The Warrior

“Where are your guards?” Ranulf demanded as he reined the destrier to a halt.

Ariane eyed him warily. “In the ch-chapel, my lord,” she stammered in reply.

But Ranulf was no longer listening. His attention was fixed entirely on Gilbert, his expression hard and unsmiling. He kept his voice soft in an attempt to hide from himself how fierce was the jealousy he felt. “Do I know you, boy?”

“I am called Gilbert, milord,” the youth replied sullenly. “I serve as clerk to Baldwin, the castle steward.”

“Ah, the steward who thought to cheat me with the erroneous accounts.”

Gilbert flushed, looking uncomfortable, but remained silent, the set of his jaw belligerent.

“Have you no duties to attend to?”

“My duty is to serve my lady, sire.”

Ariane gasped at her brother’s insolent reply, while Ranulf reached for the hilt of his sword. He no longer desired merely to flog the impudent whelp; he wanted to skewer him to a wall. He’d had his fill of such defiance—this continual contempt for his authority and his right to rule.

Alarmed, Ariane stepped between them, in the path of the massive destrier. “My lord, he did not mean it!”

“Did he not? Obviously he forgets your changed status.”

“Yes, I am certain he forgot.” She gazed at Ranulf in consternation, while holding her hands up as if to ward off a blow.

Ranulf gritted his teeth, furious that Ariane would defend the boy so urgently, and that he himself would care so keenly. He had never before been struck by such an irrational jealousy over a female; it amazed and disturbed him, the violent urge that bored into him like the point of a lance. But then he had never before been plagued by such a vexing, defiant wench as his former betrothed, or her ardent supporters.

Ranulf clenched his jaw to control the unreasoning suspicions welling inside him. His anger was directed not only at the two conspirators staring up at him, though; he felt a surge of anger at himself for not mastering the violence that lived within him.

“I beg you, my lord . . . do not pay him any heed. He is but a boy. Afoolish boy,” Ariane added with a repressive glance at Gilbert.

Ranulf’s eyes coldly swept the lad, who fairly bristled. “Apparently he is old enough to hide behind a woman’s skirts. At his age I had nearly earned my spurs.”

Gilbert stiffened and stepped forward, squaring his shoulders. “I hide behind no one, sire. If you wish me to prove my mettle, I will gladly oblige.”

His jealousy goading him, Ranulf flashed a dubious smile. “You look soft, boy. Methinks you would need some training before challenging a knight to combat.”

“Gilbert is not a soldier, my lord,” Ariane intervened hastily. “He is a scholar.”

“Then I suggest he go about his scholarly duties,” Ranulf advised, his voice dangerously soft.

With a frustrated glance at Ariane, Gilbert tugged belligerently on his forelock and bowed to the lord with a pretense of respect, although he looked as if he would have preferred to swallow poison.

When the lad had left them to enter the chapel, Ranulf sat staring down at Ariane. He looked supremely powerful, mounted on his huge warhorse, despite his lack of armor or helmet. His waving raven hair gleamed with blue highlights in the sun, while his eyes glittered chill gold.

“I beg forgiveness for his impertinence, my lord,” she said quickly, knowing Gilbert had gone too far. No lord would tolerate such insolence from a serf, or such a flagrant challenge to his authority.

“I have flogged men for lesser offenses.”

“Please . . . let him be. He only thought to protect me.”

“You have too many protectors, to my mind,” Ranulf muttered in reply.

“Please . . .” she repeated.

“You ask again for leniency?”

“Yes, I ask it.”

“What have you left to bargain with?”