The Warrior

A few moments more,” Ariane answered. “There may still be others who wish to seek the safety of Claredon.”

She felt Simon move to stand beside her. As her father’s chief vassal and commander of the garrison at Claredon, Simon had been left behind with a force of knights and men-at-arms when Walter rode to join Hugh Mortimer. Ariane was grateful for his company, for it helped ease the great burden of responsibility she shouldered.

“Simon?”

“Aye, my lady?”

“You have done well. My father shall hear of your efforts.”

Stealing a glance at him she saw him flush at her praise. They were of a height, but Simon was older than she by some dozen years and far more experienced in political and military matters. Ariane trusted him implicitly. She had always wondered if he might have sought her hand in marriage if not for her betrothal.

My perpetual betrothal,she thought bitterly.

Her fingers clenched as she forced the reflection aside. She had vowed not to dwell on her lost hopes, her faded dreams.

Lifting her chin, Ariane gazed out over the parapet wall at the newly sown fields of Claredon, at the shimmering river winding sinuously toward the horizon, golden in the fading rays of sunset. The scene looked so peaceful—an illusion, to be sure.

She had never known true peace. She’d been reared during one of the most turbulent periods in England’s history, and while her father had managed by strategic combat and judicious political maneuverings to shield his estates from the devastation wreaked on much of England during Stephen’s reign, no aspect of their lives had remained untouched. In the past ten years, Walter had spent a fortune erecting new stone curtain walls around Claredon in place of the wooden ones, yet no walls could stretch far enough to shield the surrounding countryside from an invading army. If the lord of Vernay laid siege to Claredon, he would first destroy fields and stores and the rude homes of the peasantry in an attempt to starve the castle inhabitants into submission.

And his army was on the march. The distraught messenger who had ridden frantically in from Bridgenorth this morning with the incredible news about her father’s treason had also warned of the approach of the Black Dragon’s forces.

Mother of God, how she dreaded the possibility of war. Was there a way to prevent it short of surrender? How could she spare the lives of her people and yet remain loyal to her father? She had promised to hold Claredon Keep in his absence, and she would sooner be drenched with scalding oil than fail him. She would not destroy what little faith he had placed in her.

“Simon?” Ariane asked in a troubled voice. “Think you we take the right course?”

Simon shook his dark head. “I know not, my lady. Yet I believe this is what my Lord Walter would have wished. You know your betrothed better than I.”

“I doubt it. I met him but once, for a brief while, and that when I was a mere girl.” Her mouth twisted in a joyless smile as she recalled her one startling meeting with Ranulf de Vernay.

He had been a fully grown man then, nearly ten years her senior. When he invited her to walk with him alone in the castle garden, she dared not refuse, but his sheer presence had awed her, rendered her completely tongue-tied. Those amber hawk’s eyes had scrutinized her intently, as if she were his prey, driving her heart to her throat.

Yet, astonishingly, the lord of Vernay had seemed to understand her agitation and he had taken the time to ease her fears, indeed to charm her, chasing away her wariness, seducing her with his gentle teasing. To her utter amazement, he had asked if she consented to the betrothal.

Then, even before she had overcome her bewilderment, Ranulf had suddenly smiled at her, with a heart-stopping tenderness that incredibly, magically, melted the harshness from that cold, hard countenance.

She had lost more than her fear of Ranulf in that moment. She had lost her heart. She deemed the lord of Vernay a magnificent suitor, the embodiment of every girlhood dream. And she had vowed to herself then and there to make him a good, faithful wife.

What a fool she had been!

“I thought him kind and gentle,” she murmured to Simon. “Can you credit how poor my judgment was?”

“I have heard fearsome things said of him.”

She had heard the tales, too, over the years—of the Black Dragon’s prowess in combat, of his merciless vengeance. His very name, taken from the device on his shield and banner, struck fear in the hearts of lesser men.

“Some say de Vernay is Henry’s best field commander,” Simon murmured. “And his most brilliant tactician. He is known to have challenged and defeated his own father in battle. A most unnatural son.”

Ariane fell silent. Those tales of Lord Ranulf were the most shocking. His lady mother was said to have taken a peasant lover before Ranulf’s birth, so that he might well be a lowborn freeman’s offspring. Certainly Ranulf’s noble father doubted his parentage. Yves de Vernay had refused, even after his two older sons had died, to acknowledge Ranulf as heir. The Black Dragon had claimed his inheritance at the point of a sword.

“We should fare well enough,” Simon was saying. “Our forces are in position. We have adequate supplies—due to your own efforts, my lady. We can hold out for some time against a siege.”

“And you sent word to my father at Bridgenorth.”

“Two separate couriers, lady, to improve the chances of gaining through. If Lord Walter is free to come, he will.”

If he is free.

Ariane shook her head. Her shock at the recent turn of events still had not faded. Her father had been charged with high treason for conspiring with Hugh Mortimer against the crown. She simplycould not believe him guilty; she knew him too well.