The Warrior

Yet the Black Dragon listened seriously to the most minor concerns of Claredon’s serfs and freemen, and though Ariane was reluctant to admit it, often impressed her with his verdicts.

When a yeoman wantonly killed another man’s ox and would not pay reparations, Ranulf sentenced him to pull the plow himself. When a swineherd who grazed his pigs in the forest enticed another man’s sow to join his herd, Ranulf awarded the victim three of the perpetrator’s piglets but required him to pay for grazing rights.

That both men saw the fairness of this verdict was evident when they thumped each other on the back in friendship and left grinning.

“Henceforth, you shall be known as Lord of Swine, Ranulf,” Payn declared, laughing.

From her position at one side of the hall, Ariane saw the answering humor that glinted in Ranulf’s eyes, heard his rough chuckle as his teeth flashed white in his harsh-featured face. She was surprised that he made no objection to his vassal’s gibe, although he clearly bore an affection for Payn. It was just as obvious that he enjoyed his role as chief arbitrator, and that he was making an effort to be a just lord.

The ruling that surprised Ariane most, however, was when, for his own unstated reasons, Ranulf assisted two young lovers in gaining their heart’s desires. They were seeking permission from the lord to wed, over the objections of their parents—freemen who had arranged betrothals for their children to persons with an acre of land each, a prize of no mean worth.

When the young people professed their love for each other and declared their willingness to live in poverty, Ranulf not only allowed them to wed, he dowered the bride, giving the couple a hut to live in and a cow to begin their life together. Their joy was evident on their beaming faces, their gratitude obvious in the way they fell to their knees and kissed the lord’s hand.

Payn seemed to see nothing odd in the ruling, but Ariane stared at Ranulf in disbelief, bewildered by his uncharacteristic action.

For a fleeting moment, she caught his gaze across the hall, and from the way his expression suddenly darkened at the sight of her, she could tell he was recalling their own broken betrothal. Then, to her dismay, Ranulf’s mouth curved in a slow, burning smile. It was a silent challenge to her, Ariane knew, a private acknowledgment of the battle between them and his determination to win.

Ariane repressed the urge to toss her head in a reckless show of defiance. Thinking it also unwise to draw Ranulf’s attention further, she reined in her curiosity just then, but at the next opportunity, when she served him at the midday meal, she abandoned her pretense of subservience long enough to question him about his decision.

“I confess to surprise, my lord,” she said in a voice too low to be overheard by his vassals, “that you should part with good coin for the sake of true love.”

Ranulf gave her a guarded glance, as if mistrusting the intent of her remark. “I saw no reason to force them into a marriage merely to satisfy their parents’ mercenary desires.”

“Your compassion is commendable. And to think,” Ariane could not resist adding archly, “the world believes your heart wears a sheet of iron.”

For a moment Ranulf was caught between anger and amusement at her comment, but he merely responded with a mocking smile. “You are mistaken, demoiselle. I have no heart.”

Perhaps that was so, Ariane reflected thoughtfully as she gazed down at him. And yet she had seen with her own eyes Ranulf’s momentary lapses into kindness, actions that suggested he was more vulnerable than he wanted to acknowledge.

Ranulf, suddenly uncomfortable with her clear-seeing gaze, averted his own, but made the mistake of glancing down at her hands. Their condition appalled him; the flesh was nearly as red and raw as fresh meat.

A surge of remorse rose up in him so quickly that he could not check it. Forgetting the retort he had been about to give, Ranulf reached out and gently took Ariane’s hand. Turning the delicate appendage palm up, he stared down in dismay at the oozing blisters.

“God’s blood, how came you by these?” he asked, although he feared he knew.

“Cleaning your armor, my lord. Scrubbing chain mail with sand and vinegar is not renowned for its salubrious effect.”

“Why did you say nothing?” Ranulf demanded, his tone brusque with anger at his own thoughtlessness.

“I did not think you would care to hear my opinion, my lord,” she replied dryly, unable to refrain from the gibe.

Ignoring her sarcasm, Ranulf frowned as his thumbs traced the blistered flesh, careful not to touch the tender areas. Against his will, he felt a grudging respect and admiration for her fortitude. Not once had Ariane complained about the savage treatment he had accorded her. “I have seen battle wounds as severe as these.”

“But I thought you wished to see me suffer,” Ariane reminded him.

“I had no desire to see you injured,” he answered, vaguely aware of the inconsistencies in his logic. “Do you not have a potion you can apply to your hands?”

“Yes.” The word came out more breathless than she intended. Ranulf was stroking her palm almost absently, arousing an unbidden sensual response within her merely with a featherlight pressure on her skin.

“Then do so.”

He released her hand, yet his features remained disturbed as he studied her. If Ariane had not known better, she would actually have thought him concerned for her welfare.

“And you may turn the task of cleaning armor over to my squires.” He hesitated. “Your work leaves much to be desired, in any case.”

Though realizing from the sudden dry note in his voice that Ranulf was deliberately provoking her, Ariane gave him an indignant glance, annoyed by that untruth. She had done as good a job as any squire, for she refused to give Ranulf any cause to find fault with her. Yet she would be grateful to be relieved of the responsibility of caring for his armor. Cleaning chain mail was physically easier than other menial tasks Ranulf had assigned her, but the chore tortured her hands.

She might have expressed her thoughts on the matter, except that Ranulf startled her by suddenly rising from his chair. The gentle brush of his finger on her cheek unsettled her even more. Lifting her head sharply, she stared at him, unable to look away. Was he purposefully using his compelling touch to discompose her, conducting a bold seduction right here in the hall?