The Warrior (47 page)

“I do accept it, Ranulf,” she replied with quiet conviction, needing to assuage his doubts, his suspicions. “I want no other man . . . lover or husband.”

He gazed at her warily for a long moment, before turning away. For the remainder of the day and afternoon, the unreasonable anger seemed to have left him, but the coldness remained on his features.

It was a strained leave-taking at dawn the following morning, with silence reigning between Ariane and Ranulf. He made love to her once more before calling his squire in to help him dress, and then he spoke to her only to give her his parting orders. He responded with merely a brief nod to her wishes for a safe journey, not entirely trusting that she meant it.

And yet at the last moment he turned back to her, unable to leave without tasting her sweetness once more, without having one final kiss to sustain him on the journey ahead.

Ariane saw the desire in Ranulf’s amber eyes as he drew her into his arms, felt the heated need in his powerful body, in his fervent lips. Yet his mask of coolness had descended again when he released her. And he had no kind word of farewell for her, no kind word at all.

Thus it was with a heavy heart that Ariane let him go. She watched from the solar window as Ranulf, clad in full armor, mounted his mighty steed and clattered across the drawbridge at the head of his retinue. Behind him streamed a pennon of crimson silk emblazoned with his feared device, the black dragon rampant.

When they were long out of sight, Ariane let her breath out in a sigh. Infuriatingly, she already missed Ranulf. Illogically, she worried for him. There were countless dangers awaiting unwary travelers—brigands and miscreants, mercenaries and other powerful knights greedy enough to challenge all comers—but it was absurd to worry. Ranulf was a seasoned warrior who had survived nearly two decades of war and strife without her assistance. And it was the time-honored lot of women to await their men when they rode away.

Ariane sighed again. She knew she would count the days till Ranulf returned safely to her. Despite the cold indifference he continued to show her, she still had hopes of someday gentling him to her touch, of somehow overcoming the haunting vulnerability she had seen in his eyes.

22

The distant blare of the watchman’s horn made Ariane tense as she sat embroidering with her ladies in the weaving rooms.
Ranulf!
Had he returned?

Trying unsuccessfully to quell her excitement, she followed the chattering women to the window to see what had caused the commotion. A single rider approached the castle gates, bearing a pennon with the royal colors of King Henry.

“The queen!” Gleda squealed, voicing the thrill all of them felt.

“No need to screech like an alewife,” Maud scolded. “Mayhap ’tis only a messenger.”

Yet the rider did appear to be a herald announcing the arrival of the queen’s entourage, for he carried his own trumpet, which he sounded long and frequently. The watchman at the gatehouse apparently considered him friend rather than foe, for the screech and clatter of chains soon reverberated throughout the keep as the drawbridge slowly lowered across the moat.

Calling one of her tirewomen to her, Ariane hurried to her own chamber and quickly changed her old brown wool bliaud for a much finer one of red cendal. She had moved her belongings here to her quarters, and Ranulf’s as well, so that the solar could be readied for Queen Eleanor and her ladies. Only the best accommodations would serve for so important a personage.

Her stomach felt tied in knots as Ariane smoothed her gown’s folds one last time and made her way to the tower entrance. As Ranulf’s hostage, she had greatly overstepped her authority in making preparations for the queen’s visit, although she had done no more than any chatelaine would have—conferring with the steward and head gamekeeper as well as the kitchen staff; ensuring adequate stocks in the storerooms, pantry, larder, buttery, fishponds, dovecotes, and rabbit warrens; supervising the gathering of herbs from the garden and ordering spices from the spice merchant in the village; instructing the household serfs in matters of service—the myriad details that would help the visit run smoothly.

And Payn had given her a free hand, after all, trusting her judgment in such feminine matters, believing she would do naught to shame Claredon.

Ariane’s tension rose as she left the tower to wait with Payn at the head of the outer entrance stairway. The newcomer had indeed been a herald for the queen, and now, beyond the castle walls, Ariane could see an advance guard riding toward the gates, their armor glinting in the late afternoon sun. The bright crimson banner that fluttered at the head of the troop looked to be bearing Ranulf’s dragon device.

“ ’Tis Ranulf, my lady,” Payn murmured at her side.

Even as she watched, a single mailed horseman on a black charger broke from the retinue and approached at a canter. Ariane felt fresh anticipation curl within her. Ranulf had been gone more than a week, and she had missed him sorely. She craved his touch and the feel of his fierce embrace, and even the sparks that flew between them when they were at odds, which was nearly always. Their strained parting had left her feeling anxious and disheartened, wondering if he would ever again treat her with the tenderness he had shown her that magical afternoon in the meadow.

She was not surprised to find herself trembling as, with Payn, she descended the long flight of steps to the yard to await the returning lord. In only moments, Ranulf rode briskly into the inner bailey, his destrier’s hooves striking a heavy rhythm in tune with Ariane’s suddenly thudding pulse.

Drawing his charger to a plunging halt on the hard-packed earth, Ranulf greeted his vassal with an easy informality, which Payn returned while Ariane held her breath. Ranulf’s conical helmet with its steel nasal descending almost to his lips hid much of his face, but she could feel his golden gaze shift to her.

His eyes seemed dark and intense as he searched her face. Then he drew off his helm and pushed back his mail coif, to reveal raven hair drenched in sweat and several days’ growth of beard stubbling his hard jaw.

Joy flooded her at the sight of those harsh, handsome features. Joy and a fierce surge of heated excitement. Even sweat and dirt could not detract from the aura of a powerful, intensely sexual male animal.

Emulating the graciousness of her lady mother, Ariane swept him a low curtsey. “My lord, be welcome.”

Surprise kindled in Ranulf’s eyes at the warmth of her greeting, yet he forced himself to respond neutrally, not wishing to create a scene for the crowd forming in the bailey to gawk at. It was all he could do to prevent himself from leaping off his horse and hauling Ariane into his arms. Yet he merely nodded, acknowledging her welcome, then returned his attention to his vassal, trying to ignore the distracting damsel who had preyed on his mind incessantly during the past interminable week.

“How went the journey?” Payn asked just as a page ran out to claim the lord’s charger.

“I have enjoyed better,” Ranulf replied dourly. “The Lady Eleanor possesses the stubbornness of a mule.”

Ariane was surprised to hear him disparage his queen. To her further surprise, he said nothing about finding her acting the role of chatelaine, nor did he demand that she hide herself away. Instead he seemed to disregard her entirely as he quizzed Payn on the happenings at Claredon during his absence.

Long moments later, a troop of riders dashed through the inner gates, led by a laughing, fair-haired lady on a snow-white palfrey, whose saddle and bridle were trimmed with silver bosses and tassels.

Ariane had heard tales of the headstrong duchess who was now queen of England. Eleanor of Aquitaine’s beauty was said to be breathtaking, as was her wit. She was also credited with being a superb horsewoman—all assertions Ariane could readily believe as she watched Ranulf aid the lady down from her saddle.

“Faith! I thought we would never arrive,” Eleanor said with a careless laugh.

“Welcome to Claredon, my lady,” Ranulf replied so stiffly that Ariane could sense the discord between them.

Payn stepped forward just then to bow over the queen’s hand. “I greet you, noble lady.”

“FitzOsbern! Just the man to soothe my wounded sensibilities. Your liege lord has the manners of a field ox.”

“Mayhap, your grace,” Payn replied with a smile. “But an ox upon whom you can depend to serve you well.”

She gave a delicate snort. “I vow Lord Ranulf would have wrapped me in swaddling had I allowed it. He required me to remain lazing in that stifling contraption until I could not bear another minute.” She sent a glower at the gilded, silk-curtained litter that was just then lumbering through the gates. Abruptly, her blue eyes moved on to Ariane, surveying her curiously. “So this is the heiress I have heard tell of?”

Ariane bowed in a deep curtsey. “You do us honor, your grace.”

“Do I? A strange reception from the daughter of a man charged with treason against my husband the king.”

It was Ariane’s turn to stiffen. “
Charged,
I believe is the applicable term, my lady. Not convicted. Fortunately for my lord father, King Henry is said to be a just ruler, who will judge a man’s guilt or innocence based on proof and not mere rumor.”

Eleanor’s eyes flickered with new respect, while her lips curved wryly. “And so he is.”

“We have made every effort to arrange for your comfort,” Ariane continued coolly. “I trust you will find all to your liking.”

“We shall see,” Queen Eleanor replied, turning to flash Ranulf an arch smile that was at once both mischievous and challenging. “I perceive you have had your hands full subduing Claredon, if this lady is any indication.”

Without waiting for a reply or for assistance, the queen swept regally up the stone steps, leaving her attendant knights and their ladies to follow as they would.

Ariane thought she heard Ranulf sigh in disgust, and found herself sharing his sentiments. Raising the hem of her skirts, she preceded him up the stairs and into the great hall, where varlets passed silver goblets of wine spiced with cloves.

“My lord,” Ariane murmured to Ranulf, “I have given the queen and her tirewomen your solar, and moved your belongings to my old chamber. I hope that meets with your approval?”

Ranulf bent his head to hers, so close she could feel the warm rush of his breath on her cheek. “Any chamber will do, so long as you share it with me, sweeting.”

Ariane could not restrain the fluttering of her pulse at the heated promise in his tone. From his earlier conversation with Payn, she had gathered that Ranulf would remain only the one night; early on the morrow he would continue to ride escort for the queen’s cavalcade, as agent of her safety, conducting her to her royal husband’s camp to the northwest. But that one night it seemed he intended to spend with her—at least insofar as his duties as host permitted.

“You will sit at the high table with me this evening,” Ranulf surprised her by adding. He left her then, accompanied by his squire, in order to bathe and change. Ariane remained busy arranging baths and accommodations for the important guests—a score in all—and did not see Ranulf again until he returned to the hall for the supper feast she had ordered.

Ariane thought him devastatingly compelling with his harsh features clean shaven, though he had dressed plainly in a black tunic with a crimson undertunic. The visiting knights and their ladies wore more costly and better adorned garments, but the Lord of Claredon possessed an imposing presence that mere cloth could not confer.

When Queen Eleanor appeared, however, her gorgeous attire put the entire company to shame. The long, bell-like sleeves of her bliaud were heavily embroidered with gold thread, while the tight, long-sleeved undergown of gold-shot samite shimmered in the torchlight. A gold cord encircled her head, holding in place a small square of linen, completing the image of a regal ruler.

Eleanor took the place of honor at the high table next to the lord, sharing the same wine cup and thick trencher of day-old bread as Ranulf. On his order, Ariane had placed herself at Ranulf’s other side, to share with Payn.