The Black Lyon (40 page)

On the third day, entertainments were planned. William caught his wife and daughter in the Great Hall. "I wish to see this son of mine at his work. He has promised to instruct me in the proper training of my men." He put an arm around Lyonene. "You have done more than well, my daughter. He is a fine man and does you proud."

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"Aye, he does, father."

Lyonene spent the day with her mother and Berengaria, and she promised them both cuttings from King Edward's roses. It was after dinner, when the house was quietest, that a boy brought her a message.

"A man gave it to me and said it was from Lord Ranulf."

She smiled at him and sent him to the kitchen as
she
hastily removed the tablet from its pouch.

I wait for you at the spring north of Calboume Church.

Ranulf

Her heart fluttered like a young girl's, not at all the heart of a respectable wife and mother. She tossed the pouch on the bench.

She could see no one or she knew that she would not neglect her guests for a love tryst with her husband. Quickly she went to the stables and bid Russell saddle Loriage for her. She had not ridden the stallion since her return, and even the feel of the black horse's power further excited her as she hurried towards Ranulf and the joy she knew awaited her.

She laughed at herself as the hood fell away and the wind tore the sedate circlet and fillet from her head, tangling and tossing her hair in wild, abandoned disarray about her shoulders. It was wondrous to be free, free of demands and duties and responsibilities, and to be hurrying toward her lover, their meeting enhanced by its secrecy and forbidden air.

She kicked at Loriage's side and the animal leaped forward, as exhilarated as his pretty mistress, mane and tail flying in the cool wind. They seemed to fly together, floating across the gently rolling fields, near houses, trees and watching people.

At they drew nearer the spring, Lyonene pulled back on Loriage's reins. The last time she had seen Ranulf's writing had been when M orell had forged the letters to Amicia. She looked around her, seeing the bushes and trees as hiding places, and suddenly she was afraid. She had never really known what had happened to M orell or Amicia and now the fact that she didn't know haunted her.

Loriage felt his mistress's change and tossed his head, flaring his nostrils, lifting one hoof in nervousness. "Hush, Lori," she whispered, but she could not calm her own fears.

Neither the prancing horse nor the wary mistress saw the rabbit, and when the horse was aware of it, the little animal was beneath the slashing hoofs.

Loriage ducked his head and Lyonene, her thoughts turned elsewhere, went sailing over the animal's head.

Ranulf came riding toward the spring just in time to see his little wife flying through the air and landing with a loud wet smack in the icy-cold spring. Quickly, he dismounted and ran toward her, but already she was sitting up, wiping the water from her eyes and looking about her in a bewildered manner.

Ranulf stood on the bank and grinned down at her, his hands on his hips. "I had thought to have an obedient wife, but there are extremes. I am sure, madam, I said 'by' the spring and not 'in' the spring."

She looked up at him, startled, and then glared. "I should think you would be concerned for my welfare," she said haughtily.

He walked down the bank and offered her his hand, and she did her best to pull him in with her but could not. He smiled at her as her teeth began to chatter and then swung her into his arms to carry her to dry ground. "What were you thinking to allow that devil horse of yours to throw you? M ayhaps I should feed him to the pigs."

She moved closer to Ranulf, trying to get warm, but also thinking of how very long it had been since they had been truly alone.

"It was not Loriage's fault, but mine alone. I was ... thinking of else."

He moved her head from his shoulder and his black eyes were hard as he stared at her. "I have had enough of this. Am I so unworthy of your trust that you hide from me your thoughts?"

She stared back at him. They both had concealed their thoughts and feelings from each other too often, and the short time they'd had together had been fraught with difficulties because of their lack of trust. It was not easy to speak of the time in Ireland. "The letter

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you sent," she began. "I was not sure it was yours. The forgeries—from before, I mean."

He pulled her head back to his shoulder, relieved that her problems were so small and yet so sensible. He stroked her wet hair.

"We have much to learn, do we not? I cannot blame you for what you did, thinking as you did. But we must learn to give, to trust.

Here, what is this?" He could feel her hot tears even through the thick velvet of his tabard. "For once I am a good and chivalrous knight and my lady cries for it. That is not the way it should be."

She smiled at him. "For me, you are always good and chivalrous, and I have always loved you."

His eyes sparkled. "Always?" he teased.

She frowned slightly. "Except when you first made love to me and hurt me and when I saw Amicia in your arms and—"

He silenced her with his lips, moving quickly to her throat. "Do you not think we have had enough talk? Are you not very cold in those wet clothes? What say you we remove them?"

"Tell me again that you love me."

When he looked at her again, his eyes were very serious. "I love you completely and totally, more than my own life, and I beg your forgiveness for all the pain I have caused, for the weakness of my love that made you so mistrust me."

She put her fingers to his lips. "These are wondrous words, but I do grow colder each moment and soon my son—our son—will need me. Or have you forgotten what to do with a woman you carry about in your arms?"

"You are an insolent baggage. See you how I punish such insolence."

"I am a most willing and eager pupil," she whispered as he pulled her closer to him.