The Warrior

Ariane shivered in the evening breeze. She would rather deal with a hundred of his envoys than the lord of Vernay himself.

“You are cold, demoiselle? Allow me to send a serf to the tower to fetch your mantle.”

“Yes, thank you, Simon.” Spring had come early to England this year, and yet the damp air held a bite she could feel through her fine woolen overgown and undertunic and her linen shift. No doubt, though, her apprehension sharpened the chill.

As Simon left her, she found herself bemoaning the frailties of a woman’s body. If she were a man, she could have ridden out to challenge Ranulf’s knights in combat . . .

Her lips compressed in a bitter smile. If she were a man, she might never have become acquainted with Ranulf de Vernay in the first place. Certainly she would never have been pledged to him in marriage so that her father might gain an ally for Claredon.

Sweet Mary, why could she not have been born male? How much better to be a son whom her father could count on to assume his barony and protect his hard-won holdings, rather than a disappointing daughter. What freedom to be a knight who could take up arms in defense of his demesne, rather than a pawn of men’s political games! Or worse, a neglected bride required to suffer the whims of a reluctant bridegroom.

Of their own accord, her fingers curled into fists. Only to herself would Ariane acknowledge a deeper truth: that her hurt over Ranulf’s long neglect might also be driving her resistance.

It hurt to be unwanted. To hear the whispers. She was the forgotten bride, the rejected one.Is there something wrong with me that not even the promise of great wealth can overcome? For years she had pondered that question, had agonized over her inadequacies. For five long, wasted years she had waited and worried and pined—until finally hope had dwindled, leaving only anger and bitterness and despair. Until her resentment against Ranulf festered like a poisoned wound.

Yet that was not her primary reason for defying him now. Her father’s very life was at stake. If she surrendered his holdings, everything he had striven for would be forfeit. Worse, he would be rendered powerless, at the mercy of the king’s justice. And in his absence, she was responsible for Claredon and its people, their lives and welfare. On her shoulders alone rested their fate.

As in countless times during the past, Ariane’s gaze shifted to the east, focusing on a deep forest glade of birch and oak, some quarter league from the castle walls. The wood was said to be haunted by evil spirits and ruled by man-eating wolves, but she knew better. Only a handful of people were privy to the secret of those woods.Will the inhabitants there be safe from the Black Dragon?

Her eyes blurring at the sight, she forced her gaze away, focusing again on the enemy forces. She could still see the fierce black dragon on a red silk field boldly waving above the invading army. What would her mother have done in these difficult circumstances?

Why, Ranulf? Why did you never come for me?

Swallowing, she fiercely brushed away the tears of anger that stung her eyes. She could not afford the luxury of weeping, or the indulgence of self-pity. Her regrets would have to keep for another day. Now, more than ever, she had to be strong.

Defiantly, Ariane lifted her chin.

Let Ranulf de Vernay come to Claredon now. She was prepared to defend the castle and people against her vengeful betrothed, if need be.

And she would remain loyal to her father, even if her defiance made her guilty of treason.

Safe behind his concealing monks robes, Ranulf watched his intended bride with increasing ire and bitter disappointment. A flaming torch had been set in a bracket in the parapet, casting an angelic glow about her as she stood in deep reflection. The innocent image was misleading, he was certain, as was the weary, troubled frown on her clear brow. No sweet, biddable wench, this. Her cunning ploy earlier was worthy of any sly deception perpetrated by the ladies of the Norman court—refusing to surrender the castle to FitzOsbern while at the same time not openly declaring her rebellion. Clever but mistaken. She would not succeed in evading the king’s wrath by such tactics, Ranulf promised silently, or escape penalty for her defiance.

Ranulf’s eyes narrowed as the knight called Simon drew a fur-trimmed mantle solicitously about her shoulders. There was evident intimacy and affection between the two of them. The affection of lovers? An irrational surge of jealousy speared through Ranulf. Ariane of Claredon belonged tohim, just as her father’s castle now did. She was his betrothed, soon to be his political hostage. If she was being faithless to him with her father’s vassal, she would suffer the consequences. Just as she would pay if she chose to challenge his authority.

He had been charged with quelling resistance and imposing the king’s will on the land, and he would not be gainsaid. Not by a woman. Most definitely not by his own bride. If she forced him to resort to violence, he would crush her without mercy.

Almost as if she had divined his thoughts, her head lifted slowly and she half turned, her troubled gaze searching the shadows where he stood.

Ranulf froze—and drew in his breath sharply at the vision of loveliness Ariane made in the glow of torchlight. Nay, the reports had not exaggerated, he thought as a shaft of desire shot through him with startling intensity. Where once she had been all bones and eyes, now she was slender curves and eyes, with gleaming tresses of pale copper that shimmered and rippled with life. An enchanting, beguiling combination.

The change disturbed Ranulf greatly. He might have forgiven a child her faulty judgment, for being misled by her advisors, but Ariane of Claredon was no longer a child. She was fully a woman. A noble lady quite capable of aiding a rebellion and supporting her father’s treason.

And she was his to deal with.

He could not control his body’s hard response at the thought of having such a defiant beauty in his power, yet before the stirring in his groin could swell to uncomfortable proportions, Ranulf set his jaw and tucked the cowl of his clerical garb more tightly around his face. Then he stepped forward, taking care to remain away from the circle of torchlight, keeping his gaze trained on his bride and her armored protector.

“A monk seeks audience with you, my lady,” Simon advised her.

Ariane gave a start when the vassal’s voice interrupted her brooding. With a sigh, she turned to greet the intruder—and halted abruptly. A dark shape had condensed out of the shadows . . . tall, powerful . . . ominous.

Her hand went to her throat. For the space of a dozen heartbeats she remained frozen, while the night sounds of the castle faded. The presence of her own soldiers, the plight of the refugees, the threat of an enemy army, were forgotten. She was only aware of the towering, motionless form shrouded in a blanket of darkness.

A frisson of fear ran down her spine at the obscure figure looming so threateningly near. The shadows thrown by the torchlight cast such a strange spell she could almost imagine the giant silhouette to be a menacing dragon.

It was simply fancy, she told herself with desperate calm. A deceptive trick of the light. Willing herself to show no fear, Ariane took a faltering step closer—and the fearsome image tha

nkfully vanished. The light barely licked at the foot of his robes, but Ariane let out her breath in relief as she recognized his garb. It was only a monk. No danger here.