Morning came too early and she sleepily mounted her little donkey.
“This might well be the night, for tomorrow we reach Wales.”
Maude’s statement drew Lyonene awake, and all day she tried to dissuade herself from going ahead with the dance. When they stopped for dinner and she saw first one of the women running her finger down Ranulf’s jaw and then Ranulf holding the woman’s hand for a brief moment, Lyonene was decided. She would not think of the consequences of this night; she only knew she wanted him to see her, to hold her hand and no one else’s.
As Ranulf’s tent was erected, Lyonene saw Maude talking to him and knew he had agreed to the old woman’s suggestions. Her heart began to beat rapidly.
She had no time to think as Maude pulled her into the seclusion of the trees. The beginnings of a protest were stifled as her clothes were removed. Soon the silken dancing costume encircled her. It was as if she were no longer Lyonene but someone else: a dark beauty, a Saracen who had been trained from childhood to tempt and entice men with her fluid body motions. She could hear the strange music in her head and her hips began to move slowly, a secret smile on her face.
Maude took a silvered piece of glass, a mirror, from the wooden box and a jar of black powder. She applied the kohl to Lyonene’s eyelids, upper and lower, and darkened her eyebrows. There were transparent veils, soft, gentle colors, added to the costume, then one about her hair that hid the lower part of her face.
It was a different woman who stared back at her from the little mirror, and the dark, sultry eyes promised things Lyonene knew too little of—promises of passion and satin skin. She walked with ease and confidence to the candlelit tent.
Ranulf half-reclined on a low cot and did not see at first the dark girl who entered his tent, only hearing Maude’s music, joined by a flute and little vibrating instruments like drums. He was instantly surprised by the confidence exuded by the girl, her movements sure and seductive. He then forgot that he knew this to be a serf girl, for somehow she was transformed into such as he’d not seen since his years in the Holy Lands.
Each slow undulation was a gesture of love, and he began to feel that this girl danced for him alone in a way no other woman ever had. Her hips moved toward him, her arms beckoning, her smoky eyes caressing him. Always the dances that Maude knew so well had excited him, but this girl was more, giving him a feeling of longing as well as lust. A veil fell at his feet, revealing one long slim leg hidden and yet revealed beneath the silk trousers. The music increased its speed and the girl turned her back to him, glimpses of her hair showing through a dark veil.
Another scarf drifted through the heavy air and he saw a curved hip, the gold belt flashing in the reflected candlelight. Her hips moved faster, the tiny bells tinkling in rhythm to her movements. The exposed hip was golden, creamy, while the other teased his bewildered gaze as it moved from behind a folded veil and then disappeared.
She turned to the side, the shape of her body showing through the silks. Her breasts rose again and again as her hips moved forward and back, and always her eyes entranced him, smiling, frowning, tempting, shunning, ever changing. Her fluid arms emphasized her liquid movements.
Another veil fell and he saw more of her beautiful body. Her stomach undulated, showing the lovely secret of her navel. Ranulf was frozen where he lay, unable to break the paralyzing spell of desire and fascination she wove about him.
The music’s speed increased and his breath deepened as yet another veil fell to the floor. Her breasts rounded above the silk, gleaming, moving, quivering as she danced and he heard her low, throaty, lusty laugh, growling, filling his own body with tremors of unfulfilled passion.
He was afraid to move, afraid she was an apparition of pleasure that might disappear at his merest breath. She moved closer to him, slowly, tortuously, exquisitely, her skin giving of
f a delicate perfume. With fear but uncontrolled longings, he put out a hand to touch her. A brief whisper of creamed satin skin against his fingertips and she drew away, her head falling back as she near drove his senses mad with that laugh, so low, yet permeating him with its promise.
Her arm grazed his face, close to his lips, exciting him further to depths of what seemed to be a new part of his being. Then, abruptly, she moved away from him, far away, to a darkened side of the tent; her dark eyes and golden body were radiant against the cream-colored silk walls. He could not bear the void she had left behind. The music was reaching a frenzied peak and her eyes challenged him now, her hands reaching out, daring him, as her body increased the pulsating movements.
One powerful hand swept her to him, clasping tightly the deep curve of her waist, the other crushing her to him. The tent was dark, much too dark as he looked into her half-closed eyes, but he saw the mouth that waited below the veil, and the hunger it showed more than matched his own.
Enjoying and prolonging each exquisite moment, he stroked her skin, slightly damp from her dance, as was his own. She seemed to purr, a low, throaty sound, as he touched her. For only a very brief instant did her eyes open to meet his as he pulled the veil away and sought her lips, and then his eyes were closed too.
The music from outside the tent slowed to a sensuous rhythm as if sensing what was taking place inside.
Lyonene allowed her body to be supported totally by Ranulf’s strong hands. His lips touched hers gently, savoring the feel of them, the taste of them. His tongue ran across the edge of her teeth, delighting in the tiny chipped place. The agonizing slowness with which he took his pleasure of her weakened her body; she felt almost as if she were dying under his sweet torture. He ran his teeth along her lower lip, tasting the firmness of it, relishing its special flavor. The corners of her mouth received his unique attention, and then his urgency enveloped her, his lips crushing hers, moving as he delighted in the nectar of them.
Lyonene pulled him to her, closer, ever closer, and ran her hands across the great muscles of his back, glorifying in the reserved power they held. The feel of his fingers caressing her bare skin made her mad to feel his dark, smooth skin under her hands. His lips moved to her ear, and soft words came to her, unknown words, meaningless yet allmeaning.
It may have been a discordant sound from the music that made Lyonene return to herself, to know that she was Ranulf’s unwanted wife and not a serf girl as he now believed. He made love to a serf girl, a girl who danced for him, but he did not hold and caress his wife. Her pride, the pride of a lioness, returned to her and she knew that she could not continue with their lovemaking when he thought she was another.
She steeled herself and refused to hear the words of love, and harder still, to feel the lips that traveled along her throat. She released him so quickly that she had a second before he realized she had fled the tent. She ran as hard and as fast as she was able before stopping. The built-up tears poured forth in a violent torrent. She cursed herself for a hundred times a fool. Her mind rang with her confusion. How could this man’s touch inflame her so, and how could he make such sweet love to one he thought to be only a serf girl, someone he cared for not at all?
Maude found her and helped her to bathe her swollen face and change her clothes. No words were spoken as they made their way to the camp, and the old woman carefully shielded Lyonene’s view of Ranulf’s dark tent, silent now from the rages of an hour ago. Only Maude’s long understanding of Ranulf had been able to calm him from the anger he carried toward the girl. Lyonene breathed a ragged sigh in her sleep, and Maude shook her head in disgust.
Maude sent Lyonene away from the camp for water early the next morning. Ranulf would appear soon, and he would easily know which of the four women had danced for him the night before. All she could do was prolong the inevitable.
Lyonene’s thoughts still warred within her as she pulled the heavy bucket from the water. So loud were her thoughts that she did not hear the horses approach. Before she could protest, strong arms pulled her against a bony body, hands groping her beneath her serf’s garb. A mouth that gave a foul odor found hers. She began to kick and claw.
“Sir Henry!” a familiar, laughing voice called. “I don’t believe you know how to treat a lady.”
The old man released her and she spun around, her back to the voice. Keeping her head down, she raised a cautious glance to see Geoffrey before the man who had just attacked her.
“Lady?” Sir Henry spat. “She is but a serf girl.”
Geoffrey’s voice hid his contempt. “May I suggest, sir, that all pretty young women are ladies.”