The Black Lyon

do naught else,” was his equally serious reply.
    As he rode from the courtyard, her sobs were echoed by four women standing in the doorway across the way, the entrance to the Black Guard’s hall. The women looked at one another and did not speak, but there was a comradeship between the lonely women, doomed to wait and pray for men gone to war.
    Lyonene and Amicia spent the afternoon in the solar, the countess with her sewing, the other woman’s hands idle.
    “I envy you, Lady Lyonene, your serenity, your apparent peacefulness. I am sure I could not be so in your situation.”
    “And what, pray tell, is your meaning?”
    “I believe you carry Lord Ranulf’s babe. I assume it is his, but then one can never be sure.”
    Lyonene gave the older woman a brief, cold look.
    “I do not mean to offend. It is only that Lord Ranulf is such a handsome man. I am sure he must be quite popular with women. I know I find the man thoroughly fascinating.”
    “I will not have my husband discussed so.”
    “Pray forgive me. I do not, in truth, speak of your husband. I but wonder at you. ’Twere I soon to grow heavy with child, I would worry that my handsome husband is miles away, alone with men who are sure to introduce women—of the lower sort, of a surety, but women nonetheless—into the camp.”
    “Lady Amicia, if lady you be, your hints are quite unsubtle and I do not like them at all. I request that you keep such thoughts to yourself.”
    “I agree with you. I would not wish to be reminded of my plight, either.”
    Lyonene merely looked at her.
    Amicia smiled and ran her hand across a tapestry. “Even from my brief contact with him, I find Lord Ranulf to be … most susceptible to even the merest hint of … romance, shall we say? Tell me, Lady Lyonene, of your courtship. Did you find him a difficult man to bring to terms, or was he quickly snared? It would interest me much to know this. Did you know one another for weeks, months before the betrothal?”
    Lyonene stared at the woman, speechless.
    “I find it has taken but a matter of days…” She covered her mouth. “I am sure Lord Ranulf is not the sort of man to fall in love quickly; he is too serious for that. Oh, my pardon, you did mention that Lord Ranulf has not declared his love for you. Mmm. I wonder what the kitchen people have prepared for dinner? I am feeling a bit weak and shall retire to my room. Good-day, my lady. I do so hope I have said naught to offend you.”
    Lyonene sat stunned, and then shook herself. She had known the woman was evil and should not have been surprised when she was offered proof of it. What if Ranulf did take a woman while he was away from her? Most men did. It was natural, and she must accept the idea.
    “Oh!” she cried aloud when she stuck the needle into her thumb. She looked at the new tabard she sewed and stuck the needle into it with vigor several times. No! No! No! her mind cried. She would not accept another touching her Ranulf.
    Ranulf had been gone but four days when the first messenger arrived. She saw him from the solar window, saw that his horse carried a pouch stamped with the lion of Malvoisin. She ran down the stairs, almost tripping once in her haste. She did not notice Amicia close behind her.
    The boy held two pieces of paper, each sealed with the Warbrooke lion. She near tore them from his hands.
    “You are Lady Lyonene?” He held her hand from tearing open the missal.
    “Aye, I am.”
    “And who be Lady Amicia?”
    “I am Lady Amicia.”
    Lyonene stood still as the boy took one of the papers from her hands and gave it to the pale woman.
    “Go … go to the kitchen, and take what you need.” Her first spurt of joy was dulled. Ranulf could not have written to Amicia! She watched as the woman eagerly tore the seal.
    “He is well,” she murmured, then looked to Lyonene, holding her letter to her breast. “You do not hasten to open your letter?”
    Lyonene walked past her and went to her bedchamber. Her first impulse was to toss the letter, unread, into the candle flame, but she could not.
    It is a siege and I fear it may take months. I have sent men to Malvoisin for carpenters to build our weapons. I have offered the man every retreat, but he refuses me. I grow bored with this already. I have become soft in the last months and now wish only the comforts of my home .
    Brent is well and we talk of you always. The ribbon never leaves me .
    Your loving husband and weary knight ,
    Ranulf
    She sank