The Warrior

by Nicole Jordan

  “Ah, the steward who thought to cheat me with the erroneous accounts.”

  Gilbert flushed, looking uncomfortable, but remained silent, the set of his jaw belligerent.

  “Have you no duties to attend to?”

  “My duty is to serve my lady, sire.”

  Ariane gasped at her brother’s insolent reply, while Ranulf reached for the hilt of his sword. He no longer desired merely to flog the impudent whelp; he wanted to skewer him to a wall. He’d had his fill of such defiance—this continual contempt for his authority and his right to rule.

  Alarmed, Ariane stepped between them, in the path of the massive destrier. “My lord, he did not mean it!”

  “Did he not? Obviously he forgets your changed status.”

  “Yes, I am certain he forgot.” She gazed at Ranulf in consternation, while holding her hands up as if to ward off a blow.

  Ranulf gritted his teeth, furious that Ariane would defend the boy so urgently, and that he himself would care so keenly. He had never before been struck by such an irrational jealousy over a female; it amazed and disturbed him, the violent urge that bored into him like the point of a lance. But then he had never before been plagued by such a vexing, defiant wench as his former betrothed, or her ardent supporters.

  Ranulf clenched his jaw to control the unreasoning suspicions welling inside him. His anger was directed not only at the two conspirators staring up at him, though; he felt a surge of anger at himself for not mastering the violence that lived within him.

  “I beg you, my lord . . . do not pay him any heed. He is but a boy. Afoolish boy,” Ariane added with a repressive glance at Gilbert.

  Ranulf’s eyes coldly swept the lad, who fairly bristled. “Apparently he is old enough to hide behind a woman’s skirts. At his age I had nearly earned my spurs.”

  Gilbert stiffened and stepped forward, squaring his shoulders. “I hide behind no one, sire. If you wish me to prove my mettle, I will gladly oblige.”

  His jealousy goading him, Ranulf flashed a dubious smile. “You look soft, boy. Methinks you would need some training before challenging a knight to combat.”

  “Gilbert is not a soldier, my lord,” Ariane intervened hastily. “He is a scholar.”

  “Then I suggest he go about his scholarly duties,” Ranulf advised, his voice dangerously soft.

  With a frustrated glance at Ariane, Gilbert tugged belligerently on his forelock and bowed to the lord with a pretense of respect, although he looked as if he would have preferred to swallow poison.

  When the lad had left them to enter the chapel, Ranulf sat staring down at Ariane. He looked supremely powerful, mounted on his huge warhorse, despite his lack of armor or helmet. His waving raven hair gleamed with blue highlights in the sun, while his eyes glittered chill gold.

  “I beg forgiveness for his impertinence, my lord,” she said quickly, knowing Gilbert had gone too far. No lord would tolerate such insolence from a serf, or such a flagrant challenge to his authority.

  “I have flogged men for lesser offenses.”

  “Please . . . let him be. He only thought to protect me.”

  “You have too many protectors, to my mind,” Ranulf muttered in reply.

  “Please . . .” she repeated.

  “You ask again for leniency?”

  “Yes, I ask it.”

  “What have you left to bargain with?”

  Ariane lowered her gaze at the challenge in his amber eyes, remembering her plan to win Ranulf through cooperation. “I have nothing to offer you.”

  “So meek. So humble.” His tone was skeptical. “I vow your humility is as false as your claim of ravishment.”

  Ariane bit her tongue hard. Her humilitywas false, but she would not allow herself to respond to Ranulf’s provocation, or let him know how much it stung.

  “What? No rejoinder, wench? Have you suddenly gone dumb?” He made a scoffing sound. “You would be wiser to change your tactics. Docility does not become you.”

  He watched as her head snapped up, and felt a sense of satisfaction. She was not cowed as he had thought, but had been trying to hide her fury. Ranulf smiled in grim triumph. He had wanted to provoke Ariane, in truth, but he wanted her to fight back with the same spirit she had shown in their earlier confrontations. He found he enjoyed her anger far more than her apprehension or humility.

  Just now her beautiful eyes were flashing sparks as she retorted through clenched teeth, “I understood you to say that you desired docility in your hostages, my lord.”

  His smile widened sardonically. “I did not know you were so eager to fulfill my desires.”

  Before she could reply to that provocation, he went on the offensive. “I thought you had been given ample work to occupy you and keep you out of mischief. Yet you seem to find time to conduct trysts with my rebellious retainers.”

  “Trysts?” Ariane’s wary gaze narrowed. “Just what do you accuse me of this time, my lord?”

  “Judging from the discussion I interrupted, the two of you were plotting my overthrow. Do you deny you were conspiring against me with your lover?”

  Her gray eyes widened at that last word. “Lover?Are you jesting?”

  “Do you deny it?” Ranulf persisted.

  “Of course I deny it!” Ariane defended hotly. “Gilbert is my brother!”

  Ranulf stared at her.“Brother?”

  “Half-brother, actually. The baseborn son of my father’s leman. I told you of him. . . . Oh, you . . . you . . .” She sputtered in outrage at his insinuation. “Incest is a mortal sin!”

  Ranulf stared down into her flashing silver eyes with a vast, overwhelming sense of relief. The lad was hersibling. A close kinsman. Which explained the slight resemblance he bore to Ariane, as well as the obvious warmth between them. It also explained his bristling hostility. Gilbert had good reason to resent the lord who had taken his sister prisoner, claimed her inheritance for the crown, and repudiated their betrothal. Ranulf threw back his head and laughed aloud at his mistake.

  Ariane gave him a startled glance, as if wondering if he had lost his wits, but Ranulf merely shook his head. He was still angered by the boy’s foolish defiance, but at least it was now understandable. He could even feel a measure of kinship to the lad, a bastard who doubtless had been made to pay throughout his life for the circumstances of his birth.

  He would not countenance the boy’s flagrant disrespect, or allow his conspiracies to continue, but in truth, he could admire the lad for showing such loyalty to his sister. He prized loyalty in a man—just as he prized spirit in a woman.

  He much preferred the tart-tongued, hot-eyed damsel standing before him now to the retiring, spineless maid Ariane had played for the past week and more after earning his wrath by falsely staining the bedsheets and declaring herself his wife. Her tempestuous defense of her brother just now made Ranulf realize how much her recent meekness had worn on his nerves. He would rather have her spitting at him honestly than pretending to be a mouse.

  In truth, he would rather see honesty from her than pretense underany circumstances. He studied her with careful neutrality, trying to gauge the sincerity of her present performance. Perhaps there was perfidy behind those bright eyes with their look of wounded virtue, but he found himself wanting to believe in the innocence.

  He would be a fool to absolve Ariane of guilt entirely, though. With his own ears he had heard the heated discussion terming him a devil-lord. Doubtless she and her brother were still plotting his downfall, along with all the rest of her former retainers. He could not afford to believe Ariane’s motives pure; to trust her like that was asking for a kick in the gut—or a dagger in the back.

  “The boy is fortunate to have you as defender,” Ranulf said finally, his voice softening, “but he must be witless to consider challenging me.”

  “Gilbert is extremely clever,” Ariane retorted staunchly, “and a good clerk, which you would have known, had you bothered to learn about the people who now serve you. A lord should famil
iarize himself with the character and merits of his retainers if he is to be a fair judge.”

  “A pretty speech,” Ranulf said dryly, feeling the sting of her insult that questioned his fitness as lord, but determined not to reveal it. “But my management is not at issue—nor is it even your concern.”

  “Claredonis my concern, as are its people.”

  “No longer, sweeting.” His grin held deliberate mockery. “You have no rights but those I permit you. I suggest you get yourself to Mass before I revoke those privileges.”

  Ariane watched impotently as Ranulf turned his destrier and rode for the stables, rage simmering along her veins. She had sworn to show him only cooperation and sweetness in order to tame the savage dragon, but it was all she could do to control her temper and prevent herself from hurling invectives after him.

  How she wished she were a man who could defend his honor by might of arms! But she could only battle Ranulf with words and wit—pitiful weapons indeed against a ruthless, seasoned warrior with no heart.

  13

  The storm broke the following eve. The hour was late, but Claredon’s great hall echoed with sporadic bursts of ribald laughter and the bawdy music of a wandering minstrel.

  Rather than retiring to the solar, Ranulf had stayed to dice with his men, and wound up singing songs and watching them dance with the castle wenches. By now most of his knights were befuddled with drink. For some time they had been passing around a wineskin and the strumpets who entertained them, with Bertran de Ridefort leading the frolic.

  The revelry had gotten somewhat out of hand, yet Ranulf was reluctant to end their harmless pleasure. His men needed release after the months of service they had given him. Unaccountably, the merrymaking lowered his spirits rather than raising them. Yet it was difficult to ignore the clamor.

  When a brown-haired, disheveled wench with huge, jiggling bare breasts lifted her skirts to expose her cunny and challenged Bertran’s manhood, the knight threw back his dark head and roared with good-natured drunkenness. Amid shrieks of laughter, he tossed the whore flat on her back upon one of the long trestle tables. Shoving her tunic up to her waist, he loosened his braies and plunged his organ between her fleshy white thighs, grunting with pleasure as she squealed. Each of his big hands gripped a thrusting breast while his hips pumped rhythmically, his lust incited by the obscene jests and cheers and shouts of encouragement of the rowdy onlookers.

  Sitting at the lord’s table on the dais, Ranulf stared broodingly at the hearth fire. Occasionally in the past he had been known to whore with his men, but tonight he was in no mood to enjoy the sport, or to appreciate the attentions of the serving wench, Dena. When she sauntered up to him and lowered her bodice to press her naked breasts against his face, he drew back without interest.

  He had no particular desire to mount her. Dena had doubtless been enjoyed by half the garrison since the occupation of Claredon, and she stank with the musky odor of stale sweat and sex and ale, a scent utterly unlike the clean, sweet fragrance of her former mistress—who was no doubt slumbering upstairs in her chaste bed.

  “I can show you pleasure as sweet as the honeyed wine you drink, lord,” Dena purred in his ear.

  Distracted from his thoughts, Ranulf glanced at the couple mating on the lower table, panting and heaving to the cheers of the crowd. “Not this eve, sweeting. I fear I would not do you justice tonight. Doubtless Bertran would provide you livelier sport.”

  Dena pouted prettily. “That Bertran is a clumsy lout, with no notion how to please a woman.”

  Beside her, Payn chuckled and reached out to fondle her shapely buttocks. “Take care Bertran does not hear you disparage his skill, wench, or his pride will be offended.”

  With a saucy grin at Ranulf’s chief vassal, Dena turned her attention back to the lord. Clasping Ranulf’s hand, she drew it up under her skirts, pressing his fingers against her cleft that was wet and slick and hot.

  The arousing feel of her made Ranulf set his teeth. After the night’s revelry, culminated by Bertran’s exhibition, he was stiff and aching for a woman. And release was at hand. He needed only to free his swollen manhood and draw the eager wench down onto his lap in order to ease his ache.

  He was half sorry when Payn reached over to grasp Dena by the arm and draw her off him. With a flirtatious toss of her head, though, she refused to leave. To the surprise of both men, she settled her hips on the table between them and boldly lay back with her elbows braced behind her. Hiking up her skirts to show the dark bush between her naked thighs, she spread her legs wide, one hand clasping her woman’s mound in carnal invitation.

  The sight of that hot pink flesh tempted Ranulf, in truth. Already his shaft was swollen and thick, straining at his braies. He was actually thinking of covering her when the hall suddenly grew deathly quiet, except for Bertran’s gasping breaths.

  When Ranulf realized all his men were staring behind him, he glanced over his shoulder. His eyes widened to see Ariane standing at the foot of the stone stairwell, gazing in stunned dismay at the company.

  For a score of heartbeats, she remained rigid with shock at finding Ranulf and his knights fornicating on the tables in her father’s hall, but anger burst on her swiftly.

  “Mother Mary, have you noshame ?”

  Not a single man responded, not even the two guards who were escorting her from the kitchens to her chamber at the end of her day’s labor.

  “Not in my father’s hall,” she avowed, her voice trembling with rage and scorn. “And not on the tables. You will not dishonor Claredon this way!”

  Before anyone could respond, she marched determinedly to the lord’s table, where she snatched up the first weapon in sight, an eating dagger. Both Ranulf and Payn stiffened in their seats, their instinct for danger on full alert, but Ariane ignored them as she brandished the knife in Dena’s face.

  “Get out! Go and carry on your debauchery in the stables with the beasts—and do not dare show yourself here again.”

  Dena whimpered in fear and slid from the table to her knees. With Payn’s aid, she struggled to her feet. Edging past Ariane, she fled, almost tripping in her haste to reach the great door.

  When the frightened Dena had gone, Ariane turned her outrage on the company. In a state fit to poison the lot of them, she lashed out blindly, pointing at the door with the knife. “Out! All of you, out, now! Be gone with you.”

  The startled knights looked to Ranulf, whose face had darkened to an enigmatic mask. When their lord made no move to countermand her order, though, a few began backing toward the entrance, away from the knife-wielding fury.

  “Out, I say!”

  Several of the soldiers stood their ground, until Ranulf gave an almost imperceptible nod, endorsing her command. Then even Bertran hurried to obey, tugging up his braies and marshalling his wench from the keep after the others, leaving the hall in sole possession of the lord and his household minions, who had been vainly attempting to sleep on the pallets arrayed along the walls.

  “By the Virgin’s milk,” Payn said with a chuckle of admiration. “They did not even draw their swords. My compliments, demoiselle. Never have I seen them move their lazy arses so swiftly. What a Valkyrie she is, Ranulf.”

  She did indeed resemble the legendary Norse maidens, with her knife drawn and fair hair swirling in a cloud about her shoulders, Ranulf reflected. She looked magnificent, a warrior woman staking a claim to her throne.

  Except that she was supposed to be his slave. He had been fascinated, perhaps even amused, to see her drive his valiant knights and men-at-arms from the hall—and somewhat chastened as well. He had violated his own rigid code by allowing such debauchery in his hall. In his own defense, he had never expected Ariane to see it. And while her outrage might be entirely justified, it was not her place to order his men about.

  Ariane must have realized the extent of her infraction, for she stiffened suddenly, and looked down at Ranulf as he lounged in his high-backed chair.

  Gray eyes
clashed with amber. She was still trembling with rage, but when he caught her wrist and gently pried the knife from her clenched fingers, she made no protest.

  “I could not countenance such a disgusting display,” she said defensively, justifying her rash temper.

  “It was in poor taste,” Ranulf agreed mildly, to her bewilderment. She had never expected him to support her against his men.

  “Such obscene affairs should be conducted in private,” Ariane insisted stubbornly.

  He startled her with a rueful smile. “In future I shall see they are.”

  Still holding her wrist, he rose slowly to his feet. He had been fascinated by her explosion, yet he could not permit her outburst to go unchallenged.

  “Sleep well, Payn,” Ranulf threw carelessly over his shoulder as he drew the suddenly resisting Ariane toward the stairwell.

  Payn chuckled. “I would wish you the same, my lord, but I much doubt sleep will be on your mind tonight.”

  Ariane’s heart began hammering at the knight’s supposition. Ranulf’s hard features were set in an enigmatic mask that was impossible to read. His amber eyes glittered—but not with anger, she thought hopefully. The light of battle was in his eyes, but the heat seemed due more to determination than fury.

  To her dismay, Ranulf dismissed her guards and led her directly to his solar. When he had ushered her inside, he shut the door with studied care. Ariane watched him warily as he turned to face her. A fire burned low in the hearth, and the bedside taper had been lit for the night, faintly illuminating the chamber. In the golden light, his eyes gleamed dangerously.

  Ranulf leaned his broad shoulders against the iron-banded door and crossed his arms over his powerful chest, yet even his relaxed stance unsettled her.

  “What . . . do you intend, my lord?”

  His slow smile made her heartbeat quicken. “You agree you have earned a punishment for your willfulness, vixen?”

  Ariane stiffened. “Nay, I do not. I could not stand by while you engaged in such licentious deportment with your leman.”