The Black Lyon by Jude Deveraux Page B

in the stable, and a horse moved restlessly in fear.
    “You do not need to be frightened of me. I do not plan to hurt you. Nay, I have learned a great deal from your ways. I have lost what I so eagerly sought.” His eyes went to her breasts, outlined so clearly, heaving in her fright. “But as you sold yourself, so shall I sell what little of me is left. Do you remember this?”
    He waved a piece of paper before her face, and she was puzzled.
    “It is one of your letters.”
    “I wrote you no letters.”
    “Aye, that is true, but Lucy once let it be known that you often wrote stories and such. Remember your Gilbert?”
    Lyonene was truly bewildered, for she remembered no Gilbert at Lorancourt. Then the seed of a memory stung her. She stared at the paper and the dirty hand that held it. “You started the fire,” she whispered.
    “Aye,” he said and laughed. “I am glad you see how far I will go to get what I want.” He stepped forward and ran a caressing hand down her shoulder. “When I am wealthy, I will buy several women such as you.”
    “Giles…” she began.
    “Cease!” He pulled his arm back, and she turned her head in anticipation of the blow. He stepped back and watched her as he caressed the paper in his hand. “I have five of these letters, and it was an easy thing to change Gilbert to Giles. Shall I read to you what a fine letter of love you have written to me?”
    She shook her head, knowing now what he held. She had always been a bit of a dreamer as a child and when her indulgent father had allowed his only child to learn to read, she had studied not rhetoric or even the gospels but, instead, a small book of chivalrous stories, secretly purchased for her in London by her mother. Lyonene had read the stories again and again and begged the jongleurs for more stories. Soon she had begun to create her own stories, sometimes writing them and often setting them to music, singing them to her parents on quiet evenings. But there was a time, not long ago, when she had created a lover for herself, a young man, a knight, strong and brave, and she had written letters to this imaginary man. She knew what the letters said, knew what fate Giles held for her in that hand that had already caused so much destruction. He held the end of her thoughts of happiness with her new husband; the delicate thread that held them together could not stand another blow.
    “Lyonene, you are easy to read. Does he distrust you so much?”
    “You have yet to say what you want from me.” Her shoulders sank wearily.
    “Gold.”
    “I have naught but my clothes. He has given me nothing.”
    “Do not play the fool.” He looked outside the stable and saw that the flames no longer lifted above the stone wall. He returned his attention to Lyonene. “I see your husband succeeds in taming the fire more readily than I had thought. Listen to me now. He will be tired when he returns and will sleep heavily. When you are sure he will not wake, toss me a jewel from the pouch on his belt.”
    “Nay! I cannot.”
    “This letter is the least I can use for payment if I am not obeyed. What think you of becoming a widow so soon?”
    “You do not know what you say. Do you forget he is the Black Lion?”
    “I see you do not forget,” he sneered. “I am not as these lordly knights of the kings, as you well know. They are governed by rules that have no hold for me. How think you I came to be inside these castle walls? No one sees a serf. Think you he will notice when a serf walks past him? He will not know until he finds a blade between his ribs.”
    Lyonene could not speak, the terror climbing along her spine, crawling, creeping, a slimy, many-legged thing.
    “Ah! I knew I guessed right. Now I must go. Do as I say and do not betray me.”
    He left her alone, her breath shallow, her body trembling, but trembling deep inside, as if her very bones shook. What to do, she screamed inside her throbbing head—what to do! She made her way inside the