“What have you left with which to bargain, wench? Your demesne is mine, you are mine.”
His harsh retort permitted no argument. Her fingers clenching in the horse’s mane, Ariane fell helplessly silent, knowing further entreaties would be futile. She could feel the steel mesh of his hauberk at her back, as cold and rigid as the man himself.
Tears of anguish slipped heedlessly down her face, tears to which Ranulf paid no heed. He hated the look he had put into her eyes—haunted, agonized—yet he forced himself to disregard it. The witch had deceived and betrayed him, and might very well be seeking to destroy him. He would not let himself soften; he did not dare, or she would exploit his weakness for her.
He needed no direction from her, but seemed to know precisely where he was headed. They crossed the meadow where Ranulf had discovered her that morn, and plunged into the wood. Sunlight speared through tall oaks and birches, the branches adorned with the new leaves of spring.
Ariane’s terror grew with each step they traveled, a terror that communicated itself to their mount. The horse snorted and pranced, requiring Ranulf to resort to the sharp discipline of bit and spur.
The glade grew thicker the deeper they rode, until finally it seemed to close around them. Ranulf pressed on, through a narrow opening in a dense thicket. When the cotter’s hut came into view, he drew the destrier to a halt.
The hovel was old and shabbily constructed of wattle and daub, with a thatched roof that badly needed patching. Shuttered, it had a look of desertion about it, an aura of death.
“What is this place?” Ranulf demanded quietly.
Ariane could not speak. Her breath was trapped in her lungs by a terrible constriction; a vise gripped her heart like a gauntleted fist.
She was sobbing mutely now, yet Ranulf hardened his heart against her tears. He would not permit her to sway him with such ploys, or to manipulate him into clemency. She could protect herself with such tactics no longer. He drew his sword.
“You there within the hut! Show yourselves or face the wrath of the lord of Claredon!”
His demand was met with silence at first. Moments later, however, a hinge creaked as the dilapidated door swung inward.
Ranulf’s hand tightened around his sword hilt as a shadowed figure stepped out into the light, gowned in black.
She was tall for a woman, and carried her slender form with a familiar regal grace. Her face was veiled, her hands wrapped in dark bandages.
“My lord Ranulf,” she said in a sweet, low voice, sweeping him a deferential curtsey. “How may I serve you?”
Ariane choked on a strangled sob and bowed her head. “Dear God, forgive me,” she whispered.
“Do not blame yourself, daughter. It was only a matter of time before we were discovered.”
Raising her hands, the woman lifted her veil to expose her face. The aging features must have been beautiful once, in her youth. Yet her ravaged skin showed the unmistakable signs of leprosy.
Ranulf recoiled at the sight, feeling as if a fist had plowed into his stomach. Even battle-hardened as he was, he could not be sanguine about the dread disease. And yet it was not the affliction that shocked him to the core, but the identity of the woman herself.
She had been present at his betrothal five years earlier, seated at a place of honor at the dais. He had known her as the lady of Claredon, then. The wife of Lord Walter, the mother of his intended bride.
“My Lady Constance?” he breathed when he could find his voice.
Ariane’s mother smiled faintly. “As you see, my lord. I regret I could not greet you under . . . happier circumstances.”
“They told me . . . you were dead.”
“I am—to the world. I live hidden here in the forest, with my tirewoman.”
“But . . . why?” was all Ranulf could think of to say. His head reeled, not only from the startling truth, but from the implications. Was this the secret Ariane had kept from him?
Another dry smile touched the Lady Constance’s lips. “Because I would not be welcomed elsewhere. You are aware, I am certain, of the treatment lepers receive at the hands of the unafflicted.”
Yes, he was aware. The malady was so feared, the unfortunate victims were often hunted from their homes and cast out from civilization, some even stoned to death.
She gestured graciously at the hut behind her. “I would invite you into my humble abode to partake of a glass of wine, my lord, but such close contact would not be wise. In truth, I usually do not allow Ariane to come as close as you are now, for fear of contamination.”
Ranulf shook his head mutely in an effort to clear it. All he could focus on was Ariane—and what her forays here meant.
He stared down at her bent head, but with her sitting sideways in the saddle before him, all he could see was her profile. Catching her chin in his gloved fingers, he turned her face around to his, gazing intently into her tear-filled eyes. “This is your secret?”