The Warrior (43 page)

Another dry smile touched the Lady Constance’s lips. “Because I would not be welcomed elsewhere. You are aware, I am certain, of the treatment lepers receive at the hands of the unafflicted.”

Yes, he was aware. The malady was so feared, the unfortunate victims were often hunted from their homes and cast out from civilization, some even stoned to death.

She gestured graciously at the hut behind her. “I would invite you into my humble abode to partake of a glass of wine, my lord, but such close contact would not be wise. In truth, I usually do not allow Ariane to come as close as you are now, for fear of contamination.”

Ranulf shook his head mutely in an effort to clear it. All he could focus on was Ariane—and what her forays here meant.

He stared down at her bent head, but with her sitting sideways in the saddle before him, all he could see was her profile. Catching her chin in his gloved fingers, he turned her face around to his, gazing intently into her tear-filled eyes. “This is your secret?”

Swallowing a sob, she nodded, trying earnestly to stem her weeping. Yes, this was her terrible secret: that her mother had not perished years before as the world believed, but suffered from a disease that roused horror and dread among villeins and nobles alike.

“I had to come. They needed food. . . . It had been so long . . . their need was dire.”

A huge constriction lifted from Ranulf’s chest; the anger, the pain, the bitterness, began to unravel. He felt shock and pity that so lovely a lady as Constance of Claredon had been ravaged by so terrible a disease, yet his relief was greater, more fierce. Relief that Ariane had not betrayed him. She had made her secret forays to this wood to succor her mother, not to consort with rebels or tryst with a lover.
She had not betrayed him.

Forcibly he returned his attention to her mother, recalling the person Constance had once been. He remembered a gracious gentlewoman, a lovely soft-spoken lady whose kind smile radiated a sweetness and warmth he did not think contrived. He had felt then as if he could almost trust her, he who trusted no woman. He recalled foolishly reflecting how different his life might have been had his own faithless mother resembled Lady Constance.

“How came you to be stricken?” he made himself ask.

“Nursing my son, my lord. Jocelin returned from the Holy Land with the affliction, and I could not desert him. A mother’s love knows no wisdom, I fear.”

A mother’s love?
He had never known such a thing.

“Some say leprosy is God’s punishment for mortal sin.”

Ariane made a choked sound of protest. “Then God is blind and cruel!” she retorted passionately, not caring if her words were blasphemous. “My mother was guilty only of the sin of caring too much. And my brother . . . he went on holy pilgrimage as God’s servant. Was
that
a sin?”

“Ariane,” Lady Constance said gently.

“Did Jocelin die of the disease?” Ranulf asked. “I understood he was killed in battle.”

Pain flickered in the Lady Constance’s gray eyes, so much like her daughter’s. “Yes, in battle. He was a soldier, his father’s son, who chose to end his young life honorably in combat rather than endure his wasted body. Would that I had the same choice.”

“No, Mother!”

Constance’s chapped lips curved in a sad smile. “Bless you, daughter, you have been my strength. If not for you, I could not have borne it.” It was said sweetly, without much bitterness. “In truth, it is harder to lose a child than to face one’s own mortality. I have had a good life. I am prepared for God’s kingdom.”

Ariane’s voice caught on a sob.

“There are two of you who live here?” Ranulf asked quietly.

“My woman, Hertha, a loyal servant. Another blessing. If not for her, my life would be very hard indeed. Hertha?”

An elderly, gray-haired crone, stooped with age, emerged from the hut, supporting herself with a cane, and made a deep curtsey to the new lord of Claredon. She did not seem to be suffering from the dread disease, Ranulf noted.

Constance explained. “My husband, Walter, was loath to condemn me to a leper’s life. He allowed me to take refuge here, while telling the world I had been slain by outlaws during a journey. And reports were put about of a haunted wood—to protect me from the villeins. They would drive out anyone suspected of being a leper, even if I was once their lady.”

Ranulf remembered the tale Ariane had once offered him of a haunted wood, a tale he had scorned as false. And yet the threat of evil spirits would be highly effective in keeping superstitious serfs away.

“And so . . .” the Lady Constance murmured, “now that you know our secret, my lord, will you banish us from your demesne?”

Slowly, Ranulf sheathed his sword, even as Ariane turned pleading eyes to him. “Ranulf,
please
. . . I beg you for mercy. She will die if you turn her out! I will do anything you ask, if you will only spare her.”

His mouth tightened momentarily. How could she believe he would condemn this poor soul to so cruel a fate? Life in a hellish leper village would be far worse than the miserable existence she endured now. Her husband and daughter had gone to great lengths to protect her, and he would not be the one to destroy their efforts.

“I wish you no ill, my lady,” he replied softly. “I see no reason the secret must be revealed. Or why you cannot go on as before.”

At his answer, he felt Ariane’s taut body sag against him in relief, while she buried her face in her hands. Attempting to disregard her display of emotion, he gazed at her lady mother somberly.

“Your daughter may bring you food, if she has a proper escort to the edge of the forest. I do not like the notion of her roaming freely, for she might come to harm.”

“We would be grateful, my lord. Our supplies have run low since . . . since your arrival,” Lady Constance concluded tactfully.

Since his seizing of Claredon, she had meant to say, Ranulf knew. “I regret that I can do so little for you,” he observed truthfully. He would have liked to aid this gracious lady in her valiant struggle. She was a brave woman facing a terrible fate, alone in the world but for one loyal servant and a devoted daughter.

“It will be enough that you permit my daughter to visit occasionally. We seldom receive company.”

Ariane’s expression of appreciation was far more fervent. “Ranulf . . .” she rasped, “my lord, I thank you.” Her husky voice shook with relief, but it was her accompanying gesture that startled him: she clutched at his gloved hand and drew it to her lips.

Ranulf extricated his hand uneasily. Such abject gratitude disquieted him. He was grateful himself when Lady Constance spoke.

“Ariane tells me you have assumed control of Claredon,” she said quietly. “Can you tell me, my lord . . . has there been any word of my husband?” For the first time since this disturbing interview began, she appeared less than stalwart.

Ranulf did not want to reveal the harsh truth, and yet there was no point in withholding it and raising false hopes. “I regret, my lady, that Lord Walter has been charged with treason for conspiring with Hugh Mortimer and is presently being besieged at Bridgenorth by King Henry.”

She bit her lip. “I know little of politics, I fear, but I do not believe my husband to be a traitor.”

Ariane had said precisely the same thing about the man, Ranulf reflected, feeling an unfamiliar pang of envy. Two such loyal woman were novel in his experience. “Henry is a just ruler. He will not act without reasonable proof of guilt.”

Lady Constance nodded in resignation and surprised him with her next words. “I regret that circumstances required the cancellation of your betrothal to my daughter. I would have been honored to call you my son by marriage.”

She seemed sincere, Ranulf realized with startled awareness. Would she view him so favorably if she knew how he had dealt with her daughter—forcing Ariane to serve as slave and leman?

“We should be on our way,” he said, more gruffly than he intended.

Lady Constance smiled a little. “As you will, my lord. But please accept my heartfelt gratitude. Take care, my daughter.”

Ranulf reined back the destrier and turned toward Claredon Keep. He was keenly aware that Ariane gazed back over his shoulder until they had passed through the concealing thicket and were well out of sight of her mother. Then, with a small sniff, she wiped her damp eyes on her sleeve and faced forward.

They rode in silence for a time, the horse’s hooves quietly plodding along the forest floor, while Ranulf’s thoughts whirled. He was conscious of a searing relief welling within him.

There was no band of rebels plotting his overthrow. Ariane had no secret lover. Her sin was one of devotion and loyalty, not betrayal. He understood now why she had remained silent, refusing to reveal her secret even under threat of imprisonment. She had not been truthful, yet neither had she lied to him. She had said she could not break a sacred oath.

Ranulf’s mouth twisted bitterly. If Ariane considered sacred oaths inviolate, she would be the first lady of her rank to do so. In his experience, most would think nothing of sacrificing their dearest kin for political expediency or personal gain.

It was some moments longer before he heard her say quietly, “My lord, did you truly mean it? You will not banish her?”

Ariane turned again in the saddle to gaze up at him. Ranulf had agreed to keep their terrible secret, yet she needed to hear his assurances once more, so the sick dread would leave her. So she could be rid of the gnawing fear that had shredded her nerves over the past weeks. She could bear anything if only she could be certain her mother was safe.

He drew the destrier to a halt. They had reached the edge of the wood. Beyond lay a green, sun-warmed meadow carpeted with May wildflowers and splashed with color: pale daisies, purple speedwell, jonquil celandine, and daffodils.

His golden eyes were soft and muted as he gazed down at her. “Why did you hide the truth from me? Why did you not come to me? I have shown you lenience in the past, when you asked.”

“I dared not risk it. I could not be certain. . . . You might even have wished her dead.”

Ranulf’s mouth curled faintly. “Have the tales you heard of the Black Dragon painted me so vicious?”

Ariane hung her head. “I could not chance it, my lord. And I had sworn an oath. . . .”

“You could not trust me.”

“No, my lord.” The words were a mere whisper.

Ranulf bit back a reply. It struck him as ironic to be chastising her for a lack of trust when he had shown her so little.

Her fingers clenched in her woolen tunic, twisting the fabric. “God is cruel. My mother never deserved such a terrible fate. She is the kindest, most gentle . . .” Ariane’s voice broke on a sob. Turning her face into his massive chest, she pressed her forehead against his chain mail hauberk.

Ranulf could not reply. He had long ago learned not to rail against the heartless capriciousness of fate. Ariane was weeping again, softly. His arms came around her tentatively. He felt choked with tenderness and pity and despair. Her very forlornness touched his heart as nothing had in years.

He did not understand what drove him to try and comfort her. He had thought every trace of gentleness exorcised by the years of anger and bitterness. But perhaps he was wrong. The burst of emotion that surged through him now was so strong it took his breath away.

For a long moment, he simply held her, until her shuddering breaths subsided, until her body quieted. Slowly then he drew off his left glove. His hand rose to her cheek, caressing gently, his thumb stroking softly, tantalizingly, over her trembling lower lip.

Drawing a shaky breath, Ariane raised her gaze to his.

Her luminous eyes were swollen and tearful, filled with doubt, with pain. He badly wanted, to ease that pain, to soothe her doubts, to comfort her. He had never touched a woman merely to offer comfort, without lust driving him. He did not know how. Yet he would like to try. With his head and much of his face encased in steel, though, he knew not if he could even kiss her.

Despite the confining restriction of his helm, he bent his head.

Her lips were petal soft, full and lush, trembling and warm.

“Ranulf . . .” she breathed.

Ariane closed her eyes. She was so grateful to him, so thankful. She needed to show her gratitude. She needed him to hold her, to drive the awful aching emptiness away. She needed to be with him.

Reaching out, she captured his hand and drew it to her breast.

Ranulf inhaled sharply at her action, a swift, hoarse intake of breath. Ariane had never initiated their lovemaking. He had always been forced to rely on his sensual skill to compel her surrender. Yet he knew now, as she met his questing gaze, that she would need no persuasion. He could feel her nipples beneath the wool of her torn tunic, peaked and pebble hard with desire, could see the heat of need in her shimmering eyes, could sense the sudden urgency quivering though her body as she reached for his helmet.

With anxious hands she tried to lift it from his head, but succeeded only in knocking it askew. Her clumsiness touched Ranulf unexpectedly, and he smiled—his beautiful, heartbreaking smile.

“Allow me, sweeting.” Tearing at the helm himself, he drew it off and then tugged back his mail coif.

At once, Ariane raised her mouth to his, eager for his kiss.

Startling tenderness assailed him, a sweet balm after the wealth of raw anger, of bitter fury, of agonizing doubt. He would not deny her need, or his. He wanted her, more than he had ever wanted any woman. He wanted to feel her warm and soft in his hands, wanted to make her respond to him with passion. He ached to touch her, to have her touch him. And yet he wanted to draw out the moment. She was offering herself to him fully, and he wanted to savor his victory.

He held back, meeting her questioning gaze, relishing her beauty, treasuring the way the sunlight filtered through the arch of trees above them to kiss her lovely face.

“Ranulf . . .” she murmured more urgently.

His hand cradled her cheek as he bent his head again. The quiver of her mouth beneath his sent little shocks of pleasure rippling through him. Her body, soft and yielding in his arms, filled him with desire. Yet still he held back. Gentling his kiss, he slanted his lips over hers, gliding his tongue into her warmth, stroking the soft openness.