The Warrior

by Nicole Jordan

  “I trust you are satisfied with the devil’s brew you’ve stirred up,” he said tightly as he kicked the door shut behind him.

  “W-What do you mean?”

  “We were ambushed on our return from Wyclif. One of my men was slain and my best squire gravely wounded.”

  He drew off his helmet, which bore a large dent on the left side, as if from a sword’s blow. Such a powerful blow might have killed him, Ariane thought with dismay. The helmet would need a trip to the armorer before it could safely be used again. And traces of blood caked the chain links of his mail hauberk. Ranulf had evidently been wounded in the fighting.

  He tossed the helmet on a chest without taking his ruthless gaze from her. “I advise you not to be too pleased by your handiwork, wench. Two of your father’s vassals sit in Claredon’s dungeon—one of knight’s rank. And five of your serfs lie dead in the bailey. Their deaths rest on your conscience.”

  “Five? Mother Mary . . .” Her heart constricted with horror.

  “Aye, five. See you now what your treachery has wrought?”

  “M-Mine?”

  “You abetted your knight Simon in escaping, and he in turn attacked my troops, which resulted in the carnage.”

  Weakly, Ariane raised a hand to her temple. Earlier she had fallen into a doze after so many nights of sleeplessness, and her head felt so woolly with fatigue, she could scarcely think. “Are you certain it was Simon?”

  “What matters who led the attack?” Ranulf snapped. “Your defiance incited your followers to rise against me.”

  “I am sorry. . . . I never wanted anyone to be hurt.”

  Her apology fell on deaf ears. Ranulf’s granite-hewn features showed no sign of forgiveness as he pushed back his mail coif, exposing raven hair damp with sweat. “Your sorrow will not restore the life of my archer, nor aid my squire to recover from his wounds.”

  Ariane swallowed. “I know something of healing. Your squire . . . will you permit me to see to his care? To make amends?”

  Ranulf shook his head. “You have done enough damage already, milady.”

  She bit her lip, wondering how she could hope to find any pity in this harsh, ruthless man, particularly when he was rightly outraged by the carnage. Stiff with dread, she moved to stand before him. Summoning her courage, she placed an imploring hand on his mail sleeve, although he shook it off as if her touch burned. “The men who died . . . will you allow them a proper burial?”

  “They will receive no such veneration. Their bodies will remain on view as a reminder to those who would dare rise against me.”

  “Nay, ’tis barbarous. You cannot—”

  “Icannot ?” Ranulf’s eyes narrowed fiercely, flashing like yellow lightning. “Do not seek to test my mettle, lady. I could crush the breath from you in an instant.”

  She knew he spoke the truth. He could choke the life from her with ease, or fell her with a single blow. Yet she could not give up without trying to persuade him to mercy.

  “And your prisoners?” she breathed. “What will befall them?”

  “For their treachery, they will pay with their lives.”

  She gazed at him in anguish. “No . . . please . . . my Lord Ranulf . . . Have you no compassion? Can you show no mercy?”

  “I have no mercy for traitors.”

  “I beseech you—”

  “Cease your entreaties, lady!” he roared. “I will not be swayed!”

  Flinching from his violent fury, Ariane bowed her head. “I humbly beg your forgiveness, my lord.”

  A muscle in Ranulf’s jaw worked at her transparent attempt to manipulate him and assuage his anger. God’s teeth, but she seemed determined to push him to the limit. Even now she refused to back down.

  “Will . . . will you not permit me to sue for their lives at least?”

  He had been about to give her another blistering rebuke, but his gaze arrested. This was her first sign of weakening. He would be a fool not to pursue it, Ranulf realized. He wanted, needed, her cooperation to achieve his goals. Hitherto Ariane had responded with defiance and scorn at any suggestion that she aid him in assuming control of the demesne, deeming him a usurper and trickster. If he could win her support, though, however reluctant, the people of Claredon would accept him more readily as overlord, would confer him their loyalty that much sooner. “What do you offer in exchange?”

  “I . . . I have naught to give you,” Ariane replied. “You claimed anything that was mine when you seized Claredon.”

  “There is your oath.” She gazed at him with faint confusion. “Will you swear for Henry?” Ranulf demanded. “Will you accept me as your liege?”

  “You know I cannot. My allegiance is to my father.”

  He cursed under his breath at her continued stubbornness. “Under the circumstances, you have no reason to consider yourself bound to your father.”

  “Perhaps . . . but I will not forsake him.”

  “You would forfeit the lives of your vassals?”

  An ache rose to her throat, and she could barely force her denial past the constriction there. “No. What do you want of me?”

  “I would have your sacred vow, demoiselle. You will swear to keep faith with me, to submit to my rule without question.”

  “You will not harm your prisoners if I yield to you?”

  Ranulf stared down at her beautiful, upturned face, into the luminous eyes swimming with tears, and something within him softened, like wax against a flame. He had to admire her courage. She had not pleaded for herself—now or at any time since he had taken her hostage—but only for her father’s men.

  “I will not allow them to go unpunished, demoiselle. Not only did they dare challenge my authority, but they cost a good man, and mayhap another. But I will agree to spare their lives.”

  Ariane searched Ranulf’s harsh features, realizing she would gain no other concessions, not when he was so enraged by the senseless carnage. It would be unwise to press him further. Indeed, she knew what her lady mother would advise: a willow that bent with the wind would outlast the storm, though a mighty oak snapped. For now she would have to bend, would have to bide her time. There was no shame in striking such a bargain in order to prevent more deaths.

  “Very well,” Ariane said quietly. “I make you a solemn vow to submit to your wishes.”

  Ranulf shook his head. She looked so guileless, her eyes wide and full of repentance. Yet he could not allow her to escape with total impunity. She had given him nothing but betrayal. And she had caused the death, at least indirectly, of a half dozen men and nearly killed his squire, a brave lad who had shown only loyalty and devotion. “Not so quickly, demoiselle. I will not allow you to escape retribution so easily. There are conditions.”

  “Conditions, my lord?”

  “You will address your villeins and vassals, proclaiming me lord of Claredon. You will offer your homage to me in a public forum, clearly accepting me as your liege.”

  “But . . . women cannot pay homage.”

  “It will be a symbolic gesture, merely that. I will have your people observe your submission, so they will follow me more willingly.”

  “I shall do as you wish.”

  “That is not all. You will serve me henceforth. My squire was wounded as a result of your actions, so you will assume his duties. You will attend me as my body servant, perform every function I required of him, until such time as he is fit to resume his responsibilities.”

  Ariane nodded slowly. Doubtless it was Ranulf’s intent to display her submissiveness by forcing her to play his servant in public, yet it was not too high a price to pay, not if he would spare the lives of her people.

  “There is still more. I demand your unquestioning obedience. You will leap to fulfill my every wish, carry out my smallest command.”

  Ariane felt her fingers curl involuntarily, yet she dared not show the slightest sign of rebellion. She nodded.

  “I will have your oath, demoiselle.”

  Knowing she had no choice,
she bowed her head. “You have it, my lord,” she replied solemnly. “By my sworn word, I pledge to obey you in all things, to act as your servant, to seek to persuade the people of Claredon to accept you as their rightful liege.”

  Ranulf stared down at Ariane warily, reluctant to trust her, even more unwilling to trust his own senses. Her voice quavered, husky with relief or unshed tears he wasn’t certain, but with a power that tugged relentlessly on his sympathies. It was impossible to ignore the compassion she stirred in him—or deny the arousing effect of her nearness, either. He could smell her scent, the subtle, sweet fragrance of oil of roses and warm woman. He was keenly aware of her body’s heat, of the constant charge of attraction that flowed between them, of the primal urges she kindled in him so effortlessly. Ranulf felt his loins tighten, become heavy and full, and he swore under his breath.

  Deliberately he took a step back, absently clutching his aching side as he put a safer distance between them. Yet a frown scored his brow. He had gained Ariane’ s promise of submission, her pledge of unquestioning obedience. So why then did he feel as if she were the victor and he the vanquished?

  7

  The crowded great hall was deathly quiet, so still a mouse could be heard rustling in the floor rushes. Only the fire crackling in the immense stone hearth at one side of the long hall disturbed the silence.

  All eyes were trained on the lady of Claredon as she gave her oath of homage to the Black Dragon of Vernay. Ariane knelt before Ranulf, her head bowed, her hands placed in his, and swore to serve him faithfully.

  When she rose and met his wintry gaze, her carriage was proud and erect. “My liege,” she said clearly—and felt like the meanest traitor. It had been her responsibility to defend the demesne, and her failure distressed her keenly.

  Her vision blurred, she turned to survey the crowd, facing her people for the first time since the fall of Claredon three days ago. She saw sympathy and sorrow on the countenances of those who had served her all her life: Claredon’s priest, Father John; his clerk and her half-brother, Gilbert; her ladies and sewing women; kitchen wenches and serving maids, including the insolent Dena; pages and varlets who performed the countless domestic chores. She saw no sign of the castle’s seneschal or steward or any other high official. Doubtless Ranulf had imprisoned them for refusing to accept him as lord.

  “The new lord of Claredon bids you lay down your weapons and go about your duties,” she told them in English, in a voice she managed to keep steady. “He says there will be no further bloodshed if we give him no trouble and serve him well.”

  She repeated the message in French for the benefit of the Norman conquerors. Hesitating then, she glanced up at Ranulf, wishing the short blue square of silk she wore as a head covering was large enough to shield her from his penetrating gaze. His harsh visage had remained coldly expressionless during the ceremony, and now he watched her with an intentness that made her want to shiver. She could well understand how he had earned the dreaded name Black Dragon.

  “Is that sufficient, my lord?”

  “For now. On the morrow you will address the assembled field serfs and bid them return to working the land. I want my new estates to prosper.”

  “As you wish, my lord,” Ariane replied quietly, making every effort to keep her manner complaisant, refusing to give him any reason to repudiate the bargain they had struck.

  Ranulf called for the repast to begin and the crowd dispersed. His vassals found places at the long trestle tables erected for meals, with those of highest rank sharing the lord’s table on the raised wooden dais at the hall’s front end. Without being told, Ariane followed Ranulf to his seat and waited as he settled into an ornately carved, high-backed chair, one of only two backed chairs in the entire chamber. Lifting a flagon, she poured wine into a goblet for him, and then stood obediently behind his chair, at hand to attend him.

  The tasks he had set her to were not so onerous, she reflected. As his body servant, she was to select and care for his clothes, help him dress, serve him at table, which included carving his meat and presenting the lord’s wine cup, and generally perform whatever personal service he required. She knew precisely what was expected of her. Over the years she had watched her father supervise the training of countless pages and squires, most of whom were the sons of nobles who fostered with him. Her mother had directed the castle staff with a similar firm hand, and when Ariane assumed those duties four years ago, she was well versed in every aspect of service.

  It was also a squire’s duty to see to his lord’s armor and weapons, but earlier Ranulf had claimed he didn’t trust her to care for them properly. And that she was clearly unfit for military service.

  A faint smile twisted Ariane’s lips as she recalled Ranulf’s disgust a short while ago when he’d commanded her to remove his war trappings. Her grimace when she unbelted his bloodied sword had earned her a quick rebuke, and he’d shown little patience with her further ministrations. As tall as she was, she had needed to stand on a stool to raise his chain mail hauberk over his head, and then she had staggered so under its weight that Ranulf had to take it from her and arrange it over the wooden form himself.

  She had drawn a sharp breath when she realized his woolen tunic was soaked in blood.

  “Do not raise your hopes overmuch, demoiselle,” Ranulf remarked dryly. “It is a mere scratch.”

  When his torso was bared, though, Ariane could see he had greatly underestimated the severity of his injuries. Doubtless the inflamed gouges in his side were no more than pinpricks compared to some of the wounds he had suffered in previous battles, but they could be dangerous should they putrefy. She had offered to tend his wounded ribs and apply an herb compress, but Ranulf had coolly declined, saying that he didn’t trust any remedy she supplied not to be riddled with poison—his tone suggesting that he was already regretting his insistence that she serve him in place of his wounded squire.

  “You find something amusing, lady?”

  With a start Ariane realized Ranulf had glanced over his shoulder at her and was fixing her with a cool stare. Carefully she schooled her features to blandness. “No, my lord. I have no reason to be amused.”

  “My cup is empty. Fetch me more wine.”

  She hastened to obey, gritting her teeth at his commanding tone, even while reluctantly acknowledging the effectiveness of his uncommon method of justice. The role Ranulf had forced her to play was designed not merely to replace his wounded squire—an eye for an eye—but to display her subjugation. By requiring her to serve him publicly, her people would clearly see his power, and perhaps realize the futility of defying his will.

  And though she was loathe to admit it, his chosen form of retribution was indeed merciful, Ariane knew. After his party had been attacked, his men killed and wounded, the new lord of Claredon would have been well within his rights to exact a devastating reprisal. Other warlords in similar circumstances had been known to raze entire villages, torturing and killing even women and children in their desire for revenge.

  It might be humbling for someone of her high birth to be treated no better than a serf, mortifying in truth, but Ariane was thankful for Ranulf’s measured sentence. Thankful for the opportunity to leave her prison as well; to be allowed to move about the keep, among her people, where she could keep watch on the new lord of Vernay. She did not trust Ranulf not to visit some cruelty upon them, even if thus far he had shown remarkable restraint.

  Moreover, she hoped her new responsibilities would help her conquer the nerve-shredding fear of the past few days.

  She would be boiled in oil, though, before she displayed the slightest hint of fear to Ranulf. She was determined not to give him the upper hand.

  Keeping her head high and her resentment hidden, Ariane stood at attention behind Ranulf during the entire meal, determined to anticipate his every need, to give him no cause for rebuke. Serfs carried in trenchers of day-old bread to serve as bowls and plates. Such trenchers were usually shared by two people, often a
lady and a nobleman, but Ranulf enjoyed his own, for the twin chair to his right remained empty.

  He conversed idly with his knights as he ate, first a thick soup, then platters of roasted meats, and finally cheeses and sweet wine. Ariane suspected the dishes were not prepared with the care they would have been given under her management, yet the food smelled delicious. Her own hunger took her by surprise, since she’d had little appetite during the past four grueling days.

  It came as a welcome relief when Ranulf at last sent her a glance. “You have my leave to eat, demoiselle.”

  Feigning indifference, Ariane withdrew before he could change his mind, and sought a place at the opposite end of the hall, as far away from the lord’s table as she could get. She could feel Ranulf’s gaze boring into her as she was welcomed eagerly by Father John and his clerk, Gilbert, who both jumped to their feet to serve her.

  A lad of some sixteen years, Gilbert was actually her half-brother—her father’s son by a field serf. By law a serf’s bastard could not inherit a noble’s demesne lands, but Gilbert had never appeared to resent the limitations of his baseborn status. Tall and slight of build, he was obviously unfit for the demands of a knightly life, yet he was clever and quick and had earned the notice of his lordly father and the lord’s wife, Ariane’s mother.

  It was actually Lady Constance who had plucked Gilbert from the obscurity and grueling toil of a serf’s fate, and had seen him educated by the Church, which dispensed all learning. Although it was not uncommon for a lady to raise her husband’s bastard sons, Constance had been exceptionally generous in Gilbert’s case, since she herself had been unable to give her lord husband more children. Claredon, as well as Gilbert, had profited. Clerking was an honorable profession in great demand. Many nobles could write at least a little, but most relied upon clerks to see to such work, to handle correspondence and to keep the accounts for their seneschals and stewards.

  “My lady!” Gilbert exclaimed in a fierce undertone that startled Ariane as he resettled himself beside her on the bench. He was normally sweet-tempered and exquisitely-mannered, but his fair complexion now was flushed with emotion. “It aggrieves me to see the shame that black devil has heaped on you.”