The Warrior

“Aye, my lord.”

The bodies of the slain rebels would be exhibited on the castle walls, to serve as an example to others. His enemies would learn the futility of challenging the new lord of Claredon.

“And Payn, I want regular patrols sent out henceforth.”

“As you wish. Never fear, lord. We shall bring the lawless brigands to heel. Defiance will gain them naught.”

“Aye, they’ll find what rebellion brings,” Ranulf said darkly as he turned to mount his stallion.

The chapel bell had just tolled vespers when the oaken door to the solar slammed open. Ariane nearly jumped out of her skin at the crash, even though she had been alerted earlier to Ranulf’s arrival by the blare of the gatekeeper’s horn signaling the approach of riders. She had watched with dread as the bodies of several men had been handed down from the horses and piled heedlessly on the ground. One of her worst fears had apparently come to pass: the people of Claredon suffering the merciless wrath of the Black Dragon.

At the moment her heart was lodged in her throat as she stared at the powerful, menacing figure in the doorway. The conical helmet with its broad nose guard concealed most of Ranulf’s face, yet his fierce gold eyes stabbed her, while his hard mouth compressed with fury.

“I trust you are satisfied with the devil’s brew you’ve stirred up,” he said tightly as he kicked the door shut behind him.

“W-What do you mean?”

“We were ambushed on our return from Wyclif. One of my men was slain and my best squire gravely wounded.”

He drew off his helmet, which bore a large dent on the left side, as if from a sword’s blow. Such a powerful blow might have killed him, Ariane thought with dismay. The helmet would need a trip to the armorer before it could safely be used again. And traces of blood caked the chain links of his mail hauberk. Ranulf had evidently been wounded in the fighting.

He tossed the helmet on a chest without taking his ruthless gaze from her. “I advise you not to be too pleased by your handiwork, wench. Two of your father’s vassals sit in Claredon’s dungeon—one of knight’s rank. And five of your serfs lie dead in the bailey. Their deaths rest on your conscience.”

“Five? Mother Mary . . .” Her heart constricted with horror.

“Aye, five. See you now what your treachery has wrought?”

“M-Mine?”

“You abetted your knight Simon in escaping, and he in turn attacked my troops, which resulted in the carnage.”

Weakly, Ariane raised a hand to her temple. Earlier she had fallen into a doze after so many nights of sleeplessness, and her head felt so woolly with fatigue, she could scarcely think. “Are you certain it was Simon?”

“What matters who led the attack?” Ranulf snapped. “Your defiance incited your followers to rise against me.”

“I am sorry. . . . I never wanted anyone to be hurt.”

Her apology fell on deaf ears. Ranulf’s granite-hewn features showed no sign of forgiveness as he pushed back his mail coif, exposing raven hair damp with sweat. “Your sorrow will not restore the life of my archer, nor aid my squire to recover from his wounds.”

Ariane swallowed. “I know something of healing. Your squire . . . will you permit me to see to his care? To make amends?”

Ranulf shook his head. “You have done enough damage already, milady.”

She bit her lip, wondering how she could hope to find any pity in this harsh, ruthless man, particularly when he was rightly outraged by the carnage. Stiff with dread, she moved to stand before him. Summoning her courage, she placed an imploring hand on his mail sleeve, although he shook it off as if her touch burned. “The men who died . . . will you allow them a proper burial?”

“They will receive no such veneration. Their bodies will remain on view as a reminder to those who would dare rise against me.”

“Nay, ’tis barbarous. You cannot—”

“Icannot ?” Ranulf’s eyes narrowed fiercely, flashing like yellow lightning. “Do not seek to test my mettle, lady. I could crush the breath from you in an instant.”

She knew he spoke the truth. He could choke the life from her with ease, or fell her with a single blow. Yet she could not give up without trying to persuade him to mercy.

“And your prisoners?” she breathed. “What will befall them?”

“For their treachery, they will pay with their lives.”

She gazed at him in anguish. “No . . . please . . . my Lord Ranulf . . . Have you no compassion? Can you show no mercy?”