The Warrior

And yet Simon might have word of her father. Or he might have returned to Claredon to seek aid for Walter’s cause. And Ranulf would put a swift end to any hopes she had for her father’s deliverance.

But no, Ranulf was a fair and merciful lord. Surely he would not condemn Simon without a hearing? Surely he would permit her the opportunity to learn of her father’s fate and assist him if she could?

Mother of Christ, what course should she take?

Anguish showed in Ariane’s eyes when she at last approached Ranulf as he came into the hall from the tiltyard.

“What is amiss?” he demanded, concerned by her obvious agitation.

She forced herself to cease twisting the cords of her girdle between her fingers and found the courage to answer. “I would speak with you, my lord . . . on a matter most urgent.”

“Yes?”

“In private, if I might.”

Nodding briefly, Ranulf led the way to the solar. When they were alone with the door firmly closed, he turned to Ariane with a probing look and was startled to see the tears that shone in her eyes.

“There is something I would tell you,” she murmured, her voice quivering. “It may concern my father. But first . . .” A tear rolled down her cheek. “I wish you to know, Ranulf . . . my allegiance belongs to you now . . . even if it means my father’s death for treason. I place his fate in your hands.”

Confounded by her declaration, Ranulf regarded her intently, waiting.

Ariane swallowed against the ache in her throat. “My father’s vassal, Simon Crecy, has returned to Claredon and . . . and asked to meet with me.”

She could see Ranulf’s expression darkening and exclaimed, “Ranulf, I beseech you! Hear me out.”

For a long moment he stared at her, not speaking as he willed himself to calm. Taking a slow breath, he searched Ariane’s upturned face, gauging her look of entreaty. The gray depths of her eyes held no secrets, no deception, only a quiet anguish. “Very well. You have my undivided attention, demoiselle. What passes? Tell me, does this Simon plan an assault on Claredon Keep?”

She shook her head. “I have no knowledge of his intentions.” At Ranulf’s skeptical look, Ariane handed him the scrap of parchment she had received from her brother. “I tell you true, Ranulf . . . I have had no communication with Simon, other than this message.”

He scanned the note quickly, before again favoring her with his penetrating regard. Ariane thought that he looked as if he wanted to believe her, to give her the benefit of the doubt. Certainly, he would know she had taken a grave risk by coming to him. He could order Simon captured and imprisoned without thought to justice or compassion.

“What is it you wish of me?” asked Ranulf finally.

Hope welled within her at his rational tone. “If you would accompany me to meet Simon . . . I could discover what news he has of my father.”

“Why should I do so, demoiselle? How can I know your vassal does not lie in ambush to slay me?”

Ariane shook her head again, her tears spilling over. “Simon is a brave and loyal knight, my lord, qualities you value highly. When he escaped Claredon, he planned to ride north to Mortimer’s castle, his only intent to work for my father’s good. I cannot believe he played any part in the raid on your troops.”

“Has he other men with him?”

“I know not. This message is all I was given.”

“Given by your sibling, Gilbert?”

She nodded reluctantly, not liking to implicate her brother in a conspiracy, yet unsurprised by Ranulf’s discernment. His sharp eyes missed little, doubtless because he was prepared for betrayal from every quarter.

He was silent for a long moment, saying finally, “Very well, I will accompany you. But I shall take along a troop of knights to be equipped for any eventuality.”

“I thank you, my lord,” Ariane said with fervent gratitude. “Yet . . . Simon might flee if he sees so many of you.”

“Then he will be pursued and captured,” Ranulf replied coolly. “You must needs be satisfied with that, demoiselle.” His voice was courtesy itself, but she had learned to recognize the commanding note of finality in that tone. Nodding, Ariane swallowed her tears and fetched a mantle to shield her against the damp of the blustery day.

Ranulf followed her belowstairs uneasily. In truth, he was wary of her motives, knowing Ariane could have devised a trap to lure him into his enemy’s clutches. It went against every painful lesson experience had ever taught him, every cautious instinct, to accept her tale on faith.

Then again, she could indeed be telling the truth; he had wronged her before by accusing her falsely. If so, then it presented him with a troubling dilemma. She had entrusted him with the lives of those dear to her, and counted on him to deal with them mercifully. What if he were forced to act otherwise? He could not let a traitor remain free. What if he were compelled to slay Simon? Could he bring himself to cause Ariane grief? Could he betray the trust she had placed in him?

The gray day was waning by the time he rounded up enough of his knights and men-at-arms to form a rear guard. The lengthening shadows would aid in an enemy ambush, Ranulf noted grimly.