The Warrior (24 page)

It was a subdued and thoughtful Ariane who accompanied Ranulf and his armed retinue to the fields. More than once he gave her a wary glance as she rode docilely beside him on her palfrey, until finally she bestirred herself to respond with her usual tartness in order to allay his suspicions.

When he compelled her time and again to address the serfs they found working the land, she did so with stoicism, telling them in gentle, sincere tones to bow to the new lord and they would find him a merciful master.

Ariane prayed her counsel was true. She did not want Claredon’s serfs to suffer under the rule of the Black Dragon. Yet somehow she doubted they would. Ranulf might threaten and act the ogre with her, no doubt to frighten her into submission. And displaying her subservience was a cleverly calculated strategy to demoralize her people’s efforts at resistance. But Ranulf was clearly not the brute his terrible reputation suggested. In truth, he had shown his rebellious enemies more mercy than she could rightfully expect. Perhaps there was softness beneath that harsh exterior, after all. A softness he kept hidden from the world.

Could she possibly use that to her advantage? Ariane wondered. Could she somehow persuade him to wed her as he had promised years before?

It was imperative that she try. At this very moment, Ranulf’s retinue of knights and men-at-arms was passing the eastern forest with its thick stands of oak and birch and tangled hedges of hawthorn—passing too close for Ariane’s comfort. She was careful to keep her eyes averted, to show no special interest in this particular stretch of wood.

It had been merely four days since Ranulf had seized Claredon and taken her hostage, yet worry nagged at her conscience. How could she possibly escape the Black Dragon’s scrutiny long enough to slip from the castle and pay a brief visit to these woods? It was a mission she could entrust to no one, a secret she could never share—although if the case grew desperate enough, she might have to consider it.

Furtively, Ariane stole a glance at Ranulf as he rode beside her. How would he react should he discover her secret? How would he feel about her aiding the wretched souls God had abandoned?

He looked supremely powerful and totally ruthless just now, arrayed in full armor, mounted on his prancing black war stallion. The nose guard of his steel helmet shielded much of his face from her view, yet his strong jaw suggested relentless determination, and he stared straight ahead, as if he were ruler of all he surveyed.

She was surprised, therefore, when he spoke quietly, almost reverently. “This land has heart.”

He was gazing at the gently rolling countryside, the green pastures and planted fields and wooded groves, Ariane realized. His hushed, almost wistful tone held a possessiveness that made her stiffen. This demesne should still have belonged to her father.

“My lord father always thought so,” she could not refrain from saying.

When Ranulf gave her a sharp glance, Ariane bit her tongue and vowed to remember her pledge to accept him as lord.

Yet some hours later, when he prepared to send her back to the castle under guard, Ranulf’s parting command vexed her anew.

“I expect you to have a meal waiting for me upon my return, demoiselle,” he said in that tone he employed specifically to provoke her.

As she rode back to the castle with her guards, Ariane recalled her plan to insure that Ranulf wed her. It was critical, though, that she gain the blessing of the Church if she hoped to establish legal grounds for a marriage. And she would first have to offer proof to support her claim—which should not be too difficult. Father John could be counted on to take her side, Ariane thought, although she wasn’t certain the gentle, elderly man of God would be able to withstand the storm she was about to create.

Ranulf would be outraged when he discovered that she had forced his hand, and mayhap even turn violent, but he had given her little choice, she reminded herself. And she could only pray that the end would justify the means.

When she arrived at the keep, Ariane was relieved that she had no need to summon Gilbert, for she encountered her half-brother in the great hall.

“Can I trust you to secrecy, Gilbert?” she asked in a quiet undertone while keeping one eye on Ranulf’s vassals, who had returned with her.

“Aye, milady! You know you can.”

“Then I ask for your help. Go to the kitchens and fetch me a piece of raw meat, calf’s liver or fresh cut venison, I care not, as long as it is bloodied.”

Gilbert nodded eagerly, his loyalty such that he did not even question her odd request.

“Good. Bring it to me in the solar, and then find Father John and send him to me. And Gilbert, not a word of this to anyone, especially Lord Ranulf. I rely on your discretion.”

“Aye, my lady,” the lad said with an eager glitter in his eye. “Torture could not make me divulge aught to that devil’s spawn.”

Ariane devoutly hoped it would not come to torture.

She was waiting in the hall with Ranulf’s noonday meal, precisely as he had ordered, when he strode in with his vassals. He had removed his helmet, and his hair was damp and curling from being sluiced off at the well in the yard.

He was laughing with his men at some jest, so it was only after he reached the lord’s table that he noticed the unnatural quiet in the hall. At nearly the same moment, he realized Ariane sat in the carved chair belonging to the lady of the castle.

His amusement fading, Ranulf frowned at the presumption. “You forget yourself, demoiselle.”

“I think not, my lord,” she replied evenly, daring to meet his eyes. “I believe I have the right to occupy this seat, since as your wife, my place is at your side.”

“My
wife
?” His brows snapped together. “You are hardly my wife.”

“Indeed I am, my lord. But . . . perhaps you would prefer a smaller audience for our discussion.”

With an impatient gesture, Ranulf dismissed his retainers and squires, who scattered to other parts of the vast hall. His vassals, except for Payn and Ivo, withdrew a polite distance.

“Now, what is this nonsense about my wife?” Ranulf demanded.

“I believe this is all the proof I need.” Ariane gestured at the table. Before her lay a linen bedsheet whose clean surface was marred by dark splotches. “The sheets of our marriage bed have been exhibited before the castle household by the priest, just as would have occurred in an official bedding ceremony, had we formally wed. Since our betrothal contract has not been legally voided, and since this is proof the union was consummated, under both civil and church law, I am now your wife.”

Ranulf stared at the cloth for a score of heartbeats, before his gaze sliced back to Ariane. “What knavery is this?” he asked so softly that she wanted to flinch.

“No knavery, my lord. Father John has inspected the sheets as is customary and testified that my virginal stains were found. Surely you are familiar with the practice, even in Normandy? Bloodstains attest to a maid’s purity and confirm her virginity.”

Swift, dark fury burned in Ranulf’s eyes as he caught the sheet up in his fist. “You expect anyone to be taken in by your lies?”

Ariane shook her head. She had not lied outright. She had been pure when Ranulf took her to his bed. Perhaps she had stretched the truth by staining the bedsheets with calf’s blood and allowing Father John to draw his own conclusions, but she had only claimed her due, legally and morally.

“I did not lie, my lord. By permitting the priest to display the sheets, I merely ensure that you fulfill your obligations and your own long-standing promise to wed me.”

Ranulf flung the cloth away, his look scathing. “You call this
proof
? This proves nothing!”

“No? Do you deny that I shared your bed last eve, and another night before that?”

A muscle throbbed in his clenched jaw. “If you are no longer a maiden, it was none of my doing.”

“No? Would you care to describe to the good father how you ravished me this morn?”

“Ravished? I did not—” Ranulf broke off, glancing around at the others in the hall, most of whom were pretending to be occupied with their duties. Not one of them would believe he hadn’t taken the wench as she alleged, certainly not after his public fondling of her in the hall this morning. In truth he had come close to ravishing Ariane earlier, had gone to wicked lengths in his lovemaking, arousing her to climax in a way the Church considered sinful and depraved. But he had not claimed her maidenhead.

God’s breath, he was well and truly ensnared by her outrageous deception—unless he could prove the falseness of her accusation.

Abruptly he beckoned to one of his men. “Fetch a midwife to me at once!” He shot a fierce glance at Ariane. “Naturally you will not cavil at being examined to determine your maiden status.”

Ariane raised her chin, gazing at him steadily, though her hands trembled at his threat. “As you wish, my lord . . . but if she finds my maidenhead breached, it will simply prove my case.”

For the longest moment, he stared at her, his features savage with fury. Ariane held her breath as she awaited his reply, praying that her bluff would work. Ranulf could not be certain she was not a virgin; surely he would not risk a public discovery.

“This is how you keep your oath to me?” he said at last in a deadly voice. “With deceit and betrayal?”

She swallowed. “I have not betrayed my oath, my lord. I swore to serve you, and I will continue to do so—
as your wife.
I will keep your household and see to your comfort and honor you in all things—”

“Christ’s holy blood!” Ranulf exclaimed viciously.

Ariane flinched. His cruel visage was almost frightening. The lord of Vernay resembled a wounded boar who had been cornered with no escape. But a cornered boar will often turn and charge. . . .

As if to underscore her thought, he took a step in her direction, his hand grasping the hilt of his sword.

It was his vassal, Payn, who came swiftly forward to lay a cautioning hand on his arm. “Have a care, my lord. You would not wish to kill the damsel.”

“Would I not?” Ranulf’s mien suggested differently. His eyes were nearly black with rage, his compressed mouth white with fury.

“You might come to regret it later,” Payn cautioned. “She should be punished, aye, but mayhap it would be wiser to allow me to deal with her.”

The quiet words penetrated his blind fury. His vassal was right, Ranulf knew. He was too angry to think clearly. And he had sworn a sacred oath never to act like his father, to sink to that brutish level.

“She tries my vows,” Ranulf said through gritted teeth.

“Aye, but you are too astute to react with blind anger, my lord.”

He knew he was being mollified, yet he forced himself to take a calming breath. His anger was indeed blind. The wench’s lies had only justified his mistrust of her, but it was her professed lack of innocence that strangely infuriated him the most. Had some other man enjoyed that beautiful white body? Had some other lover taught her to respond with passion? Was she a virgin still? It should not matter to him if she had lain with other men, but it did, keenly. Ranulf’s hands knotted with the sudden urge to shake the truth out of her—a truth he must now discover in private if he was to avoid risking public confirmation of her scheme.

God’s teeth, but he had begun to hope she was different from the other manipulating schemers of her class, but he was wrong. He should never have trusted Ariane, never left himself vulnerable. The wench had exposed her true character, her grasping designs, her lack of honor; she was cunning, calculating, treacherous. He had let down his guard for a single moment, and this was the result. A wicked knife-thrust. A deceitful legal maneuver meant to entrap him.

“What do you hope to gain?” he demanded of Ariane.

Meeting his furious gaze, she clasped her fingers together to keep them from trembling. She had a great deal to gain, of course. She was fighting for her home, her loved ones, her father’s life. As Ranulf’s wife, she could better protect her castle and servants, but more critically, with her rights restored, she could petition the king and plead for her father. It was an additional irony that Ranulf would have to support her as a dependent. Yet she did not think the Black Dragon of Vernay would care to hear her reasoning just now.

“Justice, my lord,” she said quietly. “I will not allow you to repudiate our betrothal with impunity.”

Ranulf stared at her, rigid, nostrils flared. He understood well enough what she was attempting: to save herself from the wrath of the crown. As his wife, she would not be held accountable for her father’s acts of treason; her husband would be responsible for her. But rather than fear the king, she should be more concerned about
his
wrath. That he was livid at her treachery was too tame a description. But she would not succeed in forcing his hand.

“Your ploy will not work,” he declared, seething. “The marriage will not stand.”

“I beg to differ, my lord. As you once pointed out to me, only the Pope can dissolve our marriage now.”

“Then I will send a messenger to Rome at once to petition the Pope for an annulment.” Ranulf’s head whipped around as he searched the crowd that hovered nearby. “Father John!”

“Aye, milord?” The elderly priest stepped forward reluctantly.

“What are the grounds for dissolution of a marriage?”

“Consanguinity is the usual justification, milord, but your bloodlines are not closely related to the Lady Ariane’s. Her father, Lord Walter, satisfied himself particularly on that score before arranging the betrothal.”

“What else?”

“Why . . . deformity or disease—”

“Very well, I will claim all three.”

“All three?”

“Consanguinity, deformity, disease. I have just discovered that the Lady Ariane is my cousin of the second degree.”

“But . . . ’tis not true,” Father John said in bewilderment.

“It is no more false than her claim of ravishment. As for deformity, the wench has grossly misshapen limbs that were never revealed to me when I agreed to the betrothal.”

“But, sire! You can see that the Lady Ariane is perfectly formed!”