The Warrior (6 page)

With effort Ariane shook off her fanciful imaginings. Taking another step closer, she peered at the hooded face still in shadow, wondering why he was here and what he wanted of her.

Ranulf, imagining uncomfortably that she could penetrate his disguise, bowed his head with feigned respect, and raised the pitch of his voice to a soft tenor. “I wished to express my gratitude for giving refuge to a poor monk. I was making my way to the monastery at Frotham when my journey was interrupted by the fleeing villeins. I thought it wiser to follow them to the safety of your keep.”

“You are welcome to Claredon’s hospitality, sir monk.” She waited politely for him to continue, but returned his gaze warily, he noted, her clear gray eyes watchful and intent.

“I wondered, my lady, if at this time of trouble I might aid you in some manner. Since your noble father is away, you might wish for guidance from wiser heads.”

He saw her mouth twist in the faintest of smiles. “Prayers would not go amiss, good brother, but unless you are versed in military stratagems, I shall rely upon my father’s vassals for counsel.”

“Mean you to declare your opposition to the lord of Vernay, then?”

Her expression turned cool, Ranulf observed, but she avoided giving him a direct answer, saying instead, “I regret you were detained, since I fear we may be under siege for a long while. I dare not lower the drawbridge for you to leave Claredon, but if you wish, we could have you lowered from the walls, so you might safely effect an escape.”

Under siege for a long while? Then she intended to refuse him entrance?

“You misunderstand me, lady. My concern was not for my own safety, but for the good people here. Would it not be wiser to surrender the castle to the lord of Vernay at once?”

“Wiser for whom?”

“For you. For your villeins.” At her frowning hesitation, Ranulf added swiftly, “You may confide your fears to me, noble child.”

“A comforting thought,” she replied with questionable sincerity. “It is unfortunate then that I have already confided my fears to God.”

He had overstepped the boundaries allowed even a man of the cloth, he realized. He glanced at Simon, noting the knight’s fist resting cautiously on the hilt of his sword. “Forgive me, demoiselle. I meant no insult by my curiosity. I simply wished to offer help.”

Ranulf felt her intent gaze searching his monk’s cowling again, as if to read his shadowed expression. “I am grateful for your interest, truly. It is just that . . .”

“Yes, demoiselle? Just what?”

Ariane turned away, gazing out over the darkened countryside, faintly illuminated by the flickering campfires of a besieging force.

“I am unaccustomed to discussing my troubles with anyone but our own priest,” she said finally.

“You have endured great troubles of late, it seems.”

It was a leading remark, she knew, probing with a gentle intensity she could not resist. “No more than most.”

“But this current crisis . . . Lord Ranulf’s army at your gates. He is your betrothed, is he not?”

“Yes,” she replied, her voice edged with bitterness. “Regretfully.”

“Regretfully? You are not eager to wed him?”

When she remained silent, the monk added musingly, “I wonder that you agreed to the betrothal. Although many a bride has been persuaded by force, the Church does require the consent of the lady before sanctioning marriage.”

“I had no objections to marriage once,” Ariane said softly. Her hopes still had been very much alive . . . then. “Lord Ranulf was my father’s choice for my husband, but in truth, I was pleased to wed a knight with the strength to preserve the holdings I will one day inherit. A woman needs a husband capable of maintaining authority, of protecting the land. There can be no security otherwise.”

“A judicious philosophy. And your father made a wise choice in knights.”

“I once thought so. The lord of Vernay is one of the most powerful barons in Normandy—by his own ruthless efforts.”

“You consider him ruthless? Was he unkind to you?”

“No.” Indeed, she remembered her shock that such a fierce warrior as Lord Ranulf could be kind and gentle to a nervous young maid.

“Then why do you regret your betrothal?”

Because for nearly five years he had stayed away,
Ariane reflected with silent anguish. Five interminable years during which she had been left to languish in her father’s household, pitied by her friends and acquaintances. She was almost twenty now. By that advanced age other women had married and borne several children. But she remained unwedded and unbedded, a maiden still, innocent of passion, of life. “Because I discovered the truth about the ignoble lord of Vernay,” Ariane whispered bitterly.

“The truth?”

“He is no true knight, but a grasping, baseborn pretender to nobility . . . a usurper without principle or honor, who claimed his father’s demesne at the point of a sword. I would that I had never heard his name.”

Going rigid at her quiet denunciation, Ranulf missed the bitterness in her scathing tone and heard only the scorn, a scorn that stung like the cut of a hundred knives—or the scourge that had once flayed his back raw. He was accustomed to the disdain ladies of her class held for his lack of birthright, but it sliced deeper coming from this woman.

Ranulf felt his fists clench with the familiar rage. “Do you mean to deny him entrance?” he demanded grimly, forgetting his masquerade.

Ariane frowned as she suddenly recollected herself. Why would a man of the clergy concern himself with such worldly matters? And why was she speaking to him so frankly? She could tell a servant of God more than she would others, but he was still a stranger.

Uneasy about her indiscretion, she glanced over her shoulder at the shadowed figure of the monk, replying cautiously, “My father charged me with defending Claredon in his absence. I cannot give up his castle without first knowing his wishes.”

“Even though Claredon is his no longer? A rebel’s estates are forfeit to the crown, and it is said Walter of Claredon has partaken in the barons’ revolt, an attack on his sovereign lord.”

Her back stiffened perceptibly, Ranulf noted. “Fools say many foolish things, sir monk.”

“Then Walter has not joined the revolt?”

“I know not what has occurred. But when he rode for Bridgenorth, it was not his intention to declare against the king.”

“Mayhap he would not make you privy to his intentions.”

“Because I am a mere daughter?” Her chin lifted. “I assure you, my father would inform me of any plan of such momentous consequence. And he is no traitor.”

“Yet Hugh Mortimer has raised a rebellion, which makes your father, as Mortimer’s vassal and supporter, guilty of treason—unless he repudiates his oath of fealty.”

“I am well able to grasp the politics of the situation,” Ariane replied acerbically. “Despite my frail sex, my mind is fully functioning.”

Remembering with difficulty the role he had assumed, Ranulf bit back the retort that sprang to his lips. From the silver flash of anger in her gray eyes, he thought his betrothed might be preparing to voice another scathing remark, but she tucked her clenched hands within the long, sweeping sleeves of her gown, and said with admirable calm, “My first allegiance I owe to my father. I will not surrender his castle until I have proof of his guilt. Now, if you will forgive me, sir monk, I have much that requires my attention.”

He had received his dismissal, Ranulf realized with unreasoning fury. He wanted badly to take his defiant bride by the shoulders and shake her, or to haul her into his arms and commit some other more passionate, less violent act upon her person, but to touch her would immediately bring the castle guard to her defense. And to tarry would only arouse suspicion. He would have to postpone their reckoning for the nonce.

He bowed low and gave her his blessing, then turned abruptly and made his way silently along the wall-walk to disappear among the shadows.

Ariane stood there long after he had gone, unable to shake her sense of foreboding. He had probed too many raw wounds for comfort, his bold questions only adding to the turmoil and uncertainty in her mind. Had she taken the wrong course of action? Would yielding to the Black Dragon be the wiser choice?

While she pondered, Ranulf gestured for his squire to follow him and stalked down the stone steps to the crowded yard, his jaw clenched. A cowherd scurried out of his path, but Ranulf never faltered as he strode toward the distant gate that gave access to the inner bailey. He needed to make certain he was allowed into the tower itself this night, to sleep in the great hall with the lord’s vassals and household servants.

The wench had forced his hand. From her own lips he had heard Ariane declare her intentions. She meant to defy him—and her king as well. But by God’s wounds, he would crush her defiance, Ranulf vowed, and exact recompense for her rebellion. He would conquer his rebel bride and take pleasure in so doing.

At the thought, Ranulf cursed silently, tasting a bitterness like bile on his tongue. Coming to a halt at the gate to the inner bailey, he stood there trembling as a dark cloud of rage dulled his vision—a black fury that was overwhelmingly familiar. He had lived this grim tale once before, when his noble sire had denied him his rightful inheritance. The pain was still raw and fresh, an unhealed wound festering inside him, unlike the welt of scars on his back.

He had fought his own father—and now he would have to fight his betrothed.

You should feel satisfaction. Your bride has presented you with sufficient reason to break your longstanding betrothal,
Ranulf reminded himself savagely. Her rebellion was cause enough to repudiate the marriage. Yet instead of satisfaction, he felt an acid disappointment that Ariane of Claredon had chosen to support her treasonous father.

Such loyalty might be admirable, were it not so imprudent; she risked imprisonment and worse by such a course. But was loyalty truly her motive? Perhaps she was merely protecting herself in attempting to avoid arrest. Ariane would be well aware that as a political prisoner, she would be accorded none of the liberties and privileges she now enjoyed. A traitor’s daughter would possess fewer rights than a field serf.

But her defiance seemed foolish, Ranulf reflected grimly. If she were truly clever, she would have forsaken her father and welcomed
him
as the new lord of Claredon, in hopes of securing his favor and mitigating the king’s retribution.

Yet she, like Walter, was guilty of treason. By rights these entire estates were forfeit, her person subject to arrest.

And he, the Black Dragon of Vernay, would insure swift justice. Ariane of Claredon was now his enemy, her castle and lands his for the claiming.

Besieging or destroying Claredon Keep and the surrounding countryside or risking the lives of his men unnecessarily, however, formed no part of his plans. Not if he could succeed by easier means. He was prepared to take the castle, but on his own terms. Claredon boasted more knights than could be easily defeated, yet he would not need to use overwhelming force if he could turn the circumstances to his own advantage. And in this case, guile would serve him in better stead than open violence.

Quelling any inclination toward lenience, Ranulf forced himself to move. Disguised as a monk, followed by his squire, he gained entrance to the inner bailey and made his way up the outer stairway of the immense stone keep, to the second story and the great hall, now a scene of chaos as serfs and armed men ran to and fro.

He smiled grimly as he melted into the crowd.

The battle was set to begin—a battle he would win in short order.

3

The tall night candle sputtered, its flickering glow probing beyond the parted bed curtains, sending faint shadows dancing across the pale beauty in the bed. Ranulf held his breath as he gazed down at the woman slumbering so peacefully. In the golden half-light, she was too lovely to be real.

Her fair, copper-tinged hair spilled over her naked shoulders, shimmering and glorious, caressing the gentle rise of a breast that peered beneath the edge of the woolen coverlet. His nostrils caught the subtle woman’s scent of her sleep-warmed body, an alluring fragrance that stroked his primal, masculine senses and kindled a desire as intense as any he’d ever known. A muscle tensed in Ranulf’s jaw at the effort to keep from reaching out to her.