The Warrior (35 page)

“Pray continue, my lord,” Ariane murmured noncommittally.

“Very well. As I said, Ranulf excelled at military training. He was knighted at seventeen for courage in battle, but after he earned his spurs, he stayed on to serve his foster lord. He was a third son, with no expectation of inheriting the vast estates of Vernay. And as you know, a landless, penniless, unproven knight has few choices. But then . . . a scandal ensued. In short, his foster lord’s wife attempted to seduce him.”

“The lord’s
wife
?” Ariane stared in shock. “The lady of the keep?”

“Yes. Ranulf was entirely innocent of the charges, I am certain. After his past, he refused to cuckold any man, especially his own lord. Nor would he fight his overlord, even though he was called a coward for refusing. He left the lord’s service in disgrace rather than accept a challenge at arms. In truth, he did the man a service, for Ranulf would have won with ease. At any rate, I gave up my position to follow him.”

“You must have thought highly of him.”

“There is no other lord I would serve,” Payn said simply. “As it turned out, the decision was a boon for us both. We spent two years on the tourney circuits in Normandy and France, growing rich from the ransoms we won, and the years afterward fighting as mercenaries for Count Geoffrey of Anjou. We helped Geoffrey wrest Normandy from France, and helped make his son Henry duke.”

Ariane had heard much of Geoffrey Plantagenet, a wise and forceful ruler who had conquered Normandy and built it into a power to be reckoned with. He eventually had bestowed the dukedom on his young son Henry, who was now the new king of England.

“Ranulf’s tremendous skill came to young Henry’s attention, and when the next scandal broke, Ranulf entered Henry’s service.”

“The next scandal?”

Payn’s smile held no amusement. “The noblewomen of Geoffrey’s court proved no more honorable than any others Ranulf had known. While there, a married
lady—and
I use the term with reservation—pursued him flagrantly. When he would not return her ardor, she falsely claimed that Ranulf had ravished her.”

Payn waited while that sank in. Not unexpectedly, Ariane felt like squirming beneath his gentle gaze.
She also had falsely claimed ravishment at Ranulf’s hands. But the circumstances were not at all the same, she thought defensively. Ranulf had promised to wed her and then reneged after five years.

“So you see,” Payn said gently, “Ranulf’s belief in the faithlessness of highborn women is not without justification.”

“I do see why he would mistrust my sex,” Ariane replied guardedly. “But your assertion begs a question. If he held me in such low esteem, why did he agree to our betrothal?”

“The usual reasons. Heirs and land. It is my belief that the latter was most important to him.”

“But by then Ranulf already possessed vast holdings, did he not?”

“Aye, he was awarded several wealthy fiefs for his services to Geoffrey, and then rewarded handsomely for his loyalty to young Henry—primarily for helping Henry consolidate his rule of Normandy and later, to pursue the English throne. And by then Ranulf had won back the Vernay demesne. But you must remember the hatred he bore his father. It has influenced his every action, shadowed his every thought his entire life long.”

“I imagine he wanted vengeance on his father?”

“After seeing his back, can you blame him?”

Ariane shook her head sadly. She could understand why a man would be driven to seek revenge for those terrible scars, even if she could not fathom how someone could hurt a child so savagely as Lord Yves had hurt the young boy who very likely was his son.

“But the beatings were not the catalyst,” Payn said quietly. “Even then, Ranulf might have accepted his lot. But shortly after becoming Henry’s vassal, Ranulf’s two older brothers died within months of each other—one of a putrid wound acquired in battle, the other of the bloody flux. Even after their deaths, Lord Yves refused to acknowledge Ranulf as his son or to name him as heir. That was when Ranulf’s tolerance ended. In Henry’s name, he besieged Vernay and challenged his father to mortal combat.”

“What happened?” she asked earnestly.

“Ranulf won, naturally, but he stopped short of killing his tormentor, even though it would have been justified. His father fled to France, taking refuge with King Louis—where he lives to this day. Ultimately, I understand, Yves turned to God, although how so ungodly a man could hope to save his black soul, I vow I cannot fathom. As penance, he went on pilgrimage to the Holy Land, and came back a changed man. Ranulf refused to forgive him, though.”

Ariane understood Ranulf’s sentiments completely.

“In gratitude for winning such a vast holding, Duke Henry made Ranulf castellan of Vernay and signed a charter of nobility, giving Ranulf the right to call himself his father’s son. Eventually he was awarded the entire Vernay demesne. Not satisfied with his holdings, though, Ranulf continued his drive to become one of the most powerful barons in Normandy.” Payn paused to look at her directly. “He knew that you, as an heiress, could help him attain that goal.”

“So he agreed to wed me.”

“Aye, but he regretted the action almost at once, I could tell. When you have served a man as long as I have served Ranulf, you come to sense even his deepest feelings.”

Ariane lowered her gaze to hide the hurt in her eyes. “I have feelings, also, Sir Payn. I once pledged him my loyalty, to honor and serve him as wife. I would have given him my heart, and yet he repudiated me.”

“I do not
justify his actions, my lady,” Payn said quietly. “I only seek to make you understand them. Ranulf is a brave man; his valor and his dauntless deeds have proven that. The dreaded name of Black Dragon is well deserved, I assure you. Yet for all his courage, he fears being hurt again. And when you refused to yield Claredon to him, as his father refused to yield Vernay, you roused feelings of rage and hatred in Ranulf that he has held his life long.”

“I understand that—now. But again
. . . why do you tell me this?”

“Because I love him like a brother. He deserves far better than what fate has hitherto seen fit to give him.”

“Your loyalty to him is admirable,” Ariane murmured truthfully. “Few men would serve a landless, dispossessed knight with such devotion as you have shown.”

“He has earned my loyalty tenfold, demoiselle. His skill at arms is unquestioned, as is his prowess as a military commander. He is a leader of men. But he is a good lord as well, one who has proven himself careful in administration. Ranulf has ruled his fiefs with justice and compassion.”

Ariane nodded slowly. She had seen for herself his efforts to rule Claredon justly. He had commuted the sentences of his transgressors when it served him better, and shown a degree of leniency that was unheard of for a warlord, especially one who had reason to be so vengeful. He was not the ogre she had feared. The Black Dragon, she had begun to realize, was not so terrible as his name implied.

“So my father thought,” she said quietly. “It was why he chose Ranulf as my future husband.”

“It is still a wise choice. Ranulf is not without heart, demoiselle. It is just that he has hidden it behind a shield of armor. Ranulf is a soldier. Killing is his trade—he was born to it. He knows naught of love or tenderness, only of fighting. Violence and combat have been his whole life. Well, wenching, too, but what knight has not sown a few wild oats?”

Her mouth curved wryly. “What indeed?”

Payn cleared his throat. “The right woman could change him.”

“Think you . . . I might be that woman?” she asked in a small voice.

“I trust so. But you will not have an easy time of it. Ranulf never forgets an ill, and you already have numerous marks against you: refusing to surrender Claredon, setting your father’s vassal free to lead a rebellion, falsely declaring your betrothal consummated . . .”

“It
is consummated now,” Ariane declared, even as she flushed to admit it.

“Perhaps so, but the manner of it will hardly serve as the basis for a congenial marriage. And then there is your father’s treason against the crown. By association, you are a suspected traitor.”

Her chin came up abruptly, her entire body stiffening. “My father is not a traitor, my lord, nor am I. When King Stephen died, my father immediately declared for Henry—and nothing occurred in the interim to change his mind. When he left for Bridgenorth, he was Henry’s man. His innocence has yet to be proven, but it will be.”

Payn looked at her a long moment. “I think I could believe you, demoiselle, but my opinion is not the key one. It is Ranulf who must be convinced.”

“What . . . do you suggest I do?”

“Step carefully with him, demoiselle. Somehow you must win his trust. Without trust, Ranulf will never overcome his deep-rooted fears.”

She looked down at her hands. “I am honored by your faith in me, Sir Payn. I only hope I may prove myself worthy of it. As you said, it will not be easy. Often it is all I can do simply to hold my own with Ranulf.”

Payn flashed her a grin that held respect and sympathy. “Methinks if any lady could, ’twould be you.”

Rising from the table, he gave Ariane a deep bow. “I look forward to the day when you resume your rightful place as lady of Claredon, demoiselle.” Turning then, he made his way from the hall.

Ariane watched him go in bemused silence, feeling more hopeful than she had in weeks. In Payn FitzOsbern, she had discovered an entirely unexpected ally. She had listened to him, primarily because she was greedy to learn more about Ranulf, but also because she knew it would not hurt to cultivate his chief vassal’s goodwill. She was surprised to feel a genuine liking for the handsome knight. He had been a loyal and trusted friend to Ranulf, and she would truly be honored to call him friend as well.

Her meal virtually uneaten, Ariane sat there, thinking over all that Payn had told her about Ranulf’s terrible past, her heart aching for what he had endured. She could only begin to imagine his suffering.

His noble father had sought to purge the demons from him.
So that was what Ranulf had meant when he claimed demons possessed his soul. He had been punished for his mother’s sins, and then denied his rightful heritage because of his questionable paternity.

Ariane shook her head, fighting a wave of fierce tenderness for him. Even though now she better understood the reasons he did not trust her, the realization still
hurt.
And yet she had never once considered their betrothal from
his
perspective. Ranulf actually
feared
the hurt she might do him.

He was wrong about that, just as he was overly harsh to judge her a traitor. Yet it would be difficult to prove herself worthy of his trust. He already thought her a scheming jade. Staining the bedsheets had been a critical mistake, she realized now. Trying to force Ranulf to acknowledge their marriage had only hardened his heart further against her.

Worse, she might never be able to deal with him in complete honesty. She harbored a secret that she dared not reveal to anyone, particularly the new lord of Claredon, who held the power of life and death over those in his demesne. She had not lied to Ranulf yet about it, but she would, if necessary.

Dispirited by the thought, Ariane gave a weary sigh.

The challenge before her was daunting. She no longer simply wanted to win her rights as Ranulf’s wife. She wanted to win his heart as well. And that task would be more difficult than anything she had ever imagined.

16

Ranulf returned to the tower for the midday meal earlier than planned. He had spent the morning inspecting the castle grounds with Baldwin, the estate steward, and was satisfied with the progress he had seen. There had been no more pranks or acts of subversion—or if so, the castlefolk had been wise enough to keep it from the lord’s attention.

He had been mistaken, though, to believe himself free of Ariane. He had thought that after bedding her at last, he could put her from his mind long enough to devote his thoughts to dull administrative duties. Yet as Ranulf toured the stables and smithy, and spoke to the keepers of the kennels and mews and granaries, his thoughts continually strayed. He kept remembering the exquisite pleasure Ariane had brought him last night, and his fierce desire to have her again. Fire raged in his loins, unquenched by the single, enthralling taste he had been afforded. He was hungry for her still, his obsession as strong—stronger, perhaps—than before.