The Warrior

Her paralysis faded, yet her uneasiness remained. A man of such height and bulk would be powerful, strong; such a giant could easily be a warrior. Even across the distance that separated them, she could feel his towering masculine presence.

Wondering at her strange awareness, at her sense of foreboding, she reminded herself that she had her own men to protect her.

“Greetings, demoiselle,” the shadow said softly.

Something within her stirred at that deep, muted voice. She felt the oddest sense of . . . intimacy? Familiarity?

She went still, while strange sensations shivered through her. “Do I know you, sir monk?”

“I think not, my lady.”

She hesitated, divided between wariness and curiosity. He was a compelling figure, for his sheer mystery if nothing else. His hands, only partially hidden by the wide sleeves of his robe, were large, strong, long-fingered . . . capable of great violence or tender compassion?

With effort Ariane shook off her fanciful imaginings. Taking another step closer, she peered at the hooded face still in shadow, wondering why he was here and what he wanted of her.

Ranulf, imagining uncomfortably that she could penetrate his disguise, bowed his head with feigned respect, and raised the pitch of his voice to a soft tenor. “I wished to express my gratitude for giving refuge to a poor monk. I was making my way to the monastery at Frotham when my journey was interrupted by the fleeing villeins. I thought it wiser to follow them to the safety of your keep.”

“You are welcome to Claredon’s hospitality, sir monk.” She waited politely for him to continue, but returned his gaze warily, he noted, her clear gray eyes watchful and intent.

“I wondered, my lady, if at this time of trouble I might aid you in some manner. Since your noble father is away, you might wish for guidance from wiser heads.”

He saw her mouth twist in the faintest of smiles. “Prayers would not go amiss, good brother, but unless you are versed in military stratagems, I shall rely upon my father’s vassals for counsel.”

“Mean you to declare your opposition to the lord of Vernay, then?”

Her expression turned cool, Ranulf observed, but she avoided giving him a direct answer, saying instead, “I regret you were detained, since I fear we may be under siege for a long while. I dare not lower the drawbridge for you to leave Claredon, but if you wish, we could have you lowered from the walls, so you might safely effect an escape.”

Under siege for a long while? Then she intended to refuse him entrance?

“You misunderstand me, lady. My concern was not for my own safety, but for the good people here. Would it not be wiser to surrender the castle to the lord of Vernay at once?”

“Wiser for whom?”

“For you. For your villeins.” At her frowning hesitation, Ranulf added swiftly, “You may confide your fears to me, noble child.”

“A comforting thought,” she replied with questionable sincerity. “It is unfortunate then that I have already confided my fears to God.”

He had overstepped the boundaries allowed even a man of the cloth, he realized. He glanced at Simon, noting the knight’s fist resting cautiously on the hilt of his sword. “Forgive me, demoiselle. I meant no insult by my curiosity. I simply wished to offer help.”

Ranulf felt her intent gaze searching his monk’s cowling again, as if to read his shadowed expression. “I am grateful for your interest, truly. It is just that . . .”

“Yes, demoiselle? Just what?”

Ariane turned away, gazing out over the darkened countryside, faintly illuminated by the flickering campfires of a besieging force.

“I am unaccustomed to discussing my troubles with anyone but our own priest,” she said finally.

“You have endured great troubles of late, it seems.”

It was a leading remark, she knew, probing with a gentle intensity she could not resist. “No more than most.”

“But this current crisis . . . Lord Ranulf’s army at your gates. He is your betrothed, is he not?”

“Yes,” she replied, her voice edged with bitterness. “Regretfully.”

“Regretfully? You are not eager to wed him?”

When she remained silent, the monk added musingly, “I wonder that you agreed to the betrothal. Although many a bride has been persuaded by force, the Church does require the consent of the lady before sanctioning marriage.”