The Warrior (8 page)

Gritting her teeth, Ariane forced herself to throw off the other covers—a difficult task with Ranulf sitting on much of them—and slipped through the bed curtains on the opposite side. Her hope for privacy was short-lived, though; almost lazily Ranulf leaned over to part the bed curtains, giving him a clear vantage.

Shaking with rage and fear, Ariane gave him her back while he remained casually lounging on the bed. Never before had she been so grateful for her hip-length hair, which shielded much of her nakedness. Even so, she could feel Ranulf’s gaze boldly traveling over her as she fumbled for the clothing that her tirewoman had left folded on a chest beside the bed.

Hastily she dragged on her shift before risking a nervous glance over her shoulder. The lout was grinning at her, she realized. A bold, appreciative regard that made her blood boil. Sweet Virgin, how she wanted to box his ears!

“Your curves have filled out since last I saw you,” he murmured wickedly. “The effect is quite appealing. Highly arousing to a man.”

Her jaw clenched so hard the muscles ached. Not only was his provocative taunt inflaming for its sheer brazenness, but it reminded Ariane of the fierce resentment she’d harbored against the lord of Vernay for neglecting her for so many years. She dared not reply, though; to answer as scathingly as she wished would be to put her life at risk.

With a fervent effort at control, she reached for her woolen bliaud, not bothering with the undertunic. Drawing the gown on with a jerk, she smoothed the skirt and struggled to tie the laces under her arms. Then, shunning hose, she stepped into her shoes and turned defiantly to face Ranulf.

Her voice held the slightest quaver when she spoke. “Now what?”

“You will serve as my hostage,” Ranulf answered as he retrieved the dagger she’d tried to steal from him and rose from the bed with remarkable grace for so large a man. “As surety for the good conduct of your father’s knights.”

To her complete startlement, he fetched her mantle from a wall peg and drew it around her shoulders. “Shall we proceed, my lady?”

“Why do you bother to ask?” Ariane couldn’t help saying. “You have already informed me I have no choice. That I am your prisoner.”

“Aye, you are. A pity,” he said quietly.

For a moment he stood looking down at her, a thoughtful frown on his face. Slowly then, he lifted his hand to caress her cheekbone with the lightest of pressures, almost as if he meant to reassure her. His tone was gentle when he murmured, “When you have had time for reflection, you will agree that this is the better course.”

That soft, seductive voice—his monk’s voice—reminded her forcibly of Ranulf’s treachery, made her recall all the years of misery and uncertainty she had endured at his hands—and why she had to resist his deceitful tenderness now.

“Better for whom?” Ariane retorted bitterly.

“For you . . . for your people. For my men. There will be less bloodshed this way. And I can better serve my king if I don’t lose valuable men fighting unnecessary battles.”

“And what of my father’s men? What will be their fate?”

“We will discuss it further when I am in command of the castle. Now, where does your garrison commander sleep? The knight called Simon?”

“You . . . won’t harm him?”

“Not unless he chooses to fight me. He is the logical man to deal with to achieve a surrender. Where he leads, the others will follow. Take me to him, demoiselle—and not a sound from you. I have no wish to alert the household.”

With one hand lightly grasping her upper arm, the other holding his jeweled dagger at the ready, Ranulf guided her to the large oaken door and slowly drew it open. As they passed by the large dormitory where her women lay soundly sleeping on pallets and in curtained slumber niches built into the wall, Ariane grimaced in dismayed disgust. Not one of them had roused when Ranulf stole into her bedchamber, intent on taking her prisoner.

Her apartments were located on the fourth floor of the massive stone tower. Directly below on the third lay the lord’s solar and the large chamber which served as a workroom for the woman of Claredon, where most of the spinning and weaving and sewing was done. The second and main story was taken up almost entirely by the great hall, the center of activity of any castle, while on the ground floor, inaccessible from the bailey without, lay the kitchen and storerooms.

Torches set in wall brackets lit their way down the winding stone steps of the tower. No sentries came to her rescue, a fact Ariane greeted with mounting anger, until she remembered that the men who were awake would be guarding the castle walls in case of a siege by the Black Dragon.

She shook her head in weary disbelief. Ranulf’s plan was indeed cunning. He had made use of Claredon’s every vulnerability, taking shameful advantage of her weakness. She felt dazed, stunned, by the sudden turn of events; horrified and shamed by the ease of Ranulf’s victory. Her father had asked her to hold this place till he returned, but she had failed him sorely, losing his castle in a few short hours.

All was quiet in the great hall, Ariane saw with disappointment. After the excitement of the day, the household folk and favored serfs were sprawled on pallets arrayed alongside the walls. When a shadow separated itself from a stone arch, she almost gasped.

It was just a lad, Ariane realized, but he held a gleaming sword in his hand.

“My lord,” the youth whispered conspiratorially. “I found a weapon, as you commanded.”

Sheathing his dagger in the scabbard at his waist, Ranulf accepted the sword and tested its weight. “Excellent, Burc. You may accompany me now. I have need of you.”

“Aye, milord.” An edge of eagerness threaded the young man’s tone.

“Where does the knight Simon sleep?” Ranulf asked Ariane.

“I am not certain,” she said, prevaricating.

His fingers tightened with the lightest of pressures. “I will warn you but once, demoiselle. Never,
never
lie to me.” His expression had turned harsh, his eyes cold.

Although trembling inwardly, Ariane lifted her chin proudly, meeting his gaze without flinching. “You may find him yourself. I will not aid you.”

Ranulf returned her stare with welling anger and reluctant respect. He had to admire her courage, no matter how infuriating. She had not taken fright when he’d surprised her in her bed, when many other wenches would be hysterical with fear by now. Nor had she resorted to pleading, or attempted to sway him with the artifice of tears.

“Milord,” Burc offered uneasily. “The one called Simon has not entered the hall. But the armory is below in the bailey, along with the military barracks. Mayhap he is sleeping there with his men.”

His jaw hardening, Ranulf nodded curtly. Allowing Ariane’s defiance to pass, he ordered Burc to fetch a torch.

She exhaled slowly in relief. When he guided her toward the antechamber that led to the main entrance door, she tried to hold back, but his grip tightened on her arm, compelling her to keep pace with his long strides.

The night breeze was chill on her face as they descended the outer stair of the tower to the yard, but it was fear that made her shiver uncontrollably. All too soon they crossed the large inner court to a series of wooden buildings that housed the stables and military garrison.

Ariane approached the barracks with growing trepidation, praying Simon would be patrolling the battlements. When Ranulf pounded on the wooden door with the hilt of his sword, she took a deep breath in preparation. When the door swung open, she gave a piercing scream of warning.

“Simon, flee, I beg you! ’Tis a trap!”

She heard Ranulf’s vivid curse, which instantly was echoed by the clatter of armor and the sound of booted feet. Almost as swiftly, their small party was suddenly surrounded by men bristling with weapons, outnumbered twenty to one.

A dozen archers had raised drawn bows, aiming at Ranulf’s back, but he had brought the blade of his sword to rest across Ariane’s throat.

“You will lay down your arms if you have a care for your lady,” he ordered.

Her father’s chief knight, unhelmeted but still dressed in chain mail, came slowly through the portal, his sword held neutrally at his side.

His gaze swung from Ariane to Ranulf. Evidently comprehending her captor’s deadly intent, Simon demanded, “What are your terms?”

“I will spare her life in exchange for the complete surrender of the castle.”

“We have an army at our gates. Why should I surrender the castle to
you
?”

“Because the army is
mine. I am the lord of Vernay.”

A murmur went around the crowd, interspersed with startled whispers of the words, “Black Dragon.”

Simon stared with dawning comprehension. “The monk.”

“A clever deduction. But unfortunate for Claredon that your perception came too late.”

Ariane clenched her teeth. She knew Simon’s expression of frustrated impotence was mirrored on her own features. And she could see him wavering.

“You will order your knights to surrender,” Ranulf repeated more forcefully.

“You will spare their lives?” Simon asked.

“I will grant them honorable terms. Those who comply will be allowed to ransom their freedom. Those who refuse . . .” He let the threat remain unspoken.

“And my lady?” the knight pressed. “What will become of her?”

“If she will submit fully to me and acknowledge me as lord, then no harm will come to her.”

Ariane bit her lip hard. She could not simply change her loyalties as Ranulf demanded; her allegiance was to her father.

“Simon, pay him no heed,” she said with quiet desperation. “There are only two of them. They could be over-powered.”

The knight shook his head. “Forgive me, my lady. I could not live with myself if I allowed harm to come to you.”

Even as he said the words, Ranulf’s squire gave a shout of warning, “My lord, behind you!”

With lightning-swift instinct, Ranulf half turned while shifting his sword from Ariane’s throat and raising the blade to deflect the blow aimed at his head. In a clang of steel, he managed to ward off his attacker—a mailed knight who had crept up behind him—and return a blow of his own.

Urgently Ranulf spun fully to face his opponent, his weight balanced precariously on his heels. Defending himself against the surprise assault was less difficult than keeping hold of Ariane while shielding her from danger.

And yet his skill stood him in good stead. A timely thrust, a slicing parry, and he managed to regain the offensive. Another slashing blow and he penetrated the chain mail of the knight’s sleeve. Giving a cry of pain, the man dropped his sword and clutched his bleeding arm.

Unfazed by his exertions, Ranulf resumed his lethal hold of Claredon’s lady and directed a fierce gaze at her chief vassal. “For the last time, will you surrender?”

Simon, with a sorrowful glance at her, nodded. As he commanded his men to disarm, Ariane hung her head in anguish, unable to bear the stinging shame of their defeat.

With a dazed sense of unreality, she listened to Ranulf’s orders regarding the disposition of the garrison troops present. In too short a time, his collaborator, Burc, had rounded up all the Claredon men in sight and herded them within a vacant storeroom, barring the door against escape.

“Now the drawbridge,” Ranulf prodded Simon. “You will direct it lowered for my army.”

Giving no argument, Simon led the way across the inner bailey by torchlight, with Ariane and Ranulf following, the squire Burc bringing up the rear. The guard at the gate balked initially, but then capitulated after a brief word from Simon about the threat to their lady’s life.

Passing through the gate, the small party made its way slowly across the expanse of the now-crowded outer bailey, while serfs and animals scurried from the Black Dragon’s path. Fear hung thick in the air; the rumor of what was afoot had spread throughout the castle grounds like wildfire.

Ariane stumbled once in the dark, but she felt Ranulf’s arm tighten about her waist, supporting her easily. Helplessly she watched as Simon ordered the armed sentries down from the battlements and the drawbridge lowered and then dealt sharply with the protests. Her last hope died as, at Ranulf’s command, she and Simon preceded him up the stone steps to the wall-walk overlooking the entrance to the castle. In the distance she could see the flickering lights of his army’s campfires.

The grating chains screeched loudly in the night—a signal to Ranulf’s men apparently, for almost at once his retinue of knights and men-at-arms appeared as a dark shadow on the horizon. As the column of prancing steeds neared, Ariane could see the crimson banner of the lord of Vernay in the glow of torchlight, waving like a bold taunt. In her imagination, she could even make out the fearsome device it boasted—the black body of a dragon rampant.

When the column came to a halt, Ranulf called a greeting down to his chief vassal and was met with a triumphant chuckle.

“You succeeded!” Payn FitzOsbern exclaimed.

“Did you doubt I would?”

“Nay, lord. I know you too well.”

Still holding Ariane, Ranulf gestured with his sword toward the gate below. “You may enter my new demesne. And be quick about it. We have much to accomplish before we can claim full victory.”

The thud of horses’ hooves echoed over the wooden drawbridge, followed by the stamp of marching feet as the army filed into the castle. When the last man had entered, Ranulf felt the rigid tension drain from the woman in his arms, felt the life go out of her as she bowed her head in defeat.

Only then did Ranulf release his prize; the lady of Claredon had served her purpose. He was acutely aware of the tears running silently down her face, but he willfully ignored them, as well as his own unfathomable urge to comfort her. He could not allow himself to be swayed by a woman’s weeping.

“What do you intend?” he heard her ask softly.

“To secure the castle.”

“And afterward? Will you keep your word and spare the lives of our soldiers?”

He glanced at Simon, who stood grim-faced at attention. “My word is my honor. Will you keep yours and swear obedience to me, demoiselle?”