The Warrior (9 page)

Ariane remained silent. She had never promised to give such an oath to Ranulf—nor would she. Yet now did not seem the wisest moment to tell him so. The lord of Vernay was watching her closely, his amber eyes hard and uncompromising.

“I am lord here now,” he reminded her. “Claredon is
mine.
Now come,” Ranulf added, as if impatient with discussion. “My men are weary. They marched over twenty miles today and have earned their rest.”

At sword point, he urged Ariane and Simon down the steps to the bailey and ordered a man to watch over them. His knights had already begun taking control of the keep, but Ranulf summoned Payn FitzOsbern to confer about holding the entire garrison prisoner and rounding up the able-bodied male serfs for the remainder of the night, placing them under close guard.

“But, Payn, handle them softly,” Ranulf warned in a voice loud enough for Ariane to hear. “I want no trouble with these people.”

She was scarcely heartened by his concern. Her own guilt weighed so heavily that she could think of little else.

What she wouldn’t give to relive the past few hours. If only she had never trusted that accursed monk. If only there were a way to reverse the damage she had done, a means to defy her treacherous betrothed—

But what if there were?

She could never make amends for allowing the fall of Claredon, but perhaps she could offer a measure of resistance, rather than simply accepting defeat. There was still a chance to save the honor of her house . . .

Her head came up slowly. A man had been set to watch her, yet he was paying more attention to the activity across the bailey than to his prisoners.

Keeping a wary eye on both her guard and his lord, she edged closer to Simon. Bowing her head as if weeping, she pretended to seek comfort from him, even as she whispered urgently, “Simon?”

“Aye, milady?” he whispered back.

“You must contrive to escape somehow . . . ride north to alert my father, seek his aid.”

His reply held distress. “Nay . . . I cannot abandon you here . . . not and leave you to the lord of Vernay.”

“You must—and quickly. We haven’t much time. You heard Lord Ranulf. We will be his prisoners, under heavy guard. Now is our only chance. Go and warn my father of what has occurred. Perhaps eventually he can raise a force and return to rescue us—”

“But my lady—”

“Please, Simon! There are fifty saddled horses to choose from. You can seize one and be over the drawbridge in moments, before Ranulf’s men even have the opportunity to react.”

When he hesitated, she raised her head and gave him her most pleading look. “Please, Simon, I beg you. It is our only chance.”

“Very well, my lady . . . but I do not care to leave you—”

“Go now!” she repeated impatiently, striving to keep her voice low. “I will do what I can to create a distraction.”

Simon wasted another few precious moments while Ariane held her breath, but then he began to edge slowly backward, toward the castle gates.

Her heart pounding, Ariane followed him, while at the same time fumbling to unpin the jewelled brooch that customarily clasped the edges of her mantle together. She saw, with fervent relief, that Ranulf was deep in conversation with his vassal. Around him, ordered tumult reigned as his men took possession of the keep.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Simon pause at a throng of destriers, held by a bored page. She moved carefully closer as Simon quietly caught the mane of a stalwart bay and prepared to mount. At his nod, she said a fervent prayer and pricked the hindquarter of the horse nearest her with the sharpened point of her brooch.

In answer to her prayer, chaos erupted. With a squeal the wounded animal bolted against its fellows, causing another charger to rise up on its haunches and paw the air, while their startled groom shouted in alarm. At the same moment, Simon leaped into the saddle. Wheeling the horse, he dug in his heels fiercely and charged the gate, lying low over his mount’s back.

Ariane managed to elude the flailing hooves, but glanced fearfully over her shoulder at Ranulf—in time to see an archer raise his bow and notch an arrow. With a cry of desperation, she threw herself in the path of his aim, lifting her arms to make herself the target, her sole thought to protect her father’s vassal and increase his chances of escape.

She heard Ranulf’s violent curse above the tumult, glimpsed his reaction as he lunged forward and struck the bow from the archer’s grip. Released with a twang, the arrow flew sharply awry, to stick quivering in the ground, a mere yard to her right.

Her heart in her throat, Ariane stood trembling as the lord of Vernay strode furiously toward her. He was barking out orders to a half-dozen of his men to ride after the escaped prisoner and hunt him down.

As they jumped to do his bidding, Ranulf came to an abrupt halt before her. Ariane stared fearfully up at him, even as she strained to hear the fading hoofbeats of Simon’s mount, praying he would get clear.

“By the bones of the Saints—you fool! You could have been killed!”

Ranulf’s expression was so fierce she thought he would smite her. She closed her eyes, knowing one blow from that deadly fist would be the end of her, yet he stood towering over her without touching her.

She could feel her nails painfully scoring her palms as she waited for his judgment, yet her fear was not just for herself; dread filled her as she heard Simon’s pursuers clatter across the drawbridge.

“Payn!” Ranulf barked suddenly, making her jump.

“Aye, my lord?”

“Hold her firm.”

Ariane felt fresh terror rise in her throat as his vassal obediently stepped behind her and gripped her arms. Dear God, did Ranulf mean to beat her to death in punishment? He stood there flexing his fists, as if only by sheer force of will could he summon restraint.

“You will take this wench to the tower and confine her to her chamber.”

“Her chamber, Ranulf? Not the dungeon?”

Ranulf’s jaw clenched. It would be a fitting punishment to imprison her in the castle’s dungeon for her treachery. She had aided one of his most valuable prisoners to escape in an obvious scheme to send for help. That single innocuous act could have deadly consequences, could endanger the lives of his men and the success of his mission, permitting his enemy to summon reinforcements and counter with an attack.

And yet Ranulf would not permit himself to go so far as to incarcerate Ariane—or make any rash decision regarding her fate just yet. Her betrayal had rekindled his fury, but until he was calm enough to deal with her, he would do better to allow his knights to handle the matter.

“She is a woman,” he said grimly, as if that explained his reasoning. “And I would prefer not to inflame her people unnecessarily. Set a guard at her door and make certain she cannot escape. She is not to be trusted for an instant.”

Payn raised an eyebrow, but nodded at the command. Motioning for two of his men to follow, he urged Ariane forward with a gentle push, forcing her to walk before him.

It was all she could manage not to flinch as they passed the lord of Vernay. She raised her chin proudly, although knowing he wasn’t fooled by her brave facade.

When she spied her half-brother, Gilbert, and the Claredon priest, Father John, hovering helplessly among the crowd of watchers, she gave them a faint smile of reassurance. Yet she was shaking visibly by the time she reached the fourth floor of the keep, where her frightened women milled. She managed to say a few soothing words, telling them to remain calm and obedient to the invaders, but the tension and fear of the past hour had taken an exhausting toll. She was almost grateful to be imprisoned in her own bedchamber, even if the mailed knight called Payn required her to lie on her bed and was now binding her hands and feet with a length of cord and securing the ends to the carved bedposts.

He was studying her thoughtfully in the candlelight as he worked, she realized after a moment.

“I confess myself astonished at Ranulf’s leniency, demoiselle,” Payn said in a tone so enigmatic she knew not whether it held scorn or surprise.

“Leniency?”

“Aye. You should count yourself fortunate. If you were a man, you would be lucky to survive your mischief. Ranulf would have you flogged at the very least.”

“If I were a man,” Ariane retorted bitterly, “Claredon would not have fallen so easily.”

“Mayhap he wants you in his bed. You certainly would not be the first woman he has tamed with passion.”

The unwelcome shock of the knight’s observation left Ariane struggling for breath.
Ranulf wanted her? In his bed?
Was that why he had refrained from striking her? He was saving her for his ravishment?

Never! she vowed silently, clenching her hands defiantly. She would fight him with the last ounce of strength left in her body.

Payn tied the final knot and tested his handiwork for tension, then rose to his feet. After cautioning her not to cause any more trouble, he let himself out of the chamber. Behind him, the key grated ominously in the lock.

Alone, Ariane shut her eyes in dismay, a fresh worry occupying her tormented thoughts. Her dreams of a tender lover had been shattered with a vengeance. In addition to losing her father’s demesne, over and above fearing for her people’s and her vassals’ safety, beyond being Ranulf’s prisoner, she might very well have to endure his physical assault.

4

Not until the following evening was Ariane summoned by the new lord of Claredon. She spent the entire day incarcerated in her apartments, with but one woman to attend her and to bring her meals. Through her window she could hear the activity below in the bailey. The usual domestic din was replaced by the sounds of marching troops and whinnying horses as the Black Dragon took full possession of the keep and the surrounding countryside.

Ariane’s spirits sank with every passing hour. Failure weighed like stone upon her heart, as did fear for Claredon’s people. She could only pray that Lord Ranulf would not deal too harshly with them because of her own defiant action.

When the summons finally came, her despair had grown to such magnitude that she scarcely flinched. In truth, she would almost be glad to get the ordeal over with. Even the severest punishment would be better than this agony of uncertainty.

As she was ushered within by her stern-faced guards Ariane realized Ranulf had appropriated the lord’s solar as his new chambers. That he would take her father’s place as lord of Claredon stung like a salted wound and filled her with renewed fury, but she dared not show her feelings. Edging to one side of the oaken door, she stood quietly near the cold stone wall, waiting for his notice, yet wishing she could make herself invisible.

The chamber was crowded. Several of Ranulf’s vassals milled around him still, dressed in chain mail armor, munching on capon legs and quaffing wine, while a half-dozen of Claredon’s household serfs filled a huge wooden tub for his bath. His squire, the young man called Burc, was engaged in removing Ranulf’s hauberk, a long mail tunic so heavy the lad nearly staggered under its weight. Ranulf had obviously been engaged in physical exertion, for his raven hair was damp with sweat and matted from the weight of his mail coif and steel helmet.

He paid her no attention, though, a slight which Ariane greeted with relief. If he was to pronounce her sentence, she would prefer he not do so before an audience.

Light-headed with fatigue and strain, she raised her bound hands to awkwardly rub her throbbing temple, trying to ease the ache. She had only her wits to rely upon, and she would need every ounce of energy and strength she possessed if she were to hold her own against the Black Dragon of Vernay.

It was not until his knights began taking leave of their lord that Ariane’s nervousness rose again to a fever pitch.

“And Payn,” Ranulf concluded as his vassal turned to go, “pray don’t deal too harshly with the castle wenches. They have other duties to perform besides servicing you.”

“Have no fear, lord. I shall show them merely the hardness of my blade, not the harshness.”

Male laughter followed the ribald jest as the men filed passed Ariane. Their glances at her were solemn and perhaps a bit leering. Payn FitzOsbern’s amusement faded abruptly when he spied her, his expression turning grim. He left the door open behind him for the serfs that still scurried to and fro carrying warm bath water.