The Warrior

“I will have your oath, demoiselle.”

Knowing she had no choice,

she bowed her head. “You have it, my lord,” she replied solemnly. “By my sworn word, I pledge to obey you in all things, to act as your servant, to seek to persuade the people of Claredon to accept you as their rightful liege.”

Ranulf stared down at Ariane warily, reluctant to trust her, even more unwilling to trust his own senses. Her voice quavered, husky with relief or unshed tears he wasn’t certain, but with a power that tugged relentlessly on his sympathies. It was impossible to ignore the compassion she stirred in him—or deny the arousing effect of her nearness, either. He could smell her scent, the subtle, sweet fragrance of oil of roses and warm woman. He was keenly aware of her body’s heat, of the constant charge of attraction that flowed between them, of the primal urges she kindled in him so effortlessly. Ranulf felt his loins tighten, become heavy and full, and he swore under his breath.

Deliberately he took a step back, absently clutching his aching side as he put a safer distance between them. Yet a frown scored his brow. He had gained Ariane’ s promise of submission, her pledge of unquestioning obedience. So why then did he feel as if she were the victor and he the vanquished?

7

The crowded great hall was deathly quiet, so still a mouse could be heard rustling in the floor rushes. Only the fire crackling in the immense stone hearth at one side of the long hall disturbed the silence.

All eyes were trained on the lady of Claredon as she gave her oath of homage to the Black Dragon of Vernay. Ariane knelt before Ranulf, her head bowed, her hands placed in his, and swore to serve him faithfully.

When she rose and met his wintry gaze, her carriage was proud and erect. “My liege,” she said clearly—and felt like the meanest traitor. It had been her responsibility to defend the demesne, and her failure distressed her keenly.

Her vision blurred, she turned to survey the crowd, facing her people for the first time since the fall of Claredon three days ago. She saw sympathy and sorrow on the countenances of those who had served her all her life: Claredon’s priest, Father John; his clerk and her half-brother, Gilbert; her ladies and sewing women; kitchen wenches and serving maids, including the insolent Dena; pages and varlets who performed the countless domestic chores. She saw no sign of the castle’s seneschal or steward or any other high official. Doubtless Ranulf had imprisoned them for refusing to accept him as lord.

“The new lord of Claredon bids you lay down your weapons and go about your duties,” she told them in English, in a voice she managed to keep steady. “He says there will be no further bloodshed if we give him no trouble and serve him well.”

She repeated the message in French for the benefit of the Norman conquerors. Hesitating then, she glanced up at Ranulf, wishing the short blue square of silk she wore as a head covering was large enough to shield her from his penetrating gaze. His harsh visage had remained coldly expressionless during the ceremony, and now he watched her with an intentness that made her want to shiver. She could well understand how he had earned the dreaded name Black Dragon.

“Is that sufficient, my lord?”

“For now. On the morrow you will address the assembled field serfs and bid them return to working the land. I want my new estates to prosper.”

“As you wish, my lord,” Ariane replied quietly, making every effort to keep her manner complaisant, refusing to give him any reason to repudiate the bargain they had struck.

Ranulf called for the repast to begin and the crowd dispersed. His vassals found places at the long trestle tables erected for meals, with those of highest rank sharing the lord’s table on the raised wooden dais at the hall’s front end. Without being told, Ariane followed Ranulf to his seat and waited as he settled into an ornately carved, high-backed chair, one of only two backed chairs in the entire chamber. Lifting a flagon, she poured wine into a goblet for him, and then stood obediently behind his chair, at hand to attend him.

The tasks he had set her to were not so onerous, she reflected. As his body servant, she was to select and care for his clothes, help him dress, serve him at table, which included carving his meat and presenting the lord’s wine cup, and generally perform whatever personal service he required. She knew precisely what was expected of her. Over the years she had watched her father supervise the training of countless pages and squires, most of whom were the sons of nobles who fostered with him. Her mother had directed the castle staff with a similar firm hand, and when Ariane assumed those duties four years ago, she was well versed in every aspect of service.

It was also a squire’s duty to see to his lord’s armor and weapons, but earlier Ranulf had claimed he didn’t trust her to care for them properly. And that she was clearly unfit for military service.

A faint smile twisted Ariane’s lips as she recalled Ranulf’s disgust a short while ago when he’d commanded her to remove his war trappings. Her grimace when she unbelted his bloodied sword had earned her a quick rebuke, and he’d shown little patience with her further ministrations. As tall as she was, she had needed to stand on a stool to raise his chain mail hauberk over his head, and then she had staggered so under its weight that Ranulf had to take it from her and arrange it over the wooden form himself.

She had drawn a sharp breath when she realized his woolen tunic was soaked in blood.

“Do not raise your hopes overmuch, demoiselle,” Ranulf remarked dryly. “It is a mere scratch.”

When his torso was bared, though, Ariane could see he had greatly underestimated the severity of his injuries. Doubtless the inflamed gouges in his side were no more than pinpricks compared to some of the wounds he had suffered in previous battles, but they could be dangerous should they putrefy. She had offered to tend his wounded ribs and apply an herb compress, but Ranulf had coolly declined, saying that he didn’t trust any remedy she supplied not to be riddled with poison—his tone suggesting that he was already regretting his insistence that she serve him in place of his wounded squire.

“You find something amusing, lady?”

With a start Ariane realized Ranulf had glanced over his shoulder at her and was fixing her with a cool stare. Carefully she schooled her features to blandness. “No, my lord. I have no reason to be amused.”

“My cup is empty. Fetch me more wine.”

She hastened to obey, gritting her teeth at his commanding tone, even while reluctantly acknowledging the effectiveness of his uncommon method of justice. The role Ranulf had forced her to play was designed not merely to replace his wounded squire—an eye for an eye—but to display her subjugation. By requiring her to serve him publicly, her people would clearly see his power, and perhaps realize the futility of defying his will.

And though she was loathe to admit it, his chosen form of retribution was indeed merciful, Ariane knew. After his party had been attacked, his men killed and wounded, the new lord of Claredon would have been well within his rights to exact a devastating reprisal. Other warlords in similar circumstances had been known to raze entire villages, torturing and killing even women and children in their desire for revenge.

It might be humbling for someone of her high birth to be treated no better than a serf, mortifying in truth, but Ariane was thankful for Ranulf’s measured sentence. Thankful for the opportunity to leave her prison as well; to be allowed to move about the keep, among her people, where she could keep watch on the new lord of Vernay. She did not trust Ranulf not to visit some cruelty upon them, even if thus far he had shown remarkable restraint.

Moreover, she hoped her new responsibilities would help her conquer the nerve-shredding fear of the past few days.

She would be boiled in oil, though, before she displayed the slightest hint of fear to Ranulf. She was determined not to give him the upper hand.