“It is said his first wife tried to kill herself to escape him.”
Lyonene gasped and involuntarily crossed herself. Suicide was a mortal sin.
“And the seven men—seven devils—he has near him…” Meg inserted, too excited to fear Gressy.
“Aye,” Gressy said, her voice conspiratorial. “He travels with seven men, great huge men, black-haired all, but none so black as the Lion on his black horse.”
“He has come here and I am to meet him?” Lyonene could not keep the fear from her voice.
“Aye. Your father and mother are below now with him. No one denies the Black Lion a request, however small.” She straightened. “Come, Meg, we must go to prepare a room for this Devil’s knight.” She left the room, the wide-eyed Meg trailing behind with the dirty laundry. Gressy was smugly pleased that she had caught the undivided attention of the two girls, for she considered them both girls, although neither was more than two years younger than she.
Outside the heavy door, Meg found her voice. “Is it true, Gressy, that this man is a spawn of the Devil?”
The older woman put her face close to Meg’s. “They say he never smiles, has never laughed. It is also said that the woman who makes him laugh will become his bride.”
Meg leaned against the damp stone wall. Gressy’s face was dim in the dark hallway. She felt her heart thud with a sinister terror. The Devil’s bride! That was a horrible thought.
Lady Melite, Lyonene’s mother, had also heard stories of the Black Lion, and she dressed carefully, scolding herself for her trembling fingers. She already wished he had not come. There had been too much turmoil lately, and now a troublesome earl to care for! She fastened the undecorated belt around the voluminous surcoat, so different from her daughter’s. She pulled the top fabric out a
nd over the belt, completely hiding it. She fastened a dark green mantle about her shoulders with two intricately wrought gold brooches, connected across her collarbone with a short chain.
“What with Sir Tompkin coming on the morrow, and the house servants to organize…” She stopped her mumbling and then laughed. I am getting to be too much like William, dreading an event before it happens, she thought. He is a man, no more. We will offer what we have, and he must be content. She straightened the long linen veil that covered the back of her head and hair and fell past her shoulders. She prided herself on having a still-beautiful throat and did not wear the covering barbette. Leveling her shoulders, she went below to greet her guest.
William, Lyonene’s father, was fascinated by the Earl of Malvoisin. The tales he had heard about this man were also exaggerated, but with a man’s point of view in mind. He looked now at Ranulf’s right arm, the muscles outlined clearly by the perfectly tailored chain mail. It was said that the Black Lion could, while riding at full gallop on that black horse of his, cut a four-inch oak post in twain. William hoped he could persuade the earl to demonstrate this impossible feat. The baron could not help staring at the earl’s chain mail. It was silvered. William thought with amusement how difficult it was for him to provide each of his twelve knights with even a mediocre grade of chain mail, and here this man had a hauberk just for tournaments. Even his men were splendidly dressed in mail that had been painted either green or black—Malvoisin’s colors.
“Ah, here is my wife, the Lady Melite. This is Ranulf de Warbrooke, Third Earl of Malvoisin.”
Ranulf lifted his eyebrows slightly in surprise at William’s introduction. “It is an honor, my lady, and I hope my uninvited presence will cause you no more hardship than is necessary.” He bowed to her.
William often accused Melite of making judgments too quickly, and so she had stopped volunteering her opinion to him, often waiting weeks or months for him to reach the same conclusions that she had drawn in but moments. Now that quick judgment did not fail her—instantly, she knew this man Ranulf de Warbrooke.
“You are most welcome, sir, and it is we who are honored … no … pleased by your presence here, and all will see to your comfort.” Her voice had changed in midsentence from formality to genuine warmth, for she liked this young man.
Ranulf was startled by her warmth. Usually mothers with daughters were greedy for him, for his money and title, or else afraid of him on account of his reputation. He sensed neither of these in this elegant little woman.
“Come, sit by me by the fire and tell me of the news. We so seldom get visitors here at Lorancourt.” She held up her arm and Ranulf took it and led her to two chairs by the roaring fire.
“But I understood that you have had many visitors lately.”
She waved her free hand in dismissal. “They come to see Lyonene, to appraise our property and eat our food. They come to show their pretty forms to one another on the lists. No one has time to talk to an old woman hungry for news. But sit for a while and let me hear all.”
William stood behind them feeling as if a bird’s breath could fell him. Melite, usually the most sensible of women, had taken the arm of the most fierce knight in England and had led him to a corner as if he were a gossiping old woman. And whatever had she said about their coming to see Lyonene and to appraise our property? This was too intimate a statement to make to a stranger. He must speak to her.
“Describe this new thing, a button, to me,” Melite was saying.
“It is a little ornament on a shaft sewn to the clothing, and lately the women have cut a hole on one side of the garment and inserted the button through it, making a fastening.”
“I see. Then we would not have to sew on the sleeves of the tunic any longer.”
William sank on a bench by the fire. The Black Lion, the greatest warrior in all of England, perhaps in all of Christendom, and his wife talked to him of women’s fashions!
Melite turned to her husband and smiled sweetly. “Would you send Lucy to fetch Lyonene? I desire our guest to meet with our daughter.”
“Oh, ’tis a handsome man, this Black Lion!” Lucy gushed to Lyonene. “His hair curls about his neck just as my boy’s did once.” Lucy, though proud of her son, who was now a monk in the Benedictine Order, was sad at times about him, too. “He is tall and strong, and your mother has him eating from out her hand. Great warrior he may be, but I would take an oath he is a gentle man.”
“What of his black hair and eyes? Were you not frightened?”
“For truth, I was, but your mother knew his character from the first moment, and it is she I trust.” She tilted her head and looked questioningly at Lyonene. “You would do well to choose such a man for a husband.”