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—awoman. 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.
6
Midafternoon the following day, Ranulf rode with his knights and men-at-arms toward Claredon, well satisfied with his recent achievements. The wooden gates of Wyclif had opened to him without a battle, and he had taken control of Walter’s nearest demesne manor with ease. Many of the vassals had sworn allegiance to their new lord, and those who refused would be ransomed by their families. The subjugation of Claredon was proceeding as planned.
Save for one small detail,Ranulf mused wryly. The lady of Claredon. His former betrothed. How to deal with Ariane was his greatest dilemma. Resentment still gnawed at his insides over her defiance, yet he could feel himself unwillingly softening toward her.
Pure madness, Ranulf thought in exasperation. Ariane had shown not the slightest repentance or submission. Although her refusal to cower stirred his admiration, he could not allow her to go unpunished, not and maintain discipline among her people. But what to do? Choosing a punishment commensurate with her crimes was not the problem; finding one where he could live with his conscience was.
Moreover, he had no desire to continue fighting her. He wanted a peaceful transition of authority, and for that he needed the Lady Ariane. Needed andwanted her. Although he was loath to admit it, she stirred his blood as no wench had in years.Witless fool, letting her play on your sympathies. At this very moment she might very well be plotting your downfall.
Yet to his annoyance, Ranulf felt his pulse quicken in anticipation as they crested a hill and he spied the gray walls of Claredon in the distance. He was required to rein in his prancing destrier, who sensed his excitement.
Ranulf’s mouth curled in self-derision. He was much too eager to return to his newest castle and confront the cool, defiant beauty who awaited him. Indeed, she had occupied his thoughts far too much of late.
When he heard a throat being cleared beside him, he turned to find Payn regarding him closely, a smile of amused understanding curving his mouth beneath his steel helm.
“You should have sampled the manor wenches last night after all, lord. There was a petite, flame-haired morsel who could have tempted even your jaded palate.”
Ranulf let the observation pass. Payn knew he did not mix pleasure with duty.
“Did you bed the lady?”
Ranulf’s head whipped around. “Who?”
“I know of but one woman who could be preying on your mind so relentlessly that you forget your companions at arms. You have spoken nary a word this past hour and more. Your betrothed, of course.”
“I never touched her,” Ranulf said grimly.
“I thought not. Your temper has been too wretched.”
Few people could taunt the Black Dragon even good-naturedly without fear of retribution. But Ranulf and Payn had fostered together as boys in the same noble household in Normandy. Payn knew his deepest secrets, understood the demons that drove him.
“It is not merely my loins that pain me,” Ranulf retorted dryly. “It is her manner. The wench continues to thwart me.”
“If you want her, then take her. You would not be the first knight to claim a noble hostage as the rewards of war.”
Ranulf’s mouth curled. “You are obviously not versed in Church law, else you would know that were I to ‘take her’ as you advise, she would be my wife in truth. And having that traitorous lady to wife is my remotest desire.”
“She is comely, you must admit.”
Ranulf grunted. “The blossom of the hemlock plant holds a deceptive beauty, but its poison is deadly.” He grimaced. “I thought I was pledged to a sweet, malleable girl, yet the wench has a tongue as tart as a lemon and a will as stubborn as a mule’s. She will not yield. And she is dangerous, besides—not to be trusted.”
“Then toss her in the dungeon and be done with it.”
“She is alady, ” Ranulf replied in frustration.
Giving a low laugh, Payn shook his head. “Some dragon you are. I have seen you deal ruthlessly with your enemies, but with a wench you have no more willpower than the veriest kitten. I advise you to harden your heart, my lord, lest the Lady Ariane take your compassion for weakness.”
“Aye,” Ranulf agreed, his mouth twisting ruefully at his failing. “I must needs show her who is the lord and who is the hostage.”
“You cou
ld always summon your Saracen leman from Normandy to ease your ache and keep your mind off your former bride.”
Ranulf laughed outright at that provocative suggestion, his good mood restored by Payn’s banter. Although not his only leman, Layla was by far the best, yet not even she was worth the price he would have to pay for her exquisite services. He had no desire to show such a grasping, greedy wench such favor, for she would take merciless advantage of his weakness. For that reason, he had not brought Layla with him during the extended military campaign—that and his refusal to indulge in too much softness.
“I could not afford the expense of summoning her,” Ranulf replied dryly.
“Howwill you deal with your former bride, then?” Payn asked.
“I know not.” He fell silent, contemplating his dilemma. Unless he hit upon an effective solution, Ariane could prove a savage thorn in his side.
Possessively Ranulf gazed at the stone fortress rising tall and regal in the distance. Perhaps he had been mistaken by not coming to England before now . . . although even had he married Ariane, he could not have claimed Claredon, not as long as her father Walter lived. But the castle was his now, by king’s decree.His. His overlordship of Claredon meant more to him than he wanted to admit. For the first time in his life, his future held a promise of peace. He had the chance to start anew here. This was not Vernay, with its legacy of hatred and torment. Claredon was a rich demesne, worthy of a great lord—and he wanted to be worthy of it.
Ranulf felt a burgeoning hope flare within him as he surveyed the rich countryside. He had never allowed himself to yearn for such providence, except perhaps in the secret recesses of his soul. Even now his good fortune could prove ephemeral. King Henry favored him now because he’d fought well and hard in support of the crown, but Henry could always strip him of honors or return him to bastard status on a royal whim.
Until then, however, he intended to take up residence at Claredon. For the nonce, he would treasure the prize he had been awarded.
He wanted to be a just lord, Ranulf thought with an unfamiliar wistfulness. Yet the Lady Ariane could greatly influence his ability to rule. Without her cooperation, he might be forced to deal harshly with the people of Claredon. His former betrothed could cause him untold trouble.
“I shall have to contrive something,” Ranulf murmured almost to himself. “I will not lose this place.”
“Perhaps you should consider a different strategy,” Payn observed. “As you said, your hostage is a lady—a member of the fair sex—and thus susceptible to persuasion. Why do you not put your legendary talents to good use?”
“Talents?”
“If anyone can seduce the lady into yielding, ’twould be you, Ranulf. You need not actually consummate the betrothal. And you would doubtless find the challenge of taming her pleasurable.”
Seduction? Of Ariane? Ranulf fell silent at the suggestion. In truth, he had already considered such a course, although not seriously.
But perhaps heshould change his strategy in order to win her cooperation. He knew how to persuade a wench to do his bidding. Typical ones, at any event, Ranulf thought with a rueful grin. The lady of Claredon might prove to be a far bigger challenge than he could manage. Ariane responded to him with icy indifference and/or scathing derision. In truth, if her contempt were not so cutting, he might even have found it humorous. At Vernay the serving wenches usually tripped over themselves trying to get into his bed, but not Ariane.
Ranulf laughed silently at himself. If he had any pretensions to vanity over his success with women, she would quickly suppress them.
But Ariane was his hostage, under his control, which gave him an advantage over her. And without actually intending to, he had created the ideal setting for a seduction. Forcing her to share his bed did not have to be a punishment, but a means to gain her surrender.
Would she be able to resist him if he truly set his mind to winning her?
His mouth curved in a smile. How he would like to break through that icy, disdainful facade of hers. To prove that he could melt that haughty scorn. And were he to succeed, the benefits would well outweigh the trouble.
“I might indeed put my skills to the test,” Ranulf replied thoughtfully.
He had barely spoken the words when out of the corner of his eye he caught a flash of movement in the wooded undergrowth. They had been riding along a rutted lane, flanked by oaks and elms, but Ranulf had been paying little attention to his surroundings. Suddenly an arrow whooshed past his head, followed by a sharp cry as one of his bowmen was struck in the chest.
“Blood of Christ, an ambush!” Ranulf roared.
Steel hissed as he drew his sword. With reflexes honed by years of battle, he wheeled his destrier and charged the forest where the attackers were hidden, with Payn a single galloping stride behind him.
A hail of feathered shafts shot from the trees with deadly intent, but Ranulf’s men rode directly into the fray, against a horde of bowmen and peasants armed with sickles but led by mailed knights. The forest came alive with the singsong hiss of arrows and the clang of steel on steel.
Ranulf dispatched an archer who had leveled his bow directly at him, while Payn plucked a rebel from a tree with his lance. Catching sight of a mounted knight who shouted orders to the ambushers, Ranulf spurred his steed on, engaging the enemy who was obviously the leader.
Their swords clashed, and Ranulf bared his teeth with a wolfish grin, blood lust singing in his veins.
For a time the knight held his own, but from his defensive maneuvers, it soon became apparent Ranulf’s skill and brute strength would triumph. He was about to strike a finishing blow when he heard a hoarse shout to his right.
“My lord, behind you!”
He turned his head, but not in time; a serf charged him fiercely, wielding a pitchfork like a lance. Ranulf felt the twines pierce his mail armor, enter his side, his ribs bearing the brunt of the assault. Giving a war cry as he twisted in the saddle, he hoisted his blade and swung, nearly cleaving the man in two.
Breathing hard, Ranulf bent over his horse’s neck, resting his weight against the high wooden pommel of his saddle. When he glanced around him, the fighting had nearly ceased. His men were in control, Ranulf saw with little satisfaction. The villains had been routed, and a number lay scattered on the ground, dead or dying, yet the enemy knight had fled, taking the remainder of his rebel force with him.
Payn gave an order to pursue the fleeing enemy, and when some of Ranulf’s men had obediently galloped off, he urged his destrier beside his lord’s. The forest had grown starkly quiet, save for the harsh breaths of blowing mounts and panting men.
“You are bloodied,” Payn observed with concern.
Ranulf shook his head, his features dark with fury. “I will live. Which is more than I can say for that poor fellow.”
One of his bowmen lay sprawled on the forest floor, an arrow having found its deadly target in the center of his chest. A low groan capturing his attention, Ranulf shifted his gaze to another fallen colleague—and let out a violent curse.
“Burc . . .”
Holding his stinging ribs, Ranulf quickly dismounted and knelt beside the lad, carefully inspecting the arrow protruding from his bloody shoulder.
His squire groaned again, gazing up at him with pain-filled eyes. “I beg forgiveness, milord. It was stupid of me. . . .”
“Hush, boy. Don’t try to speak. You aren’t to blame.”
Ranulf cursed again, this time at himself. He alone was to blame for his carelessness, for allowing his thoughts to be distracted by a bright-haired, silken-skinned wench. He had led his troops directly into an ambush.
In a torment of self-condemnation, he sheathed his sword. Ignoring his own minor wounds, he bent and carefully lifted his squire in his arms and gave him to a mounted vassal with orders to return to Claredon at once and seek his surgeon. Fortunately the lad had fainted and would feel little of the jarring ride. Ranulf could only hope the boy would remain unconsciou
s while the arrow was removed—and that the steel head could be cleanly extracted. He had seen more men than he cared to count die of wounds poisoned by debris embedded in the flesh.
He felt a great weariness descend over him as he watched his squire being carried away. His blood still coursed from the recent skirmish, yet deadly fury washed through him. God’s wounds! His party had been attacked by peasants armed with pitchforks and led by rebel knights. The image of Simon’s face came to mind, followed swiftly by that of the knight’s cohort in crime, Ariane of Claredon.
“We killed five and took two prisoners, both wounded,” Payn informed him. “One appears to be a knight.”
“How many escaped?”
“A dozen or so, I think.”
“Carry the prisoners to Claredon,” Ranulf ordered grimly, “and chain them in the dungeon. And see to their dead comrades as well. You know what to do.”
“Aye, my lord.”
The bodies of the slain rebels would be exhibited on the castle walls, to serve as an example to others. His enemies would learn the futility of challenging the new lord of Claredon.
“And Payn, I want regular patrols sent out henceforth.”
“As you wish. Never fear, lord. We shall bring the lawless brigands to heel. Defiance will gain them naught.”
“Aye, they’ll find what rebellion brings,” Ranulf said darkly as he turned to mount his stallion.
The chapel bell had just tolled vespers when the oaken door to the solar slammed open. Ariane nearly jumped out of her skin at the crash, even though she had been alerted earlier to Ranulf’s arrival by the blare of the gatekeeper’s horn signaling the approach of riders. She had watched with dread as the bodies of several men had been handed down from the horses and piled heedlessly on the ground. One of her worst fears had apparently come to pass: the people of Claredon suffering the merciless wrath of the Black Dragon.
At the moment her heart was lodged in her throat as she stared at the powerful, menacing figure in the doorway. The conical helmet with its broad nose guard concealed most of Ranulf’s face, yet his fierce gold eyes stabbed her, while his hard mouth compressed with fury.
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