The Warrior (17 page)

It was also a squire’s duty to see to his lord’s armor and weapons, but earlier Ranulf had claimed he didn’t trust her to care for them properly. And that she was clearly unfit for military service.

A faint smile twisted Ariane’s lips as she recalled Ranulf’s disgust a short while ago when he’d commanded her to remove his war trappings. Her grimace when she unbelted his bloodied sword had earned her a quick rebuke, and he’d shown little patience with her further ministrations. As tall as she was, she had needed to stand on a stool to raise his chain mail hauberk over his head, and then she had staggered so under its weight that Ranulf had to take it from her and arrange it over the wooden form himself.

She had drawn a sharp breath when she realized his woolen tunic was soaked in blood.

“Do not raise your hopes overmuch, demoiselle,” Ranulf remarked dryly. “It is a mere scratch.”

When his torso was bared, though, Ariane could see he had greatly underestimated the severity of his injuries. Doubtless the inflamed gouges in his side were no more than pinpricks compared to some of the wounds he had suffered in previous battles, but they could be dangerous should they putrefy. She had offered to tend his wounded ribs and apply an herb compress, but Ranulf had coolly declined, saying that he didn’t trust any remedy she supplied not to be riddled with poison—his tone suggesting that he was already regretting his insistence that she serve him in place of his wounded squire.

“You find something amusing, lady?”

With a start Ariane realized Ranulf had glanced over his shoulder at her and was fixing her with a cool stare. Carefully she schooled her features to blandness. “No, my lord. I have no reason to be amused.”

“My cup is empty. Fetch me more wine.”

She hastened to obey, gritting her teeth at his commanding tone, even while reluctantly acknowledging the effectiveness of his uncommon method of justice. The role Ranulf had forced her to play was designed not merely to replace his wounded squire—an eye for an eye—but to display her subjugation. By requiring her to serve him publicly, her people would clearly see his power, and perhaps realize the futility of defying his will.

And though she was loathe to admit it, his chosen form of retribution was indeed merciful, Ariane knew. After his party had been attacked, his men killed and wounded, the new lord of Claredon would have been well within his rights to exact a devastating reprisal. Other warlords in similar circumstances had been known to raze entire villages, torturing and killing even women and children in their desire for revenge.

It might be humbling for someone of her high birth to be treated no better than a serf, mortifying in truth, but Ariane was thankful for Ranulf’s measured sentence. Thankful for the opportunity to leave her prison as well; to be allowed to move about the keep, among her people, where she could keep watch on the new lord of Vernay. She did not trust Ranulf not to visit some cruelty upon them, even if thus far he had shown remarkable restraint.

Moreover, she hoped her new responsibilities would help her conquer the nerve-shredding fear of the past few days.

She would be boiled in oil, though, before she displayed the slightest hint of fear to Ranulf. She was determined not to give him the upper hand.

Keeping her head high and her resentment hidden, Ariane stood at attention behind Ranulf during the entire meal, determined to anticipate his every need, to give him no cause for rebuke. Serfs carried in trenchers of day-old bread to serve as bowls and plates. Such trenchers were usually shared by two people, often a lady and a nobleman, but Ranulf enjoyed his own, for the twin chair to his right remained empty.

He conversed idly with his knights as he ate, first a thick soup, then platters of roasted meats, and finally cheeses and sweet wine. Ariane suspected the dishes were not prepared with the care they would have been given under her management, yet the food smelled delicious. Her own hunger took her by surprise, since she’d had little appetite during the past four grueling days.

It came as a welcome relief when Ranulf at last sent her a glance. “You have my leave to eat, demoiselle.”

Feigning indifference, Ariane withdrew before he could change his mind, and sought a place at the opposite end of the hall, as far away from the lord’s table as she could get. She could feel Ranulf’s gaze boring into her as she was welcomed eagerly by Father John and his clerk, Gilbert, who both jumped to their feet to serve her.

A lad of some sixteen years, Gilbert was actually her half-brother—her father’s son by a field serf. By law a serf’s bastard could not inherit a noble’s demesne lands, but Gilbert had never appeared to resent the limitations of his baseborn status. Tall and slight of build, he was obviously unfit for the demands of a knightly life, yet he was clever and quick and had earned the notice of his lordly father and the lord’s wife, Ariane’s mother.

It was actually Lady Constance who had plucked Gilbert from the obscurity and grueling toil of a serf’s fate, and had seen him educated by the Church, which dispensed all learning. Although it was not uncommon for a lady to raise her husband’s bastard sons, Constance had been exceptionally generous in Gilbert’s case, since she herself had been unable to give her lord husband more children. Claredon, as well as Gilbert, had profited. Clerking was an honorable profession in great demand. Many nobles could write at least a little, but most relied upon clerks to see to such work, to handle correspondence and to keep the accounts for their seneschals and stewards.

“My lady!” Gilbert exclaimed in a fierce undertone that startled Ariane as he resettled himself beside her on the bench. He was normally sweet-tempered and exquisitely-mannered, but his fair complexion now was flushed with emotion. “It aggrieves me to see the shame that black devil has heaped on you.”

It aggrieved her as well, but she thought it wiser not to inflame her half-brother further. “It is not too unbearable,” Ariane replied soothingly.

“But he treats you so ill—”

“He has not harmed me, Gilbert.”

Father John scolded the youth to silence. While she ate, the elderly priest related the events of the past three days of her incarceration. It seemed that the new lord was in full command of Claredon. “Yet we have not despaired. Your courage is being hailed on every tongue, my lady.”

“Mine?”

“Aye, for foiling the Black Dragon, for aiding Lord Simon to escape. You have given us hope.”

“False hope, I fear.” She stole a glance at the far end of the hall, where Ranulf sat with his men. “All I have done is bring his vengeance down upon our heads.”

“They say he is a devil,” Father John murmured in a fearful voice.

“He gives no quarter,” Ariane agreed.

“Our father would have dealt swiftly with him,” Gilbert muttered beside her.

A pang of remorse shot through Ariane at the reminder of her failing. “But our father is not here, so I must act as I see fit.”

Her brother scowled. “What villainous means did he employ to force your surrender? ’Tis rumored he threatened to kill his wounded prisoners, and that you traded their lives for your subservience, milady.”

“He was justly angered by the attack on his men,” she murmured.

“But to abuse you so—the accursed devil! He should be stricken down for defiling you.”

“He has not defiled me. He only denied my status as a lady.”

“He has not taken you as his leman?”

Ariane felt a blush rising to heat her cheeks, knowing Gilbert’s assumption was what the rest of the castle folk must believe. “Nay, he has not. He did not wish to validate the betrothal contract. He means to repudiate it—and me.”

Her assurances did not appease the boy’s fury. “All the same, he has dishonored you by this public humiliation. Would that I knew how to wield a sword! I swear I would cut him down where he stands!”

“Gilbert!” she replied sharply. “You must not even consider such a rash act. To challenge the new lord would be to forfeit your life.”

“I care not! I cannot allow him to treat you with such disrespect.”

“We will aid you to escape to the abbey at Frothom,” the priest broke in with a suggestion. “The Church will succor you. Simply say the word.”

“Aye,” Gilbert seconded. “There are many here who would lay down their lives for you.”

“I do not want anyone else to lay down his life!” she said emphatically.

“But you must seek refuge, lady.”

Ariane shook her head at the priest. “I cannot abandon Claredon. I have a responsibility to the people here. How could I live with myself if I fled to the safety of the abbey while those I left behind suffered?”

Father John nodded solemnly. The noble class enjoyed a life of power and privilege, but many, like Walter and his daughter, believed that advantage carried with it obligations.

“As for the future, you will offer no further resistance. Lord Ranulf has killed and wounded too many already, and I want no more senseless deaths. We will have to bide our time until my father returns. . . .” Ariane faltered, choking on the words, but forced herself to continue. She did not wish to stir false hopes, and yet it was her duty to comfort and cheer her people as well as protect them. “You must not lose faith. Lord Walter may yet be proven innocent. You must pass the word, Father John. No more ambushes on Lord Ranulf’s men, do you mark me? He is lord here now, and must be acknowledged as such.”

“Aye, milady. Though it goes against the grain to accept so cruel a knight as overlord.”

“He has not been cruel,” Ariane replied grudgingly. “His retaliation for today’s assault was not excessive. It might be barbaric to display the bodies of his slain foes, but he has the right.”

“But, my lady, I doubt he intends such. Lord Ranulf gave me the order for their burial but a short while ago.”

Ariane gazed at him in relief. Ranulf must have acceded to her plea for the proper observances for the dead men. “You see, Gilbert?” she addressed her brother. “The Dragon can be reasoned with.”

The boy clenched his fists. “Still, it galls me to see you treated so, my lady.”

“I know. But it is not so onerous, truly. Under the circumstances, he has acted with restraint. Indeed, most men in his position would never have bothered gaining a woman’s allegiance, and yet that is all he has asked of me.” She could scarcely believe she was defending the Black Dragon, and yet she could not allow Gilbert to embark on so foolhardy a course as to challenge a powerful warlord. Ranulf would crush him without mercy. As it was, she could only hope the new lord of Claredon would keep his end of the bargain.

Stealing another glance at Ranulf, she found herself pinned by his bold regard, and hastily looked away. His disapproving expression boded ill for her. Falling silent, she bent her attention to finishing her meal.

She would have been even more worried had she been privy to the conversation at the opposite end of the hall, where Ranulf was enduring a reproach from his chief vassal, Payn FitzOsbern.

“You should have hanged the culprits,” Payn remarked grimly, daring to criticize his liege. “Your punishment was too lenient by far, my lord.”

“If I can gain the willing obedience of the people here,” Ranulf replied mildly, “then my lenience will have served a purpose.”

Payn drained his wine cup. “True, but I fear you are thinking with your loins rather than your head.”

Ranulf’s head turned, his gaze narrowing on his vassal. “What mean you by that?”

“Merely that you seem to have been bewitched by your betrothed.”

He stiffened. “She is no longer my betrothed, and I fail to see the logic in your charge.”

“You returned to Claredon bent on revenge, yet she managed to persuade you to stay your hand.”

“Solely because I
chose
to stay it.”

“You mean to say she does not rouse your lust?”

“She stirs nothing in me save my temper,” Ranulf lied. “I’ve no interest in a sharp-tongued vixen, especially one of her high birth.”

Payn’s brow shot up, while on his other side, Ivo de Ridefort grunted. “Such defiance must be beaten out of a wench.”

Ranulf’s jaw hardened. He would never sink to the animalistic level of his brutish father. “I will handle her as I see fit.”

Ivo’s cousin, Bertran, glanced down the length of the hall to where Ariane sat eating. “I almost envy you the taming of her, sire. She is a beauty, no mistake. ’Struth, I wouldn’t mind taking her off your hands. Give her to me for a week or so and I will have her purring at your every command.”

Another of Ranulf’s vassals guffawed. “You, Bertran? Purring? What would a lady such as she have to do with a ham-handed lout such as you?”

“Best curb your lust, Bertran,” another knight said with a glance at Ranulf’s unsmiling features, “before our lord curbs it for you.”

Forcing himself to relax the set of his jaw, Ranulf allowed his mouth to curve in the flicker of a grin. He did not care to hear his men discussing Ariane as if she were a common castle wench, yet defending her would only add substance to Payn’s accusation.

Was
Ariane a witch who had cast him under her spell?

Reluctantly, Ranulf found his gaze drawn back to her. She held herself with the regal grace of a queen, despite the humbling ordeal he had forced upon her by making her serve his needs in full view of her people.

He could not have said why he wanted to shield her, especially when suspicion and resentment still ate at him. Perhaps there was some merit to the charge of bewitchment, after all. Her stubborn support of her treasonous father irritated him, while her barbed wit stung; yet he had to admire her courage and spirit. And the burning in his veins was not due to anger at the wench’s disobedience, Ranulf acknowledged. No, he was fiercely attracted to her, despite her defiance, despite her noble birth.

Ranulf exhaled a slow breath. He could not permit himself to care about her. Payn was right on one score at least. He would have to harden his heart and guard himself well against her wiles. Highborn ladies like Ariane brought nothing but pain and trouble. He had shown her mercy, a mercy he himself had never known. With that she would have to be content.