The Warrior

by Nicole Jordan

  But he scrutinized her work, watching closely as she cleaned the wound and applied the poultice, then bandaged the boy’s shoulder.

  “There. He should sleep now,” Ariane said quietly when she had finished.

  She looked up to find Ranulf watching her with an odd expression in his eyes. “You have a gentle touch,” he murmured.

  His mood shifted, however, as soon as they had left the chamber and entered the solar. “I would feel your touch, vixen.” Ranulf drew her hand over the bulge in his tunic. “Soothe my fever, Ariane. . . .”

  He kissed her then, and as always, she forgot whatever thoughts had occupied her mind . . . forgot her very name.

  And yet when their passion was spent, her vital mission came rushing back to trouble her. She had to find a way to visit the east wood. Her supplies of medicines was running low. Most of the plants she needed would not mature till summer, but there were a number of shrubs and wildflowers that could be harvested now. She would ask Ranulf’s permission to conduct the spring herb gathering, which would give her a legitimate excuse to leave the castle grounds. She would even offer to take her guards. Surely she could outwit them long enough to see to her errand.

  That evening, when she sat across the chessboard from Ranulf, she took a deep breath, girding herself for the risk. “If I win tonight, my lord, may I ask a boon?”

  “You may ask now,” he replied, studying the ivory pieces.

  “No, I will wait.”

  It took all her concentration and skill, but she won the match. As casually as possible, she asked permission to gather herbs in the forest.

  “You wish to leave the castle grounds?” was Ranulf’s first question.

  “I will not attempt to escape, I give you my word.”

  His expression became an enigmatic mask, as if a shutter had suddenly closed. “Is this the same forest the Claredon serfs believe to be haunted by spirits and plagued by wolves?”

  Abruptly Ariane lowered her gaze, not wishing him to see the lies in her eyes. “Aye, my lord.”

  Ranulf refrained from answering at once, conflicting emotions warring within him as he studied her serene face.Had he been too harsh on Ariane? Was it time to give her the chance to prove herself? Could he trust her enough to leave the castle grounds on such an innocuous errand? Or was she intent on some more nefarious purpose? . . .

  “I shall be away from the castle on the morrow,” he said finally, without inflection. “If it does not rain, you may go then. You will take an armed escort for safety, lest you come upon a wolf with a fancy for lovely flesh.”

  She was surprised Ranulf had given in with such ease, and that he had made no mention of rebels or lovers, but she would not permit herself to question her good fortune. If, for the remainder of the evening, he seemed quieter than usual, if occasionally she caught him glancing at her intently, she told herself it was purely her imagination.

  The following morning she watched with relief as he rode out with a company of knights. She was grateful for his absence, for although she might outmaneuver her guards, she knew Ranulf’s vigilance was another matter entirely.

  She dressed in one of her oldest woolen gowns and mantle and had her palfrey saddled, along with cobs for two of her tirewomen and the castle midwife. While the women were loading the panniers on the packhorses with baskets and pottery jars and cloth bags, Ariane prepared two baskets of foodstuffs—bread and cheese and roasted meat, as well as vegetables and dried fruits. Leather flagons of wine complemented the victuals, and she included another flagon for her Norman escort.

  It seemed overly cautious to be so heavily guarded by armored knights and archers on so beautiful a morning. The rains had stopped, leaving the air fresh and cool, the spring breeze scented with growing crops and wildflowers that grew in sweet profusion.

  The entourage wound its way past patchwork fields of green and brown and across meadows abloom with spring flowers and wet with dew, before coming to a halt at the edge of the eastern forest.

  For much of the morning, Ariane pretended to participate in the herb gathering, but as the other women spread out, she wandered further afield, venturing into the wood itself.

  Ariane’s heart was pounding by the time she was able to slip away from the party. No one followed her, she was certain, but she hurried nevertheless, her footsteps almost silent as they trod a carpet of moss and humus.

  When she came upon the cotter’s hut hidden among a tangle of birch and hawthorn, she came to a halt, her vision blurring with tears. Hazy spears of sunlight cast the clearing in a golden glow, giving it an almost heavenly aura, yet she knew, to her great sorrow, the inhabitants were afflicted by Satan’s curse. Brushing the moisture from her eyes, Ariane forced herself to go on, knowing she could not afford to indulge in her own anguish.

  She performed her duty and emerged from the wood some quarter hour later, her heart heavy as always when she paid her visits, and yet lighter than any time since Ranulf’s capture of Claredon.

  The sudden silence that greeted her when she reached the meadow disturbed her. There was no sign of her women, or of the escort Ranulf had forced upon her. They were all gone.

  In their place, at the far edge of the meadow, a powerful knight in full armor sat silently astride his warhorse.

  Ariane halted abruptly, staring in horror. The Black Dragon awaited her, his piercing gaze fixed on her. His helmet shielded much of his harsh face, concealing his expression, yet even at this distance, she could sense his seething fury.

  18

  “Mother of God,” Ariane breathed, her face draining of all color.

  Ranulf sat motionless on his massive black stallion, his right hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The dark image he presented struck her as vengeful, pagan, ruthless.

  The cry of a wild hawk keened over the meadow, but Ariane scarcely noticed. She stood frozen as Ranulf nudged his destrier and rode slowly forward. A constricted feeling of terror welled in her chest as he halted before her and raised his helmet.

  “What do you here, wench?” he demanded, the menace in his tone making her shiver.

  She forced her reply past the dry swelling in her throat. “G-Gathering herbs, my lord.”

  “You were absent a long while. You should have a bountiful yield to show for your efforts. Show me the contents of your baskets.”

  Too paralyzed to move, she simply stared at him, sick dread twisting her insides.

  “Do as I say!”

  With trembling hands, she pushed back the lids of the two baskets she carried. But for a few twigs and leaves, they were empty.

  Ranulf’s face hardened even more, if that were possible. “My men say your baskets were filled with food. Have you mayhap been providing sustenance for my enemies?”

  “N-No . . . of c-course not . . .”

  “Do not lie to me, wench!”

  Ariane flinched in fear. His face had darkened to a thundercloud, while his piercing eyes had turned to shards of ice. It had been mad to think he would believe her lame excuse, witless to have planned so poorly. She had not even prepared a proper alibi. She should at least have refilled her baskets with plants after leaving the food at the cottage.

  “Know you the punishment for aiding a rebellion?”

  “I was n-not attempting to aid—“

  “Then what do you so far afield? Were you not plotting treachery? Consorting with traitors? If I ride into yonder wood, will I find Simon Crecy?”

  She stared at Ranulf, desperately searching her mind for a reply. “I swear on my life, it has naught to do with rebellion.”

  “A tryst, then? The serving wench, Dena, tells me you go frequently to the woods to meet a lover.” His voice was hoarse, guttural, even bitter.

  Ariane sucked in her breath at the falsehood. “ ’Tis a lie! I have no lover!”

  His icy expression never faltered. “I wondered when I gave you leave to come here if you would act. I granted your boon—Itrusted you —and this is how you repay me. With gui
le and betrayal.”

  She shook her head frantically. His accusations were erroneous, yet she was terrified that Ranulf would discover the truth. That he would uncover the secret she had vowed on her life to keep safe. Stupid fool! She knew how little Ranulf trusted her, but she had fallen blindly into his trap. It seemed clear now that he had lain in wait for her—and she had witlessly led him directly to this place.

  “Nay, Ranulf . . . it is not what you think . . .”

  “Nay?” he repeated on a harsh bark of laughter. Savage pain caught him unaware. He did not want to hear her lies. He did not want to think, to reason, to feel the terrible bitterness cutting into his heart at her betrayal. He had been willing to trust her, to give her the chance to prove her intentions, but she’d meant to deceive him from the first, plotting her furtive mission here with cunning and guile, thinking she could conceal her scheming from him. He should have relied on his intuition.

  “I swear to you, there is no rebellion, no lover.”

  He refused to believe her denials. Her fear was too real, her reaction too forced. And his sick fury too strong.

  He fought the feeling desperately, struggling to overcome the suffocating pounding of his heart. She was protecting something or someone—Simon Crecy the most likely culprit. But by God, he would discover her secret if he had to comb every inch of these woods.

  His violent emotions nearly strangling him, Ranulf deliberately drew on the one weapon that had stood him in good stead all his life: rage. The kind of rage that destroyed.

  “Come here.”

  The velvet-honed voice of steel brooked no defiance, yet Ariane could only stare at him.

  When she hesitated, Ranulf’s eyes narrowed like twin lances. “Now,wench. Do not force me to pursue you.”

  She took a faltering step backward, her throat closing with fear.

  His fury breaking, Ranulf threw his leg over the pommel and dropped to the ground. In two strides, he had reached her and caught her in his imprisoning grip, making her drop her baskets. His leather gauntlets dug into her arms in his desire to shake the truth from her. “Do not defy me, wench! I am a scant instant from striking you where you stand.”

  Ariane stared up at him fearfully. “What . . . do you mean to do?”

  “I intend to search this wood, every inch of it, till I find your cohorts.”

  God’s mercy, she thought as panic welled within her. She had to do something to stop him!

  She resisted with all her might as Ranulf scooped her into his arms. But when he had set her on his destrier, an idea born of blind desperation struck her.

  Without thought, with no time to consider the consequences, Ariane reacted. Catching up the reins, she whirled the stallion toward the direction of the castle and dug her heels in fiercely.

  “By the hounds of hell!”

  She heard Ranulf’s violent oath, but never paused, not even daring to look over her shoulder to see if he followed.

  The stallion fought her, unaccustomed to carrying so light a weight, but desperation lent her strength. She knew she could not hope to escape Ranulf’s retribution for long, yet her mad action would serve to distract him and perhaps buy her some time. If she absconded with his horse and left him stranded far from the castle, he would be so furious at her that he might not investigate the forest. And on foot he could not search the wood as easily. She prayed to God that the delay would somehow give her the chance to warn the inhabitants to flee.

  She galloped back to Claredon as if a thousand devils were on her heels, and clattered across the drawbridge, alarming the guards at the gates and causing them to blare their horns.

  When she came to a plunging halt in the inner bailey, a dozen men immediately surrounded her, all demanding answers at once.

  “Were you attacked?”

  “The lord? What of him?”

  “How many assailants?”

  “Is he still where we left him with you, milady?”

  Ariane dared not admit to his knights and men-at-arms that she had stolen Ranulf’s warhorse. If she made him a laughingstock, he would be all the more livid. But she had to give some explanation for her frantic arrival and dishevelled appearance.

  “No, no . . . nothing like that,” she murmured breathlessly. “ ’Twas an accident, merely. I fell and caught my tunic on a branch. . . . Lord Ranulf sent me back to change. He will be along presently.”

  Disbelief warred on their faces, but they did not challenge her account, except to ask if their lord was on foot.

  “Yes,” she answered reluctantly. “Someone should take him his mount.”

  Several of the men stepped forward at once.

  Ariane did not wait for any further questions, but accepted aid in dismounting from the huge destrier. With dread curling her stomach like acid, she went in search of Gilbert. She desperately hoped her half-brother could be trusted to do her bidding without question and carry a warning for her. She would make him swear as she had sworn. . . .

  To her dismay, Gilbert was nowhere to be found. She searched the keep from top to bottom, but could find nary a sign of him. Told that he might be with the steward tallying rents, she ran back down to the bailey to search the storerooms, the chapel, the stables, the smithy, anywhere Gilbert might logically be found.

  She had given up hope and was about to return to the tower and beg one of her trusted ladies to carry the warning for her, when she saw Payn FitzOsbern striding across the yard toward her. Ariane came to an abrupt halt, her heart sinking with despair at the stern look on his handsome features.

  The big knight stopped before her, searching her face intently. “What is this I hear of an accident?”

  She hated to lie to this man. “Not an accident, exactly. Ranulf . . . I took his horse,” Ariane added lamely.

  “A grave mistake, lady.”

  “I know, but he would have . . .”

  The expression in Payn’s eyes was serious yet puzzled. “I know Ranulf. He would not have harmed you without severe inducement. There must be more to the tale.”

  He waited patiently for an explanation that Ariane had no time to give. She twisted her fingers together in agitation. She desperately needed to find someone to carry her message of warning—

  The gatekeeper’s trumpet heralded the approach of another party just then, making Ariane’s heart clench. Had Ranulf returned so soon?

  “I must go . . .” she exclaimed and started to turn away, but Payn’s hand shot out to forestall her.

  “I think not, my lady.”

  Ariane went white. “Sir Payn, I beg you—”

  “My oath is to Ranulf. I will not side with you against him. In any case, you may as well await him here. You will not escape him, you know.”

  She shook her head blindly. Payn had mistaken the cause of her fear. She knew she could not hope to hide from Ranulf; he would hunt her down did she even try. She was more afraid of the consequences should he learn her secret than of the Black Dragon himself.

  The choice was taken from her by Ranulf’s vassal, however. Unable to escape Payn’s imprisoning grasp on her arm, Ariane stood trembling beside him, taking faint comfort from his nearness.

  Moments later the Black Dragon rode through the gates of the inner bailey before a silent crowd that had gathered to watch.

  Coming to a halt beside Ariane, Ranulf slowly dismounted, keeping his gaze trained solely on her. His expression was cold, harsh, unforgiving, as he stood before her, a towering, vengeful figure.

  Ariane quaked, knowing she was in imminent peril of death. His eyes were savage, so dark they were nearly black.

  “I will ask you but once more,” Ranulf said with lethal softness, his tone devoid of all emotion. “Whom did you think to meet in the wood?”

  “I cannot tell you,” Ariane returned in a voice trembling with anguish. A life was at stake, the life of someone she held dearer than her own. She could not trust Ranulf’s mercy enough to risk divulging her precious secret. “I swore a sacred oath. You
may beat me, imprison me, threaten me with death, but I cannot tell you.”

  At the alternatives she presented, bleak pain flared in Ranulf’s eyes for a fleeting instant, but it vanished as a mask slammed down over his features. His duty was suddenly abhorrent to him, but he could no longer allow such defiance to go unchallenged.

  “Your disobedience, your willfulness, must be punished, then. Payn, you will escort this hostage to the dungeon, where she will be incarcerated till she makes a full and truthful confession and gives up the rebels she seeks to protect.”

  “Nay! You cannot!” The cry came from a young man who pushed through the crowd of spectators.

  Gilbert, Ariane realized in despair. If only she had found him a few moments earlier.

  The boy was determined to come to her defense, it seemed. “You cannot imprison my lady. I challenge you, milord! I challenge you to single combat!”

  “You fight me?” Ranulf’s mouth curled in disbelief as he stared down at the slightly built youth. “I will not be driven to murder a weakling still wet behind the ears.”

  “Coward! Black-hearted coward!”

  Ranulf froze, while a collective gasp rose from the crowd. His jaw hardening, Ranulf gestured to one of his sergeants. “Fetch him a sword. And a helm and hauberk. If he is so eager for a fight, I will give him one.”

  “Sweet Mary, no!” Ariane’s plea went unheeded as Ranulf watched his command being carried out and the items fetched. She tried again, this time more desperately. “My lord . . . I beg you. Your quarrel is with me, not Gilbert.”

  “Why do you tarry?” Ranulf asked Payn coldly. “Take her to the dungeon.”

  “Aye, my lord,” his vassal replied.

  His grip on her arm tightening, Payn drew Ariane toward the tower as her defiant younger brother was fitted with a heavy tunic of chain mail.

  She had to be forced up the outer steps of the keep, for she kept trying to watch over her shoulder as Gilbert bravely donned the steel helmet and accepted a knight’s sword.

  When Payn had led her inside the hall, Ariane put a hand over her mouth to stifle a whimper. “Ranulf will kill him. . . .”