The Warrior

“No, I will wait.”

It took all her concentration and skill, but she won the match. As casually as possible, she asked permission to gather herbs in the forest.

“You wish to leave the castle grounds?” was Ranulf’s first question.

“I will not attempt to escape, I give you my word.”

His expression became an enigmatic mask, as if a shutter had suddenly closed. “Is this the same forest the Claredon serfs believe to be haunted by spirits and plagued by wolves?”

Abruptly Ariane lowered her gaze, not wishing him to see the lies in her eyes. “Aye, my lord.”

Ranulf refrained from answering at once, conflicting emotions warring within him as he studied her serene face.Had he been too harsh on Ariane? Was it time to give her the chance to prove herself? Could he trust her enough to leave the castle grounds on such an innocuous errand? Or was she intent on some more nefarious purpose? . . .

“I shall be away from the castle on the morrow,” he said finally, without inflection. “If it does not rain, you may go then. You will take an armed escort for safety, lest you come upon a wolf with a fancy for lovely flesh.”

She was surprised Ranulf had given in with such ease, and that he had made no mention of rebels or lovers, but she would not permit herself to question her good fortune. If, for the remainder of the evening, he seemed quieter than usual, if occasionally she caught him glancing at her intently, she told herself it was purely her imagination.

The following morning she watched with relief as he rode out with a company of knights. She was grateful for his absence, for although she might outmaneuver her guards, she knew Ranulf’s vigilance was another matter entirely.

She dressed in one of her oldest woolen gowns and mantle and had her palfrey saddled, along with cobs for two of her tirewomen and the castle midwife. While the women were loading the panniers on the packhorses with baskets and pottery jars and cloth bags, Ariane prepared two baskets of foodstuffs—bread and cheese and roasted meat, as well as vegetables and dried fruits. Leather flagons of wine complemented the victuals, and she included another flagon for her Norman escort.

It seemed overly cautious to be so heavily guarded by armored knights and archers on so beautiful a morning. The rains had stopped, leaving the air fresh and cool, the spring breeze scented with growing crops and wildflowers that grew in sweet profusion.

The entourage wound its way past patchwork fields of green and brown and across meadows abloom with spring flowers and wet with dew, before coming to a halt at the edge of the eastern forest.

For much of the morning, Ariane pretended to participate in the herb gathering, but as the other women spread out, she wandered further afield, venturing into the wood itself.

Ariane’s heart was pounding by the time she was able to slip away from the party. No one followed her, she was certain, but she hurried nevertheless, her footsteps almost silent as they trod a carpet of moss and humus.

When she came upon the cotter’s hut hidden among a tangle of birch and hawthorn, she came to a halt, her vision blurring with tears. Hazy spears of sunlight cast the clearing in a golden glow, giving it an almost heavenly aura, yet she knew, to her great sorrow, the inhabitants were afflicted by Satan’s curse. Brushing the moisture from her eyes, Ariane forced herself to go on, knowing she could not afford to indulge in her own anguish.

She performed her duty and emerged from the wood some quarter hour later, her heart heavy as always when she paid her visits, and yet lighter than any time since Ranulf’s capture of Claredon.

The sudden silence that greeted her when she reached the meadow disturbed her. There was no sign of her women, or of the escort Ranulf had forced upon her. They were all gone.

In their place, at the far edge of the meadow, a powerful knight in full armor sat silently astride his warhorse.

Ariane halted abruptly, staring in horror. The Black Dragon awaited her, his piercing gaze fixed on her. His helmet shielded much of his harsh face, concealing his expression, yet even at this distance, she could sense his seething fury.

18

“Mother of God,” Ariane breathed, her face draining of all color.

Ranulf sat motionless on his massive black stallion, his right hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The dark image he presented struck her as vengeful, pagan, ruthless.

The cry of a wild hawk keened over the meadow, but Ariane scarcely noticed. She stood frozen as Ranulf nudged his destrier and rode slowly forward. A constricted feeling of terror welled in her chest as he halted before her and raised his helmet.

“What do you here, wench?” he demanded, the menace in his tone making her shiver.

She forced her reply past the dry swelling in her throat. “G-Gathering herbs, my lord.”

“You were absent a long while. You should have a bountiful yield to show for your efforts. Show me the contents of your baskets.”

Too paralyzed to move, she simply stared at him, sick dread twisting her insides.

“Do as I say!”

With trembling hands, she pushed back the lids of the two baskets she carried. But for a few twigs and leaves, they were empty.