“I had no objections to marriage once,” Ariane said softly. Her hopes still had been very much alive . . . then. “Lord Ranulf was my father’s choice for my husband, but in truth, I was pleased to wed a knight with the strength to preserve the holdings I will one day inherit. A woman needs a husband capable of maintaining authority, of protecting the land. There can be no security otherwise.”
“A judicious philosophy. And your father made a wise choice in knights.”
“I once thought so. The lord of Vernay is one of the most powerful barons in Normandy—by his own ruthless efforts.”
“You consider him ruthless? Was he unkind to you?”
“No.” Indeed, she remembered her shock that such a fierce warrior as Lord Ranulf could be kind and gentle to a nervous young maid.
“Then why do you regret your betrothal?”
Because for nearly five years he had stayed away,Ariane reflected with silent anguish. Five interminable years during which she had been left to languish in her father’s household, pitied by her friends and acquaintances. She was almost twenty now. By that advanced age other women had married and borne several children. But she remained unwedded and unbedded, a maiden still, innocent of passion, of life. “Because I discovered the truth about the ignoble lord of Vernay,” Ariane whispered bitterly.
“The truth?”
“He is no true knight, but a grasping, baseborn pretender to nobility . . . a usurper without principle or honor, who claimed his father’s demesne at the point of a sword. I would that I had never heard his name.”
Going rigid at her quiet denunciation, Ranulf missed the bitterness in her scathing tone and heard only the scorn, a scorn that stung like the cut of a hundred knives—or the scourge that had once flayed his back raw. He was accustomed to the disdain ladies of her class held for his lack of birthright, but it sliced deeper coming from this woman.
Ranulf felt his fists clench with the familiar rage. “Do you mean to deny him entrance?” he demanded grimly, forgetting his masquerade.
Ariane frowned as she suddenly recollected herself. Why would a man of the clergy concern himself with such worldly matters? And why was she speaking to him so frankly? She could tell a servant of God more than she would others, but he was still a stranger.
Uneasy about her indiscretion, she glanced over her shoulder at the shadowed figure of the monk, replying cautiously, “My father charged me with defending Claredon in his absence. I cannot give up his castle without first knowing his wishes.”
“Even though Claredon is his no longer? A rebel’s estates are forfeit to the crown, and it is said Walter of Claredon has partaken in the barons’ revolt, an attack on his sovereign lord.”
Her back stiffened perceptibly, Ranulf noted. “Fools say many foolish things, sir monk.”
“Then Walter has not joined the revolt?”
“I know not what has occurred. But when he rode for Bridgenorth, it was not his intention to declare against the king.”
“Mayhap he would not make you privy to his intentions.”
“Because I am a mere daughter?” Her chin lifted. “I assure you, my father would inform me of any plan of such momentous consequence. And he is no traitor.”
“Yet Hugh Mortimer has raised a rebellion, which makes your father, as Mortimer’s vassal and supporter, guilty of treason—unless he repudiates his oath of fealty.”
“I am well able to grasp the politics of the situati
on,” Ariane replied acerbically. “Despite my frail sex, my mind is fully functioning.”
Remembering with difficulty the role he had assumed, Ranulf bit back the retort that sprang to his lips. From the silver flash of anger in her gray eyes, he thought his betrothed might be preparing to voice another scathing remark, but she tucked her clenched hands within the long, sweeping sleeves of her gown, and said with admirable calm, “My first allegiance I owe to my father. I will not surrender his castle until I have proof of his guilt. Now, if you will forgive me, sir monk, I have much that requires my attention.”
He had received his dismissal, Ranulf realized with unreasoning fury. He wanted badly to take his defiant bride by the shoulders and shake her, or to haul her into his arms and commit some other more passionate, less violent act upon her person, but to touch her would immediately bring the castle guard to her defense. And to tarry would only arouse suspicion. He would have to postpone their reckoning for the nonce.
He bowed low and gave her his blessing, then turned abruptly and made his way silently along the wall-walk to disappear among the shadows.
Ariane stood there long after he had gone, unable to shake her sense of foreboding. He had probed too many raw wounds for comfort, his bold questions only adding to the turmoil and uncertainty in her mind. Had she taken the wrong course of action? Would yielding to the Black Dragon be the wiser choice?
While she pondered, Ranulf gestured for his squire to follow him and stalked down the stone steps to the crowded yard, his jaw clenched. A cowherd scurried out of his path, but Ranulf never faltered as he strode toward the distant gate that gave access to the inner bailey. He needed to make certain he was allowed into the tower itself this night, to sleep in the great hall with the lord’s vassals and household servants.
The wench had forced his hand. From her own lips he had heard Ariane declare her intentions. She meant to defy him—and her king as well. But by God’s wounds, he would crush her defiance, Ranulf vowed, and exact recompense for her rebellion. He would conquer his rebel bride and take pleasure in so doing.
At the thought, Ranulf cursed silently, tasting a bitterness like bile on his tongue. Coming to a halt at the gate to the inner bailey, he stood there trembling as a dark cloud of rage dulled his vision—a black fury that was overwhelmingly familiar. He had lived this grim tale once before, when his noble sire had denied him his rightful inheritance. The pain was still raw and fresh, an unhealed wound festering inside him, unlike the welt of scars on his back.
He had fought his own father—and now he would have to fight his betrothed.