The Warrior (5 page)

The Black Dragon. Her betrothed. The man who should have been her husband long ere now.

The warrior who had never come to claim her as his bride.

Her nerves were shredded raw by the time the horde came to a plunging halt a safe distance from the castle walls. The sun had nearly set, yet she could see a force of some two hundred strong—a quarter comprised of fearsome Norman knights garbed in conical steel helmets and long tunics of chain mail, mounted on snorting destriers, with gleaming lances and tall shields at the ready. The rest were archers and foot soldiers wearing bullhide armor. A banner waved over the throng—a black dragon rampant on a scarlet field.

Before long, a single mailed knight broke from the ranks of horsemen and rode slowly forward, bearing a white pen-non, seeking to parley. Ariane flinched when a short blast sounded from an enemy trumpet, even though she had known to expect it. She was grateful to have Simon Crecy standing beside her.

The rider halted his bay charger within hailing distance of the stone wall and called up to the defenders on the battlements:

“In the name of Henry, duke of Normandy and rightful king of England, you are commanded to open the gates!”

Taking a deep breath, Ariane answered, although her voice was neither as strong nor as clear as she would have liked. “Tell me, good sir, why should we open our gates when you plainly come prepared for war?”

There was a pause, as if her question had surprised the knight. “Because to refuse is treason. King Henry has ordered Walter of Claredon’s arrest and awarded his lands and possessions to the lord of Vernay—who demands your immediate surrender. I carry the king’s proclamation.” His gauntleted hand raised a scroll for her to see.

Ariane forced herself to unclench her fingers, which had curled into fists. “I am the lady of Claredon. Do I have the honor of speaking with the lord of Vernay?”

“I am my lord’s vassal, Payn FitzOsbern, demoiselle. Lord Ranulf has charged me with arranging the terms of your surrender.”

She felt the slightest measure of tension ease from her body; this was only the Black Dragon’s emissary.

“Your lord could not spare the time to come himself?” she asked. “I should think if the disposition of Claredon was important to him, he would have ridden here with all due speed.”

“My lady . . . he . . . has been delayed.”

“Indeed?” Her tone was heavily laced with irony. “Yes, I can see how five years might be too brief a term to permit a visit to his intended bride.”

FitzOsbern hesitated, obviously searching for words. “Demoiselle, will you open the gates?”

“I will discuss my course with Ranulf de Vernay and no other. You may tell him so.”

A pause. “He will not be pleased with your answer.”

Ariane forced herself to return a cool smile. Her betrothed’s refusal to come to Claredon himself was a calculated insult, perhaps, but she could use it to her advantage. “Nonetheless, that is the answer you will give him.”

She could almost feel the knight’s frustration. “You refuse to surrender the castle then, my lady?”

“I repeat, I will gladly discuss the subject with my Lord Ranulf. Please convey my regards to him. That will be all, sir knight.”

FitzOsbern gripped the haft of his pennon more tightly with his leather-gauntleted fist, clearly reluctant to accept his dismissal. Ariane remained watching until finally he wheeled his prancing destrier and rode back to join his lord’s forces.

Slowly she let out the breath she had been holding. With luck she had managed to buy some time until the siege began—a day or two perhaps, and any delay could prove vital to her father’s chances. As long as Walter possessed Claredon, he remained a force King Henry must reckon with. Even a convicted traitor might use his rich estates to bargain for his life.

Her response just now had not directly defied the king’s command, Ariane consoled herself. Soon she would have to commit herself, though. The Black Dragon would doubtless be irate when he learned of her refusal to surrender the castle to his emissary, but in truth, she had no choice. It was imperative that she retain possession of Claredon in order to aid her father. And she would not disappoint him as she had so many times before. If it took her last breath, she would not fail him.

“Their actions suggest they are making camp, my lady,” Simon observed.

Ariane nodded in weary resignation. In the gathering dusk, she could see knights dismounting, their squires scurrying to tend horses and weapons, while their archers positioned themselves in a defensive line opposite the castle. Soon they would erect pavilions and build cookfires—and Payn FitzOsbern would likely send a courier to his liege lord. Then Lord Ranulf might very well come himself.

Ariane shivered in the evening breeze. She would rather deal with a hundred of his envoys than the lord of Vernay himself.

“You are cold, demoiselle? Allow me to send a serf to the tower to fetch your mantle.”

“Yes, thank you, Simon.” Spring had come early to England this year, and yet the damp air held a bite she could feel through her fine woolen overgown and undertunic and her linen shift. No doubt, though, her apprehension sharpened the chill.

As Simon left her, she found herself bemoaning the frailties of a woman’s body. If she were a man, she could have ridden out to challenge Ranulf’s knights in combat . . .

Her lips compressed in a bitter smile. If she were a man, she might never have become acquainted with Ranulf de Vernay in the first place. Certainly she would never have been pledged to him in marriage so that her father might gain an ally for Claredon.

Sweet Mary, why could she not have been born male? How much better to be a son whom her father could count on to assume his barony and protect his hard-won holdings, rather than a disappointing daughter. What freedom to be a knight who could take up arms in defense of his demesne, rather than a pawn of men’s political games! Or worse, a neglected bride required to suffer the whims of a reluctant bridegroom.

Of their own accord, her fingers curled into fists. Only to herself would Ariane acknowledge a deeper truth: that her hurt over Ranulf’s long neglect might also be driving her resistance.

It hurt to be unwanted. To hear the whispers. She was the forgotten bride, the rejected one.
Is there something wrong with me that not even the promise of great wealth can overcome?
For years she had pondered that question, had agonized over her inadequacies. For five long, wasted years she had waited and worried and pined—until finally hope had dwindled, leaving only anger and bitterness and despair. Until her resentment against Ranulf festered like a poisoned wound.

Yet that was not her primary reason for defying him now. Her father’s very life was at stake. If she surrendered his holdings, everything he had striven for would be forfeit. Worse, he would be rendered powerless, at the mercy of the king’s justice. And in his absence, she was responsible for Claredon and its people, their lives and welfare. On her shoulders alone rested their fate.

As in countless times during the past, Ariane’s gaze shifted to the east, focusing on a deep forest glade of birch and oak, some quarter league from the castle walls. The wood was said to be haunted by evil spirits and ruled by man-eating wolves, but she knew better. Only a handful of people were privy to the secret of those woods.
Will the inhabitants there be safe from the Black Dragon?

Her eyes blurring at the sight, she forced her gaze away, focusing again on the enemy forces. She could still see the fierce black dragon on a red silk field boldly waving above the invading army. What would her mother have done in these difficult circumstances?

Why, Ranulf? Why did you never come for me?

Swallowing, she fiercely brushed away the tears of anger that stung her eyes. She could not afford the luxury of weeping, or the indulgence of self-pity. Her regrets would have to keep for another day. Now, more than ever, she had to be strong.

Defiantly, Ariane lifted her chin.

Let Ranulf de Vernay come to Claredon now. She was prepared to defend the castle and people against her vengeful betrothed, if need be.

And she would remain loyal to her father, even if her defiance made her guilty of treason.

Safe behind his concealing monks robes, Ranulf watched his intended bride with increasing ire and bitter disappointment. A flaming torch had been set in a bracket in the parapet, casting an angelic glow about her as she stood in deep reflection. The innocent image was misleading, he was certain, as was the weary, troubled frown on her clear brow. No sweet, biddable wench, this. Her cunning ploy earlier was worthy of any sly deception perpetrated by the ladies of the Norman court—refusing to surrender the castle to FitzOsbern while at the same time not openly declaring her rebellion. Clever but mistaken. She would not succeed in evading the king’s wrath by such tactics, Ranulf promised silently, or escape penalty for her defiance.

Ranulf’s eyes narrowed as the knight called Simon drew a fur-trimmed mantle solicitously about her shoulders. There was evident intimacy and affection between the two of them. The affection of lovers? An irrational surge of jealousy speared through Ranulf. Ariane of Claredon belonged to
him,
just as her father’s castle now did. She was his betrothed, soon to be his political hostage. If she was being faithless to him with her father’s vassal, she would suffer the consequences. Just as she would pay if she chose to challenge his authority.

He had been charged with quelling resistance and imposing the king’s will on the land, and he would not be gainsaid. Not by a woman. Most definitely not by his own bride. If she forced him to resort to violence, he would crush her without mercy.

Almost as if she had divined his thoughts, her head lifted slowly and she half turned, her troubled gaze searching the shadows where he stood.

Ranulf froze—and drew in his breath sharply at the vision of loveliness Ariane made in the glow of torchlight. Nay, the reports had not exaggerated, he thought as a shaft of desire shot through him with startling intensity. Where once she had been all bones and eyes, now she was slender curves and eyes, with gleaming tresses of pale copper that shimmered and rippled with life. An enchanting, beguiling combination.

The change disturbed Ranulf greatly. He might have forgiven a child her faulty judgment, for being misled by her advisors, but Ariane of Claredon was no longer a child. She was fully a woman. A noble lady quite capable of aiding a rebellion and supporting her father’s treason.

And she was his to deal with.

He could not control his body’s hard response at the thought of having such a defiant beauty in his power, yet before the stirring in his groin could swell to uncomfortable proportions, Ranulf set his jaw and tucked the cowl of his clerical garb more tightly around his face. Then he stepped forward, taking care to remain away from the circle of torchlight, keeping his gaze trained on his bride and her armored protector.

“A monk seeks audience with you, my lady,” Simon advised her.

Ariane gave a start when the vassal’s voice interrupted her brooding. With a sigh, she turned to greet the intruder—and halted abruptly. A dark shape had condensed out of the shadows . . . tall, powerful . . . ominous.

Her hand went to her throat. For the space of a dozen heartbeats she remained frozen, while the night sounds of the castle faded. The presence of her own soldiers, the plight of the refugees, the threat of an enemy army, were forgotten. She was only aware of the towering, motionless form shrouded in a blanket of darkness.

A frisson of fear ran down her spine at the obscure figure looming so threateningly near. The shadows thrown by the torchlight cast such a strange spell she could almost imagine the giant silhouette to be a menacing dragon.

It was simply fancy, she told herself with desperate calm. A deceptive trick of the light. Willing herself to show no fear, Ariane took a faltering step closer—and the fearsome image thankfully vanished. The light barely licked at the foot of his robes, but Ariane let out her breath in relief as she recognized his garb. It was only a monk. No danger here.

Her paralysis faded, yet her uneasiness remained. A man of such height and bulk would be powerful, strong; such a giant could easily be a warrior. Even across the distance that separated them, she could feel his towering masculine presence.

Wondering at her strange awareness, at her sense of foreboding, she reminded herself that she had her own men to protect her.

“Greetings, demoiselle,” the shadow said softly.

Something within her stirred at that deep, muted voice. She felt the oddest sense of . . . intimacy? Familiarity?

She went still, while strange sensations shivered through her. “Do I know you, sir monk?”

“I think not, my lady.”

She hesitated, divided between wariness and curiosity. He was a compelling figure, for his sheer mystery if nothing else. His hands, only partially hidden by the wide sleeves of his robe, were large, strong, long-fingered . . . capable of great violence or tender compassion?