The Warrior (23 page)

“Might I beg a word with you, sire?”

Ranulf nodded courteously. “Father John, is it not?”

“Aye, milord.”

“Should you not be saying Mass, Father?”

“There was no one in the chapel.” His gentle brown eyes looked faintly accusing. “You have imprisoned everyone of rank, and the villeins are afraid to risk your wrath, milord.”

Ranulf frowned. “You may gather your flock without fear of retribution, Father. I would not deny the people of Claredon spiritual solace.”

“I thank you, milord.”

“Is that all?”

“Nay, milord.” The priest stood for a moment, wringing his hands in agitation. “I fear I must speak. I can no longer be silent. I must make you see the wrong in what you do.”

Ranulf’s slashing eyebrows lifted. “Indeed?”

“It is the Lady Ariane, sire . . . and your . . . er . . . your treatment of her.”

“What of my treatment?”

The elderly man hesitated to reply. “You have dishonored her . . .”

With effort, Ranulf kept his tone mild. “How have I done so, priest? I have required her to serve me at table and act as my squire, nothing more.”

“You have held her prisoner in your chamber these three nights past.”

“Merely to keep an eye on her. I cannot trust her to roam free, or she might aid another of her father’s vassals to escape.”

“But your . . . you . . . the disrespect you showed her just now . . . It is not meet that your lips should caress her skin in the hall, as if she were a serf.”

“Did the lady ask you to entreat me on her behalf?”

“Nay, milord! She would never! But I have eyes to see and ears to hear. I have heard . . . that you mean not to wed her.”

“We are no longer betrothed, ’tis true,” Ranulf replied defensively. “She is my hostage for the nonce.”

“Will you not allow her to take refuge in a convent?”

“The lady claims she does not wish to enter a nunnery.”

“But what of her future? If she is not for the Church, then she must have a husband.”

“That is beyond your purview, priest,” Ranulf observed. “King Henry will see to her future in due time, depending on the outcome of her father’s treason.”

“But I have a duty—”

Abruptly Ranulf raised a commanding hand, making the old man fall silent. “Your duty is to minister to your flock, not to question my actions. The Lady Ariane is my prisoner, to deal with as I see fit. Now, this interview is concluded. I am certain you have business to attend to.”

“Aye, milord . . .” With an obsequious bow, the priest backed away.

The priest’s rebuke was valid, Ranulf knew. A castle staff, like the larger feudal society, followed a stratified order that was ordained by God. He had upset that order by making Ariane serve in place of his squire. He’d thought forcing her to publicly acknowledge his authority the best way to compel her submission, and that of her loyal followers as well. But he never should have caressed her in public.

He was willing to admit he had gone too far in that regard—but by the Cross, he should never have been forced to compel her obedience in the first place. And in his own defense, he had acted out of anger and carnal frustration. He had not considered that she would feel shamed by his display, either. Few noblewomen of his acquaintance possessed the slightest sense of shame, and even less honor. They cuckolded their lords, abandoned their children, schemed and plotted and conspired to improve their own fortunes. . . . Yet the Lady Ariane’s former station as chatelaine at least merited a measure of respect.

Ranulf stared grimly at his bowl of porridge. Even before the priest’s challenge, he’d begun having second thoughts about the wisdom of his plan to win her cooperation through seduction. Clearly, if he was to gain the respect of Claredon’s people, he could not treat their lady like a common castle wench.

Very well, Ranulf concluded reluctantly, gritting his teeth. If she obeyed him, he would release Ariane from her pledge to serve him. If she was willing to admit her defeat, then he was prepared to show her lenience, even though it was not wholly deserved.

In the solar one floor above, Ariane was experiencing her own frustration while she fetched her mantle at Ranulf’s command.

As she fastened the clasp over one shoulder, she could not keep her gaze averted from the bed where Ranulf had brought her to pleasure. A flush stained her cheeks as she remembered the heat, the desire, he had aroused in her so effortlessly. Sweet Mary, she had found her first taste of passion incredible—and incredibly enjoyable, although hot irons could not have forced her to admit it to him.

For a moment her eyes clouded with sadness. Why could he not have honored the contract and wed her? She would have been a good wife to him, even under these trying circumstances. She would have endeavored to ensure his happiness. They could have shared a common purpose, to rule their land and serve their king. Perhaps they might even have found love, although she could not see how such a harsh, unfeeling warlord as the Black Dragon of Vernay could possibly have any room in his heart for so tender an emotion as love. He was a devil.

They would never find a common purpose now, not with the animosity and mistrust that raged between them. Ranulf would never honor her. She was naught but a possession to him, a pawn, a hostage he must needs prove his mastery over. He demanded her submission and would be satisfied with nothing less.

Dragging her gaze from the bed, Ariane reluctantly turned to the door. Ranulf had not vanquished her yet, and yet it was becoming more difficult each passing day to hold out hope that she could win any victory over him.

When she left the solar, she was startled to find her half-brother Gilbert lurking in the shadows. Evidently he had been lying in wait for her, and from the heightened color of his fair complexion, he was bursting with fury.

“My lady! He has gone too far! It is beyond bearable! You must allow me to avenge your honor!”

Ariane sighed wearily. As much as she would like to see the Black Dragon defeated, Gilbert was not the one to do it. The boy would be crushed by so skilled and powerful a warrior as Ranulf—if my lord even deigned to accept such a challenge. As the son of a serf, Gilbert was proscribed from certain rights, such as challenging the nobility to combat. According to the rules of knightly conduct, only peers could fight one another. And Gilbert’s youth was another strike against him. Boys were not allowed to use a knight’s weapons. Even squires were permitted only wooden lances and swords with which to practice.

“I cannot bear to see the lady of Claredon so degraded and scorned!” the lad cried. “He treats you worse than a serf! He fondles you as if you were his leman.”

She flushed in spite of herself. “That was not the way of it.”

“It was! And I would avenge your honor!” Gilbert repeated fiercely. “I would challenge Lord Ranulf on the field of honor!”

Ariane shook her head. She would have to persuade the boy that his plan was not merely foolish, but suicidal. “Gilbert,” she said gently, “you are untrained as a warrior, unskilled at arms. Lord Ranulf has vanquished even the most powerful of his foes. He would kill you in moments.”

“It matters not. I cannot stand by and do nothing! I have the right, my lady. In our father’s absence, I am your nearest male relative. It falls to me to protect you.”

Ariane gave another sigh. “Gilbert, I thank you with all my heart for championing me, but I could not bear it if you came to harm. With my father under suspicion of treason, my mother gone, I have lost everyone I hold dear. I could not bear to lose you, too. I need you, Gilbert.”

He clenched his fists, but the wildness seemed to leave his blue eyes. “If you will not permit me to fight him, then we must seek redress in the courts.”

“The courts?”

“Aye. I know something of the law, my lady. You have right on your side. We could sue the lord of Vernay in civil court for breaking the betrothal.”

Ariane stared at Gilbert for a long moment. “Assuming we had a case, and assuming we could persuade the new king’s courts to hear it, what would we gain by taking so bold an action?”

“Why, riches and land, my lady. Lord Ranulf has claimed the whole of your father’s estates and reduced you to penury. Were you awarded a settlement, you would no longer be dependent on the new lord’s generosity, nor would you be forced to serve him. And he would be made to pay for the ill he has done to you.”

She nodded slowly. “Yet such a case might be difficult to win, especially since it is complicated by our father’s situation. I am considered King Henry’s political hostage.”

“But we should try.”

“I should like time to consider your proposal, Gilbert.”

“But, my lady—”

“I shall think on it, I promise.”

Her assurances evidently did not allay the lad’s frustration, however. “If you will not challenge Lord Ranulf in the courts, then we must take some other course. At the very least, he should be made to honor the contract and wed you. It is only meet that he make restitution for casting you aside after so long, and for the dishonor he has brought you. In truth, you are already wed to him in the eyes of the church, but for the final vows and consummation. If you had proof he had violated you, then not even the wicked Dragon could repudiate the marriage.”

Ariane frowned thoughtfully. It would solve many of her immediate problems if Ranulf were somehow required to honor the betrothal. Why had she never considered such a perspective before? Because for the past few days, she had been dazed by uncertainty and wariness. She had not been thinking clearly or objectively. And in her despair at Ranulf’s easy victory, her fury over his devious means of gaining possession of Claredon, and her humiliation at his repudiation, she had been
glad to see an end to the betrothal, and thus acceded to his wishes without a fight.

But Gilbert was right on one score. Ranulf
should
have to make restitution for the lost years of her youth, and for ruining her chances of marrying honorably elsewhere. Did Gilbert but know it, Ranulf
had
effectively violated her. This morning he had stripped away her carnal innocence, had introduced her to passion, an intimacy which only a husband had the right to claim.

Yet her reasons for wanting to secure the marriage now went far beyond revenge. As the lord’s wife she would be in a better position to protect Claredon and its dependents, as well as to safeguard the secret she had harbored for so long—a secret she would give her life to protect. Her own legal rights as a wife would be greater than those of a mere hostage, true, but more crucially, if her status of lady were restored, she could work on behalf of her father, to try and refute the charge of treason. He was not guilty, she knew in her heart, but only if she were in a position of power could she even begin to prove his innocence. As Ranulf’s hostage, she could do naught, but as his wife . . .

For the first time since Ranulf had taken possession of Claredon four days ago, Ariane felt a fierce surge of hope. Her heart suddenly racing, she pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. Sweet Mary, she had little to lose and so much to gain. . . .

“What is it, my lady?” her brother asked anxiously.

“Hush, let me think!”

Even if she would rather be boiled in oil than take Ranulf de Vernay as her husband after all he had done to her, she had to attempt it. But attempt
what
? The betrothal contract was not binding so long as it remained unconsummated. And there had to be proof of consummation in order for the church to sanctify the marriage. So . . . was there a way to ensure its consummation?

How? Ranulf had sworn never to touch her—or at least, she amended, remembering his wicked advances this morning, that her maidenhead was safe from him. She could try to win his affections and pretend a fondness for him, yet if she showed the slightest softening toward him, he would see through her at once. She knew nothing of the arts that came so naturally to some women—of flirtation and simpering and flattery. She would make a wretched seductress.

Yet she had to do
something.
Gilbert was right. Simply ringing her hands and bewailing her plight would gain her naught. Somehow she had to persuade Ranulf to reconsider their marriage. At the very least she had to make it impossible for him to break the betrothal contract. If she could manage that, if she could win her rights as his wife, then she could use her power to aid the people who depended on her.

“My lady?” Gilbert asked worriedly.

Summoning her resolve, Ariane lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. She had been meek and acquiescent long enough. She had obeyed Ranulf’s demands, suffered his retribution without protest. It was time he was brought to see reason.

“Calm yourself, Gilbert. All will yet be well, I swear it,” she said with a confidence that was growing each successive moment.

“But what will you do?”

“I am not yet certain.” She forced a smile as she gazed at her anxious half-brother. “But I assure you I will take your advice to heart. Somehow Lord Ranulf must be shown the injustice of repudiating our betrothal. And then . . . then he must be persuaded that he needs me for his wife.”

10