Ariane, riding beside him on her own palfrey, was keenly aware of Ranulf’s silence. Armored in chain mail tunic and steel helm, he seemed the embodiment of an invincible, relentless warrior, and she knew he would not hesitate to lash out with all his formidable might should he be threatened.
They rode toward the east, to the forest where her mother’s hut lay hidden.
“ ’Tis not much further, my lord,” she murmured as they reached the meadow where she and Ranulf had made love so tenderly that one enchanted spring day.
With a long, level look at her, Ranulf raised his hand and commanded his troops to await him there. Alone, he and Ariane entered the gloom of the forest. After a long moment, near a dense copse of oaks, she drew her horse to a halt.
“Simon?” she called softly. “I have come as you requested.”
The unmistakable sound of steel whispering against a scabbard greeted her words and sent panic leaping through her veins. In an instant, Ranulf had his sword battle-ready in hand, prepared to fight, even as Ariane cried out, “Nay, Simon! Hold! We mean you no harm!”
In the resulting silence, she could hear her heart pounding. “I have vouched for your innocence to the new lord of Claredon. If you draw sword against him, you declare yourself his enemy.”
When no response was forthcoming, Ranulf added gruffly, “Show yourself, Simon Crecy. No man of honor skulks in the shadows.”
Grim-faced, his hand resting on the hilt of his sheathed sword, the tall knight stepped from behind the thick trunk of an oak tree. Every measure of his stance bespoke wariness, mistrust, and yet he faced the powerful Norman warlord without flinching.
Shifting his gaze from Ranulf, Simon shot Ariane a reproachful glance. “My lady, I expected more discretion from you.”
“I have no secrets from my lord Ranulf,” she replied quietly. “He has agreed to hear you out. How fare you, Simon?”
The knight eyed Ranulf once more. “Well enough, my lady.”
“You can speak freely,” Ariane assured him. “Have you any word of my father?”
“Word? Aye. But no success to report. I failed to gain access to Bridgenorth Castle, and so can recount only rumors.”
“What did you learn?”
“I have no proof, my lady. Merely suspicions.”
“Tell us,” she urged.
“The siege of Bridgenorth is taking a toll on the defenders,” Simon replied, keeping his attention on Ranulf. “King Henry was preparing to move war machines against the walls when Hugh Mortimer commissioned his envoy to sue for terms. When Mortimer’s agents met with the king, I was able to question a page briefly. The boy said that Lord Walter is being held prisoner in the tower dungeon by his liege for refusing to declare against King Henry.”
“Prisoner? Herefused ?” A fierce surge of hope welled within Ariane. If true, it meant that her father was no traitor!
Overjoyed by the possibility, she started to question Simon further, but he held up a cautioning hand. “Walter is said to be ill, my lady. If he opposed Mortimer, there is every likelihood he is being punished for his defiance . . . starvation, even torture. Mortimer is known to be ruthless in his anger.”
She turned to gaze beseechingly at Ranulf. “Ranulf . . .please, you must allow me to go to him. His condition could be grave.”
Ranulf’s amber eyes showed no sign of weakening resolve. “Your father has been charged with high treason. You expect me to believe in his innocence without proof?”
“I swear to you,” Ariane vowed in anguish, “when he rode for Bridgenorth, he was not contemplating treason. You heard Simon. My father is Henry’s man.”
“ ’Tis true,” Simon added solemnly. “Walter once considered declaring for Stephen’s bastard son, William. But he realized his error the more he learned of the young man. He knew England needed a strong ruler and was prepared to support the new king fully.”
“Yes,” Ariane said earnestly, remembering the late King Stephen’s reign—a time of greed and anarchy in a land rife with lawlessness. “My father was sickened by the strife that had torn England apart, and welcomed a ruler who could give us peace.”
“And yet Walter supplied Mortimer with knights to aid the rebellion,” Ranulf
reminded her. “Do you deny the truth of that?”
She shook her head. “He took only those knights he owed for the land held in fief of Mortimer, as he was bound by honor to do.”
At her impassioned defense, Ranulf frowned in contemplation. Ariane had always maintained her father’s innocence, and in truth, it made little sense that Walter would join the revolt against Henry when he had striven to hold an even course in the tumultuous political seas of two decades. It would be the height of foolishness to declare against a powerful new king who already had many of England’s great earls in his camp—and Walter had not struck him as being a fool. Far from it. The lord of Claredon had seemed as shrewd as they came.
Reluctantly Ranulf found himself swayed by Ariane’s fervent defense of her father. The ambitious Hugh Mortimer had reason to rebel against Henry; as a powerful baron and supporter of the late Stephen, Mortimer doubtless harbored illusions that he could emerge victorious in a battle of wills. But there was every possibility his vassal Walter was innocent of treason if he was being held hostage to Mortimer’s demands.