The Black Lyon (Montgomery/Taggert 1)

He remembered Giles and his first wife, Isabel, and it suddenly seemed so clear to him. Giles had been mad. He had willed his own death, using Ranulf as a means, and Ranulf had believed the boy over his wife’s words. Yet he had only to look and he would have seen the unnatural light in the boy’s eyes. Had not Lyonene seen pain in his eyes when they first met, the same pain as he was sure she had seen in Giles’s eyes?

He began to realize how much he had wronged her, and the pain and fever she bore now set more heavily upon him. She was no more like Isabel than he was like Geoffrey, and he had been wrong to compare them. Never had Isabel given him any avowal of love. She had given nothing but hate.

“She is the same?”

Ranulf had not heard Hugo enter the tent. “Aye, she is the same.”

“The men pray for her. They have already come to love her and admire her courage.”

Ranulf turned a black face to his man. “And what good does their love do her now that she lies so near death? Why did they not ‘love’ her in the thick of battle, when she must protect her husband with her own frail body? Why did not someone stop her from coming on this journey? Why—?”

He broke off as Hugo put a hand on his lord’s shoulder, and Ranulf buried his face in his hands, giving way to the tears long buried in his breast.

“Water.”

Ranulf sat still, his eyes half-closed, and did not hear the faint whisper. For five days he had not left the tent and he had eaten nothing in the last three. Now he was weak, his grief having worn him away.

“Water,” Lyonene repeated.

Ranulf jumped and stared with disbelief at his wife’s open eyes. It was seconds before he recovered himself enough to take her in his arms and lift a cool mug of water to her lips.

“I do not remember. Why am I here?”

He held her close to him, feeling his heart pounding. She would be well! “Hush now, love, do not speak. You took an arrow meant for me.” He blinked back tears and worked hard to keep from crushing her to him.

“You are unhurt?” she whispered.

Suddenly, he felt joyous because he’d have a lifetime to love her, to make her forget his anger and hostility. He pulled back and smiled at her. “Unhurt! I am more than unhurt! You have saved my life and I owe all to you. And you, my sweet Lioness, will be well. And now you will eat.”

She managed to smile at him. “And if I do not?”

He lifted one eyebrow at her. “I had not thought on it, but knowing your constant disobedience, I shall probably have to force you to eat.”

She put her hand on his. “I wish…” she said quietly. “Aye? What is it you wish?”

“This morn is different. It is as if we were at Lorancourt and you were the man I met and there were no more hate between us.”

“I would also that the hate was gone,” he said quietly. No other words he could have said would have meant more to her.

What followed were, for Lyonene, blissful days of learning to know her husband, of laughter, of surcease from the fear she had grown to feel.

“My lord!” Corbet shouted. “A messenger is come from King Edward to cry a tourney.”

“A tourney?” Lyonene said from her seat on the mossy bank. “It is safe? What of this man Rhys? If he wishes to take the king’s place, is it safe to be so near?”

“Rhys and his three sons were killed in the battle. His men will cause no more harm with no leader.” He stared down at her. “You would care to see the court and a tournament?”

“Oh yes, Ranulf, oh yes, I would much like to go.”

He knelt and put a hand on her shoulder. “Then we shall.” He turned to Corbet. “Tell the messenger that the Black Lion and his Black Guard challenge all.”

Corbet grinned. “We have done so, my lord.”

Ranulf’s face hardened, but before he could speak, Lyonene laughed. “It is good your men know their lord so well, is it not?”

He stared for a moment and then relaxed. “Aye, that it is. Go now and ready yourselves. We leave on the morrow.”

When they were alone, he turned to Lyonene. “You are well enough to travel? The wound does not plague you overmuch?”