There was only one horse left in the stable in the inner bailey, an unruly black stallion that she would normally have been afraid to ride. She talked to the sleek animal as she saddled it and it rolled its eyes at her but did not nip at her or kick.
“You must run for me this night. We must forget our prejudices of one another, for Ranulf needs us. I must stop him from what he plans.”
She led the big horse out of the stables and cast herself into the saddle. The horse made one small protest, but she jerked on the reins and he quieted.
“There is no time for play. We must go.”
The stallion did run for her, and the rain and wind cut them, lacerating the rider and horse that had become as one, their purpose agreed upon.
There were many horses and men overlooking St. Agnes’ Point. Lyonene knew if she were seen, one of the Black Guard would return her to the castle. She left the horse near some rocks, not tying it, knowing it was trained to stand.
No one noticed the dark form that followed the cliff wall down to the beach. When a streak of lightning showed her the boats, she saw she was too late. Three boats were already upon the turbulent water, Ranulf easily discerned in the farthest boat.
She knelt in a shadow of the cliff and began to pray with more fervor than she had ever thought possible. The storm continued, soaking her, lashing her, pulling and plucking at her clothes, but she did not notice. She only prayed, keeping her face turned toward the black sea.
It was hours later when she first saw the light specks of the returning boats. She ran to the shore, the salt water spraying her, heedless of the men who ran toward her. Someone’s arm went about her shoulders, but she did not look, for her concern was only on the returning boats.
She saw instantly that he was not there.
She began to run into the sea, but something about her waist stopped her, held her.
The boats came near her and still she could not move.
“I am sorry, my lady,” one of the men yelled over the fury of the storm. “He saw a head and fell over trying to save the bloke. We searched for hours but could not find him.”
Strong arms pulled her around, and her face was buried against a wet shoulder, hands stroking her back, comforting her.
“Nay!” The word bubbled inside her, boiling, festering. She pushed hard against the man who held her, and when she turned to the boatman again, the man took one step backward. The woman had gone mad! Her face was distorted with rage.
The sweet-voiced Lyonene was no longer present. The voice that bellowed across the wind and rain was not even that of a woman.
“You will know hell on earth do you not find him and return him to me—alive! There are no tortures even in Castile that will equal what I will do to you.” She stepped forward and the men around her retreated. She was possessed by something they did not wish to fight.
“Are my words heard? Do not return without him.”
No man protested as they returned to their boats and vigorously began to row themselves out into the deathgiving sea.
There were no protecting hands now as Lyonene sank to her knees, but all hands were clasped together as they followed suit of their mistress and began to pray.
There were watchers from the hill above, and the sight of the tiny girl kneeling in the sand and surf, surrounded by seven dark knights, also on their knees, made them forget the wet, the cold, and they joined in the prayers for the return of their beloved master. No one of them moved or lost fervor even when a faint light began to show and the storm lessened in its fury. There was not a man in the returning boats who did not cross himself and offer a silent prayer at the sight that greeted them.
A hand on her shoulder made Lyonene look up to see the boats. Other hands helped her stand. She did not see him at first, his head bent low. When she was sure he was there, she collapsed, her face buried in her hands, the release making her shoulders droop, her body weak.
Someone knelt beside her and put an arm about her shoulders. When she meant to rise again, she was supported.
She walked to the side of the boat and saw Ranulf, intent upon a long, wet bundle across his lap. When he saw her, he was startled and then angry. He looked up at the man next to her.
“She should not have been allowed here.”
“She has saved your ungrateful life, so do not speak of her so!”
Ranulf was even more startled at the tone of his man, for none had ever dared speak to him in such a manner. “We will speak of this later. Take this.” He handed the bundle to Sainneville. “It is a girl, so treat it with care.”
The rain had dwindled to a drizzle, and the sun made a valiant effort to show itself. Ranulf stepped from the boat his clothes soggy and cold. He looked in puzzlement at the rather skittish behavior of one of the boatmen towards his wife. The man acted almost as if he were afraid of Ranulf’s little wife.
“What have you done in these few hours that has caused my man to rebuke me and these others to fear you?” he asked, frowning.
“Ranulf…” Her lip trembled and then she was in his arms, her sobs racking her body with their violence. He held her to him, frightened himself at the fierceness of her emotion. He pulled the hood away and stroked her wet hair, soothing her.