The Warrior

by Nicole Jordan

  Confounded by her declaration, Ranulf regarded her intently, waiting.

  Ariane swallowed against the ache in her throat. “My father’s vassal, Simon Crecy, has returned to Claredon and . . . and asked to meet with me.”

  She could see Ranulf’s expression darkening and exclaimed, “Ranulf, I beseech you! Hear me out.”

  For a long moment he stared at her, not speaking as he willed himself to calm. Taking a slow breath, he searched Ariane’s upturned face, gauging her look of entreaty. The gray depths of her eyes held no secrets, no deception, only a quiet anguish. “Very well. You have my undivided attention, demoiselle. What passes? Tell me, does this Simon plan an assault on Claredon Keep?”

  She shook her head. “I have no knowledge of his intentions.” At Ranulf’s skeptical look, Ariane handed him the scrap of parchment she had received from her brother. “I tell you true, Ranulf . . . I have had no communication with Simon, other than this message.”

  He scanned the note quickly, before again favoring her with his penetrating regard. Ariane thought that he looked as if he wanted to believe her, to give her the benefit of the doubt. Certainly, he would know she had taken a grave risk by coming to him. He could order Simon captured and imprisoned without thought to justice or compassion.

  “What is it you wish of me?” asked Ranulf finally.

  Hope welled within her at his rational tone. “If you would accompany me to meet Simon . . . I could discover what news he has of my father.”

  “Why should I do so, demoiselle? How can I know your vassal does not lie in ambush to slay me?”

  Ariane shook her head again, her tears spilling over. “Simon is a brave and loyal knight, my lord, qualities you value highly. When he escaped Claredon, he planned to ride north to Mortimer’s castle, his only intent to work for my father’s good. I cannot believe he played any part in the raid on your troops.”

  “Has he other men with him?”

  “I know not. This message is all I was given.”

  “Given by your sibling, Gilbert?”

  She nodded reluctantly, not liking to implicate her brother in a conspiracy, yet unsurprised by Ranulf’s discernment. His sharp eyes missed little, doubtless because he was prepared for betrayal from every quarter.

  He was silent for a long moment, saying finally, “Very well, I will accompany you. But I shall take along a troop of knights to be equipped for any eventuality.”

  “I thank you, my lord,” Ariane said with fervent gratitude. “Yet . . . Simon might flee if he sees so many of you.”

  “Then he will be pursued and captured,” Ranulf replied coolly. “You must needs be satisfied with that, demoiselle.” His voice was courtesy itself, but she had learned to recognize the commanding note of finality in that tone. Nodding, Ariane swallowed her tears and fetched a mantle to shield her against the damp of the blustery day.

  Ranulf followed her belowstairs uneasily. In truth, he was wary of her motives, knowing Ariane could have devised a trap to lure him into his enemy’s clutches. It went against every painful lesson experience had ever taught him, every cautious instinct, to accept her tale on faith.

  Then again, she could indeed be telling the truth; he had wronged her before by accusing her falsely. If so, then it presented him with a troubling dilemma. She had entrusted him with the lives of those dear to her, and counted on him to deal with them mercifully. What if he were forced to act otherwise? He could not let a traitor remain free. What if he were compelled to slay Simon? Could he bring himself to cause Ariane grief? Could he betray the trust she had placed in him?

  The gray day was waning by the time he rounded up enough of his knights and men-at-arms to form a rear guard. The lengthening shadows would aid in an enemy ambush, Ranulf noted grimly.

  Ariane, riding beside him on her own palfrey, was keenly aware of Ranulf’s silence. Armored in chain mail tunic and steel helm, he seemed the embodiment of an invincible, relentless warrior, and she knew he would not hesitate to lash out with all his formidable might should he be threatened.

  They rode toward the east, to the forest where her mother’s hut lay hidden.

  “ ’Tis not much further, my lord,” she murmured as they reached the meadow where she and Ranulf had made love so tenderly that one enchanted spring day.

  With a long, level look at her, Ranulf raised his hand and commanded his troops to await him there. Alone, he and Ariane entered the gloom of the forest. After a long moment, near a dense copse of oaks, she drew her horse to a halt.

  “Simon?” she called softly. “I have come as you requested.”

  The unmistakable sound of steel whispering against a scabbard greeted her words and sent panic leaping through her veins. In an instant, Ranulf had his sword battle-ready in hand, prepared to fight, even as Ariane cried out, “Nay, Simon! Hold! We mean you no harm!”

  In the resulting silence, she could hear her heart pounding. “I have vouched for your innocence to the new lord of Claredon. If you draw sword against him, you declare yourself his enemy.”

  When no response was forthcoming, Ranulf added gruffly, “Show yourself, Simon Crecy. No man of honor skulks in the shadows.”

  Grim-faced, his hand resting on the hilt of his sheathed sword, the tall knight stepped from behind the thick trunk of an oak tree. Every measure of his stance bespoke wariness, mistrust, and yet he faced the powerful Norman warlord without flinching.

  Shifting his gaze from Ranulf, Simon shot Ariane a reproachful glance. “My lady, I expected more discretion from you.”

  “I have no secrets from my lord Ranulf,” she replied quietly. “He has agreed to hear you out. How fare you, Simon?”

  The knight eyed Ranulf once more. “Well enough, my lady.”

  “You can speak freely,” Ariane assured him. “Have you any word of my father?”

  “Word? Aye. But no success to report. I failed to gain access to Bridgenorth Castle, and so can recount only rumors.”

  “What did you learn?”

  “I have no proof, my lady. Merely suspicions.”

  “Tell us,” she urged.

  “The siege of Bridgenorth is taking a toll on the defenders,” Simon replied, keeping his attention on Ranulf. “King Henry was preparing to move war machines against the walls when Hugh Mortimer commissioned his envoy to sue for terms. When Mortimer’s agents met with the king, I was able to question a page briefly. The boy said that Lord Walter is being held prisoner in the tower dungeon by his liege for refusing to declare against King Henry.”

  “Prisoner? Herefused ?” A fierce surge of hope welled within Ariane. If true, it meant that her father was no traitor!

  Overjoyed by the possibility, she started to question Simon further, but he held up a cautioning hand. “Walter is said to be ill, my lady. If he opposed Mortimer, there is every likelihood he is being punished for his defiance . . . starvation, even torture. Mortimer is known to be ruthless in his anger.”

  She turned to gaze beseechingly at Ranulf. “Ranulf . . .please, you must allow me to go to him. His condition could be grave.”

  Ranulf’s amber eyes showed no sign of weakening resolve. “Your father has been charged with high treason. You expect me to believe in his innocence without proof?”

  “I swear to you,” Ariane vowed in anguish, “when he rode for Bridgenorth, he was not contemplating treason. You heard Simon. My father is Henry’s man.”

  “ ’Tis true,” Simon added solemnly. “Walter once considered declaring for Stephen’s bastard son, William. But he realized his error the more he learned of the young man. He knew England needed a strong ruler and was prepared to support the new king fully.”

  “Yes,” Ariane said earnestly, remembering the late King Stephen’s reign—a time of greed and anarchy in a land rife with lawlessness. “My father was sickened by the strife that had torn England apart, and welcomed a ruler who could give us peace.”

  “And yet Walter supplied Mortimer with knights to aid the rebellion,” Ranulf
reminded her. “Do you deny the truth of that?”

  She shook her head. “He took only those knights he owed for the land held in fief of Mortimer, as he was bound by honor to do.”

  At her impassioned defense, Ranulf frowned in contemplation. Ariane had always maintained her father’s innocence, and in truth, it made little sense that Walter would join the revolt against Henry when he had striven to hold an even course in the tumultuous political seas of two decades. It would be the height of foolishness to declare against a powerful new king who already had many of England’s great earls in his camp—and Walter had not struck him as being a fool. Far from it. The lord of Claredon had seemed as shrewd as they came.

  Reluctantly Ranulf found himself swayed by Ariane’s fervent defense of her father. The ambitious Hugh Mortimer had reason to rebel against Henry; as a powerful baron and supporter of the late Stephen, Mortimer doubtless harbored illusions that he could emerge victorious in a battle of wills. But there was every possibility his vassal Walter was innocent of treason if he was being held hostage to Mortimer’s demands.

  While Ranulf deliberated, Ariane dug her nails into her palms, waiting anxiously for him to come to a decision. “My father is not guilty,” she repeated finally in a low, imploring voice, “and somehow I must prove it.”

  Ranulf raised his gaze to hers, but she could not read his expression.

  “I could go to Henry and plead my father’s case—”

  “No.” Ranulf shook his head slowly. “I know Henry well. He would not hear you. He means to break the back of the rebellion and make an example of those barons who challenged his rule.”

  Ariane bit her lip hard. She could not remain passive when there was a chance she might save her father. “Ranulf, please . . . Ibeg you, allow me to go to him.”

  Taking his time, Ranulf slowly sheathed his sword, before finally answering. “No.”

  “No! But—”

  Raising his hand, he cut off her cry of protest. “I will ride north for the king’s camp and speak to Henry directly. He will at least hear me out.”

  Ariane stared at him, hardly daring to believe Ranulf would trouble himself so for her sake.

  “However, if Walter is found guilty . . .” he added in warning. His amber eyes held hers intently. “If so, there may be naught I can do for him, but I will petition the king for leniency.”

  Her hope soared; her love for him swelled till she thought her heart might burst. “You would do that for me, my lord?”

  Abruptly Ranulf looked away. “For justice,” he muttered untruthfully. “I like not to see an honorable man condemned unjustly.”

  Eager to change the subject, he turned his attention once more to Simon. “You will surrender your sword to me, and give me your oath of fealty.”

  Simon bowed his head. “I will yield my sword, my lord, and vow never to raise a hand against you, but I cannot give such an oath.”

  Ranulf’s brows snapped together. “Do you deny my right to fealty as your liege?”

  “I deny not that you are lord here,” Simon replied quietly. “You have control of Claredon, and are not likely to ever relinquish it. But I will not swear fealty to you, my lord. I am Walter’s man, his sworn vassal, and I count my oath to him sacred. As long as he lives, I will not forsake him.”

  The grim set of his mouth relaxing, Ranulf nodded, respecting a man who would stand by his principles even at the risk of his own life. He would have done the same in Simon’s place.

  “My lord,” the knight added, “if you would permit me to keep my sword, I might use it on my lord Walter’s behalf. I had hoped to raise a force to aid his defense, but if you mean to go . . . Will you permit me to ride under your banner?”

  “Aye,” he agreed. “You will be welcome.”

  “I would return to Bridgenorth as soon as may be. Time could be of the essence.”

  “We will leave on the morrow,” Ranulf assured him. “Now come, return with us to Claredon so that you may brief my men on the state of the siege.”

  Ranulf and Ariane waited while Simon fetched the horse he had tethered beyond the copse, and then the three of them rode together toward Claredon.

  All remained silent. Ariane’s thoughts were too wrapped up in her hopes regarding her father for her to make idle conversation, while Ranulf brooded on his possible course of action.

  He had promised to aid her father, but the odds were still great that he would fail in his mission, that Walter would not be exonerated as Ariane so desperately wished, that her fate would be sealed by her father’s sentence. As a convicted traitor’s daughter, Ariane would suffer untold indignities, would lose all rights to land or property, any claim to the king’s mercy. She would be rendered destitute, without a dowry even the poorest nunnery would accept.

  Unless he intervened.Therewas a way to shield her.

  Ranulf took a steadying breath. If he made Ariane his wife, he could protect her from the consequences of her father’s treason. In truth, his own honor demanded that he make some sort of reparation, Ranulf admitted with an unsettling twinge of guilt. He had waged an unrelenting war against her in his determination to free himself from their betrothal, treating Ariane as an enemy to be crushed. It had been an unequal fight, and she, a vastly weaker opponent, despite her courage and her people’s stubborn support. No knight worthy of the name would violate the codes of chivalry as he had done.

  More damning, he had used her body—for his own pleasure and as a weapon against her. He had shamed and dishonored Ariane by forcing her to his bed.

  And in the end, shehad yielded to him, had pledged her loyalty to him as her liege, and in so doing, had made him responsible for her welfare.

  He would be departing on the morrow, though, leaving her alone for weeks, perhaps longer. He would have to act now, tonight, if he acted at all.

  Ranulf could feel his heart pounding as he came to a decision. He would take Ariane as his wife. Now, tonight, before he could change his mind. If his action would also bind her to him irrevocably, it was a consideration he refused to examine too closely.

  His heart was still thudding unnaturally when they reached the hall where many of the castlefolk were engaged in the evening meal. Ariane started for the stairs, saying she would leave him to consult with his men, but Ranulf forestalled her with a hand on her arm. “Stay, lady.” Turning to summon a serf, he commanded the man to fetch the priest.

  She gave Ranulf a quizzical look. “Is something amiss, my lord?”

  “No.” He returned a brooding glance. “You will at last get your wish, demoiselle,” he replied cryptically.

  Her confusion increased. “My wish?”

  “You sought to become my wife. Before I leave, I mean to formally wed you.”

  Her mouth opening, Ariane stared at Ranulf in shock, in disbelief.“Why?” she asked finally, her breath a rasp of sound.

  “Why?”

  “Why would you agree to a formal union between us after all this time? After standing so firmly against it, against me, for so long?”

  Ranulf looked away, reluctant to meet her gaze. “Because King Henry wishes it. When last I saw him, he urged the marriage. If I am to seek his favor, I prefer not to face him from a position of weakness.”

  “Is that all?” she asked quietly. “Is that your sole reason?”

  It was not the sole reason, nor even the most important one, though itwas true he could strengthen his position by acceding to Henry’s wishes regarding the marriage. But Ranulf was disinclined to confess his feelings of remorse to Ariane, or to divulge his need to protect her, or to expose his weakness for her, the desire that had become a raging obsession.

  “ ’Tis reason enough,” Ranulf replied gruffly instead.

  “No, my lord,” Ariane said finally, shaking. her head. “It is not enough. Not for me.” She took a deep breath. “You may choose to wed for political expediency, Ranulf, but I cannot. I will not speak the vows to become your wife. I will not wed you.”

 
26

  It was Ranulf’s turn to stare. Had he misheard her? “Are you saying yourefuse ?”

  “Aye, my lord,” Ariane replied quietly. “I will not wed you.”

  Bafflement, disbelief, doubt all warred in Ranulf’s mind. Never had he considered her possible refusal. Yet perhaps Ariane was being coy, pretending to spurn his magnanimous offer in order to win further concessions from him.

  Irritated by her ploy, he favored her with a quelling stare, one that never failed to make the most courageous of men quake in their boots. Instead of flinching, Ariane returned his gaze somberly, her expression one of incredible sadness.

  “You once thought political expedience an adequate reason to wed,” Ranulf pointed out—quite reasonably, he thought.

  “That . . . was before I came to know you.”

  His scowl faded, to be replaced by true uncertainty. “What mean you, ‘before you came to know me’?”

  “I understand you far better now, Ranulf. And that understanding weighs more with me than any politics.” She looked away, unable to meet his gaze further, and clasped her hands together to stop them from trembling. “The original reasons for an alliance between us no longer exist. I agreed to an arranged marriage to please my father, and to provide Claredon with a strong lord when he eventually passes from this life. But as you have often reminded me, you already are Claredon’s lord. And my father, in his present danger, doubtless has more vital worries to occupy his thoughts than which suitor I wed.”

  A sinking sensation assaulted Ranulf in the pit of his stomach, though he ignored it as he strove to follow her rationale. The circumstances between them had indeed changed radically—but there were still reasons for the marriage, certainly on his part. He had initially agreed to the betrothal to further his own interests, and his original justification still had merit. He wanted heirs of Ariane. And the political basis was still sound, especially with the king pressing for the union. Both were reason enough to marry—or so Ranulf tried to convince himself. He did not want to examine too closely his eagerness to wed Ariane now. It was enough that he was willing to honor her as his lady wife.