The Warrior

“My lord father always thought so,” she could not refrain from saying.

When Ranulf gave her a sharp glance, Ariane bit her tongue and vowed to remember her pledge to accept him as lord.

Yet some hours later, when he prepared to send her back to the castle under guard, Ranulf’s parting command vexed her anew.

“I expect you to have a meal waiting for me upon my return, demoiselle,” he said in that tone he employed specifically to provoke her.

As she rode back to the castle with her guards, Ariane recalled her plan to insure that Ranulf wed her. It was critical, though, that she gain the blessing of the Church if she hoped to establish legal grounds for a marriage. And she would first have to offer proof to support her claim—which should not be too difficult. Father John could be counted on to take her side, Ariane thought, although she wasn’t certain the gentle, elderly man of God would be able to withstand the storm she was about to create.

Ranulf would be outraged when he discovered that she had forced his hand, and mayhap even turn violent, but he had given her little choice, she reminded herself. And she could only pray that the end would justify the means.

When she arrived at the keep, Ariane was relieved that she had no need to summon Gilbert, for she encountered her half-brother in the great hall.

“Can I trust you to secrecy, Gilbert?” she asked in a quiet undertone while keeping one eye on Ranulf’s vassals, who had returned with her.

“Aye, milady! You know you can.”

“Then I ask for your help. Go to the kitchens and fetch me a piece of raw meat, calf’s liver or fresh cut venison, I care not, as long as it is bloodied.”

Gilbert nodded eagerly, his loyalty such that he did not even question her odd request.

“Good. Bring it to me in the solar, and then find Father John and send him to me. And Gilbert, not a word of this to anyone, especially Lord Ranulf. I rely on your discretion.”

“Aye, my lady,” the lad said with an eager glitter in his eye. “Torture could not make me divulge aught to that devil’s spawn.”

Ariane devoutly hoped it would not come to torture.

She was waiting in the hall with Ranulf’s noonday meal, precisely as he had ordered, when he strode in with his vassals. He had removed his helmet, and his hair was damp and curling from being sluiced off at the well in the yard.

He was laughing with his men at some jest, so it was only after he reached the lord’s table that he noticed the unnatural quiet in the hall. At nearly the same moment, he realized Ariane sat in the carved chair belonging to the lady of the castle.

His amusement fading, Ranulf frowned at the presumption. “You forget yourself, demoiselle.”

“I think not, my lord,” she replied evenly, daring to meet his eyes. “I believe I have the right to occupy this seat, since as your wife, my place is at your side.”

“Mywife ?” His brows snapped together. “You are hardly my wife.”

“Indeed I am, my lord. But . . . perhaps you would prefer a smaller audience for our discussion.”

With an impatient gesture, Ranulf dismissed his retainers and squires, who scattered to other parts of the vast hall. His vassals, except for Payn and Ivo, withdrew a polite distance.

“Now, what is this nonsense about my wife?” Ranulf demanded.

“I believe this is all the proof I need.” Ariane gestured at the table. Before her lay a linen bedsheet whose clean surface was marred by dark splotches. “The sheets of our marriage bed have been exhibited before the castle household by the priest, just as would have occurred in an official bedding ceremony, had we formally wed. Since our betrothal contract has not been legally voided, and since this is proof the union was consummated, under both civil and church law, I am now your wife.”

Ranulf stared at the cloth for a score of heartbeats, before his gaze sliced back to Ariane. “What knavery is this?” he asked so softly that she wanted to flinch.

“No knavery, my lord. Father John has inspected the sheets as is customary and testified that my virginal stains were found. Surely you are familiar with the practice, even in Normandy? Bloodstains attest to a maid’s purity and confirm her virginity.”

Swift, dark fury burned in Ranulf’s eyes as he caught the sheet up in his fist. “You expect anyone to be taken in by your lies?”

Ariane shook her head. She had not lied outright. She had been pure when Ranulf took her to his bed. Perhaps she had stretched the truth by staining the bedsheets with calf’s blood and allowing Father John to draw his own conclusions, but she had only claimed her due, legally and morally.

“I did not lie, my lord. By permitting the priest to display the sheets, I merely ensure that you fulfill your obligations and your own long-standing promise to wed me.”

Ranulf flung the cloth away, his look scathing. “You call thisproof ? This proves nothing!”

“No? Do you deny that I shared your bed last eve, and another night before that?”