The Warrior

“Then there is no shame attached to their birth. As for indulgence, I have an example in my lady mother. She not only accepted my father’s bastard, but brought him into the castle to train as a cleric.”

“Would that all noblewomen could be so generous.”

His bitterness confused her, disturbed her, but before she could quiz him about it, Ranulf stiffened suddenly, as if recalling to whom he was speaking.

“I believe I dismissed you, demoiselle,” he said.

His remote tone, coming on the heels of his warmth toward the young William, made Ariane wince. With sparks flaring between them anew, she turned away with an abruptness that was almost a flounce.

Alone, Ranulf ate his food without tasting it, his thoughts centered once more on how to deal with the disturbing Ariane. He could not quite believe her reasonable view of bastard children. He’d had too much painful experience with the scorn and derision of her noble class and station.

It could have been moments or hours before Ranulf heard a throat being cleared nervously. He looked around to find the aged, balding priest of Claredon standing beside his chair, gazing at him in trepidation.

“Might I beg a word with you, sire?”

Ranulf nodded courteously. “Father John, is it not?”

“Aye, milord.”

“Should you not be saying Mass, Father?”

“There was no one in the chapel.” His gentle brown eyes looked faintly accusing. “You have imprisoned everyone of rank, and the villeins are afraid to risk your wrath, milord.”

Ranulf frowned. “You may gather your flock without fear of retribution, Father. I would not deny the people of Claredon spiritual solace.”

“I thank you, milord.”

“Is that all?”

“Nay, milord.” The priest stood for a moment, wringing his hands in agitation. “I fear I must speak. I can no longer be silent. I must make you see the wrong in what you do.”

Ranulf’s slashing eyebrows lifted. “Indeed?”

“It is the Lady Ariane, sire . . . and your . . . er . . . your treatment of her.”

“What of my treatment?”

The elderly man hesitated to reply. “You have dishonored her . . .”

With effort, Ranulf kept his tone mild. “How have I done so, priest? I have required her to serve me at table and act as my squire, nothing more.”

“You have held her prisoner in your chamber these three nights past.”

“Merely to keep an eye on her. I cannot trust her to roam free, or she might aid another of her father’s vassals to escape.”

“But your . . . you . . . the disrespect you showed her just now . . . It is not meet that your lips should caress her skin in the hall, as if she were a serf.”

“Did the lady ask you to entreat me on her behalf?”

“Nay, milord! She would never! But I have eyes to see and ears to hear. I have heard . . . that you mean not to wed her.”

“We are no longer betrothed, ’tis true,” Ranulf replied defensively. “She is my hostage for the nonce.”

“Will you not allow her to take refuge in a convent?”

“The lady claims she does not wish to enter a nunnery.”

“But what of her future? If she is not for the Church, then she must have a husband.”