The Warrior
“The drawbridge, my lady?” Simon urged gently, interrupting her troubled thoughts. “ ’Tis dangerous to tarry longer.”
“Yes.” Gazing down at the approach to Claredon, Ariane realized that the final stragglers had entered the castle bailey. “We should proceed.”
Turning, Simon called down to the keeper of the gate. Almost at once a tremendous grinding of chains sounded as the huge wooden bridge was slowly raised.
The action came none too soon, for in the far distance a golden swirl of dust could be seen on the horizon—the kind of cloud kicked up by a rapidly approaching army. Ariane felt the muscles of her stomach tense with dread.
The Black Dragon. Her betrothed. The man who should have been her husband long ere now.
The warrior who had never come to claim her as his bride.
Her nerves were shredded raw by the time the horde came to a plunging halt a safe distance from the castle walls. The sun had nearly set, yet she could see a force of some two hundred strong—a quarter comprised of fearsome Norman knights garbed in conical steel helmets and long tunics of chain mail, mounted on snorting destriers, with gleaming lances and tall shields at the ready. The rest were archers and foot soldiers wearing bullhide armor. A banner waved over the throng—a black dragon rampant on a scarlet field.
Before long, a single mailed knight broke from the ranks of horsemen and rode slowly forward, bearing a white pen-non, seeking to parley. Ariane flinched when a short blast sounded from an enemy trumpet, even though she had known to expect it. She was grateful to have Simon Crecy standing beside her.
The rider halted his bay charger within hailing distance of the stone wall and called up to the defenders on the battlements:
“In the name of Henry, duke of Normandy and rightful king of England, you are commanded to open the gates!”
Taking a deep breath, Ariane answered, although her voice was neither as strong nor as clear as she would have liked. “Tell me, good sir, why should we open our gates when you plainly come prepared for war?”
There was a pause, as if her question had surprised the knight. “Because to refuse is treason. King Henry has ordered Walter of Claredon’s arrest and awarded his lands and possessions to the lord of Vernay—who demands your immediate surrender. I carry the king’s proclamation.” His gauntleted hand raised
a scroll for her to see.
Ariane forced herself to unclench her fingers, which had curled into fists. “I am the lady of Claredon. Do I have the honor of speaking with the lord of Vernay?”
“I am my lord’s vassal, Payn FitzOsbern, demoiselle. Lord Ranulf has charged me with arranging the terms of your surrender.”
She felt the slightest measure of tension ease from her body; this was only the Black Dragon’s emissary.
“Your lord could not spare the time to come himself?” she asked. “I should think if the disposition of Claredon was important to him, he would have ridden here with all due speed.”
“My lady . . . he . . . has been delayed.”
“Indeed?” Her tone was heavily laced with irony. “Yes, I can see how five years might be too brief a term to permit a visit to his intended bride.”
FitzOsbern hesitated, obviously searching for words. “Demoiselle, will you open the gates?”
“I will discuss my course with Ranulf de Vernay and no other. You may tell him so.”
A pause. “He will not be pleased with your answer.”
Ariane forced herself to return a cool smile. Her betrothed’s refusal to come to Claredon himself was a calculated insult, perhaps, but she could use it to her advantage. “Nonetheless, that is the answer you will give him.”
She could almost feel the knight’s frustration. “You refuse to surrender the castle then, my lady?”
“I repeat, I will gladly discuss the subject with my Lord Ranulf. Please convey my regards to him. That will be all, sir knight.”
FitzOsbern gripped the haft of his pennon more tightly with his leather-gauntleted fist, clearly reluctant to accept his dismissal. Ariane remained watching until finally he wheeled his prancing destrier and rode back to join his lord’s forces.
Slowly she let out the breath she had been holding. With luck she had managed to buy some time until the siege began—a day or two perhaps, and any delay could prove vital to her father’s chances. As long as Walter possessed Claredon, he remained a force King Henry must reckon with. Even a convicted traitor might use his rich estates to bargain for his life.
Her response just now had not directly defied the king’s command, Ariane consoled herself. Soon she would have to commit herself, though. The Black Dragon would doubtless be irate when he learned of her refusal to surrender the castle to his emissary, but in truth, she had no choice. It was imperative that she retain possession of Claredon in order to aid her father. And she would not disappoint him as she had so many times before. If it took her last breath, she would not fail him.
“Their actions suggest they are making camp, my lady,” Simon observed.
Ariane nodded in weary resignation. In the gathering dusk, she could see knights dismounting, their squires scurrying to tend horses and weapons, while their archers positioned themselves in a defensive line opposite the castle. Soon they would erect pavilions and build cookfires—and Payn FitzOsbern would likely send a courier to his liege lord. Then Lord Ranulf might very well come himself.