The Warrior

The distant blare of the watchman’s horn made Ariane tense as she sat embroidering with her ladies in the weaving rooms.Ranulf! Had he returned?

Trying unsuccessfully to quell her excitement, she followed the chattering women to the window to see what had caused the commotion. A single rider approached the castle gates, bearing a pennon with the royal colors of King Henry.

“The queen!” Gleda squealed, voicing the thrill all of them felt.

“No need to screech like an alewife,” Maud scolded. “Mayhap ’tis only a messenger.”

Yet the rider did appear to be a her

ald announcing the arrival of the queen’s entourage, for he carried his own trumpet, which he sounded long and frequently. The watchman at the gatehouse apparently considered him friend rather than foe, for the screech and clatter of chains soon reverberated throughout the keep as the drawbridge slowly lowered across the moat.

Calling one of her tirewomen to her, Ariane hurried to her own chamber and quickly changed her old brown wool bliaud for a much finer one of red cendal. She had moved her belongings here to her quarters, and Ranulf’s as well, so that the solar could be readied for Queen Eleanor and her ladies. Only the best accommodations would serve for so important a personage.

Her stomach felt tied in knots as Ariane smoothed her gown’s folds one last time and made her way to the tower entrance. As Ranulf’s hostage, she had greatly overstepped her authority in making preparations for the queen’s visit, although she had done no more than any chatelaine would have—conferring with the steward and head gamekeeper as well as the kitchen staff; ensuring adequate stocks in the storerooms, pantry, larder, buttery, fishponds, dovecotes, and rabbit warrens; supervising the gathering of herbs from the garden and ordering spices from the spice merchant in the village; instructing the household serfs in matters of service—the myriad details that would help the visit run smoothly.

And Payn had given her a free hand, after all, trusting her judgment in such feminine matters, believing she would do naught to shame Claredon.

Ariane’s tension rose as she left the tower to wait with Payn at the head of the outer entrance stairway. The newcomer had indeed been a herald for the queen, and now, beyond the castle walls, Ariane could see an advance guard riding toward the gates, their armor glinting in the late afternoon sun. The bright crimson banner that fluttered at the head of the troop looked to be bearing Ranulf’s dragon device.

“ ’Tis Ranulf, my lady,” Payn murmured at her side.

Even as she watched, a single mailed horseman on a black charger broke from the retinue and approached at a canter. Ariane felt fresh anticipation curl within her. Ranulf had been gone more than a week, and she had missed him sorely. She craved his touch and the feel of his fierce embrace, and even the sparks that flew between them when they were at odds, which was nearly always. Their strained parting had left her feeling anxious and disheartened, wondering if he would ever again treat her with the tenderness he had shown her that magical afternoon in the meadow.

She was not surprised to find herself trembling as, with Payn, she descended the long flight of steps to the yard to await the returning lord. In only moments, Ranulf rode briskly into the inner bailey, his destrier’s hooves striking a heavy rhythm in tune with Ariane’s suddenly thudding pulse.

Drawing his charger to a plunging halt on the hard-packed earth, Ranulf greeted his vassal with an easy informality, which Payn returned while Ariane held her breath. Ranulf’s conical helmet with its steel nasal descending almost to his lips hid much of his face, but she could feel his golden gaze shift to her.

His eyes seemed dark and intense as he searched her face. Then he drew off his helm and pushed back his mail coif, to reveal raven hair drenched in sweat and several days’ growth of beard stubbling his hard jaw.

Joy flooded her at the sight of those harsh, handsome features. Joy and a fierce surge of heated excitement. Even sweat and dirt could not detract from the aura of a powerful, intensely sexual male animal.

Emulating the graciousness of her lady mother, Ariane swept him a low curtsey. “My lord, be welcome.”

Surprise kindled in Ranulf’s eyes at the warmth of her greeting, yet he forced himself to respond neutrally, not wishing to create a scene for the crowd forming in the bailey to gawk at. It was all he could do to prevent himself from leaping off his horse and hauling Ariane into his arms. Yet he merely nodded, acknowledging her welcome, then returned his attention to his vassal, trying to ignore the distracting damsel who had preyed on his mind incessantly during the past interminable week.

“How went the journey?” Payn asked just as a page ran out to claim the lord’s charger.

“I have enjoyed better,” Ranulf replied dourly. “The Lady Eleanor possesses the stubbornness of a mule.”

Ariane was surprised to hear him disparage his queen. To her further surprise, he said nothing about finding her acting the role of chatelaine, nor did he demand that she hide herself away. Instead he seemed to disregard her entirely as he quizzed Payn on the happenings at Claredon during his absence.

Long moments later, a troop of riders dashed through the inner gates, led by a laughing, fair-haired lady on a snow-white palfrey, whose saddle and bridle were trimmed with silver bosses and tassels.

Ariane had heard tales of the headstrong duchess who was now queen of England. Eleanor of Aquitaine’s beauty was said to be breathtaking, as was her wit. She was also credited with being a superb horsewoman—all assertions Ariane could readily believe as she watched Ranulf aid the lady down from her saddle.

“Faith! I thought we would never arrive,” Eleanor said with a careless laugh.

“Welcome to Claredon, my lady,” Ranulf replied so stiffly that Ariane could sense the discord between them.

Payn stepped forward just then to bow over the queen’s hand. “I greet you, noble lady.”

“FitzOsbern! Just the man to soothe my wounded sensibilities. Your liege lord has the manners of a field ox.”

“Mayhap, your grace,” Payn replied with a smile. “But an ox upon whom you can depend to serve you well.”

She gave a delicate snort. “I vow Lord Ranulf would have wrapped me in swaddling had I allowed it. He required me to remain lazing in that stifling contraption until I could not bear another minute.” She sent a glower at the gilded, silk-curtained litter that was just then lumbering through the gates. Abruptly, her blue eyes moved on to Ariane, surveying her curiously. “So this is the heiress I have heard tell of?”

Ariane bowed in a deep curtsey. “You do us honor, your grace.”