The Warrior

by Nicole Jordan

  When the young people professed their love for each other and declared their willingness to live in poverty, Ranulf not only allowed them to wed, he dowered the bride, giving the couple a hut to live in and a cow to begin their life together. Their joy was evident on their beaming faces, their gratitude obvious in the way they fell to their knees and kissed the lord’s hand.

  Payn seemed to see nothing odd in the ruling, but Ariane stared at Ranulf in disbelief, bewildered by his uncharacteristic action.

  For a fleeting moment, she caught his gaze across the hall, and from the way his expression suddenly darkened at the sight of her, she could tell he was recalling their own broken betrothal. Then, to her dismay, Ranulf’s mouth curved in a slow, burning smile. It was a silent challenge to her, Ariane knew, a private acknowledgment of the battle between them and his determination to win.

  Ariane repressed the urge to toss her head in a reckless show of defiance. Thinking it also unwise to draw Ranulf’s attention further, she reined in her curiosity just then, but at the next opportunity, when she served him at the midday meal, she abandoned her pretense of subservience long enough to question him about his decision.

  “I confess to surprise, my lord,” she said in a voice too low to be overheard by his vassals, “that you should part with good coin for the sake of true love.”

  Ranulf gave her a guarded glance, as if mistrusting the intent of her remark. “I saw no reason to force them into a marriage merely to satisfy their parents’ mercenary desires.”

  “Your compassion is commendable. And to think,” Ariane could not resist adding archly, “the world believes your heart wears a sheet of iron.”

  For a moment Ranulf was caught between anger and amusement at her comment, but he merely responded with a mocking smile. “You are mistaken, demoiselle. I have no heart.”

  Perhaps that was so, Ariane reflected thoughtfully as she gazed down at him. And yet she had seen with her own eyes Ranulf’s momentary lapses into kindness, actions that suggested he was more vulnerable than he wanted to acknowledge.

  Ranulf, suddenly uncomfortable with her clear-seeing gaze, averted his own, but made the mistake of glancing down at her hands. Their condition appalled him; the flesh was nearly as red and raw as fresh meat.

  A surge of remorse rose up in him so quickly that he could not check it. Forgetting the retort he had been about to give, Ranulf reached out and gently took Ariane’s hand. Turning the delicate appendage palm up, he stared down in dismay at the oozing blisters.

  “God’s blood, how came you by these?” he asked, although he feared he knew.

  “Cleaning your armor, my lord. Scrubbing chain mail with sand and vinegar is not renowned for its salubrious effect.”

  “Why did you say nothing?” Ranulf demanded, his tone brusque with anger at his own thoughtlessness.

  “I did not think you would care to hear my opinion, my lord,” she replied dryly, unable to refrain from the gibe.

  Ignoring her sarcasm, Ranulf frowned as his thumbs traced the blistered flesh, careful not to touch the tender areas. Against his will, he felt a grudging respect and admiration for her fortitude. Not once had Ariane complained about the savage treatment he had accorded her. “I have seen battle wounds as severe as these.”

  “But I thought you wished to see me suffer,” Ariane reminded him.

  “I had no desire to see you injured,” he answered, vaguely aware of the inconsistencies in his logic. “Do you not have a potion you can apply to your hands?”

  “Yes.” The word came out more breathless than she intended. Ranulf was stroking her palm almost absently, arousing an unbidden sensual response within her merely with a featherlight pressure on her skin.

  “Then do so.”

  He released her hand, yet his features remained disturbed as he studied her. If Ariane had not known better, she would actually have thought him concerned for her welfare.

  “And you may turn the task of cleaning armor over to my squires.” He hesitated. “Your work leaves much to be desired, in any case.”

  Though realizing from the sudden dry note in his voice that Ranulf was deliberately provoking her, Ariane gave him an indignant glance, annoyed by that untruth. She had done as good a job as any squire, for she refused to give Ranulf any cause to find fault with her. Yet she would be grateful to be relieved of the responsibility of caring for his armor. Cleaning chain mail was physically easier than other menial tasks Ranulf had assigned her, but the chore tortured her hands.

  She might have expressed her thoughts on the matter, except that Ranulf startled her by suddenly rising from his chair. The gentle brush of his finger on her cheek unsettled her even more. Lifting her head sharply, she stared at him, unable to look away. Was he purposefully using his compelling touch to discompose her, conducting a bold seduction right here in the hall?

  She was certain of it when Ranulf’s mouth curved in a tantalizing half-smile, one that held a devastating appeal and set her heart to thudding. He was well aware of his power over the female sex, Ariane knew.

  “Go now, and see to your wounds.”

  “B-But . . . what of my duties?” she stammered, nervous at his proximity and the sudden softness of his tone, as well as suspicious of his motives.

  “On the morrow you can return to working in the kitchens and serving tables, so long as you remain where I may keep an eye on you.”

  Weighing the advantages, Ariane nodded slowly. If she remained near him, she would be vulnerable to his vexing tactics, yet she would have better opportunities to pursue her own plan to tame the Dragon. And she could keep a close eye on Ranulf as well, and be there to intervene should he deal harshly with any of her people.

  She watched him more closely after that. Not only did Ranulf make progress on the domestic front, he also succeeded outside the castle walls. Militarily he tightened his hold on the demesne, flexing his might in countless ways. His patrols made endless forays about the countryside searching for rebels, and Ranulf himself seized the other two manor houses within a day’s ride of the castle. By the end of his second full week at Claredon, the garrison began to follow a predictable routine, alternating between patrolling the countryside and practicing arms daily in the exercise yard in the lower bailey.

  It was a familiar sight for Ariane, seeing seasoned knights hacking at each other as they trained in warfare—except that these were the wrong knights. Her father, Walter, should be lord here. Seeing Ranulf settle into his role with such ease disheartened her greatly, and an ache caught at her throat whenever she remembered her father’s uncertain plight. She could only pray that his vassal, Simon, had by now reached him, and that, by some miracle, Walter would be cleared of the charge of treason. Perhaps they would even discover the means to deliver Claredon from the Black Dragon.

  She prayed also for the inhabitants of the eastern forest. Guarded so closely, she had found no opportunity to slip out of the castle to visit them, and time was growing short.

  Her own plight seemed just as uncertain, although her circumstances improved minimally after her encounter with Ranulf when he saw the consequence of his punishment. He lightened her workload to a degree, allowing her to perform the less physical chores, and her hands were healing. Yet he had not forgiven her in the least for her claim of ravishment. A storm was brewing between them, she could sense it. And she suspected that one day soon, it would break over her head.

  When trouble next came, however, it was from a direction Ariane had not foreseen—one of Ranulf’s own high-ranking vassals.

  She had just climbed the stairs from the kitchens with a wooden platter of honeyed cakes for the last course of the evening meal when she found her path blocked by a tall, dark-haired knight whom she recognized as Bertran de Ridefort, a cousin of Ivo’s and one of the knights who regularly sat at the lord’s high table. When she gave him a quizzical glance, he responded with a friendly leer.

  “Well met . . . my beauteoush lady.” His words were slurred, and he swa
yed on his feet, obviously the worse for drink.

  Ariane lowered her gaze to hide her scorn. “Please, my lord . . . allow me to pass.”

  “What if I do not, little wi-sh . . . witch?”

  “Lord Ranulf would not be pleased if I tarried.”

  Bertran flashed her a charming grin that was not unappealing; he was rather handsome when he smiled, despite his drunken state. “Methinks Lord Ranulf would not care if you tarried withme. ”

  Ariane grew uneasy with his lascivious scrutiny, her fingers tightening involuntarily on the wooden platter. She was not afraid for her virtue. There were twoscore men within shouting distance who would doubtless come to her rescue if needed. And yet she did not want to make an enemy of Ivo’s cousin. Next to Payn FitzOsbern, Ivo de Ridefort was Ranulf’s most trusted vassal, the knight left in charge of Claredon when the lord was away. His cousin Bertran, while not as high in station, was frequently in Ranulf’s company and obviously valued for his counsel. It would be better if she could handle this overamorous knight on her own, without appearing to spurn his advances. Indeed, her best course might be to claim Ranulf’s protection, she decided.

  Ariane forced herself to smile. “I fearI would care, sir. In the eyes of God, I am Lord Ranulf’s wife, and I would remain faithful to him.”

  Bertran frowned, as if having difficulty following her reasoning. “Not his wife . . . Fear Ranulf is engaged with . . . that slut, Dena. He will not missh you, schweeting. He has wearied of your charms . . . but I vow I will not.”

  Ariane stiffened at the mention of that strumpet’s name, astonished at how fierce and hurtful was the pang of jealousy that coursed through her.

  Giving a cheerful leer, Bertran leaned closer, his breath heavy with wine fumes. “I can ease your labor, sweeting. A beauty such as yoursshelf should not be slaving like a peasant. I have amussh more pleasant occupation in mind.”

  To her startlement, he reached out and gave a tug on the drawstring at the neckline of her woolen bodice. Ariane gasped in alarm. She tried to draw back, but his hand caught her wrist, nearly causing her to drop her platter. His strong fingers dug into her flesh almost painfully, as if he was unaware of his strength.

  A frisson of fear danced down her spine. A knight could take a field wench without a thought, and although an honorable man would not abuse his lord’s unwilling servants within the keep, in his befuddled state Bertran could easily have forgotten her rank—and more easily overpower her, if he wished.

  With a desperate jerk of her arm, Ariane managed to free her wrist from Bertran’s grasp. Clutching her platter, she slipped past him, intending to flee—and collided directly with a broad, unyielding chest. The force knocked her platter of cakes from her grasp, and sent it spilling to the rush-covered floor with a thud.

  She recognized that familiar chest, that hard, powerful body. Horrified, Ariane looked up into hard eyes of amber gold. “M-My lord . . .” she stammered. “I beg pardon. . . .”

  Ranulf’s gaze went from her flushed face to his vassal’s. “It seems you have lost your way, Bertran. You sought the garderobe to relieve yourself, I believe.”

  He shook his dark head. “Rather relieve myself with this wensh, Ranulf.”

  Ranulf leveled an arctic stare at the knight. To Ariane’s shock, he slipped his arm around her waist and drew her hard against him. “Not yours.Mine. And I guard well what is mine.”

  She sucked in her breath sharply as she felt Ranulf’s hand brazenly brush her breast. She wanted to slap his hand away, yet considered it wiser not to protest when his display of male possessiveness offered her protection.

  Bertran blinked at the action, while his expression grew sulky. “Aye, milord. I knew not how it was between you. I shall find me another wench-sh.” With a vapid smile, Bertran turned and strolled off in search of more willing female companionship.

  To Ariane’s relief, Ranulf released her at once.

  “Were you harmed?” he asked sharply.

  “No,” she replied, rubbing her sore wrist. Her relief faded as Ranulf’s hot gaze shifted to hers, hard and accusing.

  “I will not have you seducing my men to win their sympathy,” he said in a voice tight with anger.

  “Seduce—?” Ariane gaped at him. “ ’Tis not true. I did nothing to encourage his interest.”

  Ranulf’s mouth curled as his gaze dropped to her bosom, where the bodice of her rough woolen gown gaped open, exposing the upper swells of her breasts. “Indeed? You merely allowed him to ogle your charms and taunted him with the promise of your body? Cover yourself,” Ranulf ordered as she opened her mouth in denial.

  Ariane ground her teeth in indignation, but she obediently retied the drawstring to her bodice. Ranulf would not believe her protestations of innocence. He was stubbornly determined to think the worst of her—

  A plaintive whine at her feet momentarily distracted her attention. The castle dogs had gathered around to sniff the rushes. With a grimace, Ariane bent to pick up the platter she had dropped. Most of the cakes had fallen on the floor, and she left them there for the dogs to devour.

  When she stood once more, Ranulf was still eyeing her sternly. “Be warned, wench. You think to ease your plight by winning over my vassals, but I am well acquainted with the ploys of your kind. I will not countenance such trickery in my keep, do you comprehend? I will not have my men sniffing at your honey the way these hounds pant after sweets.”

  At the unfairness of the accusation, Ariane was almost too incensed to speak. Almost. She understood why Ranulf would side with his knight against her, buthe was to blame for the indignity she had just suffered. Her reduction in status to menial laborer had earned the disrespect of his vassals, while Ranulf’s own contemptuous treatment of her for the past two weeks had encouraged others to treat her similarly.

  “Then I suggest, my lord,” she retorted, her eyes flashing silver sparks, “that you lock your men in the kennels where they may be safe from my evil influence!”

  Not giving him a chance to reply or to reprimand her for her insolence, she whirled, her head held high, and marched back to the stairwell leading to the kitchens, feeling Ranulf’s piercing gaze boring into her all the while.

  He seemed to watch her more intently after that. Each time Ranulf spied Ariane with another man, be it his own or one of Claredon’s, she felt the impact of his smoldering scrutiny. Had she not known better, she would have thought him jealous. But Ranulf cared nothing for her, Ariane was certain. He watched her only to see if she would make a false move.

  His caution annoyed her, until she remembered his admitted contempt for highborn damsels. For some reason, Ranulf did not trust noblewomen—and after her attempt to cement their marriage, he trustedher least of all.

  Still, his vigilance was not due solely to mistrust, Ariane suspected, or a desire for revenge, or the possessiveness of a lord toward his property. The savage heat in his eyes was not mere suspicion, or hostility, or even a determination to conquer.

  Desire was there as well.

  Each time she came near Ranulf, the air crackled with a tension that was two parts sexual. And he resented her for rousing his lust, Ariane was certain. She could almost feel the conflict within him, a strong man battling for control over his own will. Certainly she could sense the pressure building behind his temper.

  An explosion between them seemed imminent. Yet Ariane found herself anticipating it with a strange mingling of apprehension and excitement.

  The explosion nearly came the day after the incident with Bertran, when Gilbert waylaid her on her way to early mass. Ranulf had relented enough in his punishment to allow her to seek comfort for her soul. As she prepared to enter the chapel in the inner bailey, Gilbert drew her aside on the pretext of offering her a cool drink of water from the well.

  At first she listened to him with only half an ear, her thoughts distracted as she mentally debated the wisdom of asking Gilbert to pay a visit to the east woods in her stead. But his ranting soon alarmed her.<
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  Ranulf, returning from exercising his destrier in the outer bailey, felt his heart lurch when he spied the two of them standing so close together. The boy’s fair hair was a shade lighter than Ariane’s, and their heads glinted pale red-gold in the early morning sunlight.

  The sight seared Ranulf with jealousy. He put little trust in the faithfulness of women, noble ones most of all. And since hearing the rumor of Ariane’s wanton activities from the serving wench Dena, he had been haunted by images of his former bride sneaking out of the castle to consort with her lover, this lad in particular.

  His first primal instinct was to thrash the young whelp to a pulp, and yet he clamped it down. Rather than trysting, they were more likely conspiring to rebel against his rule. The boy seemed to be arguing with Ariane, about what Ranulf could not hear at this distance. The lad was holding forth intently while Ariane shook her head.

  Urging his powerful warhorse closer, Ranulf caught a snatch of their conversation: “. . . that devil-lord.”

  Ranulf concluded thathe was the subject under discussion, but he could barely make out Ariane’ s reply: “If you continue to fight him, you will only suffer for it.”

  “Were I to challenge him—“

  “Nay, you cannot. You would be killed—“

  She must have heard his horse’s hooves, for she broke off suddenly and turned, with a start. There were secrets in her eyes, he noted with a tightness squeezing his chest. Secrets that only strengthened the suspicion they were intriguing against him.

  “Where are your guards?” Ranulf demanded as he reined the destrier to a halt.

  Ariane eyed him warily. “In the ch-chapel, my lord,” she stammered in reply.

  But Ranulf was no longer listening. His attention was fixed entirely on Gilbert, his expression hard and unsmiling. He kept his voice soft in an attempt to hide from himself how fierce was the jealousy he felt. “Do I know you, boy?”

  “I am called Gilbert, milord,” the youth replied sullenly. “I serve as clerk to Baldwin, the castle steward.”