The Warrior

by Nicole Jordan

  “I know,” he said bitterly. “You have no need of me at all.”

  She could not fathom his mood, or comprehend what he was trying to tell her. But there was another crucial matter that clamored for attention.

  Slowly Ariane rose and on leaden limbs went to another chest, where she withdrew the rolled parchment with the papal seal intact. “This came from Rome in your absence.”

  Stark fear rippled through Ranulf as he eyed the document she held out to him; despair rose higher within him, shoving at his throat. “Know you what it says?” he asked hoarsely.

  “No. I would not pry into your personal affairs.”

  “It doubtless concerns you as well, demoiselle. Were you not even curious?”

  “If you do not believe me—”

  Ranulf shook his head abruptly. “Nay, I meant no accusation. Your word is your honor and I will not question it.”

  Ariane stared at Ranulf, knowing how much it had cost him to say those words. Finally she crossed to him with her offering.

  Accepting the roll reluctantly, he turned away from her intense scrutiny and moved over to the brazier that had been lit even in summer to take the chill from the tower stone. For a long moment he stood there, his back to Ariane, staring down at the smoldering coals.

  “Will you not open it, my lord?”

  Ranulf voiced a quiet oath. He wanted to burn the vile thing, to tear it asunder without reading it. But he needed to know what he faced.

  With hands that trembled slightly Ranulf broke the seal and unrolled the missive. His heart thudded in slow, painful strokes as he tried to make sense of the Latin that blurred before his eyes. Yet there was no mistaking the import of the document. It was confirmation of his worst fears.

  His shoulders slumped, his head bowed. The decision had been taken from him.

  “The annulment has been granted,” he whispered.

  “So . . . now you are free of me,” she said tonelessly after a while.

  “No, you are wrong, Ariane.” There was an edge of bleakness in his response. “I could never be free of you.”

  At her long silence, Ranulf glanced over his shoulder at her. Her face was pale, her eyes stricken with the same terrible anguish that was tearing him apart inside.

  His mouth twisted with bitterness. “Are you not pleased, demoiselle? Now you will have the opportunity to make another alliance for your house. With Claredon restored, your hand will be coveted by richer, more powerful lords than I—a castoff pretender to nobility who has ill used you and claimed your virtue and stained your honor.”

  She shook her head. “I want no other lord than you.”

  He went still, afraid to move, afraid he had misheard.

  “Are you not pleased, my lord? Was not an annulment what you devoutly wished for?”

  “No.”

  “Then . . .” She searched his face. “Whatdo you want?”

  Ranulf averted his gaze, unable to meet her eyes. “I want you, Ariane. . . . I want you to be my wife in truth. I want a future with you at my side. I want to settle on my estates and raise fine sons to manhood. To watch my daughters grow to be beauties like their mother.”

  Her breath caught; her head whirled. Ariane raised a trembling hand to her temple, not daring to believe he truly meant it. “You wish to settle down? I thought . . . you preferred soldiering.”

  Ranulf exhaled a deep sigh. “Once I did. But I am tired of fighting. I grow weary of constant war. I’ve had a bellyful of blood. My lands are barely known to me, and I would change that.”

  “Will you return to Vernay?”

  “No,” he replied sharply. “I despise Vernay. I intend to remain in England.”

  “Here, at Claredon?”

  “Not here. I do not belong here.”

  “Then . . . where?”

  “Henry has given me new lands in the west, with orders to build a castle to defend the marshes. I could make a fresh start there. I want an end to the loneliness, the hatred, the battles. I want my life with you. . . . If you will have me.”

  “What of trust, Ranulf? I could not bear to watch our marriage destroyed by mistrust and suspicion. I want a husband who can believe in me.”

  “I trust you, Ariane . . . as much as I can trust anyone.”

  She realized the risk Ranulf had taken with his heartfelt admission. “And love?”

  Turning his head, he glanced over his shoulder at her, forcing himself to meet her gaze. “My love is yours, such as I have to give. If what I feel can be called love, then, aye, I love you.”

  “Whatdo you feel, my lord?”

  He thought of the powerful, poignant emotions welling inside him. “I feel helpless,” he whispered hoarsely. “Afraid. Afraid that I have lost you through my own blindness.”

  The pain in his eyes sent a wave of tenderness surging through her; it hurt her to see her fierce dragon suffering.

  Her throat aching, Ariane moved toward him. From behind him, she wrapped her arms around Ranulf’s powerful form, pressing her cheek against his back, against the scars she knew were hidden beneath his tunic. “You have not lost me, Ranulf.”

  Slowly, he turned in her arms, gazing doubtfully down at her. She searched his proudly sculpted features, seeing the vulnerability, the uncertainty, in the golden depths of his eyes.

  “I will not press my suit if you refuse me,” he added bleakly. “The choice is yours.”

  “No, my lord. The choice was taken from me long ago.” She watched as a spark of hope flared in his eyes.

  “From me, as well, my lady,” Ranulf whispered. “You bewitched me from the first.”

  “I too am bewitched,” she said softly.

  Taking her hands in his, he stared down at their interlaced fingers. “I know not how to love, Ariane. Will you teach me?”

  “Yes . . . willingly, gladly.” An immeasurable joy flowed over her when his tentative smile reflected hers. “But are you certain, Ranulf? Truly certain?”

  “More certain than anything in the whole of my life. You are my life. You are in my blood.”

  “I am not the wife you wished for.”

  He shook his head. “What I ask for in a wife is courage and honesty and loyalty. You have proven those in ample measure.”

  Her smile struck him with the force of a lightning bolt. Ranulf felt suddenly breathless, as if his heart might burst from his rib cage.

  Yet Ariane seemed intent on teasing him. “Do you not wish for obedience and docility, my lord?”

  His mouth twisted into a bold grin. “What I crave is a saucy wench who will challenge me and nag me and force me to love.”

  “I do not nag!” Ariane exclaimed indignantly.

  With a husky laugh, he drew her close. “I care not if you do. I want you just as you are.”

  Unmollified, she pressed her palms against his broad chest. “Not so quickly, my fine lord. Ask me for my heart.”

  “Very well.” His expression suddenly sobered. “My lady . . . my love . . . Ariane . . . could you, would you, give your heart to this humble, battered warrior?”

  Her gaze softened. “It is yours, Ranulf. I pledge you my love, for always.”

  A smile blazed across his face, bright and dazzling like hot sunshine, while a flame of joy spread through him. “And your hand? Will you wed me and be my lady?”

  “Aye, my love. I will wed you eagerly.”

  He glanced at the parchment he still held. “This grant of annulment . . . I have no need for it, have you?” To her shock, he tossed the document in the brazier, watching as the flames slowly licked at the parchment.

  “What will Rome say?” she wondered.

  “I care not what Rome says.” He threw back his head and laughed, a full-bodied guffaw of delight.

  It was that laughter, ringing with happiness, that convinced her. Ranulf truly wanted her as his wife. She had waited nearly half a lifetime for this moment. For her dream lover to come for her in tenderness and love.

  Yet Ranulf was too overjo
yed to remain still. Impulsively he caught Ariane up in his arms and whirled her around, till she was laughing and breathless.

  “Ranulf, stop! You make me dizzy!”

  “Not as dizzy as I feel!” But he ceased his exuberant motion and set her on her feet, although he kept her imprisoned within the circle of his arms. “I feel like shouting from the battlements.” Suddenly he stared down at her, his heavy brows drawing together in mock warning. “I shall have a petition of marriage drawn up at once, so that you cannot withdraw your acceptance.”

  Her eyebrow rose in amused protest. “I am not the one who delayed the marriage for five years, my lord. Iam not the one who repudiated our betrothal.”

  His smile faded. “No, I am. Because of my stupidity, my blindness, my compulsion to believe the worst. Can you ever forgive me?”

  She could see the uncertainty in his eyes, the sweet vulnerability that reflected his newly acknowledged feelings.

  In answer, Ariane reached up and joined her lips tenderly with his. He had doubted and mistrusted her for too long. But never again, Ariane vowed solemnly. As long as there remained a breath in her body, Ranulf would never have cause to doubt her love.

  29

  The wedding between Ariane of Claredon and Ranulf of Vernay was cause for rejoicing all around. The ceremony to sanctify the marriage was held on the doorstep of the demesne church rather than the castle chapel, so that all of Claredon’s people might participate in the celebration.

  The morning sky glistened a rich summer’s blue for the joyous occasion; the clear air resonated with minstrels’ jubilant music as the long procession wended its way from castle to church. At its head, with her lord father at her right hand, Ariane rode a white palfrey whose scarlet saddlecloth was emblazoned with fierce dragons and whose breastplate tinkled with tiny bells, a faint echo of the ecstatic peal of church bells.

  Ranulf had hoped the fabrics he had brought her would prove suitable for a bridal gown, and indeed they did. For her wedding vestment, Ariane wore an undertunic of brilliant scarlet samite, overlaid with a bliaud of the finest white paile—a tissue of embossed silk woven with gold threads. Around her hips she had fastened Ranulf’s gift of the exquisite double girdle, and at her throat, the heavy gold torque collar he had given her weeks ago, the morning after claiming her maidenhead. Her women had plaited her luxuriant hair into two long ropes entwined with scarlet ribbons and gold lace, and on her head rested the gold chaplet studded with rubies.

  The path to the church where her bridegroom awaited with peasant and noble wedding guests alike was strewn with bloodred roses, whose sweet perfume filled the air. Ranulf looked resplendent in scarlet and black and gold, his attire richly embroidered around the neck, sleeves, and hem. Even without mailed armor, he looked every inch the powerful warrior. The sword buckled at his waist boasted a jeweled hilt and scabbard, while around him, his vassals carried shields and pennants bearing his feared dragon device.

  He watched with possessive eyes as his beautiful bride came to him. It was rare for a man to want the woman who was his wife, yet he wanted Ariane with a passion that shook him to his soul. He loved her, and he meant to spend the rest of his life honoring their union and her.

  With a humble reverence, Ranulf reached up to assist his bride down from her mount.

  “My lady,” he murmured for Ariane’s ears alone. “I pledge my oath to you: You will never have cause to regret this day.”

  She gave him a radiant smile, full of joy and promise. “I know, my lord Ranulf. And I make the same vow to you.”

  Love and pride swelled in Ranulf’s chest, fierce and overwhelming, before he turned to lead her up the short flight of stone steps to the church door. There they halted before the priest, Father John.

  A hush fell over the crowd. The actual marriage would be held here, under the summer sky, the later ceremony within the chapel but a final formality. Numerous noble guests had been invited to witness the wedding: Claredon’s knights and their ladies, Ranulf’s vassals and men-at-arms, neighboring lords and their families, as well as the craftsmen and freemen and serfs who served Claredon’s demesne. The guests gathered around to listen as Father John ascertained that there were no impediments to the marriage according to the stipulations of the Church. There being none, the good father asked if the affianced man and maiden gave their free and solemn consent to the union.

  When Ranulf and Ariane answered in heartfelt agreement, the priest read out the property rights of both parties. The lord of Vernay pledged his lady a dower right, a third of his holdings after his death, while the bride’s parent, the lord of Claredon, assigned to her a dowry: gifts of clothing, linen, utensils, furniture, and generous parcels of land.

  Ariane scarcely heard a word. She felt dazed, wrapped in a cloud of joy, too distracted to concentrate on such material matters.

  The next rite was delivered in Latin, the surrender of the bride by her father and mother. Ariane felt a bittersweet ache in her throat because her beloved mother could not be present for this moment, yet she was comforted by the knowledge that Lady Constance awaited her within the church, hidden in the chapel gallery. Her mother’s progress was alone cause for rejoicing. Layla’s strange remedy seemed to be having at least a modest affect on Constance’s ravaged skin, and the Saracen was optimistic that a full recovery eventually was possible.

  Ariane was further gladdened by the note of pride in her father’s voice as he presented her to Ranulf, saying, “To you I confide my daughter Ariane. Keep her well.”

  “Before God, I promise to shelter her,” Ranulf responded, clasping her ungloved hands and gazing deeply into her eyes.

  When Father John had consecrated the ring, Ranulf slipped the small circlet of gold progressively over three fingers of Ariane’s right hand, before moving it to a final resting place on her left hand, where it would remain till her death, a pledge of faithfulness and fidelity. The metal, warmed by his touch, gleamed no brighter than the gold of her beloved’s eyes, she thought dazedly.

  “With this ring I thee espouse,” Ranulf vowed solemnly to her in Latin, “with my body I thee honor, with my goods I thee endow.”

  Only then did they enter the church, where the marriage was solemnized before God. As she prostrated herself on the floor of the nave beside Ranulf, Ariane felt her mother’s love surrounding her. Disguised behind a veil and a concealing curtain, the Lady Constance watched secretly from the chapel gallery. She had given the couple her blessing days before, and on the morrow, Ranulf had promised Ariane they would visit her mother in her forest dwelling.

  A mass followed, and after making a generous offering to the Church, the bride and groom knelt to receive the solemn benediction of the priest.

  Finally, at last, Ariane was led from the church by her lord husband, where a chorus of joyous shouts and cheers and pealing bells greeted them. She could see her half-brother, Gilbert, among the crowd, as well as Ranulf’s trusted vassal and friend, Payn, their broad smiles reflecting her own gladness.

  As was the custom in a wedding celebration, Ranulf set her upon his steed and mounted behind her. To the accompaniment of blaring trumpets and flowing silk, they led the procession from the church to the bridegroom’s home—or in this case, Claredon Keep.

  Secure in his embrace, Ariane leaned back against Ranulf’s broad chest, cherishing the feel of his powerful arms wrapped around her.

  “So . . . are you satisfied, wench?” Ranulf asked with amused affection lacing his voice. “You have finally achieved your ends.”

  Ariane felt a glow of happiness at his tender teasing, but she shook her head saucily. “You may address me as madame in future, my lord husband. I am not yourwench, nor evendemoiselle any longer. I am yourwife. ”

  “Wife,” Ranulf murmured thoughtfully. “I like the sound of that.”

  Laughter bubbled out of her, full and joyous, and Ranulf found himself wanting to join in, to laugh and shout with joy himself, at his long-delayed admission. For too long he had
resisted surrender; for too long he had fought against the inevitable.

  “Very well, sweet wife. I shall call you madam in future. Unless you misbehave, which is highly likely—in which case you will revert towench. Do you accept these terms as fair?”

  “Fair enough, husband.”

  When Ariane turned her head to gaze up at him, he saw in her eyes the same all-consuming love he knew shone in his, and knew himself to be blessed. He no longer harbored any doubts. She had claimed his heart irrevocably—and he intended to prove it to her, for all the days of their lives.

  The festivities ensued through the entire day and half the night. Lord Walter had provided a wedding feast to rival a king’s, holding it out of doors in a nearby meadow, so that the huge crowds could be accommodated.

  The nobles banqueted within shaded pavilions, with the newly wedded couple and most important guests occupying the dais of honor. The long trestle tables outside groaned with both standard fare and delicacies: venison, whole roast boars, partridges, thrushes, peacocks and swans, fish and lampreys, all swimming in highly spiced sauces, with cheeses and sweetmeats for the final courses, as well as innumerable pastries sweetened with honey and glistening with costly imported sugar.

  The celebration began with toasts for the bride and groom.

  “Will you share with me, my lady?” Ranulf asked huskily, offering Ariane wine from an ornate silver chalice embellished with dragons. When she had sipped, he took it from her and, holding her gaze, turned the goblet so that his lips touched the rim where her mouth had been. His sensual smile afterward caressed her with warmth, clearly proclaiming his desire for her.

  Ale and wine flowed freely, and by late afternoon those who could still stand participated in the games and the dancing and the mock tournaments.

  Ranulf played his role as bountiful lord, dispensing gifts to the wedding guests, but primarily he watched his beautiful bride enjoy the festivities and thought impatiently of the evening ahead. Tonight Ariane was going to come to him of her own free will, in love, as his beloved. In the church this morning, they had exchanged pledges and sacred vows, but only in their marriage bed would those vows be sealed. She would belong to him fully then. He felt the heat in his loins surging to match the fire in his heart.