The Warrior (28 page)

How did one tame a dragon?
Especially one as ruthless and unyielding as the Black Dragon of Vernay?

Ariane began by assuming the consummate appearance of obedience and complying with Ranulf’s demands: She pleaded once again with Claredon’s serfs and freemen and household officials to desist in their defiance and to serve their new lord willingly. She took great pride in their loyal support of her, she told them earnestly, but did not wish to see them crushed in the fist of the Black Dragon. Nor did she wish to see Lord Ranulf carry out his threat to punish the innocent with the guilty. Until now, she declared, he had dealt justly with transgressors; indeed, he had shown great restraint. He was their conqueror, yet they had not suffered unduly.

Nor had he harmed
her,
even if he had repudiated their betrothal. Their quarrel was personal, Ariane admitted, and would not be swiftly settled. Certainly rebellion would not aid her cause. Rather it would only work against her. If they wished to support her, then they would obey their new overlord without question and accept his authority. She was satisfied Lord Ranulf would make a good ruler of Claredon.

This last assertion of Ariane’s surprised Ranulf and roused his suspicion. That the former lady of Claredon should praise his rule made him wonder if she were not enacting some scheme to further her own ends.

Once the incidents of subversion ceased, however, the path was clear for him to assume the lord’s duties. Ranulf began holding court in the great hall each morning, granting interviews and dispensing justice and settling disputes.

Ariane, whose work station had been relocated to the hall so that he could keep a closer eye on her as she performed her task of cleaning armor, was taken aback by this new tactic of Ranulf’s. She could not imagine so powerful a lord taking an interest in the affairs of the peasants. Even her father had left such matters to his seneschal and bailiff.

Yet the Black Dragon listened seriously to the most minor concerns of Claredon’s serfs and freemen, and though Ariane was reluctant to admit it, often impressed her with his verdicts.

When a yeoman wantonly killed another man’s ox and would not pay reparations, Ranulf sentenced him to pull the plow himself. When a swineherd who grazed his pigs in the forest enticed another man’s sow to join his herd, Ranulf awarded the victim three of the perpetrator’s piglets but required him to pay for grazing rights.

That both men saw the fairness of this verdict was evident when they thumped each other on the back in friendship and left grinning.

“Henceforth, you shall be known as Lord of Swine, Ranulf,” Payn declared, laughing.

From her position at one side of the hall, Ariane saw the answering humor that glinted in Ranulf’s eyes, heard his rough chuckle as his teeth flashed white in his harsh-featured face. She was surprised that he made no objection to his vassal’s gibe, although he clearly bore an affection for Payn. It was just as obvious that he enjoyed his role as chief arbitrator, and that he was making an effort to be a just lord.

The ruling that surprised Ariane most, however, was when, for his own unstated reasons, Ranulf assisted two young lovers in gaining their heart’s desires. They were seeking permission from the lord to wed, over the objections of their parents—freemen who had arranged betrothals for their children to persons with an acre of land each, a prize of no mean worth.

When the young people professed their love for each other and declared their willingness to live in poverty, Ranulf not only allowed them to wed, he dowered the bride, giving the couple a hut to live in and a cow to begin their life together. Their joy was evident on their beaming faces, their gratitude obvious in the way they fell to their knees and kissed the lord’s hand.

Payn seemed to see nothing odd in the ruling, but Ariane stared at Ranulf in disbelief, bewildered by his uncharacteristic action.

For a fleeting moment, she caught his gaze across the hall, and from the way his expression suddenly darkened at the sight of her, she could tell he was recalling their own broken betrothal. Then, to her dismay, Ranulf’s mouth curved in a slow, burning smile. It was a silent challenge to her, Ariane knew, a private acknowledgment of the battle between them and his determination to win.

Ariane repressed the urge to toss her head in a reckless show of defiance. Thinking it also unwise to draw Ranulf’s attention further, she reined in her curiosity just then, but at the next opportunity, when she served him at the midday meal, she abandoned her pretense of subservience long enough to question him about his decision.

“I confess to surprise, my lord,” she said in a voice too low to be overheard by his vassals, “that you should part with good coin for the sake of true love.”

Ranulf gave her a guarded glance, as if mistrusting the intent of her remark. “I saw no reason to force them into a marriage merely to satisfy their parents’ mercenary desires.”

“Your compassion is commendable. And to think,” Ariane could not resist adding archly, “the world believes your heart wears a sheet of iron.”

For a moment Ranulf was caught between anger and amusement at her comment, but he merely responded with a mocking smile. “You are mistaken, demoiselle. I have no heart.”

Perhaps that was so, Ariane reflected thoughtfully as she gazed down at him. And yet she had seen with her own eyes Ranulf’s momentary lapses into kindness, actions that suggested he was more vulnerable than he wanted to acknowledge.

Ranulf, suddenly uncomfortable with her clear-seeing gaze, averted his own, but made the mistake of glancing down at her hands. Their condition appalled him; the flesh was nearly as red and raw as fresh meat.

A surge of remorse rose up in him so quickly that he could not check it. Forgetting the retort he had been about to give, Ranulf reached out and gently took Ariane’s hand. Turning the delicate appendage palm up, he stared down in dismay at the oozing blisters.

“God’s blood, how came you by these?” he asked, although he feared he knew.

“Cleaning your armor, my lord. Scrubbing chain mail with sand and vinegar is not renowned for its salubrious effect.”

“Why did you say nothing?” Ranulf demanded, his tone brusque with anger at his own thoughtlessness.

“I did not think you would care to hear my opinion, my lord,” she replied dryly, unable to refrain from the gibe.

Ignoring her sarcasm, Ranulf frowned as his thumbs traced the blistered flesh, careful not to touch the tender areas. Against his will, he felt a grudging respect and admiration for her fortitude. Not once had Ariane complained about the savage treatment he had accorded her. “I have seen battle wounds as severe as these.”

“But I thought you wished to see me suffer,” Ariane reminded him.

“I had no desire to see you injured,” he answered, vaguely aware of the inconsistencies in his logic. “Do you not have a potion you can apply to your hands?”

“Yes.” The word came out more breathless than she intended. Ranulf was stroking her palm almost absently, arousing an unbidden sensual response within her merely with a featherlight pressure on her skin.

“Then do so.”

He released her hand, yet his features remained disturbed as he studied her. If Ariane had not known better, she would actually have thought him concerned for her welfare.

“And you may turn the task of cleaning armor over to my squires.” He hesitated. “Your work leaves much to be desired, in any case.”

Though realizing from the sudden dry note in his voice that Ranulf was deliberately provoking her, Ariane gave him an indignant glance, annoyed by that untruth. She had done as good a job as any squire, for she refused to give Ranulf any cause to find fault with her. Yet she would be grateful to be relieved of the responsibility of caring for his armor. Cleaning chain mail was physically easier than other menial tasks Ranulf had assigned her, but the chore tortured her hands.

She might have expressed her thoughts on the matter, except that Ranulf startled her by suddenly rising from his chair. The gentle brush of his finger on her cheek unsettled her even more. Lifting her head sharply, she stared at him, unable to look away. Was he purposefully using his compelling touch to discompose her, conducting a bold seduction right here in the hall?

She was certain of it when Ranulf’s mouth curved in a tantalizing half-smile, one that held a devastating appeal and set her heart to thudding. He was well aware of his power over the female sex, Ariane knew.

“Go now, and see to your wounds.”

“B-But . . . what of my duties?” she stammered, nervous at his proximity and the sudden softness of his tone, as well as suspicious of his motives.

“On the morrow you can return to working in the kitchens and serving tables, so long as you remain where I may keep an eye on you.”

Weighing the advantages, Ariane nodded slowly. If she remained near him, she would be vulnerable to his vexing tactics, yet she would have better opportunities to pursue her own plan to tame the Dragon. And she could keep a close eye on Ranulf as well, and be there to intervene should he deal harshly with any of her people.

She watched him more closely after that. Not only did Ranulf make progress on the domestic front, he also succeeded outside the castle walls. Militarily he tightened his hold on the demesne, flexing his might in countless ways. His patrols made endless forays about the countryside searching for rebels, and Ranulf himself seized the other two manor houses within a day’s ride of the castle. By the end of his second full week at Claredon, the garrison began to follow a predictable routine, alternating between patrolling the countryside and practicing arms daily in the exercise yard in the lower bailey.

It was a familiar sight for Ariane, seeing seasoned knights hacking at each other as they trained in warfare—except that these were the wrong knights. Her father, Walter, should be lord here. Seeing Ranulf settle into his role with such ease disheartened her greatly, and an ache caught at her throat whenever she remembered her father’s uncertain plight. She could only pray that his vassal, Simon, had by now reached him, and that, by some miracle, Walter would be cleared of the charge of treason. Perhaps they would even discover the means to deliver Claredon from the Black Dragon.

She prayed also for the inhabitants of the eastern forest. Guarded so closely, she had found no opportunity to slip out of the castle to visit them, and time was growing short.

Her own plight seemed just as uncertain, although her circumstances improved minimally after her encounter with Ranulf when he saw the consequence of his punishment. He lightened her workload to a degree, allowing her to perform the less physical chores, and her hands were healing. Yet he had not forgiven her in the least for her claim of ravishment. A storm was brewing between them, she could sense it. And she suspected that one day soon, it would break over her head.

When trouble next came, however, it was from a direction Ariane had not foreseen—one of Ranulf’s own high-ranking vassals.

She had just climbed the stairs from the kitchens with a wooden platter of honeyed cakes for the last course of the evening meal when she found her path blocked by a tall, dark-haired knight whom she recognized as Bertran de Ridefort, a cousin of Ivo’s and one of the knights who regularly sat at the lord’s high table. When she gave him a quizzical glance, he responded with a friendly leer.

“Well met . . . my beauteoush lady.” His words were slurred, and he swayed on his feet, obviously the worse for drink.

Ariane lowered her gaze to hide her scorn. “Please, my lord . . . allow me to pass.”

“What if I do not, little wi-sh . . . witch?”

“Lord Ranulf would not be pleased if I tarried.”

Bertran flashed her a charming grin that was not unappealing; he was rather handsome when he smiled, despite his drunken state. “Methinks Lord Ranulf would not care if you tarried with
me.
”

Ariane grew uneasy with his lascivious scrutiny, her fingers tightening involuntarily on the wooden platter. She was not afraid for her virtue. There were twoscore men within shouting distance who would doubtless come to her rescue if needed. And yet she did not want to make an enemy of Ivo’s cousin. Next to Payn FitzOsbern, Ivo de Ridefort was Ranulf’s most trusted vassal, the knight left in charge of Claredon when the lord was away. His cousin Bertran, while not as high in station, was frequently in Ranulf’s company and obviously valued for his counsel. It would be better if she could handle this overamorous knight on her own, without appearing to spurn his advances. Indeed, her best course might be to claim Ranulf’s protection, she decided.

Ariane forced herself to smile. “I fear
I
would care, sir. In the eyes of God, I am Lord Ranulf’s wife, and I would remain faithful to him.”

Bertran frowned, as if having difficulty following her reasoning. “Not his wife . . . Fear Ranulf is engaged with . . . that slut, Dena. He will not missh you, schweeting. He has wearied of your charms . . . but I vow I will not.”

Ariane stiffened at the mention of that strumpet’s name, astonished at how fierce and hurtful was the pang of jealousy that coursed through her.

Giving a cheerful leer, Bertran leaned closer, his breath heavy with wine fumes. “I can ease your labor, sweeting. A beauty such as yoursshelf should not be slaving like a peasant. I have a
mussh
more pleasant occupation in mind.”

To her startlement, he reached out and gave a tug on the drawstring at the neckline of her woolen bodice. Ariane gasped in alarm. She tried to draw back, but his hand caught her wrist, nearly causing her to drop her platter. His strong fingers dug into her flesh almost painfully, as if he was unaware of his strength.

A frisson of fear danced down her spine. A knight could take a field wench without a thought, and although an honorable man would not abuse his lord’s unwilling servants within the keep, in his befuddled state Bertran could easily have forgotten her rank—and more easily overpower her, if he wished.

With a desperate jerk of her arm, Ariane managed to free her wrist from Bertran’s grasp. Clutching her platter, she slipped past him, intending to flee—and collided directly with a broad, unyielding chest. The force knocked her platter of cakes from her grasp, and sent it spilling to the rush-covered floor with a thud.