The Warrior

When at last he was bid entrance, Ranulf found Henry pacing the ground as was his wont, surrounded by his high-ranking knights, as well as stewards and servitors, all in a gleeful mood.

Pressing through the crowd, Ranulf went down on one knee and kissed the king’s hand. “My lord king, I congratulate you on your victory.”

“Ah, Ranulf, best of my knights! You come just in time to partake in the spoils.”

The youthful, red-haired ruler of England and Normandy was not overly tall, but he bristled with a fierce energy that, in addition to his broad shoulders and powerful body and booming voice, gave him a commanding presence second to none. Henry also possessed a fiery temper that was the stuff of legends, yet at the moment, his famous fits of rage were nowhere in evidence. Instead, he was grinning broadly.

Ranulf let out a breath he hadn’t been conscious of holding. In such an expansive mood, Henry would be more amenable to a subject he would doubtless find unpleasant; Walter would at least be afforded a hearing.

Ranulf kissed the king’s hand again and rose. “I have no need to share the spoils, sire,” he said carefully. “In truth, I have but one boon to ask of you. That you lend me your ear as a merciful and impartial judge. See you, I think there is good reason to believe Walter of Claredon has been falsely accused of treason.”

That night the terms of surrender were accepted and Mortimer’s castle at last fell to the siege. Ranulf was one of the first inside the keep, but while others searched the tower for stray rebels, he and his men headed straight for the dungeons.

He received no protest when he commandeered the keys from the jailer. Opening the heavy, metal-banded door, he gestured for his squire, Burc, to follow with a torch, and nodded permission for Simon Crecy to accompany them. Then he crouched to enter the pit.

The stench was almost overpowering. Within, there was barely room to stand erect. Ranulf held his breath as he searched the dismal chamber.

A dozen figures—thin, filthy, ragged—stood chained to the walls, bodies slumped, heads lolling on weakened necks. Ranulf’s throat tightened with pity for these poor souls who once had been men. He would not wish this fate on his worst enemy, and yet he prayed Ariane’s father was among them.

“I seek Walter of Claredon,” Ranulf said quietly, compassion roughening his voice.

One man’s head slowly came up, his chains clanking as he lifted his arm and tried to shield his eyes from the blinding torchlight.

“I am Walter,” he whispered hoarsely. He held himself proudly, despite his suffering, a courageous knight even in torment.

Ranulf swallowed hard. “I am Ranulf of Vernay. Remember me, my lord? I am here at your daughter’s behest.”

“Ariane?” the hoarse voice rasped.

“Aye, Ariane,” Ranulf said humbly as he moved to release Walter from his chains. “Your daughter, who never forsook you. Who never abandoned faith in your innocence.”

Walter of Claredon was a free man. He had been found imprisoned in the Bridgenorth dungeon, just as rumor purported—a circumstance that went a long way toward supporting his claim of innocence. His wretched physical condition attested to the tortures he had suffered. And with a dozen knights willing to vouch for his refusal to join the rebellion and his defiance of Mortimer, Walter received the king’s full pardon while lying in an invalid’s bed. He had suffered no debilitating wounds other than starvation, and God willing, with time and sustenance, he would recover fully.

It was a full fortnight, however, before he regained enough strength to stand before the king and swear fresh allegiance. No longer considered a traitor, Walter was reinstated to the king’s good graces and his lands restored. Additionally, he was granted a gift of another handsome fief for his unwavering loyalty.

“You have served me well, Walter of Claredon,” Henry declared before ordering a clerk to bestow on Walter a writ proclaiming his new barony.

As for the other rebellious warlords, the rift with their king was not mended without blood. Hugh Mortimer was hanged for his treachery, as an example to future insurgents, and many of his followers imprisoned for life.

Too weak to travel, Walter remained at Bridgenorth for another fortnight. Ranulf stayed as well, refusing to return to Claredon without Ariane’s father, not daring to face her otherwise. He had dispatched messengers regularly to her with reports of her father’s progress, and had received two replies, expressing her gratitude. But gratitude was no substitute for love.

Summer was spreading its nourishing warmth over England by the time they at last made preparations to return to Claredon. They made the journey on horseback, in easy stages, for Walter refused to ride

in a litter. Even weakened as he was, the aging knight possessed a spirit that bore a decided resemblance to his beautiful daughter’s; Ranulf could clearly see from whence Ariane gained her stubborn streak.

As the cavalcade drew closer to Claredon, though, Ranulf alternately chafed with impatience and gnawing fear. He wanted desperately to know his fate, and yet at the same time, wanted to delay as long as possible the moment when he would have to confront his uncertain future.

He had once been too craven to confront Ariane when he thought her a mere child bride. And now that he knew the steel she was made of, he was doubly afraid.

She had no reason to wed him now. Her father was free, her inheritance restored. And after the trials she had endured at his own hands, Ariane ought very well to wish him in Hades.

28

The waiting was the hardest. At times Ariane wanted to scream with impatience as she awaited the outcome of events at Bridgenorth. The fate of the two men she loved most in the world hung in the balance, as did her own.

With the failure of the rebellion, at least her fears on one score diminished. Her father’s release from imprisonment and his full pardon by the king made Ariane weep with relief. She could look forward to Walter’s return to Claredon with joy and anticipation.

Her mother’s situation, too, was cause for hope. Layla had begun administering treatments of mold to Lady Constance’s skin, although it was far too soon to predict the result. Gilbert, who had been shocked and distressed to learn the identity of the leper in the woods, faithfully provided escort for Layla on her missions of mercy, eager to aid the generous, loving Lady of Claredon who had raised him from serfdom.