The Warrior by Nicole Jordan Read Free Book Online

welcome to Claredon’s hospitality, sir monk.” She waited politely for him to continue, but returned his gaze warily, he noted, her clear gray eyes watchful and intent.
    “I wondered, my lady, if at this time of trouble I might aid you in some manner. Since your noble father is away, you might wish for guidance from wiser heads.”
    He saw her mouth twist in the faintest of smiles. “Prayers would not go amiss, good brother, but unless you are versed in military stratagems, I shall rely upon my father’s vassals for counsel.”
    “Mean you to declare your opposition to the lord of Vernay, then?”
    Her expression turned cool, Ranulf observed, but she avoided giving him a direct answer, saying instead, “I regret you were detained, since I fear we may be under siege for a long while. I dare not lower the drawbridge for you to leave Claredon, but if you wish, we could have you lowered from the walls, so you might safely effect an escape.”
    Under siege for a long while? Then she intended to refuse him entrance?
    “You misunderstand me, lady. My concern was not for my own safety, but for the good people here. Would it not be wiser to surrender the castle to the lord of Vernay at once?”
    “Wiser for whom?”
    “For you. For your villeins.” At her frowning hesitation, Ranulf added swiftly, “You may confide your fears to me, noble child.”
    “A comforting thought,” she replied with questionable sincerity. “It is unfortunate then that I have already confided my fears to God.”
    He had overstepped the boundaries allowed even a man of the cloth, he realized. He glanced at Simon, noting the knight’s fist resting cautiously on the hilt of his sword. “Forgive me, demoiselle. I meant no insult by my curiosity. I simply wished to offer help.”
    Ranulf felt her intent gaze searching his monk’s cowling again, as if to read his shadowed expression. “I am grateful for your interest, truly. It is just that . . .”
    “Yes, demoiselle? Just what?”
    Ariane turned away, gazing out over the darkened countryside, faintly illuminated by the flickering campfires of a besieging force.
    “I am unaccustomed to discussing my troubles with anyone but our own priest,” she said finally.
    “You have endured great troubles of late, it seems.”
    It was a leading remark, she knew, probing with a gentle intensity she could not resist. “No more than most.”
    “But this current crisis . . . Lord Ranulf’s army at your gates. He is your betrothed, is he not?”
    “Yes,” she replied, her voice edged with bitterness. “Regretfully.”
    “Regretfully? You are not eager to wed him?”
    When she remained silent, the monk added musingly, “I wonder that you agreed to the betrothal. Although many a bride has been persuaded by force, the Church does require the consent of the lady before sanctioning marriage.”
    “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