The Black Lyon by Jude Deveraux

attributes that others did not have. Her lip curled. “You cannot pay me for what I have lost.” She stepped ahead of him, going gratefully into the familiar hall of Lorancourt.
    “My brother!” Geoffrey called. “It is good to see you have survived the night.” His eyes twinkled but soon lost their shine as he studied the newlyweds, neither touching the other, each solemn and with eyes the hardness and sharpness of splintered glass. So they had quarreled already, and he was sure it was Ranulf’s fault.
    He took Lyonene’s arm and pulled her aside. “All is not well, my little sister?”
    She did not answer, and for a moment he lost himself in the crystal-clear depths of those twin pools of green fire. God! But she was a beautiful woman, and for a moment all thought of his brother was lost. He shook his head slightly to clear the fog. “My brother will not be an easy man for husband, for I fear he is haunted by many ghosts.”
    She gave him a slight smile, but it did not warm her eyes. “I am his wife, so I do not think it of importance as to my happiness or lack of such. I’m sure,” she added, giving a sidelong look to Ranulf as he stood talking to her mother, “that I will be well-rewarded for all that I do. Now you must excuse me as I must say good-bye to my mother.”
    Only then did Geoffrey see any sign of emotion in those eyes.
    Lyonene sat astride the little chestnut mare, trying not to think of the tearful farewell or the doubtful future ahead of her. She rode ahead of the guard, beside her silent husband, his thoughts unreadable.
    “Your ladyship, may I present the Black Guard?”
    Lyonene looked into the smiling eyes of a dark knight, a short, stout man, handsome. Glad for the diversion, she turned in her saddle to look at the seven men.
    “Herne, with the reddish beard, Roger, Gilbert, Sainneville, who tends to be a jester, Hugo Fitz Waren and Maularde.”
    Each knight bowed in the saddle to her; each looked at her pleasantly, and some of her spirit returned. “And your name, sir?”
    “Corbet, at your service; no deed too small or insignificant to be performed in the continuing duty of serving his lord’s fair lady.”
    Lyonene could not keep her laughter contained, and Hugo saw Ranulf’s back stiffen. “Sainneville may tend toward a jester,” she said with a smile, “but you, sir, are a flatterer of the first water.”
    “Madam, you must believe me. Until I saw the sparkle of those emerald eyes, I was as tongue-tied as my horse, no more words could I speak before a lady. I swear it was the sight of such superior beauty and the sound of your melodious laughter that has freed me from the bondage of my speechlessness.” He bowed low. “I am your servant forever.”
    Astonished, Lyonene turned to the men behind her. “Is he always so?”
    They smiled as a group. “Always,” they chorused.
    “Lord Ranulf,” Sainneville called. “You should see to your wife, for it seems Corbet has begun to coat her with his honey and we fear his catching more than flies.” There was laughter in his voice.
    The laughter ceased when Ranulf turned a scowling countenance to them. Lyonene was immediately aware of the fear her husband instilled in his men, and she turned back to stare ahead.
    They paused for dinner, and Ranulf helped her from her horse, his hands tight around her waist. “You are not overtired?”
    “Nay.” She managed a weak smile. “I am not, but it is good to stop. You also are well? Your eyes…” She looked away, shy and also confused at the memory of the previous night.
    He did not answer her, but led her to a tree and left her there as he gave orders to his men and the serfs who served them. He returned to her side with a napkin of cold meats, bread and cheese. He opened it and offered her first choice. The air between them was heavy with tension.
    “It is far to your island?” she asked at last.
    “Aye, it is five days’ ride, but we have the use of lodgings each night.”