The Warrior

by Nicole Jordan

  Her response just now had not directly defied the king’s command, Ariane consoled herself. Soon she would have to commit herself, though. The Black Dragon would doubtless be irate when he learned of her refusal to surrender the castle to his emissary, but in truth, she had no choice. It was imperative that she retain possession of Claredon in order to aid her father. And she would not disappoint him as she had so many times before. If it took her last breath, she would not fail him.

  “Their actions suggest they are making camp, my lady,” Simon observed.

  Ariane nodded in weary resignation. In the gathering dusk, she could see knights dismounting, their squires scurrying to tend horses and weapons, while their archers positioned themselves in a defensive line opposite the castle. Soon they would erect pavilions and build cookfires—and Payn FitzOsbern would likely send a courier to his liege lord. Then Lord Ranulf might very well come himself.

  Ariane shivered in the evening breeze. She would rather deal with a hundred of his envoys than the lord of Vernay himself.

  “You are cold, demoiselle? Allow me to send a serf to the tower to fetch your mantle.”

  “Yes, thank you, Simon.” Spring had come early to England this year, and yet the damp air held a bite she could feel through her fine woolen overgown and undertunic and her linen shift. No doubt, though, her apprehension sharpened the chill.

  As Simon left her, she found herself bemoaning the frailties of a woman’s body. If she were a man, she could have ridden out to challenge Ranulf’s knights in combat . . .

  Her lips compressed in a bitter smile. If she were a man, she might never have become acquainted with Ranulf de Vernay in the first place. Certainly she would never have been pledged to him in marriage so that her father might gain an ally for Claredon.

  Sweet Mary, why could she not have been born male? How much better to be a son whom her father could count on to assume his barony and protect his hard-won holdings, rather than a disappointing daughter. What freedom to be a knight who could take up arms in defense of his demesne, rather than a pawn of men’s political games! Or worse, a neglected bride required to suffer the whims of a reluctant bridegroom.

  Of their own accord, her fingers curled into fists. Only to herself would Ariane acknowledge a deeper truth: that her hurt over Ranulf’s long neglect might also be driving her resistance.

  It hurt to be unwanted. To hear the whispers. She was the forgotten bride, the rejected one.Is there something wrong with me that not even the promise of great wealth can overcome? For years she had pondered that question, had agonized over her inadequacies. For five long, wasted years she had waited and worried and pined—until finally hope had dwindled, leaving only anger and bitterness and despair. Until her resentment against Ranulf festered like a poisoned wound.

  Yet that was not her primary reason for defying him now. Her father’s very life was at stake. If she surrendered his holdings, everything he had striven for would be forfeit. Worse, he would be rendered powerless, at the mercy of the king’s justice. And in his absence, she was responsible for Claredon and its people, their lives and welfare. On her shoulders alone rested their fate.

  As in countless times during the past, Ariane’s gaze shifted to the east, focusing on a deep forest glade of birch and oak, some quarter league from the castle walls. The wood was said to be haunted by evil spirits and ruled by man-eating wolves, but she knew better. Only a handful of people were privy to the secret of those woods.Will the inhabitants there be safe from the Black Dragon?

  Her eyes blurring at the sight, she forced her gaze away, focusing again on the enemy forces. She could still see the fierce black dragon on a red silk field boldly waving above the invading army. What would her mother have done in these difficult circumstances?

  Why, Ranulf? Why did you never come for me?

  Swallowing, she fiercely brushed away the tears of anger that stung her eyes. She could not afford the luxury of weeping, or the indulgence of self-pity. Her regrets would have to keep for another day. Now, more than ever, she had to be strong.

  Defiantly, Ariane lifted her chin.

  Let Ranulf de Vernay come to Claredon now. She was prepared to defend the castle and people against her vengeful betrothed, if need be.

  And she would remain loyal to her father, even if her defiance made her guilty of treason.

  Safe behind his concealing monks robes, Ranulf watched his intended bride with increasing ire and bitter disappointment. A flaming torch had been set in a bracket in the parapet, casting an angelic glow about her as she stood in deep reflection. The innocent image was misleading, he was certain, as was the weary, troubled frown on her clear brow. No sweet, biddable wench, this. Her cunning ploy earlier was worthy of any sly deception perpetrated by the ladies of the Norman court—refusing to surrender the castle to FitzOsbern while at the same time not openly declaring her rebellion. Clever but mistaken. She would not succeed in evading the king’s wrath by such tactics, Ranulf promised silently, or escape penalty for her defiance.

  Ranulf’s eyes narrowed as the knight called Simon drew a fur-trimmed mantle solicitously about her shoulders. There was evident intimacy and affection between the two of them. The affection of lovers? An irrational surge of jealousy speared through Ranulf. Ariane of Claredon belonged tohim, just as her father’s castle now did. She was his betrothed, soon to be his political hostage. If she was being faithless to him with her father’s vassal, she would suffer the consequences. Just as she would pay if she chose to challenge his authority.

  He had been charged with quelling resistance and imposing the king’s will on the land, and he would not be gainsaid. Not by a woman. Most definitely not by his own bride. If she forced him to resort to violence, he would crush her without mercy.

  Almost as if she had divined his thoughts, her head lifted slowly and she half turned, her troubled gaze searching the shadows where he stood.

  Ranulf froze—and drew in his breath sharply at the vision of loveliness Ariane made in the glow of torchlight. Nay, the reports had not exaggerated, he thought as a shaft of desire shot through him with startling intensity. Where once she had been all bones and eyes, now she was slender curves and eyes, with gleaming tresses of pale copper that shimmered and rippled with life. An enchanting, beguiling combination.

  The change disturbed Ranulf greatly. He might have forgiven a child her faulty judgment, for being misled by her advisors, but Ariane of Claredon was no longer a child. She was fully a woman. A noble lady quite capable of aiding a rebellion and supporting her father’s treason.

  And she was his to deal with.

  He could not control his body’s hard response at the thought of having such a defiant beauty in his power, yet before the stirring in his groin could swell to uncomfortable proportions, Ranulf set his jaw and tucked the cowl of his clerical garb more tightly around his face. Then he stepped forward, taking care to remain away from the circle of torchlight, keeping his gaze trained on his bride and her armored protector.

  “A monk seeks audience with you, my lady,” Simon advised her.

  Ariane gave a start when the vassal’s voice interrupted her brooding. With a sigh, she turned to greet the intruder—and halted abruptly. A dark shape had condensed out of the shadows . . . tall, powerful . . . ominous.

  Her hand went to her throat. For the space of a dozen heartbeats she remained frozen, while the night sounds of the castle faded. The presence of her own soldiers, the plight of the refugees, the threat of an enemy army, were forgotten. She was only aware of the towering, motionless form shrouded in a blanket of darkness.

  A frisson of fear ran down her spine at the obscure figure looming so threateningly near. The shadows thrown by the torchlight cast such a strange spell she could almost imagine the giant silhouette to be a menacing dragon.

  It was simply fancy, she told herself with desperate calm. A deceptive trick of the light. Willing herself to show no fear, Ariane took a faltering step closer—and the fearsome image tha
nkfully vanished. The light barely licked at the foot of his robes, but Ariane let out her breath in relief as she recognized his garb. It was only a monk. No danger here.

  Her paralysis faded, yet her uneasiness remained. A man of such height and bulk would be powerful, strong; such a giant could easily be a warrior. Even across the distance that separated them, she could feel his towering masculine presence.

  Wondering at her strange awareness, at her sense of foreboding, she reminded herself that she had her own men to protect her.

  “Greetings, demoiselle,” the shadow said softly.

  Something within her stirred at that deep, muted voice. She felt the oddest sense of . . . intimacy? Familiarity?

  She went still, while strange sensations shivered through her. “Do I know you, sir monk?”

  “I think not, my lady.”

  She hesitated, divided between wariness and curiosity. He was a compelling figure, for his sheer mystery if nothing else. His hands, only partially hidden by the wide sleeves of his robe, were large, strong, long-fingered . . . capable of great violence or tender compassion?

  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 situati
on,” 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.