The Warrior (14 page)

“Doomed? Strong words for the unwedded state.” His scrutiny turned considering, gleaming with a brightness that bespoke mischief. “One would think you regret never being bedded.”

Uncontrollably a blush rose to Ariane’s cheeks. “You twist my words, my lord. I want children. If I must suffer the physical attentions of a husband to gain them, then I am willing to do my duty.”

“Suffer? Duty?” An amused light flickered in his eyes. “Your notion of the marriage bed is a cold one, methinks. Doubtless it is your innocence speaking. If you had more experience, you would know what pleasure can be found even in duty.”

“If you had
less
experience, my lord,” Ariane said tartly, “you might properly value the solemn commitment of the flesh.”

“Ah, but I do value it,” he replied, his warmth fading. “Too much so to risk an irrevocable union. While I might desire to sample your lovely charms, I have no intention of solemnizing our contract.”

“You will never sample my charms!” she retorted stiffly. “I will not play the whore for you!”

A provocative smile curved his mouth. “I would not ask you to, demoiselle. I like my wenches with more honey and less vinegar. I would have a meek maid in my bed, not a virago.”

His soft taunt did more than sting; it wounded her. Ariane’s indignation abruptly faded, swamped by familiar insecurities, but she took refuge in sarcasm. “Since you find me so unappealing, I wonder that you agreed to the betrothal in the first place.”

Ranulf shrugged his broad shoulders. “I agreed for the usual reasons. I found an alliance with Claredon politically advantageous. And your father sweetened the arrangement with a grant of land in the south.”

Intellectually, Ariane understood those reasons. And Ranulf had been bribed to wed her. He had been given, not a fiefdom for which he would have had to swear fealty and provide knight’s fees, but an outright grant.

“I never desired a bride, only your lands,” he added with chilling honesty.

Ariane clasped her fingers together to keep them from trembling. It shouldn’t hurt to hear the truth so bluntly stated, yet it did. She looked down at her hands. “Is that why you never came for me? Because my father still lives, I never inherited his demesne?”

Guilt pricked Ranulf’s conscience. He could not admit to her the true reason for his reticence: that he feared betrayal by any bride, dreaded risking a repeat of his mother’s faithlessness or his father’s violent retribution.

“Aye,” he prevaricated. “I could not gain control of the chief prize of your inheritance—Claredon—until your father’s passing, which appeared to be many years in the future. And there seemed no reason for haste. Both sides enjoyed the advantages of the alliance, without the encumbrances. And Walter saw no urgency in completing the contract.”

“But now that you have possession of Claredon, you need be encumbered by me no longer.”

Ranulf clenched his jaw, wondering how she managed to twist the truth to make
him
the villain when she had brought about this predicament herself, by defying the king, by freeing a prisoner of the crown, and by supporting her father’s rebellion. “I am under no obligation to honor a traitor with my allegiance,” he replied in his own defense.

She lifted her gaze—and her chin. “I would know your intentions, my lord. What will become of me?”

He frowned. “If your father is found guilty, you will become a ward of the crown. Your marriage will be in the king’s gift, for him to dispose of as he sees fit. For the nonce, I am to hold you as a political prisoner.” He paused. “You cannot be unaware of your value to Henry as a hostage, or that your arrest will perhaps end the rebellion sooner. . . .”

Ranulf’s explanation trailed off as he recalled the exact situation. Why was he permitting her to make him feel guilt for executing his duty, or sympathy for her plight? He should know from her recent treasonous actions that he could not allow himself to soften toward her. He could not let down his guard. “You are my prisoner, to do with as I will, demoiselle.”

At the sudden harshness of his tone, Ariane dug her nails into her palms. How could he be so gentle and reasonable one moment, so cold and heartless the next?

Yet she was naught to Ranulf but a foe. And when he was done with her, he would marry her to some grateful lackey or pack her off to a convent. By the Blessed Virgin, how could she ever have cherished such tender dreams of him? “If you mean to punish me, I wish you would do so.”

He was watching her intently, his expression enigmatic. “However I choose to exact retribution from you,” he said finally, “it will come in my own good time. As I informed you last evening, you can yet influence your fate.”

“What . . . do you mean?”

How forthcoming should he be? Ranulf wondered. Despite his justifiable mistrust of her, despite the wisdom of caution, her cooperation would prove helpful in a successful transition of power. With their former lady’s support, the castlefolk would accept him as lord more readily, perhaps even peacefully. And yet he had no wish to give Ariane the notion she could exploit his vulnerability to her advantage, or to furnish her any leverage to use over him.

“I desire your cooperation regarding the people of Claredon. I would keep their goodwill. Your father’s knights can be expected to follow a code of honor, but not the villeins and freemen. I do not want them set against me, intent on rebellion. Waging war against one’s own property is never profitable, and I have no intention of denting my coffers in unnecessary strife.”

“Claredon is not your property as yet. My father has not been convicted or even afforded a trial. You are not yet lord here.”

Calling on the control he had so mercilessly taught himself, Ranulf forced himself to temper his reply. “I
am
lord here, by Henry’s orders. I hold this place, demoiselle. And what is mine, I keep.”

“Then you may keep it without my aid.”

Anger darkened his face. She would not bend easily, Ranulf was coming to realize.

Without warning, he threw off the covers. Startled, Ariane leapt to her feet, gazing at him in alarm.

“If you wish to retain your maidenly virtue,” he said sardonically, “I suggest you step back. I would dress.”

Abruptly, she fled to a far corner of the room.

His mouth curling, Ranulf rose from the bed and strode naked to the door. Opening it, he bellowed for his squire to bestir himself. Then crossing to the bench where he had disrobed the previous evening, he tugged on his braies and tied the drawstring at his waist.

“You have two days to decide your course,” he told Ariane with forced evenness. “I ride for Wyclif this morn and should remain the night at least. In my absence I shall leave my vassal, Ivo de Ridefort, in command of the keep. You will remain confined here until such time as I have your solemn oath to accept me as your liege.”

“I will not give it.”

With effort, Ranulf held fast to his temper. The wench was sorely in need of a strong hand to curb her defiance, and he would have to provide it. He was determined to conquer her will—and he would, eventually, once he found an effective method to deal with her short of physical violence. As yet, nothing had worked. But two days should buy him time to decide.

“Meanwhile,” he continued as if he had never heard her interruption, “you may have the freedom of this chamber. I shall not order you bound, and your women will be permitted to attend you.”

“Your generosity overwhelms me, my lord.”

“Have a care, demoiselle. My patience wears thin.”

“Does it indeed? I suppose I should be quaking in my shoes?” she replied.

He pinned her with a dark look. “Were you wise, you would be. I can inflict a great deal of misery upon you.”

“I have not the least doubt on that score. I would expect nothing else from a brute.”

“Brute?”
His black brows snapped together in a scowl at the unjust accusation. He had taken great care to treat her gently—indeed with far more lenience that she deserved. Yet he was a fool to let her goad him, Ranulf realized. Letting her barbed slurs provoke him into losing his temper only awarded her the upper hand in their battle.

Shaking his head, Ranulf exhaled a rough chuckle and forced himself to relax his rigid muscles. “Have I hurt you, lady?” he managed to reply evenly.

“Nay . . . but neither have you accorded me the slightest respect.”

“You forfeited that right by your defiance. Your status now is no higher than a serf’s.”

Ariane glared back at him; if he hoped to see her cower, he had much to learn.

It took all her willpower, though, to resist flinching when Ranulf turned and casually strolled over to her. He stared down at her, his amber hawk’s eyes unsettling with their intentness.

“You will submit to me, demoiselle,” he promised softly. “You will call me lord and master.”

Summoning every ounce of courage she possessed, Ariane lifted her chin defiantly. “You may be lord here, Sir Dragon, but you will never,
never
be my master.”

A slow smile suddenly wreathed his lips, a dangerous, wolfish grin that boded ill for her. “Beware, wench. I might just accept the challenge to tame you. Methinks I could find pleasure in the attempt.”

Ariane fixed him with a bristling stare, which Ranulf proceeded to ignore entirely as he turned away to wash at the basin.

When his squire entered bearing a tray, he broke his fast with a chunk of bread and cold venison and a cup of wine, while his squire helped him with his armor. In short order he was attired in the fashion of a knight, with his mail hauberk clinging to his broad frame and gold spurs attached to his boots.

Finally, Ranulf glanced at Ariane as he buckled on a leather waistbelt with its sheathed sword. “When I return, we shall conclude our discussion. I suggest you carefully consider your answer.”

Without another word, he donned a conical helmet with a wide nose guard that obscured much of his face. Then he turned and left the chamber, his squire following hard on his heels.

The oaken door closed behind them with a dull thud, and Ariane could hear a soft scrape of a bar being set in place. Alone, she stared at the door. He had locked her in—after dismissing her as if she were beneath notice, like the meanest serf, or worse—a
woman.
She could scarcely contain her frustration. She could see shades of her father in Ranulf. Indeed, she could accept the Black Dragon’s legendary wrath better than his dismissal.

Muttering imprecations under her breath, Ariane went to one of the embrasures and unbolted the shutter. The windows of the solar boasted panels of costly glass, and from her vantage she could see the castle grounds below. A troop of mounted knights and archers attired in chain mail or leather breastplates awaited the lord of Vernay in the inner bailey, while his crimson silk pennon with the dragon rampant snapped and fluttered in the breeze.

Moments later, she spied Ranulf striding across the court, toward a great black warhorse. When he had mounted his charger and accepted his weapons from a squire, he looked positively lethal. Early-morning sunlight glinted off the twenty-foot steel lance and tall, kite-shaped Norman shield, while his newly polished armor sparkled silver. Then Ranulf wheeled his destrier, and under his dragon’s banner, led his body of mounted men through the inner gates. They traversed the outer bailey at an easy gallop and thundered across the castle drawbridge without pause.

Ariane watched until they were long out of sight. Eventually, though, she was struck by a bitter awareness: The sounds of castle life had returned to normal. The squeals of animals in their pens, the irregular clang of the smithy’s hammer, the cries of falcons in the mews, were no different than under her father’s rule, before the arrival of the Black Dragon. Life had gone on much as before, despite the change of lordship.

Save for her, she thought with despair. She was Ranulf’s hostage now, confined to these chambers like any highborn criminal. They were sworn enemies, locked in a battle of wills—a battle that she dared not lose. Too much was at stake. Too many lives depended on her.

Turning her head to the east, into the rising sun, Ariane gazed across growing fields and green meadows now hazed with a golden mist, her eyes blurring at the sight of the forest beyond.

Mother, how I wish you were here to guide me.

Yet her lady mother was not here, Ariane reminded herself. Nor was her father. She must deal with this terrible dilemma entirely on her own. Somehow, some way, she had to thwart the Black Dragon and regain Claredon. Being a woman she must fight with what few weapons were at hand, but she would defeat Ranulf de Vernay if it took her last breath.

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