The Warrior (41 page)

“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—
I
trusted you
—and this is how you repay me. With guile 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. . . .”

“No, he will only teach the fool boy a lesson.”

She shook her head. It was
her fault that Gilbert’s life was at risk; that his stubborn loyalty had driven an unskilled youth to challenge a mighty warlord in combat.

“The boy’s discipline has naught to do with you,” Payn said quietly, as if reading her mind. “He was mad to defy Ranulf like that, especially before his liegemen and serfs. A lord cannot allow his authority to be undermined so flagrantly.”

“I know,” Ariane whispered hoarsely. “But I am the one Ranulf should punish.”

“I expect he will, demoiselle,” Payn admitted in a troubled tone. “I have rarely seen Ranulf in so dangerous a mood. When he is angry he bellows and blusters and knocks heads together. When he is furious he is deadly calm.”

She did not need Payn to tell her that her situation was dire.

He came to a halt at the head of the stairwell, looking down at her somberly. “I cannot help you, my lady. Your best course is to tell Ranulf what he wishes to know—the full truth. He despises dishonesty, in women most of all.”

“I have not lied to him,” she said weakly, her heart aching.

“Have you not, my lady?” Payn replied, his tone cool.

He lit a rushlight from a burning wall torch and used it to illuminate the descent past the kitchens and down a narrow flight of stone steps. The Claredon dungeon was little more than a dark hole beneath the tower kitchens—cold and damp and crawling with vermin. Ariane shuddered as Payn stepped aside to allow her to enter the tiny cell. She had to stoop to keep her head from brushing the ceiling.