The Warrior

“Who needs supervision. A woman’s supervision.”

Ranulf frowned suspiciously. “Would you, perchance, be trying to weasel your way into my good graces, vixen? Is this an attempt to persuade me to wed you?”

He had hit too close to the truth, but Ariane managed a casual shrug. “Claredon has been my home all my life, my lord. I do not care to see it fall to ruin. Besides, I need employment. I am bored to tears during the hours you are away from the keep.”

His mouth curved slowly, suggestively. “Then I shall have to lessen the hours I am away—and see that you remain occupied.”

“ ’Tis not what I meant, as well you know!”

When he bent to nuzzle her neck, Ariane drew away sharply. Ranulf’s expression turned cool. “Denying me is hardly the way to persuade me, demoiselle. Perhaps you will be done sulking when I return.”

Ariane had been trying to comb her wild hair after a particularly passionate bout of lovemaking, and the ivory teeth snagged in a tangle with such force that it brought tears to her eyes. She very much wanted to throw the comb at his stubborn head, but she refrained, schooling herself to patience. She had known Ranulf would not relent easily.

And yet that very afternoon, he sent a cloth merchant to her so that she could choose silk threads for her ladies’ embroidery, and provided the coin to pay for it.

She was moved by the gesture, and thought perhaps she might eventually succeed in wearing down his formidable defenses, if only she kept at it long enough.

She still had not determined how to solve her most crucial dilemma, however. Her twice-monthly visits to the forest had been curbed entirely and she was now weeks late. There had b

een time, before Ranulf’s capture of Claredon, to make only a brief foray into the eastern wood to aid the inhabitants there. By now their situation would be growing grim, and they would be desperate for food.

There was no one she could entrust with such a mission, either, save for perhaps Gilbert, and she could not be certain about him. Only she and two others were privy to the secret of the haunted Claredon forest—her father and her father’s chief vassal, Simon Crecy, and both men were gone. It was left to her to see to the task—and she could wait no longer.

The solution came to her one afternoon, toward the end of Ranulf’s first month at Claredon, when she visited his injured squire to satisfy herself that Burc’s shoulder wound was healing. The lad was still bedridden and feverish, and still in pain. The wound showed signs of putrefying, the surrounding flesh streaked with red, with yellow pus draining from beneath the scabs.

Ariane spent the afternoon in the herbal, pounding and steeping herbs to make a tea to reduce the fever and mixing a poultice to draw out the poison from the wound. But then she had to seek Ranulf’s permission to administer them.

A frown darkened his features when he discovered she had visited his squire, and his tone turned intimidating. “What meant you by defying my express orders?”

“I merely wished to see how Burc’s wound fared. I feel somewhat responsible for his injury—”

“You should. Youare responsible.”

Setting her jaw, Ariane meekly lowered her gaze. “My sole wish was to help him.”

“My leech can see to the boy.”

“Your leech already had his chance,” Ariane retorted scornfully. “Burc desperately needs a cure. His arm will rot off, if he does not die first!” Her hands went to her hips. “And I have no intention of letting him die and giving you one more mark to hold against me.”

Seeing Ranulf visibly wavering, she softened her tone. “Can you not trust me this once, Ranulf? He is suffering needlessly. I do not intend him any harm, I swear it.”

“Very well,” Ranulf muttered gruffly.

But he scrutinized her work, watching closely as she cleaned the wound and applied the poultice, then bandaged the boy’s shoulder.

“There. He should sleep now,” Ariane said quietly when she had finished.

She looked up to find Ranulf watching her with an odd expression in his eyes. “You have a gentle touch,” he murmured.

His mood shifted, however, as soon as they had left the chamber and entered the solar. “I would feel your touch, vixen.” Ranulf drew her hand over the bulge in his tunic. “Soothe my fever, Ariane. . . .”

He kissed her then, and as always, she forgot whatever thoughts had occupied her mind . . . forgot her very name.

And yet when their passion was spent, her vital mission came rushing back to trouble her. She had to find a way to visit the east wood. Her supplies of medicines was running low. Most of the plants she needed would not mature till summer, but there were a number of shrubs and wildflowers that could be harvested now. She would ask Ranulf’s permission to conduct the spring herb gathering, which would give her a legitimate excuse to leave the castle grounds. She would even offer to take her guards. Surely she could outwit them long enough to see to her errand.

That evening, when she sat across the chessboard from Ranulf, she took a deep breath, girding herself for the risk. “If I win tonight, my lord, may I ask a boon?”

“You may ask now,” he replied, studying the ivory pieces.