The Warrior

Yet even before the grateful, sobbing woman had collapsed against him, Ranulf’s thoughts had already moved ahead to review his plans. If the new arrival was indeed the duke’s messenger with a summons, it meant King Stephen had died and Henry was preparing to claim his rightful crown as king of England. And since Henry was certain to be met with resistance, he would need to raise adequate forces to ensure the successful assumption of power.

Ranulf felt anticipation swell at the promised conflict. Not only was he willing to supply the knight’s fees he owed his liege, he was impatient to take up arms for Henry. He had remained idle too long, his battle sword and lance growing rusty with disuse. For the past three months and more, peace had reigned in Normandy. There had been no rebellions, no skirmishes, not even a nearby tourney where he could hone his skills and exhaust his frustrations in the melee or increase his wealth by capturing enemy knights for ransom.

For the past fortnight all had been in readiness for the forthcoming journey: the armor polished, the weapons sharpened, and the baggage wains staged for loading. His knights and men-at-arms had engaged in daily practice, sparring in swordplay, tilting at the quintains, shooting archery butts, and yet, they too were restless at the delay and eager to begin the campaign.

And now it seemed the moment was at hand.

As Ranulf expected, a lengthy interval passed before a rap sounded on the iron-banded door—time which he spent attending to Flore’s pleasure in reward for her sweetness and patience. At his command to enter, Ranulf’s vassal, Payn FitzOsbern, strode into the solar, half-dressed in an unlaced tunic and grinning broadly.

“Duke Henry?” Ranulf queried as he eased his body over the Saracen wench to sit on the edge of the massive bed.

“Aye, the duke—soon to be king of England. He rides for the coast in two days’ time and expects us to accompany him.” Payn made no apparent attempt to keep the glee from his tone. “The messenger would speak with you.”

Flashing his own grin, Ranulf solicitously twitched the linen sheet up over the two nude women in his bed. “Bid him enter.”

The messenger had obviously ridden hard from the duke’s court, for his cloak was spattered with mud, while grime and weariness lined his face. He confirmed what Payn had already announced, adding more details about the departure plans and composition of Henry’s forces, and warning of the resistance expected from the late King Stephen’s supporters in England.

Satisfied, Ranulf dismissed the man with orders to seek food and rest in the hall, then strode naked to the table where refreshment awaited. Pouring wine from a flagon into two pewter cups, he handed one to Payn and raised his own.

“On to England, then!”

“Aye, on to

England! May we find a vast supply of English rebels to vanquish—before your impatience renders your temper even more vile than of late.”

“I?” Ranulf’s black eyebrow rose in amused mockery. “My disposition has been sweet as honey.”

His vassal gave a snort of laughter. “And what of the three quintains you destroyed yesterday? Had their straw forms been infidels, we would have freed the Holy Land by now! I vow I’ve encountered wild boars less dangerous than you after you’ve been caged here at Vernay for any length.”

Ranulf’s sole response was a shrug as he drained his cup. “Perhaps.”

“Yet I see you have been laboring at a cure for your foul mood.” Payn grinned wickedly as, with a nod of his head, he indicated the women in his lord’s bed. “By the rood, two wenches at once, Ranulf? Could you not save some for the rest of us?”

Ranulf surveyed the handsome, chestnut-haired knight with wry amusement. “I much doubt you lacked for company yourself.”

“Nay, but for some reason I find utterly unfathomable, females seem to favor you, despite your black scowl.”

“Simply because I take the time to ensure their pleasure instead of seeking merely my own.” At Payn’s grimace, it was Ranulf’s turn to grin. “Less selfishness would stand you in good stead, my friend.”

“Doubtless you are right.” Tilting his head back, Payn swallowed the remainder of his wine, then glanced at Ranulf with a measure of slyness. “And wise, as well. Best get your fill of your lemans now while you still can. Your bride will be none too pleased to share you after the wedding. A lady of her rank will expect you to devote your attentions to her, at least in the beginning.”

Ranulf’s good humor faded at the reminder. His betrothed awaited him in England—the sole reason he would not find this campaign entirely to his liking. “With the opposition we undoubtedly will face,” he said stiffly, “it could be months before I can manage time for a wedding ceremony.”

“ ’Tis likely you’ll not be able to put off your nuptials much longer, though,” Payn observed, laughter lacing his tone.

To hide his thoughts, Ranulf pivoted abruptly to refill his wine cup. His friend had long known of his reluctance to visit England but only lately begun to suspect the cause:The Black Dragon of Vernay had misplaced his vaunted nerve.

Ranulf shook his head ruefully. How was it possible? He was a warrior, a powerful knight who had earned his spurs at the youthful age of seventeen. In the eleven years since, he had proven his valor countless times over. His remarkable achievements in combat had earned him the name “Black Dragon,” a dreaded appellation that made his foes tremble. And yet the thought of wedding the Claredon heiress unnerved him.

He feared a mere girl.

Payn would think it a great jest—uproarious, in fact. It would indeed be humorous, if not for the possible repercussions, Ranulf admitted wryly. If his men learned of his trepidation, not only would he suffer untold ribbing, but their respect for him would diminish, a consequence that could prove detrimental to his leadership.

As if sensing his discomfort, Payn gave a guffaw of laughter and cuffed him on the back. “Take cheer, my lord. As you said, it could be months before you must face your bride. With luck, Stephen’s defenders will not surrender England easily, and your time will be spent fighting and subduing rebels. Perhaps you can manage to delay your visit to Claredon through next spring and even into the summer.”

“Aye,” Ranulf said, swallowing a long gulp of wine. What he needed was a good fight to take his mind off his impending nuptials. War, sport, and tourneys—those were his passion. Not women. Not his heiress bride. He was eager for battle, for confrontation, if only so that he might escape the affliction of matrimony for a short while longer.

“You can count on me to see to the final arrangements for the journey,” Payn assured him. “We shall be prepared to march at first light.”