The Warrior (48 page)

The tempting viands she had ordered arrived in courses: venison, shoulder of wild boar, roasted swans, minced meat paste made with breadcrumbs and herbs, pigeon pasties, fresh mullet, eel pies, all accompanied by hot sauces spiced with pepper or ginger or mustard, with stewed fruit and cheeses at the conclusion. A harp-playing minstrel began the entertainment then, while a fresh round of honeyed wine was poured.

Queen Eleanor had kept up a gay chatter throughout the meal, interspersing her comments with compliments on the fare, so that it seemed that the feast was progressing well. Thus Ariane was startled when halfway into the third song, the queen rose and addressed her. “I should like a word with you, Lady Ariane.”

Ariane cast a worried glance at Ranulf, who was frowning into his goblet, but she dared not refuse a direct command. When Eleanor was attended from the hall by two of her ladies, Ariane followed reluctantly.

She watched silently as the queen was undressed down to her shift and her long hair taken down.

“Leave me,” Eleanor then said to her women. When they were gone, she took up a polished hand mirror and a silver-backed brush, settled herself on a stool, and presented her back to Ariane. “Will you assist me?”

Realizing what was expected of her, Ariane came to stand behind the queen. Accepting the brush, she began running it softly through the golden mass of Eleanor’s hair.

“I gather you find yourself in a difficult position,” Eleanor said musingly, watching Ariane in the mirror. “First your father’s treason, then Lord Ranulf’s repudiation of your betrothal.”

Ariane remained silent.

“I confess it disturbed me to hear of your treatment at Lord Ranulf’s hands. To force you to his bed without benefit of marriage . . . well, I find it reprehensible.”

Ariane had no need to ask how the queen had learned of her difficulties. Castle gossip was swift and brutally explicit. Eleanor would have discovered all she wished to know from the servant hierarchy within moments of her arrival.

A blush rose to Ariane’s cheeks at such frank speaking, but she refused to be drawn into a discussion of Ranulf’s faults.

“I do not care to see any woman mistreated,” Eleanor prodded. “Men hold far too much of the power in this world, and frequently misuse it.”

“I have no complaints regarding Lord Ranulf, my lady.”

“You hold a tendre for the man, is that it? I could not help but notice how you watch him.”

“Does it show so clearly?” Ariane asked in dismay.

“To some, it does—to me, yes. I find myself intrigued by matters of the heart, so I pay closer attention than most. When you look at him, your face holds a softness, a yearning. . . .”

Ariane knew it was true—that what she felt for Ranulf was strong enough to show on her features.

“I think I can understand the attraction. I knew Ranulf at court, and several of my ladies were wild for him, though he would have naught to do with them. Despite his atrocious manners, he always acquitted himself skillfully in tourney and battle. A renowned knight who has served my lord husband admirably . . . powerful and well-landed . . . It is a pity that he will not wed you.”

In complete accord with the queen’s thoughts, Ariane made an absentminded murmur of agreement.

“But I think I can provide a way out of your difficulties . . . by offering you a position in my service as one of my ladies. If you join my court, I can extend you my protection, which is no small matter.”

The brush stilled in Ariane’s hand, while her eyes widened at the generous offer of refuge. As lady-in-waiting to the queen, Ariane knew she would be safe from whatever repercussions her father’s actions generated.

Eleanor expanded on the compelling argument. “Henry is yet besieging Mortimer’s castle at Bridgenorth. When the siege is successfully concluded, your father will be tried for treason for supporting the rebellion.”

Ariane bit her lip, thinking that Eleanor would make a cunning political adversary—or benefactor. If she accepted the queen’s protection . . . But then she shook her head slowly. She could never abandon her father, or her mother, or Claredon’s people, merely to save herself. And then there was Ranulf. . . .

“You are all that is kind, your grace. Please accept my sincere gratitude, but I must decline. Claredon is my home, and I have some hope . . .”

When she hesitated, Eleanor prodded, “Yes, you have hope . . .”

“That one day Ranulf will come to view me as . . . someone he can trust. Perhaps you know he does not give his trust lightly.”

“You have fallen in love with him.” It was not a question.

“Yes,” Ariane admitted to herself for the first time. Against her will, against all reason and judgment, she had fallen in love with Ranulf.

She was suffering a lovesick passion worthy of some languishing maid. Ranulf possessed her heart. In truth, he had ensnared it years ago with his tender smile, when she was but a nervous, tongue-tied girl. She did not often see that smile now—an expression so rare as to be almost priceless—and yet she had fallen deeper into Ranulf’s snare, perhaps for the very reason that made her crave to ease the suffering of other wounded, helpless creatures; because she had glimpsed the bleak vulnerability beneath the warrior’s hard exterior. She had seen his pain.

“I fought against loving him,” Ariane murmured, “but I found it hopeless.”

She had tried valiantly, futilely, to stop herself, but she could not love by half-measures, holding back in self-protection. In that respect she was like her parents, who loved deeply.

It was mad, though, her yearning for Ranulf. He treated her no better than a serf, his personal possession. He was unlikely ever to acknowledge her as his wife, let alone his love. Yet she cherished the hope of one day overcoming his blind, pigheaded mistrust, of penetrating his impregnable mail-armored heart.

“So be it,” Eleanor said brusquely, her tone somewhat curt. “But do not think to apply to me should your troubles deepen.”

Their eyes met in the hazy surface of the hand mirror, and Ariane knew that the discussion had ended.

“Aye, your grace.”

She had refused the queen’s offer of support, and now she must live with the consequences.

Ariane deeply regretted her confession to the queen regarding her feelings for Ranulf, for she could not absolve Eleanor of possibly trying to stir up mischief. But there was no use lamenting what was done.

After her dismissal from the queen’s chamber, Ariane returned to the great hall to find many of the guests already in their cups. The lord, however, appeared sober enough to be almost grim.

“What wanted the Lady Eleanor with you?” Ranulf demanded as she slipped into her seat.

She met his brooding look with a forced smile. “She required me to brush her hair.” Ranulf stared at her for a long moment, but fortunately did not press her to expound on her conversation with the queen.

“By your leave, my lord, I would like to retire.”

“Retire, aye,” he said, his voice dropping to a husky baritone, “but not to sleep. I expect a sweet welcome, wench.”

A fierce surge of heat and excitement swept through Ariane at the promise of passion in his gaze. “As you wish, my lord. I shall await you in your bed.”

She was rewarded by a flare of heat in his amber eyes as bright as a torch flame.

He came to her shortly, as if unable to contain his impatience. Ariane scarcely had time to undress before Ranulf was there, standing before her, as she sat brushing her own hair.

A fire burned low in the brazier, and by the faint glow of embers, she could see that his eyes were hard and bright and hungry—and so hot that she felt seared by their molten heat.

He did not reach for her at once, though, but took the brush from her and set it aside. With a gentle finger under her chin, Ranulf tilted her face up, letting his gaze caress her hauntingly lovely features and the full, gleaming mane that fell thick and gloriously unkempt over her shoulders. Her ivory skin glowed with the translucence of a pearl, her bright hair glimmered, the waving tresses threaded riotously with flaxen and gold and copper.

Eagerly Ranulf plunged his fingers into the incredible softness, letting the warm weight of it pour over his hands like molten honey as he sought her sweet mouth.

He could have had his pick of women this eve. Half the castle wenches would be tumbled by the visiting knights, while his own men would have the others, but as lord, he could have chosen first. Most would have been eager to share his bed.

But there was only one woman he wanted, needed to be with. He yearned for Ariane’s company. He could not account at all for the sense of banishment he had felt when he had been gone from her, nor could he comprehend the bewildering gentleness he felt when she was near.

Capturing her mouth in a kiss, he drank of her sweetness, thrusting his tongue deep into her inviting warmth in a bold imitation of the carnal act, stroking her bare body to urgent arousal. In only moments Ariane was arching against him, the tips of her breasts hard and aching under his curving fingers.

Yet they both craved more than mere caresses. Her own hands trembling, Ariane undressed Ranulf, not stopping until he stood before her naked, magnificent, looking like a dark, pagan god. When brazenly she closed her fingers around the strong root of him, she could hear his breath quicken harshly in her ear.

And still she was not satisfied. Her body was already so vibrant with yearning that she thought she might die unless he eased the ache. Refusing to release him, Ariane drew him to the bed and lay back upon the sheets in invitation, spreading her legs wide for his claiming, aching for him.

Joining her on the soft mattress, Ranulf settled between her eagerly parted thighs and thrust deep, capturing her cry of pleasure with his mouth. Without speaking, he stroked and inflamed and coaxed her body to new heights, bringing them both to a shattering peak of ecstasy.

Ranulf recovered first from the wracking pleasure, to find himself collapsed limply upon Ariane, her arms clasping him loosely. Her awareness followed more slowly, gradually growing conscious of the damp warmth of his skin, the crushing heaviness of his powerful body.

She did not mind his weight, though; somehow it gave her primal comfort. Sighing, Ariane clung to him more tightly. Ranulf had come home to her, no one else. She had given him welcome of the basest sort, but she had also provided shelter for his guarded warrior’s heart—a feat she was certain no other woman had ever accomplished.

He was gone by dawn’s light, riding escort for Queen Eleanor’s retinue. They were a dozen leagues from Claredon when the queen first deigned to speak to him. Riding alongside Ranulf on her palfrey, Eleanor broached the subject of Ariane in a manner that set his heart lurching and his mind skittering.

“I must confess I was pleasantly surprised by the Lady Ariane. I spoke to her at length last night. I could not help but be affected by her plight.”

“Her plight, your grace?” Ranulf asked guardedly.

“My Lord Ranulf, let us not mince words,” the queen said sweetly. “You have taken full use of the girl, when her rank should have protected her. An honorable knight would make reparations.”

His eyes narrowed and darkened. “Did she claim I had dishonored her?”

Eleanor’s musical peal of laughter was like the chime of crystal bells. “Nay, she would say naught against you. I had to learn of it from my ladies. It pains me to see any gentlewoman so ill used, though, so I offered her refuge at the royal court as one of my ladies-in-waiting.”

Ranulf felt a jolt of panic like a knife in his belly. “Did Ariane ask your protection?”

“No, but I offered it just the same. The lady refused.”

“She refused? . . .” Ranulf stared blankly at Eleanor.

“Yes. She claimed she had no wish to leave her home, despite the terrible difficulties she faces. Such devotion is admirable, would you not agree?”

Relief flooded Ranulf like sweet wine. He knew not why Ariane had decided to remain at Claredon; he was just happy she would not leave him.

“You have found yourself a prize in the girl, my Lord Ranulf, if you would but see it.”

Ranulf turned to stare at the queen.

“You could do worse than to wed her.”

His jaw hardened. “It seems you take uncommon interest in my affairs, my lady.”

Eleanor smiled sweetly, the expression that had brought kingdoms to her feet. “You are your own man, my lord. I would never presume to advise you. I will merely say what many gentlemen of my acquaintance have discovered to their sorrow: a sword makes a cold wife.”

With that parting arrow, Queen Eleanor tugged on her reins and turned her palfrey back toward her own knights, leaving Ranulf alone to ponder his whirling thoughts and to wonder why Ariane had refused the queen’s offer of refuge.

With faint success, Ranulf tried to push from his mind the suggestion that he marry Ariane. To himself—solely himself—he was even willing to admit the true cause of his reluctance to consider the proposition: his fear. For all his courage in battle, he was afraid . . . afraid of the pain Ariane could cause him, afraid of being hurt again, of giving his bewitching temptress even more power over him than she already wielded.

The strength of his feelings for Ariane disturbed and bewildered Ranulf, as did his reluctance to leave her. Never before had he regretted riding away from a wench, nor had he ever missed one or longed for her presence.

God’s wounds, he should be eagerly anticipating joining King Henry’s siege. War and strife were his lifeblood, his reason for existence. He was a warrior, a professional soldier, a knight for whom military vassalage was a way of life. Ariane’s ability to sway him from his purpose should be a warning to him.

Yet he had been a fool to think he could share her intimate secrets and not pay a price himself. Making her his lover was not the wisest course he could have taken. Were it only her body he craved, he could have sated himself and been done with it. But it was more. She had touched a weakness in his spirit, he acknowledged with dismay. And now she threatened to break through the barriers he had carefully erected over a lifetime.