The Black Lyon (Montgomery/Taggert 1)

He gave her a faint smile and bent slightly toward her.

“It is too late now, for now Father Hewitt must bless our marriage.”

As they knelt before the altar for the wedding mass, she was more aware of some change in her husband, a change not caused by mere lack of sleep. The long ceremony ended, and they were once again in the early morning sunlight.

Ranulf lifted Lyonene into the broad saddle of the Frisian and mounted behind her, his arms encircling her to hold the reins, while the wedding guests threw sundry grains at them and called, “Plenty! Plenty!”

“Ride with me now, away from here, to Malvoisin.” His breath was soft in her ear.

She turned in his arms. “I ever beg you to kiss me and you refuse, yet now you wish to carry me off and neglect our guests.”

The reins were dropped as he pulled Lyonene to him, crushing her against him. It was not a sweet kiss, but one from the longing, the doubt he still held.

She leaned against him, her arms yet about his neck.

“Go with me now,” he urged.

“I cannot. I could not think only of myself.”

“Do but think of me then.”

She looked into his eyes and saw the pain there. “On the morrow all my days will be yours, but this one belongs to my parents. Come, there will be dancing and we have cooked for days.”

“And will there be many men guests?”

“Of a surety, but women also. Ranulf, what is wrong? Has some misfortune befallen you? You do not smile at m

e.”

“Do you not know the Black Lion never smiles?”

She could not help the shudder that passed through her. It was as if another man occupied the form of the man she had learned to care for. “Let us go now. I do not care for the others. Let us ride now to your island.”

“Nay.” His voice was cold. “You have chosen the others, so let it be. It is not for me to ever deny a wife.”

She leaned back against him and felt him stiffen, and she was frightened by his action as much as by his words.

The old donjon of Lorancourt was decorated with serge bunting, the black and green of Malvoisin, and a great feast had been prepared. There was a large white swan, baked and dressed and then reassembled so that it looked almost alive, every feather repositioned perfectly. There was a roast boar stuffed with rabbits that were stuffed with partridges. Pies of every type covered the white tablecloths.

There were many who raised their cups and drank to the health of the young couple.

“Ranulf, you look tired. Are you so unhappy at this marriage?”

His eyes showed no humor. “I have yet to see what I have married.”

She blinked to control the tears that came to her eyes. “The belt is most beautiful. I thank you for it.”

He barely nodded to her and drank deeply of his wine.

Lyonene sat quietly, unaware of the noise or the many people around her. Where was the man she remembered, the laughing man who had teased her and held her? “Can you not tell me how I have displeased you so?”

He softened toward her somewhat and touched her cheek with the back of his fingers. “I am a vile-tempered man and ’tis no fault of yours. Mayhaps we could leave this for a while and find some place to be alone.”

“No more of that!” a voice called to them. “You will have a lifetime of her, and for the rest of us, we must mourn her loss.” It was Sir John de Bano, a near neighbor, a man Lyonene had known all her life.

She smiled up at him.

“Lady Lyonene must show us this blasted Irish game of trucks. William can never remember the rules and neither can I. If Giles had come, he could tell us, but he has not.”