The strength of his feelings for Ariane disturbed and bewildered Ranulf, as did his reluctance to leave her. Never before had he regretted riding away from a wench, nor had he ever missed one or longed for her presence.
God’s wounds, he should be eagerly anticipating joining King Henry’s siege. War and strife were his lifeblood, his reason for existence. He was a warrior, a professional soldier, a knight for whom military vassalage was a way of life. Ariane’s ability to sway him from his purpose should be a warning to him.
Yet he had been a fool to think he could share her intimate secrets and not pay a price himself. Making her his lover was not the wisest course he could have taken. Were it only her body he craved, he could have sated himself and been done with it. But it was more. She had touched a weakness in his spirit, he acknowledged with dismay. And now she threatened to break through the barriers he had carefully erected over a lifetime.
He did not intend to deny himself her body now, though. Simply, he would have to guard himself with more care. He had to renew his resistance, strengthen his defenses, to prove to himself—and to Ariane—that she had not become vital to him.
23
A thoughtful frown scored Ranulf’s brow a week later as he surveyed Claredon’s great hall from his position at the high table. His welcome home this morning had been nearly as elaborate as the previous one which had honored Queen Eleanor’s visit, yet this time there was no queen to warrant such painstaking preparations, or to justify the dinner banquet they were about to enjoy.
A great deal of trouble had obviously been expended. The walls were brightly whitewashed, the rushes sweetly scented, and the silver and pewter polished to a high sheen. Everywhere cleanliness and order reigned.
He could see Ariane’s fine hand at work here.
“She has overstepped her bounds,” Ranulf murmured in an undertone loud enough for Payn to overhear.
“I for one consider it an improvement to a bachelor’s existence,” the knight said, grinning. “ ’Struth, I had forgotten what it is like to have a well-run household.”
Ranulf grunted. “That damsel has taken advantage of my absence—and your soft-hearted command. You failed to curb even the worst of her excesses. You well know I would rather spend coin on armor than this tunic she gifted me with.”
This morning Ariane had met him in the bailey and presented him with a fine overtunic made by her own hand—saffron silk with sleeves and collar exquisitely embroidered with black and gold thread to match his hair and eyes. Joy and pleasure at her gift had leapt within Ranulf before he could arm himself against them.
He liked the garment well enough; what did not sit well with him was her motive for giving it. Ariane was clearly determined to undermine all his defenses, and to force the issue of their marriage. It was customary for a wife to greet her lord with a gift of welcome upon his return from a journey, and Ariane had behaved as if she were his lady in truth—a position Ranulf had vowed she would never hold.
Against his better judgment, he wore the tunic now, girded by a wide belt studded with amber stones. He had been unable to refuse without seeming the veriest churl. Even his squire had conspired against him to insure he donned her gift. Burc had recovered enough from his shoulder wound to help his lord dress, and the fool lad had not ceased singing Ariane’s praises as a healer the entire time, nor refrained from championing her cause.
“The fabric was on hand,” Payn said now in her defense, “purchased three winters ago as a marriage gift to you. And the thread you yourself recently gave her permission to buy.”
Unmollified, Ranulf stiffened at the reminder of his broken betrothal. “Mark me, she is up to mischief, if not something more sinister.”
His vassal laughed outright. “It is hardly sinister to wish the lord to be handsomely attired.”
Ranulf shook his head, refusing to be swayed. But even more disturbing than her scheming was the apparent conspiracy that others seemed to be waging against him. Burc, Payn, Queen Eleanor, even the king himself, all seemed eager for him to wed the lady.
Ranulf had delivered Eleanor to Henry’s camp as commanded, without incident, and tarried two more days to discuss his sovereign’s future plans. King Henry, a man known for his violent disposition, was in a rage over the slow progress of the siege of Mortimer’s castle, but the arrival of his queen soothed the royal temper somewhat. At Eleanor’s persuading—and in order to please her—Henry had proposed reinstating Ranulf’s betrothal.
The queen’s attempt to force his hand annoyed Ranulf, and perversely strengthened his resolve to resist. Not even a king could force a man to wed against his will, but Henrycould make his life a misery if he chose. And it would be political and perhaps financial suicide to defy the king’s wishes.
The most disturbing aspect of the matter, however, was the profound relief Ranulf felt at Ariane’s decision to continue on at Claredon. She had refused Eleanor’s offer of protection, and thus remained in his hands, under his control. His spirits could not help but be lighter—but he resented the feeling. It should not matter so much to him whether Ariane stayed or went.
“Mean you to say,” Payn asked lightly, “that you do not enjoy the comforts the Lady Ariane has provided you as lord?”
Ranulf’s frown darkened. He enjoyed the comforts too much, that was the trouble. He could grow addicted to her softness if he did not take care. Already—for the first time in his life, in truth—he found that the pleasures of war and fighting had dimmed. After living in luxury at Claredon for a few short weeks, he was no longer quite so eager to return to the harsh existence he had always known. His sojourn at Henry’s camp had been a portent. Sleeping in ten
ts on the damp, hard ground, enduring boredom and rain and vermin-ridden victuals, had lost its appeal—which was what came of allowing softness and ease into his life.
“Methinks you undervalue the benefits a wife can offer,” Payn suggested with a grin.
“God’s teeth, you sound like Queen Eleanor.”
“Did she press you to wed Ariane?”
“She hinted strongly, and incited the king to support her view.”
“Perhaps you should heed her.”
Ranulf sent his vassal a look that would have pierced him fatally had it been a lance.