It aggrieved her as well, but she thought it wiser not to inflame her half-brother further. “It is not too unbearable,” Ariane replied soothingly.
“But he treats you so ill—”
“He has not harmed me, Gilbert.”
Father John scolded the youth to silence. While she ate, the elderly priest related the events of the past three days of her incarceration. It seemed that the new lord was in full command of Claredon. “Yet we have not despaired. Your courage is being hailed on every tongue, my lady.”
“Mine?”
“Aye, for foiling the Black Dragon, for aiding Lord Simon to escape. You have given us hope.”
“False hope, I fear.” She stole a glance at the far end of the hall, where Ranulf sat with his men. “All I have done is bring his vengeance down upon our heads.”
“They say he is a devil,” Father John murmured in a fearful voice.
“He gives no quarter,” Ariane agreed.
“Our father would have dealt swiftly with him,” Gilbert muttered beside her.
A pang of remorse shot through Ariane at the reminder of her failing. “But our father is not here, so I must act as I see fit.”
Her brother scowled. “What villainous means did he employ to force your surrender? ’Tis rumored he threatened to kill his wounded prisoners, and that you traded their lives for your subservience, milady.”
“He was justly angered by the attack on his men,” she murmured.
“But to abuse you so—the accursed devil! He should be stricken down for defiling you.”
“He has not defiled me. He only denied my status as a lady.”
“He has not taken you as his leman?”
Ariane felt a blush rising to heat her cheeks, knowing Gilbert’s assumption was what the rest of the castle folk must believe. “Nay, he has not. He did not wish to validate the betrothal contract. He means to repudiate it—and me.”
Her assurances did not appease the boy’s fury. “All the same, he has dishonored you by this public humiliation. Would that I knew how to wield a sword! I swear I would cut him down where he stands!”
“Gilbert!” she replied sharply. “You must not even consider such a rash act. To challenge the new lord would be to forfeit your life.”
“I care not! I cannot allow him to treat you with such disrespect.”
“We will aid you to escape to the abbey at Frothom,” the priest broke in with a suggestion. “The Church will succor you. Simply say the word.”
“Aye,” Gilbert seconded. “There are many here who would lay down their lives for you.”
“I do not want anyone else to lay down his life!” she said emphatically.
“But you must seek refuge, lady.”
Ariane shook her head at the priest. “I cannot abandon Claredon. I have a responsibility to the people here. How could I live with myself if I fled to the safety of the abbey while those I left behind suffered?”
Father John nodded solemnly. The noble class enjoyed a life of power and privilege, but many, like Walter and his daughter, believed that advantage carried with it obligations.
“As for the future, you will offer no further resistance. Lord Ranulf has killed and wounded too many already, and I want no more senseless deaths. We will have to bide our time until my father returns. . . .” Ariane faltered, choking on the words, but forced herself to continue. She did not wish to stir false hopes, and yet it was her duty to comfort and cheer her people as well as protect them. “You must not lose faith. Lord Walter may yet be proven innocent. You must pass the word, Father John. No more ambushes on Lord Ranulf’s men, do you mark me? He is lord here now, and must be acknowledged as such.”
“Aye, milady. Though it goes against the grain to accept so cruel a knight as overlord.”
“He has not been cruel,” Ariane replied grudgingly. “His retaliation for today’s assault was not excessive. It might be barbaric to display the bodies of his slain foes, but he has the right.”
“But, my lady, I doubt he intends such. Lord Ranulf gave me the order for their burial but a short while ago.”
Ariane gazed at him in relief. Ranulf must have acceded to her plea for the proper observances for the dead men. “You see, Gilbert?” she addressed her brother. “The Dragon can be reasoned with.”
The boy clenched his fists. “Still, it galls me to see you treated so, my lady.”
“I know. But it is not so onerous, truly. Under the circumstances, he has acted with restraint. Indeed, most men in his position would never have bothered gaining a woman’s allegiance, and yet that is all he has asked of me.” She could scarcely believe she was defending the Black Dragon, and yet she could not allow Gilbert to embark on so foolhardy a course as to challenge a powerful warlord. Ranulf would crush him without mercy. As it was, she could only hope the new lord of Claredon would keep his end of the bargain.
Stealing another glance at Ranulf, she found herself pinned by his bold regard, and hastily looked away. His disapproving expression boded ill for her. Falling silent, she bent her attention to finishing her meal.
She would have been even more worried had she been privy to the conversation at the opposite end of the hall, where Ranulf was enduring a reproach from his chief vassal, Payn FitzOsbern.
“You should have hanged the culprits,” Payn remarked grimly, daring to criticize his liege. “Your punishment was too lenient by far, my lord.”
“If I can gain the willing obedience of the people here,” Ranulf replied mildly, “then my lenience will have served a purpose.”
Payn drained his wine cup. “True, but I fear you are thinking with your loins rather than your head.”
Ranulf’s head turned, his gaze narrowing on his vassal. “What mean you by that?”
“Merely that you seem to have been bewitched by your betrothed.”
He stiffened. “She is no longer my betrothed, and I fail to see the logic in your charge.”
“You returned to Claredon bent on revenge, yet she managed to persuade you to stay your hand.”
“Solely because Ichose to stay it.”
“You mean to say she does not rouse your lust?”
“She stirs nothing in me save my temper,” Ranulf lied. “I’ve no interest in a sharp-tongued vixen, especially one of her high birth.”
Payn’s brow shot up, while on his other side, Ivo de Ridefort grunted. “Such defiance must be beaten out of a wench.”
Ranulf’s jaw hardened. He would never sink to the animalistic level of his brutish father. “I will handle her as I see fit.”
Ivo’s cousin, Bertran, glanced down the length of the hall to where Ariane sat eating. “I almost envy you the taming of her, sire. She is a beauty, no mistake. ’Struth, I wouldn’t mind taking her off your hands. Give her to me for a week or so and I will have her purring at your every command.”
Another of Ranulf’s vassals guffawed. “You, Bertran? Purring? What would a lady such as she have to do with a ham-handed lout such as you?”
“Best curb your lust, Bertran,” another knight said with a glance at Ranulf’s unsmiling features, “before our lord curbs it for you.”
Forcing himself to relax the set of his jaw, Ranulf allowed his mouth to curve in the flicker of a grin. He did not care to hear his men discussing Ariane as if she were a common castle wench, yet defending her would only add substance to Payn’s accusation.
WasAriane a witch who had cast him under her spell?
Reluctantly, Ranulf found his gaze drawn back to her. She held herself with the regal grace of a queen, despite the humbling ordeal he had forced upon her by making her serve his needs in full view of her people.
He could not have said why he wanted to shield her, especially when suspicion and resentment still ate at him. Perhaps there was some merit to the charge of bewitchment, after all. Her stubborn support of her treasonous father irritated him, while her barbed wit stung; yet he had to admire her courage and spirit. And the burning in his veins was not due
to anger at the wench’s disobedience, Ranulf acknowledged. No, he was fiercely attracted to her, despite her defiance, despite her noble birth.
Ranulf exhaled a slow breath. He could not permit himself to care about her. Payn was right on one score at least. He would have to harden his heart and guard himself well against her wiles. Highborn ladies like Ariane brought nothing but pain and trouble. He had shown her mercy, a mercy he himself had never known. With that she would have to be content.
She was fortunate her connection to the ambush could not be proven. According to the confessions of the men they’d captured, the knight she had recently aided to escape, Simon Crecy, had not engineered this afternoon’s attack. The blame lay with other loyal knights and serfs seeking to regain possession of Claredon. Yet Ariane bore some of the responsibility, Ranulf reminded himself, for refusing to surrender the castle to him in the first place, in defiance of a royal command.
Now that his fury had a chance to cool, however, he was willing to admit he might have overreacted when he’d demanded that she serve as squire. He had been angry over the pointless deaths of his archer and Claredon’s serfs, as well as Burc’s wounding. Ariane’s servitude might serve a useful purpose, though. She would change her tune soon enough if she had to endure enough humility, would soon be pleading with him for mercy. He had no desire to mistreat her, but he was determined to make her yield to his authority.
She had surprised him a short while ago with the sincerity of her pledge before her people. No one but he would have guessed that her oath was forced, that she had not willingly submitted to him.
A jongleur who had begun strumming a viol asked the lord’s permission to entertain the crowd with a ballad. Ranulf nodded but listened with only one ear as he impatiently awaited Ariane’s return. He did not care for the fierce glances the handsome blond youth sitting beside her kept shooting him.
It was far too long in Ranulf’s opinion before she finished her meal and resumed her duties at his side.
His mouth twisted dryly when she reached him. “What were you discussing with such earnestness? Plotting my demise?”
Ariane flushed. “No, my lord, we were not plotting,” she prevaricated. “We were discussing the burial of the dead. I thank you for your mercy.”
Ranulf eyed her warily, as if not trusting her gratitude.
“We also discussed the plight of the families that the dead leave behind,” she added. “A subject that should concern you as well. As lord of Claredon you are now responsible for their welfare.”
“I am well aware of my responsibilities, demoiselle.”
“Then you will take steps to provide for them? I am certain you would not permit them to starve. You agreed to treat Claredon’s people with mercy—or need I remind you of our bargain?”
Ranulf smiled, a dark, dangerous smile that made her pulse suddenly beat faster. “Perhaps you should remind yourself, lady. If this is an illustration of your ‘unquestioning obedience’ to me, then you have already violated your oath.”
Willing her heart to settle down, Ariane bit back the retort she longed to make and sighed inwardly, prepared to endure a long evening.
Eventually the last course ended and the tables were cleared of dishes. The company appeared ready to settle in for a long interlude of wine and revelry, for already the dicing and music had begun.
“Will you give me leave to retire, my lord?” Ariane asked after a time.
Ranulf shook his head. “Your duties are not finished. Go and order a bath prepared for me, and return here.”
She did as she was bid, finding several of Claredon’s more trustworthy servants and ordering a bath filled in the solar for the new lord.
When she returned to the hall, she was given a warm jolt of surprise—a most unpleasant one. Several of the castle wenches hovered before the high table, clearly seeking the lord’s attention, and Ranulf was favoring them with an easy smile.
He was a devastating man when he truly smiled, Ariane reflected with chagrin. His harsh features softened, gentled, while his already potent masculine appeal increased tenfold. Her dream lover in the flesh, she thought despairingly, recognizing the compelling charm and heart-stopping tenderness that had earned her adoration when she was but a girl.
As if sensing her regard, Ranulf turned his head and his eyes hotly connected with hers. Abruptly his smile changed to one of challenge, reminding Ariane more clearly than words of the conflict between them.
She had just reluctantly resumed her place at Ranulf’s side when a commotion sounded at the entrance to the hall. Glancing up, Ariane saw an armored knight approaching the dais, followed by two men-at-arms who were dragging a limp, groaning man between them.
She recognized the brawny prisoner as one of Claredon’s novice tradesmen. When he was released, his knees sagged beneath his weight and he fell facedown onto the rushes. His tunic had been ripped open to the waist, exposing a mass of bloody welts on his bare shoulders and back. Clearly he had been flogged.
Immediately the hall grew quiet. Ivo de Ridefort, the knight who had been left in charge of the castle during the lord’s absence, rose from his seat at the high table to address Ranulf.
“My lord, this is the matter I spoke of—one that requires your judgment. This cur was caught stealing weapons from the armory.”
Ranulf’s gaze narrowed on the prostrate man. “Who is he?”
“The smith’s apprentice, lord. Edric by name. He took some dozen swords and daggers, including one with a jewelled handle.”
“What have you to say for yourself, Edric?” Ranulf demanded in heavily accented English, dashing Ariane’s previous hope that he could not understand the language.
Weakly, the injured Edric struggled to push himself up to a kneeling position, fixing his captors with a fierce, pain-filled glare before hanging his head.
“I asked you a question,” Ranulf barked. “Answer me.”
“I . . . needed the weapons, milord,” Edric rasped finally.
“Why?”
“Shall I wring a confession from him, lord?” a guard asked when the prisoner remained silent.
Watching the proceedings, Ariane could no longer keep still. “My lord, if I may speak?”
Ranulf turned a piercing gaze upon her.
“There must be some mistake. I have never known Edric to be dishonest. He would not steal; I am certain.”
“Then how do you explain his theft of the weapons?”
“Edric . . .” She spoke to the smith in English. “Why did you take the swords? Did you mean to work on them at the forge, perhaps?”
“Nay, milady. I will not lie.” He glanced warily at Ranulf. “I . . . It is just . . . I did not want harm to come to you, milady. Someone must defend you.”
“You thought to defend the demesne?”
“Aye, for you and my Lord Walter.”
Ariane bit her lip, while renewed anger streaked through Ranulf—anger directed at Ariane. This new incident coming so swiftly on the heels of the ambush was proof enough of the trouble she had caused. She had endangered his men, his entire rule, with her brazen defiance.
“This is what comes of leniency, Ranulf,” Payn muttered in outrage just loud enough for Ariane to hear. “When a common smith thinks to challenge you—”
“He has already suffered twenty-one lashes, my lord,” Ivo stated, “but it is for you to decide if he deserves further punishment.”
“He should lose a hand for stealing,” another knight interjected.
Ariane drew a sharp breath. Cutting off a hand was the usual punishment for thievery, but this was no normal theft.
“My lord,” she exclaimed, appealing earnestly to Ranulf. “I beg you to show mercy. He did not seek to steal for gain but only to defend the castle. If you must punish someone, then punish me.”
Ranulf’s mouth tightened. Ariane was beseeching him again for mercy? Deliberately he hardened his heart, cursing his absurd impulse to yield to the plea in her eyes. If he softened
each time she merely looked at him, it could prove deadly to his command.
And yet this was the first real test of his rule. Would mercy serve him in better stead than ruthless adherence to policy?
“He sought todefend the castle?” Ranulf repeated in a low voice edged with scorn. “From my rule? Some would consider his crime worse than theft. ’Tis treason to plot to overthrow one’s lord.”
Apparently having no answer, she remained silent.
His hard gaze skewered her. “You see what your disobedience has wrought, demoiselle? Had you relinquished the castle instead of thwarting me, had you obeyed the king’s command, I would not now be required to defend against challenges from every quarter.”
“Aye, my lord,” she whispered, her own gaze anguished.
Her show of remorse tempered Ranulf’s anger a small measure as he sat staring at her in smoldering silence.
Payn broke in sharply, as if sensing his lord’s wavering resolve. “The culprit still must be punished severely for his crime, even if he does not lose a hand.”
“Flog the cur to death,” someone else interjected.
Wincing inwardly, Ranulf hesitated. He despised the lash, was sickened by that form of punishment, although upon occasion he forced himself to use it. He could not neglect sentencing a criminal simply because he loathed flogging. And in truth, the lash was the more lenient penalty, since a handless smith would soon be reduced to begging for sustenance. Moreover, setting such an example for prospective rebels might prevent more deaths of his own men in the future.
But Ariane’s beautiful gray eyes were fixed on him, imploring him for mercy.
While he delayed his decision, a spirited discussion ensued among his knights, debating the merits of various penalties. The argument continued until Ranulf finally held up a hand. “Twenty-one lashes is severe enough punishment in this instance.”
He was aware of Payn’s sharp glance, but he ignored it and gestured to one of his sergeants. “Confine the thief in the dungeons where he may reflect upon his misdeeds and reconsider his rashness.”
The Warrior Page 13