nay. They each have their own homes. I grew used to being a bachelor and still keep to my old ways.”
    The woman’s light eyes were only on Ranulf’s dark, somber ones. “You have been married recently, my lord?”
    “Aye, it is now…”
    “Six months,” Lyonene supplied.
    Ranulf turned and grinned at her, and she looked interestedly at the window.
    “Oh, Hodder comes with the food. You will join us?”
    “How can I not when so pleasantly asked?”
    Lyonene saw Hodder sneer as he set the table. She rarely agreed with the pompous little man, but in their opinion of this woman, they did. For the first time ever, their eyes met briefly in accord.
    Amicia talked throughout the meal, complimenting Malvoisin, pleading for Ranulf to tell her of his trials on Crusade, praising his superior talents in designing such a castle as Malvoisin. Brent listened raptly to Ranulf’s stories, but Lyonene thought she glimpsed a surreptitious look at Amicia now and again. It did not help matters to know that even a six-year-old boy could see through the woman.
    Early the next morn, Ranulf stormed back into the house. “Hodder!” he bellowed. The house rocked as he thundered up the stairs, two at a time. “Where is that man! Hodder, if you value your life, you’ll come this instant!”
    “What is it? Ranulf, why are you so angry?” Lyonene asked.
    He jammed clothes into a leather satchel. “Pack my mail and all my armor and make haste!” He threw the words at Hodder as the man entered the room. “No, not the silver. I make war, not merriment.”
    Lyonene felt her knees weaken. “What is this talk of war?”
    “That damned blackguard! William’s threats were not enough. Now he sends serfs to farm my land.”
    “What land? What is this you speak of?”
    “Gethen Castle, your castle! My steward, your steward, hell! I do not care who owns the place. Sang de Dieu, I will kill the man with my bare hands. He dares to question my boundaries.”
    Lyonene was almost afraid of her husband and wondered at Hodder’s steady hands. She watched with a stomach that churned as he pulled mace, flail, battle ax and war hammer from the walls.
    “Ranulf, could you not talk with this man?”
    “Talk! The time is past for talk. He should hope his castle is well provendered, for I may hold siege. We will see how long this lowly baron holds against the Black Lion. You will see to the castle while I am gone. I take my guard and a hundred garrison knights. Should I need more, I will send a message and you will send them. You understand your duties?”
    “I am well trained,” she said icily.
    He gave her a quick look, but his anger did not abate. “Brent goes with me.” He stood dressed in the sturdy travel clothes. “Now come and kiss me that I may remember it for a while, and give me no cause to worry for you. It is your castle I defend.”
    She did not tell him her thoughts—that she would not give one day of his company in exchange for the unseen castle. She held her tears, and her protests, as he kissed her, his anger and urgency creating a violent, bruising kiss.
    “I will send you news of our happenings.” He ran down the stairs, Lyonene trying to keep pace.
    “Wait! Wait!” She ran back up the stairs and hurriedly found the jeweled and embroidered ribbon she sought, the copy she had made of the lion belt. Ranulf was already in the courtyard, his men waiting. She put her arms about his neck, then put one hand inside the fitchet opening of his tabard, looping the ribbon over his leather belt. What else she did with her hand made him gasp and push her away.
    “You forget yourself.” But his eyes twinkled.
    “Do but remember me,” she whispered, blinking hard to restrain the tears.
    “I could