Opening his eyes to the gray day, Ranulf stared wonderingly out at the rolling English countryside, savoring the words on his tongue.I love her. The rightness of it echoed through his mind, resonated through his body, his very soul.
He threw back his head and laughed, startling his men. For the first time in his life he felt released from the burden of bitterness he had always carried. He felt like a newborn babe, helpless, innocent, marveling at the world around him.
He loved Ariane, needed her—a need as pure and strong as his need for air. If she were his, he would ask nothing more of life than to be allowed to stand between her and the world, protecting her from all sadness and harm; he could ask for no greater boon. Yet knowing the woman she was, Ariane would refuse to meekly accept his protection. She would stand with him against the world, fighting at his side, as his equal, his soul mate.
Ranulf shut his eyes, remembering. No woman had ever offered him the generous, unselfish tenderness she had shown. No woman had ever dared defy and challenge him as Ariane had, either.
A rueful smile tugged at Ranulf’s lips as he thought of their tempestuous encounters . . . a smile that swiftly faded. He had tried to crush that spark of fire in Ariane, that precious spirit, when he should have cherished it.
But no longer. He had broken the chains of his past, and he would honor her as she deserved.
Yet there was work to be done, Ranulf reminded himself, suddenly sobering. He had vowed to aid her father. For Ariane’s sake, he prayed Walter was innocent. He could not bear the thought of her grief should her father be hanged for treason.
But it would not come to that, Ranulf vowed. He was the king’s man, but he was prepared to go to great lengths for the woman he loved. If need be, he was prepared to battle even his king for her father’s life.
Henry’s camp was a familiar sight, teeming with military purpose. Tents and pavilions spread over a vast acreage, with banners waving at each entrance and great destriers tethered nearby. Everywhere there were crowds—knights and archers, squires and pages, cooks and camp followers, smiths and armorers, as well as couriers riding to and fro.
Ranulf eyed the commotion with little enthusiasm. How profoundly he had changed in the past months from the eager warrior he once had been. He had battled, feasted, reveled, and whored with the best of them, yet now all he wished was to return home to Claredon, to Ariane.
The royal tent was the largest of the lot, but even Ranulf, as high ranking and valued a knight as he was, could not gain immediate entrance. He was made to cool his heels outside for the better part of ten minutes, awaiting the king’s pleasure.
The delay, however, allowed him to learn of the events that had occurred in his absence since escorting Queen Eleanor here. It seemed Henry’s efforts to bring the rebellious barons to heel was nearing success.
“They have sued for pardon,” a fellow knight informed Ranulf jovially. “Their resources are so depleted, they would make terms with the Devil, I trow.”
Ranulf nodded in approval. Henry had been reluctant to storm Mortimer’s castle and lose valuable men by ordering the walls destroyed, and so had chosen to starve the inhabitants with a lengthy siege. But it was clear the campaign to crush the rebels was nearing the end. At this very moment, Henry was in council with his earls, who had conducted the terms of surrender.
When at last he was bid entrance, Ranulf found Henry pacing the ground as was his wont, surrounded by his high-ranking knights, as well as stewards and servitors, all in a gleeful mood.
Pressing through the crowd, Ranulf went down on one knee and kissed the king’s hand. “My lord king, I congratulate you on your victory.”
“Ah, Ranulf, best of my knights! You come just in time to partake in the spoils.”
The youthful, red-haired ruler of England and Normandy was not overly tall, but he bristled with a fierce energy that, in addition to his broad shoulders and powerful body and booming voice, gave him a commanding presence second to none. Henry also possessed a fiery temper that was the stuff of legends, yet at the moment, his famous fits of rage were nowhere in evidence. Instead, he was grinning broadly.
Ranulf let out a breath he hadn’t been conscious of holding. In such an expansive mood, Henry would be more amenable to a subject he would doubtless find unpleasant; Walter would at least be afforded a hearing.
Ranulf kissed the king’s hand again and rose. “I have no need to share the spoils, sire,” he said carefully. “In truth, I have but one boon to ask of you. That you lend me your ear as a merciful and impartial judge. See you, I think there is good reason to believe Walter of Claredon has been falsely accused of treason.”
That night the terms of surrender were accepted and Mortimer’s castle at last fell to the siege. Ranulf was one of the first inside the keep, but while others searched the tower for stray rebels, he and his men headed straight for the dungeons.
He received no protest when he commandeered the keys from the jailer. Opening the heavy, metal-banded door, he gestured for his squire, Burc, to follow with a torch, and nodded permission for Simon Crecy to accompany them. Then he crouched to enter the pit.
The stench was almost overpowering. Within, there was barely room to stand erect. Ranulf held his breath as he searched the dismal chamber.
A dozen figures—thin, filthy, ragged—stood chained to the walls, bodies slumped, heads lolling on weakened necks. Ranulf’s throat tightened with pity for these poor souls who once had been men. He would not wish this fate on his worst enemy, and yet he prayed Ariane’s father was among them.
“I seek Walter of Claredon,” Ranulf said quietly, compassion roughening his voice.
One man’s head slowly came up, his chains clanking as he lifted his arm and tried to shield his eyes from the blinding torchlight.
“I am Walter,” he whispered hoarsely. He held himself proudly, despite his suffering, a courageous knight even in torment.
Ranulf swallowed hard. “I am Ranulf of Vernay. Remember me, my lord? I am here at your daughter’s behest.”
“Ariane?” the hoarse voice rasped.
“Aye, Ariane,” Ranulf said humbly as he moved to release Walter from his chains. “Your daughter, who never forsook you. Who never abandoned faith in your innocence.”
Walter of Claredon was a free man. He had been found imprisoned in the Bridgenorth dungeon, just as rumor purported—a circumstance that went a long way toward supporting his claim of innocence. His wretched physical condition attested to the tortures he had suffered. And with a dozen knights willing to vouch for his refusal to join the rebellion and his defiance of Mortimer, Walter received the king’s full pardon while lying in an invalid’s bed. He had suffered no debilitating wounds other than starvation, and God willing, with time and sustenance, he would recover fully.
It was a full fortnight, however, before he regained enough strength to stand before the king and swear fresh allegiance. No longer considered a traitor, Walter was reinstated to the king’s good graces and his lands restored. Additionally, he was granted a gift of another handsome fief for his unwavering loyalty.
“You have served me well, Walter of Claredon,” Henry declared before ordering a clerk to bestow on Walter a writ proclaiming his new barony.
As for the other rebellious warlords, the rift with their king was not mended without blood. Hugh Mortimer was hanged for his treachery, as an example to future insurgents, and many of his followers imprisoned for life.
Too weak to travel, Walter remained at Bridgenorth for another fortnight. Ranulf stayed as well, refusing to return to Claredon without Ariane’s father, not daring to face her otherwise. He had dispatched messengers regularly to her with reports of her father’s progress, and had received two replies, expressing her gratitude. But gratitude was no substitute for love.
Summer was spreading its nourishing warmth over England by the time they at last made preparations to return to Claredon. They made the journey on horseback, in easy stages, for Walter refused to ride
in a litter. Even weakened as he was, the aging knight possessed a spirit that bore a decided resemblance to his beautiful daughter’s; Ranulf could clearly see from whence Ariane gained her stubborn streak.
As the cavalcade drew closer to Claredon, though, Ranulf alternately chafed with impatience and gnawing fear. He wanted desperately to know his fate, and yet at the same time, wanted to delay as long as possible the moment when he would have to confront his uncertain future.
He had once been too craven to confront Ariane when he thought her a mere child bride. And now that he knew the steel she was made of, he was doubly afraid.
She had no reason to wed him now. Her father was free, her inheritance restored. And after the trials she had endured at his own hands, Ariane ought very well to wish him in Hades.
28
The waiting was the hardest. At times Ariane wanted to scream with impatience as she awaited the outcome of events at Bridgenorth. The fate of the two men she loved most in the world hung in the balance, as did her own.
With the failure of the rebellion, at least her fears on one score diminished. Her father’s release from imprisonment and his full pardon by the king made Ariane weep with relief. She could look forward to Walter’s return to Claredon with joy and anticipation.
Her mother’s situation, too, was cause for hope. Layla had begun administering treatments of mold to Lady Constance’s skin, although it was far too soon to predict the result. Gilbert, who had been shocked and distressed to learn the identity of the leper in the woods, faithfully provided escort for Layla on her missions of mercy, eager to aid the generous, loving Lady of Claredon who had raised him from serfdom.
It was her relationship with Ranulf that still frightened Ariane. Would she ever have a future with him? Would he ever come to love her? To trust her? She had trusted Ranulf to save her father if he could; she did not trust him to know his own heart. More damning, in his absence a messenger had arrived from Rome with an official document bearing the Pope’s seal. Whatever that scroll contained would decide her fate, Ariane knew, struggling against the urge to open a missive meant for Ranulf.
When one fine summer’s afternoon in July, the watchman’s horn announcing visitors at last sounded, Ariane fairly flew to the window of the ladies’ bower. She could see two banners flying over the party, and even though she could not make out the devices, judging from the colors of the two fields, she was certain one boasted her father’s hawk, the other a fearsome dragon.
Joy filled her at the sight. Joy and apprehension. Her father was safe. And Ranulf had returned. She had greatly feared he might stay away forever; he was no longer lord here now that Claredon had been restored to her father.
My beloved, have you come for me at last?
Summoning her ladies to her at once, Ariane hurried to change into a gown of forest green samite so that she might present the best possible appearance.
Her heart was pounding by the time she raced down the stairs and took her place beside Payn in the bailey. She scarcely had time to regain her breath or her composure before the party of horsemen rode through the inner gates. Trembling with nerves, Ariane clasped her hands before her in an effort to hide her trepidation.
She could not take her eyes from the two lead knights. They appeared so tall and formidable as they sat their powerful destriers, although Ranulf was the larger of the two. Her gaze shifting anxiously between them, she fervently wished she could tell what Ranulf was thinking, and found herself cursing the helm that shielded his expression.
Only with effort did she tear her gaze from him as Lord Walter was aided from his horse by his squire and his helm removed.
“Father,” she murmured, tears filling her eyes as she offered him her hands. He seemed to have aged ten years in the months he was away, and his face was far thinner and drawn with fatigue. “Welcome home.”
To her surprise, her father embraced her tightly, nearly crushing her against his mailed form, as if desperate to hold her. “I thought I might not see you again,” he whispered hoarsely.
He held her thus for a long moment, and when at last he stood back, Walter smiled down at her. “You did well, daughter. My lord Ranulf tells me you defended Claredon bravely and championed me when all the world spoke against me.”
Her father’s unfamiliar praise stunned Ariane, making tears of pride and happiness slip unheeded down her cheeks. Ranulf, waiting quietly to one side for her attention, felt a stab of envy at the obvious closeness father and daughter enjoyed at this poignant moment. He longed to share that closeness.He wanted the right to hold Ariane, to be the one she greeted with love and devotion shining softly from her gray eyes.
In truth, he could not take his own eyes off her. She was a breathtaking vision with her long, pale copper hair hanging loose under a gold circlet, her carriage as regal and graceful as a queen’s.
He yearned to take her in his arms, to ease the pounding of his heart that was like a huge drum of fear inside him. Without Claredon in his possession, he no longer held any power over Ariane. With both her father and her inheritance safe, she could easily forswear him. When at last Ariane glanced at him, their eyes met and locked in a question.
Her expression held uncertainty as she searched his face. “Ranulf . . . my lord. How can I ever repay you for aiding my father?”
His smile held a bleakness he could not hide. “I do not seek your gratitude, demoiselle.” What he wanted, what he needed was her love.
Payn took the opportunity to break the tension by slapping Ranulf on the back and bowing to Walter. “My lords, come inside the tower and celebrate this glad day with wine. The Lady Ariane has been preparing for days for your arrival, and plans a feast tonight to honor your homecoming.”
Walter nodded approvingly and patted the chain mail covering his stomach. “A splendid notion, daughter. I could do with a good meal to put some flesh on this bony form. I trow a green babe could unhorse me with a feather.”
With a flush of pleasure at his approval and concern at his condition after his long imprisonment, Ariane accepted her father’s raised hand and led the way up the stairs and into the great hall, where many of the castle retainers waited eagerly to greet the returning lord.
The celebration that followed lasted well into the evening. The duties of chatelaine occupied much of Ariane’s attention, giving her no opportunity to speak privately with Ranulf as she yearned to do.
Ranulf, too, chafed at the delay, watching her with possessive eyes as she sat at her father’s other side—too far from him, he thought. He ate sparingly and drank very little, caring naught for food. He wanted only to sweep Ariane up in his arms and carry her above stairs at this very moment, to lay her down and cover her with his body, to capture her mouth with his and drink from her sweetness. Yearningly he looked at that beautiful mouth, his lingering gaze hungry, wistful, as he recalled her adamant refusal to wed him.If you know in your heart . . . Hedid know, and he was prepared to admit it to her, to bare his soul to her if that was what she wanted, even though it would be one of the hardest things he had ever done.
Even then he could not be certain Ariane would accept him. He could perhaps force the issue of their union, Ranulf knew. Her father would give his daughter’s hand in marriage to the man who had championed his innocence and won the king’s pardon.
Yet he would never make such a demand, Ranulf vowed. He would not compel Ariane to wed him. He had treated her too harshly in the past to revert to such coercion. In truth, he never wanted to force her again. He wanted Ariane to come to him freely, of her own will, because she loved him.
He would have to woo her this time, he realized, yet even that effort might fail. Ranulf thought of the gilded coffer he had ordered delivered to her chamber shortly after the banquet had begun. A knight who sought to win the hand of a lady would bring her gifts to win her favor and sweeten her regard. He had spent a small fortune buying goods from cloth merchants and goldsmiths, praying that such riches might sway Ariane. Now all t
hat was left was to put his most fervent hopes to the test.
The evening was well advanced, a lively entertainment by traveling minstrels underway, before Ranulf summoned the nerve to rise from the table and approach Ariane’s chair. Bending, he murmured in her ear, “Might I have a private word with you, demoiselle? In your chamber?”
“Aye, my lord, as you wish,” she said rather breathlessly, sending his hopes soaring with the quizzical smile she bestowed upon him.
Excusing herself from her father and the company, Ariane lit a taper and led the way upstairs to her chamber. Ranulf followed her, his demeanor uncharacteristically humble, his heart beginning to pound again.
His momentary optimism had plummeted by the time he closed the heavy door behind them. He did not take her in his arms as he yearned to. Instead, he stood regarding her silently in the candlelight.
“You wished to speak to me?” she asked uncertainly.
“I brought you a gift,” Ranulf said finally, lamely, pointing toward the coffer his squire had placed just within the door.
Puzzled, Ariane went to kneel before the chest and raised the lid. Her breath caught in a gasp at the treasures glittering in the candlelight. With trembling hands, she withdrew a gold-linked girdle encrusted with rubies and a gold chaplet studded with the same precious stones. Beneath lay ells of costly silks, samites, cendals, and damasks, as well as pelts of ermine and sable.
She turned questioning eyes to Ranulf. “What mean you by this, my lord?”
“I could think of naught else to give you,” he replied in a voice so low it was barely audible. “Your father’s demesne has been restored to him. Your inheritance remains intact. Your precious Claredon is safe from me.”
Ariane held her breath, waiting, yet no further explanation was forthcoming. “I need no riches from you, Ranulf.”
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