The Warrior (26 page)

The incidents continued during the following week, none fatal, all highly annoying and a direct challenge to his authority. First there was the foul-smelling soap that found its way into the garrison barracks, whose unfortunate use stank up the hall for two days. Next, an epidemic of skin rash broke out among his men, caused by nettles sprinkled over the sleeping pallets. Then Ranulf’s favorite tunic was ripped beyond repair while being laundered. And while the lord was away overnight securing yet another of Claredon’s distant properties, someone sneaked into the mews and freed the prize falcons and hawks from their jesses.

The petty rebellion incited Ranulf’s fury, inflaming the raw wound that festered inside him after a lifetime of repudiation. Frustratingly, he could never discover the culprits responsible. The castle servants toiled as usual, and had ready excuses for their slipshod work, but their hostile glances and sulky, accusing expressions told him clearly they were in collusion against him.

For that he placed the blame squarely on Ariane. He had no proof, yet he felt certain she was encouraging her people to insurrection and inciting them to mayhem. Almost daily Ranulf found a new problem to rouse his temper. And if ever he regretted his method of punishing Ariane, or felt the slightest sympathy for her plight, he crushed it mercilessly. He would not allow her to make a fool of him.

In truth, Ariane was not entirely innocent of the charges, though at first she was too weary from the menial duties Ranulf had devised for her to contribute to the revolt: toiling in the scullery, turning the spits over the great hearth in the kitchens, shoveling flat manchet bread loaves into the ovens to bake, sweltering over boiling tubs of laundry . . . the least pleasant chores of any castle. And Ranulf had set two guards to control her every move and to prevent her people from coming to her aid and performing those loathsome tasks for her as they initially tried to do.

When she first learned of the frequent episodes of defiance, Ariane wanted to laugh and weep at the same time. She could not help but be pleased that the servants of Claredon remained loyal to her, yet she was horrified to contemplate Ranulf’s revenge for their efforts on her behalf. She had no desire to see anyone else punished for her sake. And yet she did not truly fear Ranulf would repay her desperate bid to become his wife by taking vengeance out on her people. She had seen his leniency, had seen him act with restraint toward his dependents, so unless they were actually caught outright, he would not penalize them unjustly. If so, she meant to take blame. Otherwise, she suspected that she would bear the brunt of his fury.

Thus she began quietly encouraging and abetting their small acts of subversion, reminding herself that Ranulf had given her no choice but to defy him covertly. And in truth, part of her was gratified to watch the Black Dragon’s frustration and helplessness, which actually were minor compared to her own.

He had kept his vow to make her life an utter misery. Each night when Ariane at last climbed the stairs to her solitary chamber, she crawled wearily into her bed, groaning at aching muscles strained by unaccustomed physical labor.

The humility of her position was harder to bear than the physical exhaustion. Her guards watched over her every moment, as if she were a common criminal. No doubt, Ariane suspected, because Ranulf had threatened their very lives if they failed in their duty.

She was not allowed to speak with any of her people and was dressed as a slave. Ranulf had ordered all of her gowns of finest linen and silk confiscated, requiring her to wear the most inferior homespun—rough wool that itched and scratched her tender skin. One of her best tunics he gave to Dena, who clearly took great enjoyment in being so favored by the new lord and in flaunting her new position.

That Dena shared Ranulf’s bed was assumed—although she was never known to spend the night in his solar. At meals, she sat beside him at the high table, occupying the place of honor, the lady’s chair. Even gowned in the richest cendal, Dena still looked like a harlot, and it hurt Ariane to see Ranulf sometimes offer the common wench one of his rare, beautiful smiles—although wild horses could not have dragged the admission from her.

She was determined to endure her servile position with fortitude. He would not defeat her, Ariane vowed. She would not break. She would bend like the willow and remain standing long after the storm passed.

Thinking it wiser, she took pains to keep out of his way. When she was unfortunate enough to attract his notice, his mask of icy coldness told her clearly that his fury at her had not abated in the least.

The worst times occurred when she was allowed to retire each night, for she had to cross the hall to reach the stairwell behind the dais, accompanied by her guards. Ranulf would level a penetrating stare at her, his face rigidly aloof, yet she could feel his golden hawk’s eyes following every step of her progress, could feel her heart racing at his scrutiny. It was always a relief to reach her chamber unscathed, her sole place of refuge, although often the echo of Dena’s grating laughter followed her there.

On one particular evening, when the serving wench’s raucous sound seemed especially coarse and unrefined, Ariane would have been gratified to know Ranulf shared her opinion. Below in the hall, Dena wet her lips and tossed her head at the lord seductively.

“That one always did think too high of herself,” the serving maid said coyly of Ariane.

Ranulf sent the girl a quelling glance. “You forget yourself, wench. It is not your place to criticize your former lady.”

She looked startled at the rebuke. “Milord, forgive me,” Dena murmured plaintively. “I meant no offense.” Leaning near to clutch his arm, she pressed her full breasts against him in lewd suggestion. “It is said the former lady of Claredon avoids the tasks you set for her at every opportunity.”

His frown deepened as he drew his arm from Dena’s possessive grasp. “I have no desire to listen to castle gossip.”

Apparently unconvinced, Dena trilled another strident laugh. “ ’Tis not only gossip, milord. Why, I could tell you things I’ve seen. . . . My Lady Ariane is not so pure. Know you that in the past she oftentimes left the castle unattended and went to the wood to meet her lover?”

The maid’s malicious tale struck Ranulf like a blow to his vitals, arousing savage memories and sending his thoughts spinning backward in time. In his mind’s eye, he saw not Ariane, but the noblewoman who had borne him, the mother he had never known, slipping from the castle to consort with her peasant lover, to carry on her adulterous affair. With vivid intensity he remembered the pain and fear her betrayal had caused him his life long, how she had destroyed any possibility of hopes or dreams. . . .

Reacting blindly, Ranulf struck his fist on the table. “Enough!”

The sharp command silenced Dena’s coarse chatter.

Scarcely seeing her, Ranulf turned a dark look on the serving maid. “I give you leave to go. I no longer require your presence this evening. And in future, I suggest you refrain from discussing matters that are not your concern.”

Alarm glinting in her eyes, Dena hastily rose from the table and bobbed a fearful curtsey. When she had gone, Ranulf sat toying moodily with his eating dagger, carving patterns in the remnants of a meat pie.

At his other side, Payn watched him with a barely concealed frown. The two of them sat alone, as most of Ranulf’s men were playing at dice near the great hearth, while the serfs cleared the trestle tables.

“That lazy wench doubtless knows sloth intimately,” Payn observed quietly, “but she lies when she suggests her former lady has been slack in her duties.”

Ranulf grunted in agreement. The reports he had been given concerning Ariane’s toils suggested that she had obeyed his every command without complaint. And to his knowledge, she had not repeated her outrageous claim of being his wife. He had nothing to rebuke her for—which perversely only served to increase his fury. The uncertainty Dena had just raised in his mind did naught to calm him, either. Had the wench spoken the truth? Did the Lady Ariane often leave the castle unattended to sojourn in the wood with a lover?

“Dena grows overbold, methinks,” Payn murmured, “since you granted her respite from her duties. She considers herself your favorite, but I wonder that you permit her presumption. Her buxom charms are not
that
spectacular.”

Ranulf nodded absently. From the start he’d regretted the rash impulse that had led him to raise Dena to her lady’s place, but he stubbornly refused to countermand the order. He had acted irrationally, out of rage at Ariane’s maneuver with the bedsheets, but he could not back down now, not and hold a shred of hope for respect from the people of Claredon. In this instance particularly, it was imperative he prove that he meant what he said, and that his wrath was not to be taken lightly. Soon enough he would have to consider how to make a tactical retreat. King Henry would doubtless raise objections to one of his noble subjects—even a traitor’s daughter—being forced into servitude as a slave.

Meanwhile, Dena grew overly bold, Ranulf admitted. In truth, Payn would have been astounded to learn he had not availed himself of Dena’s obviously eager desire to share his bed. But the coarse, lushly endowed wench held little appeal for him. He had wearied of her company within a day.

All too often he found himself remembering the infuriating, defiant, highborn lady who had once been his betrothed. No peasant, however winsome, could compare favorably to Ariane. Her elegance, her regal grace, her sweet woman’s scent, even her tart tongue, held an allure for him that, absurdly, he could not shake. The Saints knew he had tried. Yet he could not dismiss her from his mind . . . or his body. Every time he saw her, he felt a stirring in his groin. Merely looking at her made him hungry.

And his masculine instincts made him keenly aware that others of his men felt as he did, harboring the same desire to bed her. She possessed a cool sensuality that any warm-blooded male would find challenging.

Her own men no doubt felt it as well. Especially that fair-haired lad called Gilbert who followed her around like a drooling pup. Even now Gilbert was glaring daggers at him from the length of the hall.
Was this one of the lovers Dena had spoken of? The lover Ariane met in the forest?

Beside the young clerk sat the elderly priest and the Claredon steward—which reminded Ranulf of another incident that had inflamed his temper.

“Did you know,” he demanded resentfully, “that cursed steward tried to pass off a dozen miscalculations in the accounts as my own error this morning?”

“No doubt he thought you could not tally,” Payn said sympathetically. “You will have to appoint your own steward, my lord.”

Ranulf nodded and drank deeply of his wine, which had the benefit of being unsalted. He could cipher and read well enough to know when he was being deceived. “Do all the folk here think me a lackwit?”

Not answering at once, Payn picked up a lute and lazily began plucking a tune. The knight was an adequate musician, and possessed a clear, melodious voice. “I fancy they consider you to have ill used their lady,” he said finally, at the end of a verse.

“Ill used?”
Ranulf’s expression darkened as he muttered, “I have not used her half as ill as I should have. She is fortunate I did not clap her in chains for her treachery.”

“We have all suffered a woman’s deceit at one time or another. At least the Lady Ariane felt she had sufficient claim to declare herself your wife.”

Ranulf narrowed his gaze dangerously. “Do you defend the wench?”

“Not I, my lord,” Payn asserted blandly. “But I fear you are not winning the battle. Perhaps you would be wise to change your strategy.”

“Beseech me not on her behalf,” Ranulf snapped.

“Not on
her
behalf, my lord, but your own. You know I serve only your interests. The Lady Ariane claims an uncommon support among her people, wherein lies her strength—”

“
Lady?
I told you not to call her that.”

Payn shrugged. “I fear the title of ‘lady’ is not something you can take from her merely by decree.”

Morosely, Ranulf stared into his wine, aware his vassal was right. The woman he had unlawfully deemed a slave was every inch a noble lady. Despite the rags she now wore, her blood and breeding showed. Ariane held herself as regally as a queen . . . proud, indomitable, beautiful. With all his show of might, he had been unable to cower her.

Doubtless it had hurt him more to be forced to use such methods with a female, against his vows. Yet she deserved punishment for her crimes.

If he felt a nagging guilt to see Ariane labor as a slave, he tried to quell it. He had always maintained a fierce control over himself, one that tolerated no emotion, no softness. He was a man of discipline, with the ability to exercise an iron restraint over his will and his passions.

The trouble was that Ariane tested even his limits. More than once he’d had to stop himself from giving in to his protective urges and calling a halt to the strict execution of her sentence. Twice in the four days since her brazen, public declaration, he’d found himself assaulted by tender feelings.

The struggle to suppress his attraction for her was even less successful, Ranulf conceded. Often he found himself listening for Ariane’s quiet footstep, or scenting the air for a hint of her perfume, or searching for her among the crowd gathered in the hall for meals.

It disgusted and infuriated him, his foolish desire to be with her. Remarkably, he had even enjoyed having her next to him in sleep during the few nights he had forced her to share his bed. Perhaps he had played into her hands by banishing her to her own chamber, but he knew he could not be around Ariane and keep his lust under control.

“What do you advise, then?” he asked his vassal. “The damsel must learn she is subject to my will. I have no proof, yet I know she has been urging her serfs to mischief.”

“I am not so certain she is the culprit—although undeniably she is the cause. I suspect her people’s rebellion is fueled by what they see as injustice to her. Doubtless they consider her to have been cheated of her rights, denied both her castle and her place as your lady wife, and now stripped of her rank and forced to serve as a slave. Perhaps her punishment is too visible, Ranulf. Could you not devise a more . . . private sentence? One that would not render her a martyr?”