The Warrior (18 page)

She was fortunate her connection to the ambush could not be proven. According to the confessions of the men they’d captured, the knight she had recently aided to escape, Simon Crecy, had not engineered this afternoon’s attack. The blame lay with other loyal knights and serfs seeking to regain possession of Claredon. Yet Ariane bore some of the responsibility, Ranulf reminded himself, for refusing to surrender the castle to him in the first place, in defiance of a royal command.

Now that his fury had a chance to cool, however, he was willing to admit he might have overreacted when he’d demanded that she serve as squire. He had been angry over the pointless deaths of his archer and Claredon’s serfs, as well as Burc’s wounding. Ariane’s servitude might serve a useful purpose, though. She would change her tune soon enough if she had to endure enough humility, would soon be pleading with him for mercy. He had no desire to mistreat her, but he was determined to make her yield to his authority.

She had surprised him a short while ago with the sincerity of her pledge before her people. No one but he would have guessed that her oath was forced, that she had not willingly submitted to him.

A jongleur who had begun strumming a viol asked the lord’s permission to entertain the crowd with a ballad. Ranulf nodded but listened with only one ear as he impatiently awaited Ariane’s return. He did not care for the fierce glances the handsome blond youth sitting beside her kept shooting him.

It was far too long in Ranulf’s opinion before she finished her meal and resumed her duties at his side.

His mouth twisted dryly when she reached him. “What were you discussing with such earnestness? Plotting my demise?”

Ariane flushed. “No, my lord, we were not plotting,” she prevaricated. “We were discussing the burial of the dead. I thank you for your mercy.”

Ranulf eyed her warily, as if not trusting her gratitude.

“We also discussed the plight of the families that the dead leave behind,” she added. “A subject that should concern you as well. As lord of Claredon you are now responsible for their welfare.”

“I am well aware of my responsibilities, demoiselle.”

“Then you will take steps to provide for them? I am certain you would not permit them to starve. You agreed to treat Claredon’s people with mercy—or need I remind you of our bargain?”

Ranulf smiled, a dark, dangerous smile that made her pulse suddenly beat faster. “Perhaps you should remind yourself, lady. If this is an illustration of your ‘unquestioning obedience’ to me, then you have already violated your oath.”

Willing her heart to settle down, Ariane bit back the retort she longed to make and sighed inwardly, prepared to endure a long evening.

Eventually the last course ended and the tables were cleared of dishes. The company appeared ready to settle in for a long interlude of wine and revelry, for already the dicing and music had begun.

“Will you give me leave to retire, my lord?” Ariane asked after a time.

Ranulf shook his head. “Your duties are not finished. Go and order a bath prepared for me, and return here.”

She did as she was bid, finding several of Claredon’s more trustworthy servants and ordering a bath filled in the solar for the new lord.

When she returned to the hall, she was given a warm jolt of surprise—a most unpleasant one. Several of the castle wenches hovered before the high table, clearly seeking the lord’s attention, and Ranulf was favoring them with an easy smile.

He was a devastating man when he truly smiled, Ariane reflected with chagrin. His harsh features softened, gentled, while his already potent masculine appeal increased tenfold. Her dream lover in the flesh, she thought despairingly, recognizing the compelling charm and heart-stopping tenderness that had earned her adoration when she was but a girl.

As if sensing her regard, Ranulf turned his head and his eyes hotly connected with hers. Abruptly his smile changed to one of challenge, reminding Ariane more clearly than words of the conflict between them.

She had just reluctantly resumed her place at Ranulf’s side when a commotion sounded at the entrance to the hall. Glancing up, Ariane saw an armored knight approaching the dais, followed by two men-at-arms who were dragging a limp, groaning man between them.

She recognized the brawny prisoner as one of Claredon’s novice tradesmen. When he was released, his knees sagged beneath his weight and he fell facedown onto the rushes. His tunic had been ripped open to the waist, exposing a mass of bloody welts on his bare shoulders and back. Clearly he had been flogged.

Immediately the hall grew quiet. Ivo de Ridefort, the knight who had been left in charge of the castle during the lord’s absence, rose from his seat at the high table to address Ranulf.

“My lord, this is the matter I spoke of—one that requires your judgment. This cur was caught stealing weapons from the armory.”

Ranulf’s gaze narrowed on the prostrate man. “Who is he?”

“The smith’s apprentice, lord. Edric by name. He took some dozen swords and daggers, including one with a jewelled handle.”

“What have you to say for yourself, Edric?” Ranulf demanded in heavily accented English, dashing Ariane’s previous hope that he could not understand the language.

Weakly, the injured Edric struggled to push himself up to a kneeling position, fixing his captors with a fierce, pain-filled glare before hanging his head.

“I asked you a question,” Ranulf barked. “Answer me.”

“I . . . needed the weapons, milord,” Edric rasped finally.

“Why?”

“Shall I wring a confession from him, lord?” a guard asked when the prisoner remained silent.

Watching the proceedings, Ariane could no longer keep still. “My lord, if I may speak?”

Ranulf turned a piercing gaze upon her.

“There must be some mistake. I have never known Edric to be dishonest. He would not steal; I am certain.”

“Then how do you explain his theft of the weapons?”

“Edric . . .” She spoke to the smith in English. “Why did you take the swords? Did you mean to work on them at the forge, perhaps?”

“Nay, milady. I will not lie.” He glanced warily at Ranulf. “I . . . It is just . . . I did not want harm to come to you, milady. Someone must defend you.”

“You thought to defend the demesne?”

“Aye, for you and my Lord Walter.”

Ariane bit her lip, while renewed anger streaked through Ranulf—anger directed at Ariane. This new incident coming so swiftly on the heels of the ambush was proof enough of the trouble she had caused. She had endangered his men, his entire rule, with her brazen defiance.

“This is what comes of leniency, Ranulf,” Payn muttered in outrage just loud enough for Ariane to hear. “When a common smith thinks to challenge you—”

“He has already suffered twenty-one lashes, my lord,” Ivo stated, “but it is for you to decide if he deserves further punishment.”

“He should lose a hand for stealing,” another knight interjected.

Ariane drew a sharp breath. Cutting off a hand was the usual punishment for thievery, but this was no normal theft.

“My lord,” she exclaimed, appealing earnestly to Ranulf. “I beg you to show mercy. He did not seek to steal for gain but only to defend the castle. If you must punish someone, then punish me.”

Ranulf’s mouth tightened. Ariane was beseeching him again for mercy? Deliberately he hardened his heart, cursing his absurd impulse to yield to the plea in her eyes. If he softened each time she merely looked at him, it could prove deadly to his command.

And yet this was the first real test of his rule. Would mercy serve him in better stead than ruthless adherence to policy?

“He sought to
defend
the castle?” Ranulf repeated in a low voice edged with scorn. “From my rule? Some would consider his crime worse than theft. ’Tis treason to plot to overthrow one’s lord.”

Apparently having no answer, she remained silent.

His hard gaze skewered her. “You see what your disobedience has wrought, demoiselle? Had you relinquished the castle instead of thwarting me, had you obeyed the king’s command, I would not now be required to defend against challenges from every quarter.”

“Aye, my lord,” she whispered, her own gaze anguished.

Her show of remorse tempered Ranulf’s anger a small measure as he sat staring at her in smoldering silence.

Payn broke in sharply, as if sensing his lord’s wavering resolve. “The culprit still must be punished severely for his crime, even if he does not lose a hand.”

“Flog the cur to death,” someone else interjected.

Wincing inwardly, Ranulf hesitated. He despised the lash, was sickened by that form of punishment, although upon occasion he forced himself to use it. He could not neglect sentencing a criminal simply because he loathed flogging. And in truth, the lash was the more lenient penalty, since a handless smith would soon be reduced to begging for sustenance. Moreover, setting such an example for prospective rebels might prevent more deaths of his own men in the future.

But Ariane’s beautiful gray eyes were fixed on him, imploring him for mercy.

While he delayed his decision, a spirited discussion ensued among his knights, debating the merits of various penalties. The argument continued until Ranulf finally held up a hand. “Twenty-one lashes is severe enough punishment in this instance.”

He was aware of Payn’s sharp glance, but he ignored it and gestured to one of his sergeants. “Confine the thief in the dungeons where he may reflect upon his misdeeds and reconsider his rashness.”

At his pronouncement, Ariane let out her breath in relief and gratitude. She understood the difficulty of Ranulf’s decision. So serious a crime against one’s liege could not be ignored or anarchy would reign. His authority would constantly be challenged. She knew to her sorrow the high cost of a weak ruler. King Stephen had been one, and for twenty bloody years his kingdom had been mired in lawlessness and strife. Any new lord
must
establish his authority. The good ones walked a fine line between weakness and mercy, between compassion and justice. In this instance at least, Ranulf had shown himself to be both compassionate and just.

She could not absolve herself from blame, either, for the role she had played in inciting her father’s loyal followers to challenge Ranulf. Her own defiance of him, at least indirectly, had brought on Edric’s punishment. Ariane bit her lip hard, her guilt flaying her as she watched the smith being hauled to his feet.

“I thank you, my lord, for your mercy,” she said softly. “Will you also allow me to tend Edric’s wounds?”

She was faintly surprised when Ranulf nodded brusquely, giving his permission. She had not expected him to be so forgiving. Obviously, however, he did not trust her, for he ordered Payn to accompany her while she tended the wounded man.

Ariane felt Ranulf watching her as she bid the guards take the prisoner below to the kitchens. Edric was half carried, half dragged through the crowded hall and then down the stone steps of the tower. Ariane directed them to a small chamber off the kitchens. Then, under Payn’s surveillance, she went to the herbal to fetch her supplies.

Upon gathering her medications, she entered the chamber before Payn, who ordered the guards to wait outside. The injured smith was lying on his stomach on a pallet, his tunic now stripped from his body. The oozing, bloody wounds of his flayed back were serious, yet a severed hand would have been more so, Ariane reflected as she knelt beside the pallet.

Although Edric appeared in great pain, he bore her gentle touch stoically as she began to wash his injuries with an aromatic oil to soothe the ravaged flesh. It startled them both when Ranulf suddenly appeared in the doorway.

Payn set his jaw grimly but stepped aside to allow his liege entrance.

“Is something amiss, my lord?” Ariane asked in puzzlement.

“No. You may proceed.”

When she resumed her ministrations, Ranulf moved closer, forcing himself to watch. Although he had offered her no explanation, he wished to see how Ariane ministered to the wounded. If she was skilled enough, her services might be of use to his own injured men, including his gravely wounded squire. But he did not want to give Ariane the advantage of knowing she could be useful to him.

Silently, therefore, he stared down at the man on the pallet. The smith’s back was a mass of raw flesh, yet Ranulf refused to spare himself the sight, even though it brought to mind tormenting recollections of his own terrifying youth.

How many times had he lain just like this, his back flayed raw, suffering in agony? Except that the smith had been flogged with a bullhide lash; his own father’s whip had been a scourge made of plaited steel chainwork.

A cold wave of nausea washed over Ranulf at the memory. He could almost feel himself kneeling naked on the cold stone floor at Vernay, petrified, trembling, desperately fighting back screams of pain as each brutal stroke flayed his back, his small heart filled with hatred for his brutish father and for the adulterous mother who had caused his torment with her betrayal of her lord.

Devil’s spawn! Progeny of Hell!
Even now his father’s castigation still reverberated in his ears.

Ranulf clenched his teeth, struggling to breathe. His skin had broken out in a cold sweat, yet he scarcely noticed. He barely noted, either, that Edric had fainted when Ariane began to apply a poultice to his bloodied back.

Ariane looked up just then and was startled by the sight that greeted her. Ranulf stood motionless, gathered into himself as if waiting for a blow. How vividly he reminded her of a starving hound-pup she had once saved from the cruelty of some village youths. The piteous creature had been kicked and beaten almost to death, and flinched at even a simple touch of kindness. It had nearly broken her heart—as did the look on Ranulf’s face now.

He remained rigid, unmoving, for countless heartbeats. Then slowly he turned his head and met her troubled gaze.

His eyes . . . She had to stifle a gasp at the tortured look in his amber eyes. She could see his raw pain. She was witness to a profoundly vulnerable moment, Ariane knew, feeling as if she could see into Ranulf’s soul. This proud, strong, vital man carried some kind of deep, deep hurt. . . .