“It is loose, see?” She made as to move the fabric and show him, but her maid had laced the silk too securely. She looked up at him and laughed, then shrugged her shoulders. “It is the fashion. I dare say Lady Elizabeth’s will be as tight.”
“Elizabeth is not my wife and I care naught how many men gape at her.”
“Do you think men will gape at my poor form?” she asked in mock innocence.
He squinted at her. “Do you try to make me jealous?”
“And if I do?”
“Then I would say you should not. I fear I need no aid. Now come below, for we begin soon. I have obtained a black horse for you. You will not mind not riding a white one as the other ladies?”
She knew she would get no compliment from him. She put her hand on his mail-covered forearm. “The wife of the Black Lion cannot ride a white horse; it would not fit with the rest of her men.”
His eyes glowed as he looked down at her, and he touched the gold lion brooches that fastened her mantle, the emerald eyes matching hers. He kissed her cheek tenderly.
The Black Guard waited below, and they were resplendent. They stood in order, ready for the procession to the lists. Hugo Fitz Waren rode first, his mail painted green, his tabard black with the rampant black lion on a green field. The Frisian and a black mare stood ready for Ranulf and Lyonene.
When she stood before her horse, Ranulf took something from his saddle pommel. He removed the customary gold circlet from Lyonene’s head, tossing it to a castle servant. In its place he put a coronet—gold, with emeralds and black pearls. “A countess cannot appear as an ordinary lady,” he said, smiling at her.
She pulled a green ribbon from her hair and tied it to his upper arm, the silk showing well against the gleaming silver.
He lifted her onto the horse, and she adjusted her leg to fit the sidesaddle. Her hair spread about her, grazing the horse’s rump behind her.
They slowly made their way to take their places in the long line of people. Hugo Fitz Waren held the black and green banner of Malvoisin aloft, the snarling lion vivid against the emerald ground. His black tabard swirled against the green serge trappings that covered his horse.
Ranulf headed the double line that followed the chief of his Black Guard. Both his tabard and Tighe’s coverings were of the darkest black. Behind him rode Corbet, with green clothing and black horse drapes. The colors alternated down the line. Lyonene was totally clad in green as was her horse, with the men that followed her also alternating in color.
Ahead of her and behind her waved the banners of the king and his earls. There was Lord Dacre’s blue and gold unicorn, Humphrey de Bohun’s six lioncels, Robert de Vere’s three crowns, John de Montfort’s sable markings—and the three leopards of Edmund, the king’s brother. The colors and the jewels sparkled, and the horses felt the excitement and pranced, threatening to overcome their riders.
Lyonene thought of Brent and knew he rode with his father. She wished there had been time to sew him a garment of the Malvoisin colors.
The great oak gate to the new castle walls was lowered, and the procession began. The noise of the waiting people drowned all thought as the riders slowly made their way to the lists. For weeks the people had been arriving: freemen, serfs whose masters attended the celebrations, women whose profession was to entertain, and merchants—hundreds of merchants.
The lists themselves stood atop a small rise, and they were alive with banners and buntings. Two sets of raised benches had been built on either side of the barrier fence, one for the nobility and canopied in a red and white striped serge, the other for the ladies of the lesser knights who entered the contests, with its roof open to the spring sky. At each end of the long, narrow field were tents. One end held the tents of the challengers, the other the comers. Lyonene could see the pennant of the Black Lion among the challengers’ tents.
Behind the wooden seats and the tents were the small tents and wagons of the merchants, the guild pennants easily discernible. Among the cheering crowd were many men with flat boxes strapped to them that held food, drink, cloth, saints’ relics, medicines guaranteed to cure all and ornaments from the world over.
The fences threatened to break with the teeming masses that strained against them to see the richly clad men and women. As Hugo Fitz Waren entered the gate, his horse stepping onto the soft, sand-covered field, a cry went up for the Black Lion. Lyonene was especially pleased and smiled at the people, but a quick glance at Ranulf showed he did not acknowledge the cheer. In truth, he was more than a little formidable in his black attire, his back straight as a steel rod.
The next group waited as the Earl of Malvoisin rode with his wife and his men around the edges of the jousting field. It seemed to Lyonene that the people cheered louder for them, but of course, she chided herself, that was her vain pride telling her so.
They left the far gate and entered the tent grounds at the far end. This area too was enclosed, reserved for the use of the king’s chosen men only.
There were three tents sporting the Malvoisin colors, two for his men and one for Ranulf. It was the largest tent that the Earl and Countess of Malvoisin now entered.
Lyonene could not help the memories of her dance that filled her at the sight of the cream silk walls. Ranulf stopped his undressing to stare at her. Then a slow smile curved his lips. He began humming a tune from that night.
Lyonene laughed. “I think you have forgiven me for hiding away and coming to Wales.”
“I have said I would forgive you aught.”
She did not like his smugness. “I should test that.”
“Do not dare,” he growled and then saw she teased.
Brent burst into the tent. “I come, my lord, to help you dress. Is it proper that a lady be present in a knight’s tent?”
Lyonene narrowed her eyes at Brent’s back.