The Warrior
“Consanguinity is the usual justification, milord, but your bloodlines are not closely related to the Lady Ariane’s. Her father, Lord Walter, satisfied himself particularly on that score before arranging the betrothal.”
“What else?”
“Why . . . deformity or disease—”
“Very well, I will claim all three.”
“All three?”
“Consanguinity, deformity, disease. I have just discovered that the Lady Ariane is my cousin of the second degree.”
“But . . . ’tis not true,” Father John said in bewilderment.
“It is no more false than her claim of ravishment. As for deformity, the wench has grossly misshapen limbs that were never revealed to me when I agreed to the betrothal.”
“But, sire! You can see that the Lady Ariane is perfectly formed!”
“Rome cannot know that,” Ranulf retorted with grim satisfaction. In truth, such claims could easily be disproved, given the resources and political clout, but Ariane had neither—nor the freedom to wage a costly battle in ecclesiastical court. And perhaps the marriage would be dissolved before then. He was frustrated enough to try anything, including inventing evidence against her.
Yet the third justification for annulment would be easiest to establish—and the most difficult to refute. “It has been determined the lady is diseased,” Ranulf added with relentless determination.
Ariane’s heart sank like a stone. She had hoped to make it impossible for Ranulf to repudiate the marriage, but it seemed he would fight her every attempt at fairness.
“And just what disease am I supposed to have contracted, my lord?” she demanded dryly.
“The pox . . . leprosy . . . an illness of the mind, I care not. Naturally you will be confined to your quarters so you cannot inflict your malady on others.” He smiled grimly. “I suspect you would not care for such punishment. Meanwhile, you will enjoy none of the rank or privileges of my lady wife, only those of a slave.”
His hard gaze searched the crowd, and lit on the serving wench, Dena. “You, girl, what is your name?” he demanded in heavily accented English.
The buxom young maid stepped forward hesitantly. “Dena, milord.”
“What are your usual duties?”
“I serve in the kitchens, milord.”
“No longer. Henceforth you are in charge of the hall. And you will assume your lady’s place at meals.”
Stepping up on the dais, he rounded the long table to Ari-ane’s side. Grasping her arm, he pulled her from the carved chair, then pointed a commanding finger at the vacant seat. A collective gasp shuddered through the company. It was a grave insult to raise a serf so high, particularly a trollop such as Dena—and unlawful, as well. Had Ranulf been thinking rationally, he would have admitted that, by law, he could not arbitrarily turn a noblewoman into a slave, or elevate a serf to the position of lady, but his thoughts were in no way rational.
Ignoring the reaction of the crowd, Ranulf turned to address them. “You will call this wench lady no more. She is my slave, nothing more. Until the marriage is annulled, she will serve me as any other menial. You will cease to honor her in any way.”
Ariane closed her eyes in dismay. Ranulf not only had adroitly sidestepped her net, but he was intent on heaping shame upon her.
He kept hold of her arm. “Come, slave,” he ordered in a velvet-steel voice. “Let us retire abovestairs. I see no reason to make our dispute a public display.”
Ariane gritted her teeth. She would much prefer to face Ranulf here, where there would be witnesses to his violence. “But, my lord, I thought you werefond of public displays,” she retorted with mock innocence. “You insisted on Claredon’s entire populace hearing my declarations of allegiance, and you openly caressed me in this very hall this morning.”
“Lady . . .”he warned, his voice rumbling above her like thunder, “you press me too hard.”
Ranulf turned her toward the stairwell and forced her to march before him. Payn followed, catching up to them as they reached the first step. “My lord . . . think carefully of what you do. Do not harm her overmuch.”
“Have you ever known me to raise a hand to a woman?” Ranulf demanded, scowling.
“Nay, but I have never seen you in so murderous a rage—”
“Calm your fears, Payn. I will stop short of murder.”
He would not slay her, Ranulf vowed as he urged Ariane before him, but neither would he countenance her defiance any longer. He would prove his mastery over her—if it took from now till the end of Christendom.