The Warrior

Wincing inwardly, Ranulf hesitated. He despised the lash, was sickened by that form of punishment, although upon occasion he forced himself to use it. He could not neglect sentencing a criminal simply because he loathed flogging. And in truth, the lash was the more lenient penalty, since a handless smith would soon be reduced to begging for sustenance. Moreover, setting such an example for prospective rebels might prevent more deaths of his own men in the future.

But Ariane’s beautiful gray eyes were fixed on him, imploring him for mercy.

While he delayed his decision, a spirited discussion ensued among his knights, debating the merits of various penalties. The argument continued until Ranulf finally held up a hand. “Twenty-one lashes is severe enough punishment in this instance.”

He was aware of Payn’s sharp glance, but he ignored it and gestured to one of his sergeants. “Confine the thief in the dungeons where he may reflect upon his misdeeds and reconsider his rashness.”

At his pronouncement, Ariane let out her breath in relief and gratitude. She understood the difficulty of Ranulf’s decision. So serious a crime against one’s liege could not be ignored or anarchy would reign. His authority would constantly be challenged. She knew to her sorrow the high cost of a weak ruler. King Stephen had been one, and for twenty bloody years his kingdom had been mired in lawlessness and strife. Any new lordmust establish his authority. The good ones walked a fine line between weakness and mercy, between compassion and justice. In this instance at least, Ranulf had shown himself to be both compassionate and just.

She could not absolve herself from blame, either, for the role she had played in inciting her father’s loyal followers to challenge Ranulf. Her own defiance of him, at least indirectly, had brought on Edric’s punishment. Ariane bit her lip hard, her guilt flaying her as she watched the smith being hauled to his feet.

“I thank you, my lord, for your mercy,” she said softly. “Will you also allow me to tend Edric’s wounds?”

She was faintly surprised when Ranulf nodded brusquely, giving his permission. She had not expected him to be so forgiving. Obviously, however, he did not trust her, for he ordered Payn to accompany her while she tended the wounded man.

Ariane felt Ranulf watching her as she bid the guards take the prisoner below to the kitchens. Edric was half carried, half dragged through the crowded hall and then down the stone steps of the tower. Ariane directed them to a small chamber off the kitchens. Then, under Payn’s surveillance, she went to the herbal to fetch her supplies.

Upon gathering her medications, she entered the chamber before Payn, who ordered the guards to wait outside. The injured smith was lying on his stomach on a pallet, his tunic now stripped from his body. The oozing, bloody wounds of his flayed back were serious, yet a severed hand would have been more so, Ariane reflected as she knelt beside the pallet.

Although Edric appeared in great pain, he bore her gentle touch stoically as she began to wash his injuries with an aromatic oil to soothe the ravaged flesh. It startled them both when Ranulf suddenly appeared in the doorway.

Payn set his jaw grimly but stepped aside to allow his liege entrance.

“Is something amiss, my lord?” Ariane asked in puzzlement.

“No. You may proceed.”

When she resumed her ministrations, Ranulf moved closer, forcing himself to watch. Although he had offered her no explanation, he wished to see how Ariane ministered to the wounded. If she was skilled enough, her services might be of use to his own injured men, including his gravely wounded squire. But he did not want to give Ariane the advantage of knowing she could be useful to him.

Silently, therefore, he stared down at the man on the pallet. The smith’s back was a mass of raw flesh, yet Ranulf refused to spare himself the sight, even though it brought to mind tormenting recollections of his own terrifying youth.

How many times had he lain just like this, his back flayed raw, suffering in agony? Except that the smith had been flogged with a bullhide lash; his own father’s whip had been a scourge made of plaited steel chainwork.

A cold wave of nausea washed over Ranulf at the memory. He could almost feel himself kneeling naked on the cold stone floor at Vernay, petrified, trembling, desperately fighting back screams of pain as each brutal stroke flayed his back, his small heart filled with hatred for his brutish father and for the adulterous mother who had caused his torment with her betrayal of her lord.

Devil’s spawn! Progeny of Hell!Even now his father’s castigation still reverberated in his ears.

Ranulf clenched his teeth, struggling to breathe. His skin had broken out in a cold sweat, yet he scarcely noticed. He barely noted, either, that Edric had fainted when Ariane began to apply a poultice to his bloodied back.

Ariane looked up just then and was startled by the sight that greeted her. Ranulf stood motionless, gathered into himself as if waiting for a blow. How vividly he reminded her of a starving hound-pup she had once saved from the cruelty of some village youths. The piteous creature had been kicked and beaten almost to death, and flinched at even a simple touch of kindness. It had nearly broken her heart—as did the look on Ranulf’s face now.

He remained rigid, unmoving, for countless heartbeats. Then slowly he turned his head and met her troubled gaze.

His eyes . . . She had to stifle a gasp at the tortured look in his amber eyes. She could see his raw pain. She was witness to a profoundly vulnerable moment, Ariane knew, feeling as if she could see into Ranulf’s soul. This proud, strong, vital man carried some kind of deep, deep hurt. . . .

He stared at her a moment longer, the haunted torment in his eyes a mute testimony to his suffering.

She did not know what to say to him. Instinctively, she knew he would not want her comfort, would never wish her to observe his defenselessness.

Her assumption proved true. Abruptly Ranulf’s shoulders squared, and his haunted look faded, to be replaced by a dark, expressionless mask.

“The responsibility for his crime lies on your head, demoiselle,” he charged in a wooden tone.

Unable to refute the charge honestly, she did not reply to it.

Suddenly, Ranulf spun on his heel and left the chamber. When he was gone, his chief vassel stepped forward. “I trust you are satisfied, lady,” Payn said darkly, “exposing Ranulf’s weakness before all to see.”

“No,” she murmured. “In truth, I never wished Edric to defy Ranulf—or to suffer so harsh a sentence in my defense.”