The Warrior (58 page)

The wedding between Ariane of Claredon and Ranulf of Vernay was cause for rejoicing all around. The ceremony to sanctify the marriage was held on the doorstep of the demesne church rather than the castle chapel, so that all of Claredon’s people might participate in the celebration.

The morning sky glistened a rich summer’s blue for the joyous occasion; the clear air resonated with minstrels’ jubilant music as the long procession wended its way from castle to church. At its head, with her lord father at her right hand, Ariane rode a white palfrey whose scarlet saddlecloth was emblazoned with fierce dragons and whose breastplate tinkled with tiny bells, a faint echo of the ecstatic peal of church bells.

Ranulf had hoped the fabrics he had brought her would prove suitable for a bridal gown, and indeed they did. For her wedding vestment, Ariane wore an undertunic of brilliant scarlet samite, overlaid with a bliaud of the finest white paile—a tissue of embossed silk woven with gold threads. Around her hips she had fastened Ranulf’s gift of the exquisite double girdle, and at her throat, the heavy gold torque collar he had given her weeks ago, the morning after claiming her maidenhead. Her women had plaited her luxuriant hair into two long ropes entwined with scarlet ribbons and gold lace, and on her head rested the gold chaplet studded with rubies.

The path to the church where her bridegroom awaited with peasant and noble wedding guests alike was strewn with bloodred roses, whose sweet perfume filled the air. Ranulf looked resplendent in scarlet and black and gold, his attire richly embroidered around the neck, sleeves, and hem. Even without mailed armor, he looked every inch the powerful warrior. The sword buckled at his waist boasted a jeweled hilt and scabbard, while around him, his vassals carried shields and pennants bearing his feared dragon device.

He watched with possessive eyes as his beautiful bride came to him. It was rare for a man to want the woman who was his wife, yet he wanted Ariane with a passion that shook him to his soul. He loved her, and he meant to spend the rest of his life honoring their union and her.

With a humble reverence, Ranulf reached up to assist his bride down from her mount.

“My lady,” he murmured for Ariane’s ears alone. “I pledge my oath to you: You will never have cause to regret this day.”

She gave him a radiant smile, full of joy and promise. “I know, my lord Ranulf. And I make the same vow to you.”

Love and pride swelled in Ranulf’s chest, fierce and overwhelming, before he turned to lead her up the short flight of stone steps to the church door. There they halted before the priest, Father John.

A hush fell over the crowd. The actual marriage would be held here, under the summer sky, the later ceremony within the chapel but a final formality. Numerous noble guests had been invited to witness the wedding: Claredon’s knights and their ladies, Ranulf’s vassals and men-at-arms, neighboring lords and their families, as well as the craftsmen and freemen and serfs who served Claredon’s demesne. The guests gathered around to listen as Father John ascertained that there were no impediments to the marriage according to the stipulations of the Church. There being none, the good father asked if the affianced man and maiden gave their free and solemn consent to the union.

When Ranulf and Ariane answered in heartfelt agreement, the priest read out the property rights of both parties. The lord of Vernay pledged his lady a dower right, a third of his holdings after his death, while the bride’s parent, the lord of Claredon, assigned to her a dowry: gifts of clothing, linen, utensils, furniture, and generous parcels of land.

Ariane scarcely heard a word. She felt dazed, wrapped in a cloud of joy, too distracted to concentrate on such material matters.

The next rite was delivered in Latin, the surrender of the bride by her father and mother. Ariane felt a bittersweet ache in her throat because her beloved mother could not be present for this moment, yet she was comforted by the knowledge that Lady Constance awaited her within the church, hidden in the chapel gallery. Her mother’s progress was alone cause for rejoicing. Layla’s strange remedy seemed to be having at least a modest affect on Constance’s ravaged skin, and the Saracen was optimistic that a full recovery eventually was possible.

Ariane was further gladdened by the note of pride in her father’s voice as he presented her to Ranulf, saying, “To you I confide my daughter Ariane. Keep her well.”

“Before God, I promise to shelter her,” Ranulf responded, clasping her ungloved hands and gazing deeply into her eyes.

When Father John had consecrated the ring, Ranulf slipped the small circlet of gold progressively over three fingers of Ariane’s right hand, before moving it to a final resting place on her left hand, where it would remain till her death, a pledge of faithfulness and fidelity. The metal, warmed by his touch, gleamed no brighter than the gold of her beloved’s eyes, she thought dazedly.

“With this ring I thee espouse,” Ranulf vowed solemnly to her in Latin, “with my body I thee honor, with my goods I thee endow.”

Only then did they enter the church, where the marriage was solemnized before God. As she prostrated herself on the floor of the nave beside Ranulf, Ariane felt her mother’s love surrounding her. Disguised behind a veil and a concealing curtain, the Lady Constance watched secretly from the chapel gallery. She had given the couple her blessing days before, and on the morrow, Ranulf had promised Ariane they would visit her mother in her forest dwelling.

A mass followed, and after making a generous offering to the Church, the bride and groom knelt to receive the solemn benediction of the priest.

Finally, at last, Ariane was led from the church by her lord husband, where a chorus of joyous shouts and cheers and pealing bells greeted them. She could see her half-brother, Gilbert, among the crowd, as well as Ranulf’s trusted vassal and friend, Payn, their broad smiles reflecting her own gladness.

As was the custom in a wedding celebration, Ranulf set her upon his steed and mounted behind her. To the accompaniment of blaring trumpets and flowing silk, they led the procession from the church to the bridegroom’s home—or in this case, Claredon Keep.

Secure in his embrace, Ariane leaned back against Ranulf’s broad chest, cherishing the feel of his powerful arms wrapped around her.

“So . . . are you satisfied, wench?” Ranulf asked with amused affection lacing his voice. “You have finally achieved your ends.”

Ariane felt a glow of happiness at his tender teasing, but she shook her head saucily. “You may address me as madame in future, my lord husband. I am not your
wench,
nor even
demoiselle
any longer. I am your
wife.
”

“Wife,” Ranulf murmured thoughtfully. “I like the sound of that.”

Laughter bubbled out of her, full and joyous, and Ranulf found himself wanting to join in, to laugh and shout with joy himself, at his long-delayed admission. For too long he had resisted surrender; for too long he had fought against the inevitable.

“Very well, sweet wife. I shall call you madam in future. Unless you misbehave, which is highly likely—in which case you will revert to
wench.
Do you accept these terms as fair?”

“Fair enough, husband.”

When Ariane turned her head to gaze up at him, he saw in her eyes the same all-consuming love he knew shone in his, and knew himself to be blessed. He no longer harbored any doubts. She had claimed his heart irrevocably—and he intended to prove it to her, for all the days of their lives.

The festivities ensued through the entire day and half the night. Lord Walter had provided a wedding feast to rival a king’s, holding it out of doors in a nearby meadow, so that the huge crowds could be accommodated.

The nobles banqueted within shaded pavilions, with the newly wedded couple and most important guests occupying the dais of honor. The long trestle tables outside groaned with both standard fare and delicacies: venison, whole roast boars, partridges, thrushes, peacocks and swans, fish and lampreys, all swimming in highly spiced sauces, with cheeses and sweetmeats for the final courses, as well as innumerable pastries sweetened with honey and glistening with costly imported sugar.

The celebration began with toasts for the bride and groom.

“Will you share with me, my lady?” Ranulf asked huskily, offering Ariane wine from an ornate silver chalice embellished with dragons. When she had sipped, he took it from her and, holding her gaze, turned the goblet so that his lips touched the rim where her mouth had been. His sensual smile afterward caressed her with warmth, clearly proclaiming his desire for her.

Ale and wine flowed freely, and by late afternoon those who could still stand participated in the games and the dancing and the mock tournaments.

Ranulf played his role as bountiful lord, dispensing gifts to the wedding guests, but primarily he watched his beautiful bride enjoy the festivities and thought impatiently of the evening ahead. Tonight Ariane was going to come to him of her own free will, in love, as his beloved. In the church this morning, they had exchanged pledges and sacred vows, but only in their marriage bed would those vows be sealed. She would belong to him fully then. He felt the heat in his loins surging to match the fire in his heart.

His longing had grown to a fierce need by the time dusk settled softly over the countryside and huge bonfires were lit to illuminate the night. Ranulf cared naught for what festivities remained. He wanted only Ariane, alone, in their bed.

By torchlight the wedded couple was escorted to the castle, into the tower, and up to the bridal chamber—Ariane’s former rooms that would be hers and Ranulf’s as long as they remained at Claredon. It was customary for the wedding guests to help in the disrobing for the bedding ceremony. Thus the chamber was crowded and filled with gay chatter, until everyone hushed for another solemn moment.

The wooden floor was strewn with roses; Ariane and Ranulf knelt among them as Father John blessed the nuptial bed. Then, with a last, lingering glance at his wife, Ranulf reluctantly accompanied the men below while, according to custom, the women undressed and put the bride to bed. When at last she was ready, they closed the bed curtains around her and retired.

Moments later Ariane heard his knights bearing Ranulf to his marriage bed amid much laughter and ribald comments. The jesting only grew coarser as his sword and garments were stripped from his body, but at last the door slammed shut behind the men and blessed silence reigned.

Ariane was surprised to find herself trembling. She had yearned for this moment for so long, it seemed like a sweet dream. Her dream lover had come for her, to her, at last.

“Ariane?” Ranulf murmured into the silence.

“I am here,” she replied unsteadily.

His lips curved upward in a grin when he heard the slight catch in her voice. It seemed that
she
was as nervous as he. He closed the distance to the bed. His heart pounding, he parted the drawn curtains to find his bride lying in wait for him, her pale copper hair cascading across the pillows, the covers turned down invitingly. She wore nothing but a wedding garland of roses, and Ranulf inhaled sharply to see her slender white body gleaming in the soft glow of candlelight. Arousal flared within him, insistent and urgent.

Controlling his fierce need with willpower alone, he turned away to pour a silver goblet full of wine. Returning to the bed, he sat beside her, settling a tautly muscled flank against her hip. His position reminded Ariane of the first night Ranulf had alarmed her by invading her bedchamber, and yet this time, she was not frightened of him, only of the powerful, overwhelming, helpless way he made her feel.

She drank in the sight of his beautiful, scarred body, with its rippling muscle and sinew, his broad chest with its furring of raven hair. . . . Her gaze lowered to the goblet, hesitating quizzically.

“I scarcely drank a drop the entire day,” Ranulf explained, “and I find I have a great thirst.” Yet from the smoldering flames in his eyes, she did not think his thirst had aught to do with wine.

“Perhaps you intend to ply me with wine,” Ariane suggested with a teasing glance, “in order to render me more malleable.”

He smiled that rare, tender smile that she loved so dearly. “Ah, no, never, my lady. I wish you to be in possession of all your senses tonight. I mean for you to feel every nuance of everything I do to you.” His sensual, provocative tone made her pulse skitter. He glanced down at her lips. “I thought we would begin with a lesson in wifely conduct.”

“Indeed?” She smiled uncertainly. “What sort of lesson?”

“One on how to please your husband. I am your husband now, am I not?”

“Yes . . .” Ariane answered breathlessly.

Ranulf’s hand slowly rose to touch her cheek. Holding her gaze, he began to caress her, his long fingers tracing the delicate line of her jaw, the smooth column of her throat, the ridge of her collarbone, stroking lightly, clearly intent on seduction. Ariane responded to his touch like a blossom opening to the sun; beneath his sensitive fingertips, she felt her flesh ripple with warmth.

“Will you drink, sweeting?” he asked as her passion-heavy eyelids began to drift shut. Bringing the goblet to her mouth, he let her sip for a moment. Then taking it away, Ranulf slowly bent and, covering her mouth with his, drank the wine from her lips.

Ariane gave a soft moan from deep within her throat at the delicious taste of Ranulf mingled with wine. Yet he would do no more than let her taste.

Drawing back, he slowly dipped his forefinger into the cup and brought it back to her parted lips, gliding over the moist surface till her mouth was red and wet and dewed with wine. Ariane could be acquiescent no longer. Urgently, she captured his hand and pressed a kiss against his palm.

“Yes, Ranulf,” she whispered. “Teach me how to please you.”

“You do. . . . You please me greatly, dearling.”

The endearment warmed her heart, even as his scorching look warmed her flesh and sent the blood racing through her veins. But he would not allow her to participate in her own seduction.