The Black Lyon Read Free

was a hesitation in it. He put his other hand beneath her chin and lifted her face so he could look at her.
    She looked again at him, seeing a strong face, a jaw wellcut, slightly arched brows over the black eyes, a straight nose, the nostrils somewhat flared. Her gaze fell on his lips, which were well-shaped but held too rigid. Lucy had been correct; he was a handsome man. She smiled, timidly at first and then with more warmth. She looked behind the lips that did not smile and saw a … yes, a sweetness there, the same gentleness that her mother had seen. Of a sudden, she had an urge to laugh, so great was her relief at her findings. She moved against the fingers that held her chin. Never had a man’s touch made her feel so alive.
    Abruptly, Ranulf dropped his hand from her chin and relinquished the hand he held. “I must see to the Frisian,” he mumbled and made his way to the door, the Black Guard following suit.
    “Well!” William collapsed in the cushioned chair before the fire. “If a man were to live a thousand more years, he would not understand the mind of a woman. My wife treats the king’s champion as a gossiping washerwoman, then my daughter fair faints at the mere sight of him, and then she laughs in his face. If my lands are not forfeit in two weeks, I will not know why.”
    “William,” Melite began, but she knew she could not explain her own actions, much less those of her daughter. “He seems well content. Come, Lyonene, there are duties to see to.”
    Lyonene was anxious to leave the room, for she did not like to think her reactions to the man were so obvious. But it was true that she could not have felt more strongly if the slate roof of the donjon had rolled back and lightning had struck her.
    Lyonene dreaded being alone with her mother for she knew there would be questions that she could not answer.
    As if knowing her thoughts, Melite said, “No, there will be no questions. I ask only that you be kind to our guest, not because he is a great warrior or the king’s earl, but because he deserves our kindness.”
    Mutely, Lyonene nodded.
    “Now, go see to those two silly maids of yours and see that our Black Lion has a fitting den.” She smiled and smoothed her daughter’s lovely hair.
    Lyonene climbed the remaining stairs to the third floor’s private sleeping chambers. There were six chambers, one for her parents, one of her own and four for guests. She was alone on the floor, the servants busy below in the kitchens. She could take her time in choosing a chamber for Lord Ranulf.
    It was an hour later when she felt that the room was ready and went to her own chamber. Lucy had left some bread and cheese and a mug of milk on the mantelpiece. As Lyonene sipped the warm liquid, she adjusted the louvered slats in the wooden shutters so she could look across the bailey. As she watched, one man left the group of the Black Guard and made his way to the gate of the bailey wall; he carried a long stick at his side and a bag strapped to his waist and pushed to his back.
    Without thinking what she was doing, Lyonene threw off her green mantle and surcoat and pulled on another surcoat—a woolen one—over the gold tunic. She withdrew from a chest her warmest cloak, a heavy gray wool with a deep hood, completely lined in white rabbit’s fur. Clutching the cloak tightly, she made her way down the stairs to the Great Hall, telling herself that she only wished for some fresher air. She took with her a large flagon of wine that had been set to warm on the mantel. She was amazed at how easy it was to pass unobserved across the open bailey yard and out the gate. The watch guards cared not who left the castle, only who entered.
    Ranulf sat on the cold, hard ground, his back against a tree, heedless of the piercing wind. His thoughts were absorbed with a lovely, green-eyed girl. Ah, Warbrooke, he chided himself, she is not for your dalliance. She is a girl, an innocent intended for marriage, marriage to a young