The Warrior (49 page)

He did not intend to deny himself her body now, though. Simply, he would have to guard himself with more care. He had to renew his resistance, strengthen his defenses, to prove to himself—and to Ariane—that she had not become vital to him.

23

A thoughtful frown scored Ranulf’s brow a week later as he surveyed Claredon’s great hall from his position at the high table. His welcome home this morning had been nearly as elaborate as the previous one which had honored Queen Eleanor’s visit, yet this time there was no queen to warrant such painstaking preparations, or to justify the dinner banquet they were about to enjoy.

A great deal of trouble had obviously been expended. The walls were brightly whitewashed, the rushes sweetly scented, and the silver and pewter polished to a high sheen. Everywhere cleanliness and order reigned.

He could see Ariane’s fine hand at work here.

“She has overstepped her bounds,” Ranulf murmured in an undertone loud enough for Payn to overhear.

“I for one consider it an improvement to a bachelor’s existence,” the knight said, grinning. “ ’Struth, I had forgotten what it is like to have a well-run household.”

Ranulf grunted. “That damsel has taken advantage of my absence—and your soft-hearted command. You failed to curb even the worst of her excesses. You well know I would rather spend coin on armor than this tunic she gifted me with.”

This morning Ariane had met him in the bailey and presented him with a fine overtunic made by her own hand—saffron silk with sleeves and collar exquisitely embroidered with black and gold thread to match his hair and eyes. Joy and pleasure at her gift had leapt within Ranulf before he could arm himself against them.

He liked the garment well enough; what did not sit well with him was her motive for giving it. Ariane was clearly determined to undermine all his defenses, and to force the issue of their marriage. It was customary for a wife to greet her lord with a gift of welcome upon his return from a journey, and Ariane had behaved as if she were his lady in truth—a position Ranulf had vowed she would never hold.

Against his better judgment, he wore the tunic now, girded by a wide belt studded with amber stones. He had been unable to refuse without seeming the veriest churl. Even his squire had conspired against him to insure he donned her gift. Burc had recovered enough from his shoulder wound to help his lord dress, and the fool lad had not ceased singing Ariane’s praises as a healer the entire time, nor refrained from championing her cause.

“The fabric was on hand,” Payn said now in her defense, “purchased three winters ago as a marriage gift to you. And the thread you yourself recently gave her permission to buy.”

Unmollified, Ranulf stiffened at the reminder of his broken betrothal. “Mark me, she is up to mischief, if not something more sinister.”

His vassal laughed outright. “It is hardly sinister to wish the lord to be handsomely attired.”

Ranulf shook his head, refusing to be swayed. But even more disturbing than her scheming was the apparent conspiracy that others seemed to be waging against him. Burc, Payn, Queen Eleanor, even the king himself, all seemed eager for him to wed the lady.

Ranulf had delivered Eleanor to Henry’s camp as commanded, without incident, and tarried two more days to discuss his sovereign’s future plans. King Henry, a man known for his violent disposition, was in a rage over the slow progress of the siege of Mortimer’s castle, but the arrival of his queen soothed the royal temper somewhat. At Eleanor’s persuading—and in order to please her—Henry had proposed reinstating Ranulf’s betrothal.

The queen’s attempt to force his hand annoyed Ranulf, and perversely strengthened his resolve to resist. Not even a king could force a man to wed against his will, but Henry
could
make his life a misery if he chose. And it would be political and perhaps financial suicide to defy the king’s wishes.

The most disturbing aspect of the matter, however, was the profound relief Ranulf felt at Ariane’s decision to continue on at Claredon. She had refused Eleanor’s offer of protection, and thus remained in his hands, under his control. His spirits could not help but be lighter—but he resented the feeling. It should not matter so much to him whether Ariane stayed or went.

“Mean you to say,” Payn asked lightly, “that you do not enjoy the comforts the Lady Ariane has provided you as lord?”

Ranulf’s frown darkened. He enjoyed the comforts too much, that was the trouble. He could grow addicted to her softness if he did not take care. Already—for the first time in his life, in truth—he found that the pleasures of war and fighting had dimmed. After living in luxury at Claredon for a few short weeks, he was no longer quite so eager to return to the harsh existence he had always known. His sojourn at Henry’s camp had been a portent. Sleeping in tents on the damp, hard ground, enduring boredom and rain and vermin-ridden victuals, had lost its appeal—which was what came of allowing softness and ease into his life.

“Methinks you undervalue the benefits a wife can offer,” Payn suggested with a grin.

“God’s teeth, you sound like Queen Eleanor.”

“Did she press you to wed Ariane?”

“She hinted strongly, and incited the king to support her view.”

“Perhaps you should heed her.”

Ranulf sent his vassal a look that would have pierced him fatally had it been a lance.

“Perhaps you
should give wedded bliss a try,” Payn prodded, undaunted. “If your husbandly duties become too much for you, you can always send her away to another of your castles.”

Ranulf involuntarily jerked his wine cup and sent the dark liquid sloshing over the rim. “I will not wed, only to banish or lock my lady away!”

“Then . . .” Payn’s features suddenly grew sober with concern—“should you not let Ariane go?”

“I am careful of what is mine,” Ranulf muttered defensively.

“I think you need not worry she might put horns on you, Ranulf. She has eyes for no one but you.”

Ranulf looked away. They had never spoken of his false suspicions regarding his vassal’s relationship with Ariane, but
evidently Payn had forgiven him for his unwarranted jealousy.

“I believe she can be trusted,” Payn asserted quietly. “And that her virtue is above reproach. You would see it yourself if only you would judge her fairly.”

Forcing himself to control his rising temper and to relax his rigid grip on his goblet, Ranulf gave a dismissive shrug. The discussion was ended. He would not acknowledge Ariane as his wife.

He was satisfied with the current state of affairs. Ariane had not left his demesne when given the opportunity, and while she remained, she would fulfill the position of his hostage. Until that issue was settled, he would not let her go. He
could not let her go.

With all her might, Ariane wished Ranulf could come to trust her and care for her. It seemed unlikely. Since his arrival home three days before, he had shown little sign of lowering his vigilant guard. Yet unaccountably she was filled with hope.

Perhaps her optimism was due to the change in the weather. Spring had come to England in full force, with trees and blossoms bursting into vivid bloom. The sun warmed the earth by day, while gentle rains nurtured the fields by night, creating the conditions for a bountiful harvest.

It was a season of renewal, of peace and promise. A time for lovers to rejoice in the sheer beauty of life.

Her
lover, however, seemed determined to keep dark clouds hovering over the horizon.

Ranulf’s reaction to her gift, for example, had sorely disheartened her. Ariane had taken fierce delight in the pleasure of his expression when she first presented him with the finely stitched tunic—a pleasure that was all too fleeting. The wonder and elation on his features had abruptly disappeared, to be replaced by suspicion and mistrust—a look she was coming to recognize with loathing.

In truth, she was coming to better understand Ranulf. She no longer quailed at his harsh scowls or flinched at his cutting remarks, yet it distressed her to know he still regarded her as his enemy.

She had done everything in her power to prove her worth to him, to show that she would make a capable chatelaine and a good wife.

She had willingly endeavored to make Ranulf’s life more pleasing, to make herself indispensable to her lord’s welfare. With effort she had even kept control of her sharp tongue, remembering the advice her mother had given her: that it fell to women to charm and civilize their men and teach them to curb their warlike inclinations.

Regrettably, Ariane could only mark her progress in minute increments—a heated glance, a smile, a tender touch, manifestations that Ranulf bestowed upon her all too rarely. ’Twas not fair! The Virgin save her, he could trample on her heart by merely smiling at her, while remaining coolly aloof and distant himself. He refused to acknowledge her endeavors or recognize her merit as a helpmeet.

Yet she refused to abandon hope. Ranulf needed a wife, needed her. It remained to convince
him of that.

One evening when she was battling him over the chessboard, Ariane attempted to plead her case and found herself unwisely arguing again over possession of the keys to the castle.

“I cannot see why you object to my resuming the duties I have held for these four years past,” she remarked dryly. “Perhaps you fear the responsibility will overtax my intelligence.”

“In truth,” Ranulf retorted with a dry humor of his own, “I fear it would overtax your oath to me. Were you to be given the keys, you might feel encouraged to let more of my prisoners escape, as you did Simon Crecy.”

Ariane was surprised by his teasing tone, and answered in kind. “I thought my action fully justified that night. I daresay you would have done the same in my position—to try and foil an invader.”

“I would never have been in your position, for I would not have betrayed my king.”

“I did not betray King Henry.”

“Your sire did, which is the same thing.”

The seriousness of the charge, even expressed lightly, made her stiffen. “ ’Tis not true. My father is innocent.”

“Lord Walter joined Hugh Mortimer with a troop of knights and men-at-arms merely for a lark?”

“It was his duty to provide knight’s fees for his liege.”

“It was his duty to support his king, just as it was yours to obey the king’s orders and surrender Claredon to my control. Your actions then were proof enough of your disloyalty.”

Ariane clenched her teeth. “Loyalty must be earned, my lord. What have you done to win mine?”

Ranulf moved a wooden knight across the board to take one of her pawns, refusing to be provoked into a full-fledged quarrel. “I have no need to win it. As your overlord, it is mine to claim by right.”

Ariane shook her head. “You have readily proven you can take almost anything from me—my possessions, my body, my oath of obedience—but my loyalty cannot be commanded. It is mine to give as I choose.”

Dismissively, Ranulf fixed his attention on the carved wooden chess pieces, yet he saw her point—and was struck hard by a thought. If he wholly won her loyalty, he need not fear her betrayal. A reflective frown turned down the corners of his mouth.

While he mused, Ariane pressed the issue. “I cannot comprehend your obstinacy. Perhaps I overestimated your intelligence. I had the absurd notion that you would be pleased to have your castle put in order.”

He made a dry sound in his throat. “Forgive me if I find myself suspicious of your efforts to please me.”

“Why? What have I done to deserve your suspicions?”

His gaze lifted to search her face. “Does your memory escape you so soon? You bloodied my bedsheets with your false virginal stains and tried to force me to wed you, for one.”

Ariane colored, wishing he had not so unforgiving a memory. “I was in error, I admit it. I wished to make you honor your promise to wed me, but I chose the wrong way to go about it.”

Barely mollified, Ranulf studied her. “And you think now that by engaging in wifely tasks, you can persuade me to make you my wife in truth, and thus better your lot.”