The Black Lyon by Jude Deveraux

after the marriage. When the woman and the child died but a few years after the marriage, it is said he near went insane with grief, that his pain was so great that he has never laughed since.” He whirled to face his wife.
    “Go on. And what of the rest of the gossip?”
    “That whoever makes him laugh will be…”
    “His bride, I believe the silly saying goes. I am sure it began as a jest, but, for whatever reason, Lord Ranulf is not a happy man.” She smiled sweetly at her husband and knew he remembered Ranulf’s laughter of the day before. “Shall I send a page to fetch our guest? I do not believe we should prolong our lovers’ agony. I do not wish my grandchild born only five months after the wedding.”
    They sat in silence until Ranulf sat before them in his training costume, tight hose with a short tunic and tabard that barely reached midthigh. He kept looking about the shadows of the Great Hall and then toward the yawning black stairwell.
    “My Lord Ranulf,” William began. He could not see what his women saw in the massive form of the man before him to cause so much love to be directed toward him. He could not control his shudder as he remembered the strength he had seen the man demonstrate this morn. He loved his daughter and hoped he did not make an error. “My daughter, Lyonene, is … unmarried and of a marriageable age. She has near driven me mad for a year, for she has turned down dozens of men who have desired her for wife.” It was difficult to continue, for Ranulf’s brows had drawn together in a black look.
    Melite decided to help her husband. “What William means to say is that we have reason to believe Lyonene would accept you, and therefore we offer you our daughter in marriage.”
    William continued. “I can offer a dowry of two and a half knights’ fees. Lyonene is also my heir and upon our death stands to inherit all of Lorancourt.”
    Ranulf tried to calm his racing heart. He cared naught for the dowry, but he must, for William’s sake, appear to consider it. The Warbrooke estates contained twelve castles, one of which was Malvoisin. The other eleven all at least equaled Lorancourt. A castle was supported by so many knights’ fees, ranging from five to over a hundred. Ranulf did not know how many hundreds of knights’ fees he owned.
    Melite seemed to know his thoughts. She put a hand over his large one, which rested on his knee. “I believe I am right that you have grown to care for my daughter. My interest is in her welfare, not talk of knights’ fees and inheritances. Do my eyes and senses tell me true?”
    “Aye. She is the prize. Not any dowry could equal her.”
    William missed the messages that Melite and Ranulf passed to one another. “Then it is agreed?” He was astounded.
    “On a condition. It must be put to Lyonene as a request. I will not have her forced into a marriage.” His eyes narrowed with memory. “She must agree freely. There is no other man, no previous betrothal?”
    William waved his hand. “None, and, if my wife is to be believed, the girl will agree readily enough. You will be wanting guests of the court?”
    Ranulf considered for a moment. “Nay, I can ask no one, for Edward and Eleanora would come and bring all their retainers, near three hundred people, and few of the other earls travel with less people.” He watched William’s stare of horror—to feed and lodge so many people! Ranulf continued, “It is cold, too cold for a tourney now, so if it does not offend you, your lovely wife or my Lady Lyonene, the marriage will be simple and I will leave with my bride soon after for Malvoisin.”
    William’s feeling of relief was almost tangible. “Aye. It will be as you wish. Now, for the day. The banns must be posted for three Sundays. This is Saturday. If you were to sign a betrothal agreement today, we can plan the wedding for three weeks hence. Does that suit you, my lord?”
    “Aye, of course.” He rose to leave. “Then I leave on the