The Warrior

But Ariane was his hostage, under his control, which gave him an advantage over her. And without actually intending to, he had created the ideal setting for a seduction. Forcing her to share his bed did not have to be a punishment, but a means to gain her surrender.

Would she be able to resist him if he truly set his mind to winning her?

His mouth curved in a smile. How he would like to break through that icy, disdainful facade of hers. To prove that he could melt that haughty scorn. And were he to succeed, the benefits would well outweigh the trouble.

“I might indeed put my skills to the test,” Ranulf replied thoughtfully.

He had barely spoken the words when out of the corner of his eye he caught a flash of movement in the wooded undergrowth. They had been riding along a rutted lane, flanked by oaks and elms, but Ranulf had been paying little attention to his surroundings. Suddenly an arrow whooshed past his head, followed by a sharp cry as one of his bowmen was struck in the chest.

“Blood of Christ, an ambush!” Ranulf roared.

Steel hissed as he drew his sword. With reflexes honed by years of battle, he wheeled his destrier and charged the forest where the attackers were hidden, with Payn a single galloping stride behind him.

A hail of feathered shafts shot from the trees with deadly intent, but Ranulf’s men rode directly into the fray, against a horde of bowmen and peasants armed with sickles but led by mailed knights. The forest came alive with the singsong hiss of arrows and the clang of steel on steel.

Ranulf dispatched an archer who had leveled his bow directly at him, while Payn plucked a rebel from a tree with his lance. Catching sight of a mounted knight who shouted orders to the ambushers, Ranulf spurred his steed on, engaging the enemy who was obviously the leader.

Their swords clashed, and Ranulf bared his teeth with a wolfish grin, blood lust singing in his veins.

For a time the knight held his own, but from his defensive maneuvers, it soon became apparent Ranulf’s skill and brute strength would triumph. He was about to strike a finishing blow when he heard a hoarse shout to his right.

“My lord, behind you!”

He turned his head, but not in time; a serf charged him fiercely, wielding a pitchfork like a lance. Ranulf felt the twines pierce his mail armor, enter his side, his ribs bearing the brunt of the assault. Giving a war cry as he twisted in the saddle, he hoisted his blade and swung, nearly cleaving the man in two.

Breathing hard, Ranulf bent over his horse’s neck, resting his weight against the high wooden pommel of his saddle. When he glanced around him, the fighting had nearly ceased. His men were in control, Ranulf saw with little satisfaction. The villains had been routed, and a number lay scattered on the ground, dead or dying, yet the enemy knight had fled, taking the remainder of his rebel force with him.

Payn gave an order to pursue the fleeing enemy, and when some of Ranulf’s men had obediently galloped off, he urged his destrier beside his lord’s. The forest had grown starkly quiet, save for the harsh breaths of blowing mounts and panting men.

“You are bloodied,” Payn observed with concern.

Ranulf shook his head, his features dark with fury. “I will live. Which is more than I can say for that poor fellow.”

One of his bowmen lay sprawled on the forest floor, an arrow having found its deadly target in the center of his chest. A low groan capturing his attention, Ranulf shifted his gaze to another fallen colleague—and let out a violent curse.

“Burc . . .”

Holding his stinging ribs, Ranulf quickly dismounted and knelt beside the lad, carefully inspecting the arrow protruding from his bloody shoulder.

His squire groaned again, gazing up at him with pain-filled eyes. “I beg forgiveness, milord. It was stupid of me. . . .”

“Hush, boy. Don’t try to speak. You aren’t to blame.”

Ranulf cursed again, this time at himself. He alone was to blame for his carelessness, for allowing his thoughts to be distracted by a bright-haired, silken-skinned wench. He had led his troops directly into an ambush.

In a torment of self-condemnation, he sheathed his sword. Ignoring his own minor wounds, he bent and carefully lifted his squire in his arms and gave him to a mounted vassal with orders to return to Claredon at once and seek his surgeon. Fortunately the lad had fainted and would feel little of the jarring ride. Ranulf could only hope the boy would remain unconsciou

s while the arrow was removed—and that the steel head could be cleanly extracted. He had seen more men than he cared to count die of wounds poisoned by debris embedded in the flesh.

He felt a great weariness descend over him as he watched his squire being carried away. His blood still coursed from the recent skirmish, yet deadly fury washed through him. God’s wounds! His party had been attacked by peasants armed with pitchforks and led by rebel knights. The image of Simon’s face came to mind, followed swiftly by that of the knight’s cohort in crime, Ariane of Claredon.

“We killed five and took two prisoners, both wounded,” Payn informed him. “One appears to be a knight.”

“How many escaped?”

“A dozen or so, I think.”

“Carry the prisoners to Claredon,” Ranulf ordered grimly, “and chain them in the dungeon. And see to their dead comrades as well. You know what to do.”