The Warrior

Swiftly retracing her steps, Ariane bent to help the child rise. He scarcely seemed to notice her assistance. Trembling, the boy eyed Ranulf with terror, shrinking back as if fearful the lord might strike him with his powerful fist.

Instinctively Ariane stepped in front of the boy, sheltering him behind her skirts. “My lord . . . it was only a spill.”

Ranulf went very still as he watched the child’s white-faced expression. “Come here, lad,” he said quietly. When the boy stood rooted to the floor, Ranulf added even more softly, “I will not

harm you. I do not strike small boys.”

Slowly the young page inched out from behind Ariane and approached Ranulf. “I b-beg pardon, m-my l-lord,” he stammered in a high, frightened voice, while tears filled his eyes.

“What are you called, lad?”

“W-William.”

“Your fall was an accident, was it not, William? You did not purposely drench me with wine.”

“Aye, my l-lord. I m-mean, n-nay.”

“Then I see no reason for punishment.”

“B-But I was cl-clumsy, my l-lord.”

“If you endeavor to serve me well in future, then I will think no more of this incident.”

“Aye, my l-lord.”

Ranulf’s startling gentleness did not shock Ariane as it once might have, although his kindness was sorely at odds with his renown as the feared Black Dragon.

“He is the son of Lord Aubert, a friend of my father’s,” she offered in explanation. “William fosters here as a page.”

Ranulf smiled, that rare, dazzling smile that made it seem as if the sun had suddenly burst through a mass of storm clouds. The effect nearly took Ariane’s breath away. “So you wish to be a knight?”

William’s small face brightened, and he lost that petrified look. “Oh, aye, milord! My Lord Walter pledged to train me. . . .” The boy came to a faltering stop, as if remembering his lord was no longer in power.

“I see no reason your training cannot continue,” Ranulf said mildly. “If you are diligent in learning your duties as page, then I will promote you to squire and teach you how to wield a sword.”

“You will teach me? Oh, my lord . . .” The boy’s tone held excitement and reverence, as if being trained by the Black Dragon was the height of his every ambition.

Ariane could see Ranulf had earned a devotee for life. And she recognized the sentiment. She had once viewed Ranulf with that same adoration—hero worship for a powerful warlord who had been kind to a nervous young girl.

“I have a son about your age,” she was surprised to hear Ranulf say, and more surprised by his look. His face had softened completely, his eyes filling with something warm, gentle. Ranulf sighed softly.

“I did not know you had a son.”

He glanced at Ariane absently. “I have two, and a daughter as well.”

She felt another jolt of surprise at his admission. Many lords had no notion of the number of children they had sired; generally they ignored their offspring as the regretful consequence of passion. But Ranulf not only knew, but had spoken of them with pride.

“They are bastards, all.” His tone was pointed, almost challenging.

“So I would imagine,” Ariane replied frankly, “since you have no wife.”

She saw him bite back a smile, but there was little humor in his eyes; the amber depths were entirely serious. She was puzzled by Ranulf’s expression. He watched her carefully, almost as if expecting her to respond with scorn and contempt.

“I would not expect a noble lady such as yourself,” he said without inflection, “to hold an indulgent view of bastard children born to serfs.”

“You have acknowledged them?”

“Yes. And provided for their welfare.”