The Warrior

“I brought you a gift,” Ranulf said finally, lamely, pointing toward the coffer his squire had placed just within the door.

Puzzled, Ariane went to kneel before the chest and raised the lid. Her breath caught in a gasp at the treasures glittering in the candlelight. With trembling hands, she withdrew a gold-linked girdle encrusted with rubies and a gold chaplet studded with the same precious stones. Beneath lay ells of costly silks, samites, cendals, and damasks, as well as pelts of ermine and sable.

She turned questioning eyes to Ranulf. “What mean you by this, my lord?”

“I could think of naught else to give you,” he replied in a voice so low it was barely audible. “Your father’s demesne has been restored to him. Your inheritance remains intact. Your precious Claredon is safe from me.”

Ariane held her breath, waiting, yet no further explanation was forthcoming. “I need no riches from you, Ranulf.”

“I know,” he said bitterly. “You have no need of me at all.”

She could not fathom his mood, or comprehend what he was trying to tell her. But there was another crucial matter that clamored for attention.

Slowly Ariane rose and on leaden limbs went to another chest, where she withdrew the rolled parchment with the papal seal intact. “This came from Rome in your absence.”

Stark fear rippled through Ranulf as he eyed the document she held out to him; despair rose higher within him, shoving at his throat. “Know you what it says?” he asked hoarsely.

“No. I would not pry into your personal affairs.”

“It doubtless concerns you as well, demoiselle. Were you not even curious?”

“If you do not believe me—”

Ranulf shook his head abruptly. “Nay, I meant no accusation. Your word is your honor and I will not question it.”

Ariane stared at Ranulf, knowing how much it had cost him to say those words. Finally she crossed to him with her offering.

Accepting the roll reluctantly, he turned away from her intense scrutiny and moved over to the brazier that had been lit even in summer to take the chill from the tower stone. For a long moment he stood there, his back to Ariane, staring down at the smoldering coals.

“Will you not open it, my lord?”

Ranulf voiced a quiet oath. He wanted to burn the vile thing, to tear it asunder without reading it. But he needed to know what he faced.

With hands that trembled slightly Ranulf broke the seal and unrolled the missive. His heart thudded in slow, painful strokes as he tried to make sense of the Latin that blurred before his eyes. Yet there was no mistaking the import of the document. It was confirmation of his worst fears.

His shoulders slumped, his head bowed. The decision had been taken from him.

“The annulment has been granted,” he whispered.

“So . . . now you are free of me,” she said tonelessly after a while.

“No, you are wrong, Ariane.” There was an edge of bleakness in his response. “I could never be free of you.”

At her long silence, Ranulf glanced over his shoulder at her. Her face was pale, her eyes stricken with the same terrible anguish that was tearing him apart inside.

His mouth twisted with bitterness. “Are you not pleased, demoiselle? Now you will have the opportunity to make another alliance for your house. With Claredon restored, your hand will be coveted by richer, more powerful lords than I—a castoff pretender to nobility who has ill used you and claimed your virtue and stained your honor.”

She shook her head. “I want no other lord than you.”

He went still, afraid to move, afraid he had misheard.

“Are you not pleased, my lord? Was not an annulment what you devoutly wished for?”

“No.”

“Then . . .” She searched his face. “Whatdo you want?”

Ranulf averted his gaze, unable to meet her eyes. “I want you, Ariane. . . . I want you to be my wife in truth. I want a future with you at my side. I want to settle on my estates and raise fine sons to manhood. To watch my daughters grow to be beauties like their mother.”