"I think it matters a great deal . . . to her. Several times recently you have suspected the Lady Ariane of wrongdoing-yet each time you doubted her, she has proven your suspicions false. But you will not absolve her of treachery and deceit. She has ample cause to be wary of placing her fate in your hands."

It was true, Ranulf admitted; he had wronged her unforgivably. And yet when he had tried to make amends, she had thrown his gesture back in face. He had laid himself open to her, had bared himself to this pain, for naught.

"Do you love her?"

Ranulf gave a start at the question. He could not answer that with any certainty. He could not put a name to the madness he felt for Ariane, the nameless emotion that flooded his heart whenever she was near, whenever he simply thought of her. "Truthfully . . . I do not know."

Payn nodded in sympathy. "Then I advise you to consider carefully what you feel for her, my lord. Search your heart, your conscience. If you feel anything for her besides passion, then tell her. A woman likes to hear these things-"Priest John came hurrying up to the dais just then, his aging features showing concern. "You summoned me, milord?"

Ranulf's reply was almost a growl. "I was in error. Go back to your flock," he ordered bitterly. "It seems I have no need of your services after all."

No wedding ceremony was held that night.

Unforgiving, steeped in his own dark reflections, Ranulf scarcely said two words to Ariane throughout the evening meal, and then he remained in the hall with his men until well past midnight, delaying the moment when he would have to confront her again.

When at last he came to her, disturbing her warm body from slumber, he made no mention of the turmoil that was in his heart. But he made love to her with a fierce urgency that bordered on desperation. For no matter what else stood between them, his desire for her had not diminished. His passion was unquenchable.

She accompanied him to the bailey the next morning as Ranulf prepared to leave for Henry's camp. His war stallion pawed the ground impatiently while he gave final instructions to his vassals who would remain behind, including Payn.

He saved his farewell to Ariane for last. When finally Ranulf turned to her, he could not utter the fateful words she yearned to hear.

"I will do my utmost for your father," he said stiffly as he tugged on his leather gauntlets.

She searched Ranulf's harsh, impassive face, aching to be in his arms, wishing she could put things right between them. His remoteness made her sick with longing. "I thank you, my lord."

He did not touch her, did not hold her or embrace her or kiss her as Ariane yearned for him to do. She stood there unmoving, her heart hurting, as he mounted his destrier without speaking.

But even as he gathered the reins, Ranulf made another concession to her. In a voice strong enough for all to hear, he addressed her clearly. "My lady, I charge you to keep this castle safe for me. Hold it well until my return."

Ariane felt a sob catch in her throat. Ranulf had let it be known he was leaving his castle in her hands. He trusted her that much, at least. She could only hope he would someday come to trust her with his heart.

With a tremulous smile, she nodded solemnly, accepting the charge. "As you will, my lord."

She thought he would leave without another word, but she was blessedly mistaken. Without warning, Ranulf muttered a curse and bent down to catch her about the waist. Lifting her up, he covered her mouth fiercely with his, startling her with his violence, his need. Yet Ariane clung to him with all her might, returning his passion, tasting regret, sorrow, despair in his kiss.

Just as abruptly as he had begun, Ranulf released her and set her on her feet. His amber eyes were enigmatic as, without another word, he turned his destrier and cantered to the head of the column of mounted knights and men-at-arms.

Through a blur of tears, Ariane watched as he rode away without a backward glance, his dragon's banner snapping tauntingly in the spring breeze.

27.

It was a disturbing ride for Ranulf. His thoughts hounded him the entire journey north, while his vassal's counsel echoed in his mind with a relentless, pounding urgency:Search your heart, search your heart, search your heart. . . .

What did he feel for Ariane? What, beyond passion, lay hidden in the depths of his heart?

Her generous nature, her spirited defense of her people, her devotion to her loved ones, her passionate caring, all pointed to someone who was trustworthy. Women were not often noted for their faithfulness and high principles, but within Ariane's shapely breast lay a heart of honor, with the courage and honesty of a valiant knight. She was a warrior's woman, worthy of any ruler. Far more worthy than he, Ranulf concluded bleakly.

He had been so blinded by prejudices, his view so twisted by bitter experience, he had refused to see, had stubbornly refused to admit even to himself, that he was losing his heart to her. He could not arm his heart as he could don a coat of mail, he had discovered painfully. And now it was ensnared by silken chains.

God's teeth, he hoped,prayed, Rome would not grant an annulment. If so, he would have no legal claim to Ariane.

Could he give her up then? The question was absurd. He could not face the bleak emptiness of a life without her. He could not, would not, relinquish her. Yet the price of her acceptance was his heart.

Ranulf took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut against the images that tormented him: Ariane challenging him to look beyond his bitterness and hate. Ariane laughing. Ariane making love to him . . . her soft breasts pillowed on his chest, her cool hands encircling him, stroking him. Ariane refusing his offer.

If you do not know-truly know-deep in your heart that I can make you happy, that I can complete your life as you could mine, that our two hearts would be as one. . . .

Aye, heknew. He could give her his heart. Had given it. He desperately wanted her to love him. And he loved her. His desire went beyond blood, beyond a fever of the flesh. It came from deep within him, within his soul. She had touched something in him he had not known he possessed. He loved her.

Opening his eyes to the gray day, Ranulf stared wonderingly out at the rolling English countryside, savoring the words on his tongue.I love her. The rightness of it echoed through his mind, resonated through his body, his very soul.

He threw back his head and laughed, startling his men. For the first time in his life he felt released from the burden of bitterness he had always carried. He felt like a newborn babe, helpless, innocent, marveling at the world around him.

He loved Ariane, needed her-a need as pure and strong as his need for air. If she were his, he would ask nothing more of life than to be allowed to stand between her and the world, protecting her from all sadness and harm; he could ask for no greater boon. Yet knowing the woman she was, Ariane would refuse to meekly accept his protection. She would stand with him against the world, fighting at his side, as his equal, his soul mate.

Ranulf shut his eyes, remembering. No woman had ever offered him the generous, unselfish tenderness she had shown. No woman had ever dared defy and challenge him as Ariane had, either.

A rueful smile tugged at Ranulf's lips as he thought of their tempestuous encounters . . . a smile that swiftly faded. He had tried to crush that spark of fire in Ariane, that precious spirit, when he should have cherished it.

But no longer. He had broken the chains of his past, and he would honor her as she deserved.

Yet there was work to be done, Ranulf reminded himself, suddenly sobering. He had vowed to aid her father. For Ariane's sake, he prayed Walter was innocent. He could not bear the thought of her grief should her father be hanged for treason.

But it would not come to that, Ranulf vowed. He was the king's man, but he was prepared to go to great lengths for the woman he loved. If need be, he was prepared to battle even his king for her father's life.

Henry's camp was a familiar sight, teeming with military purpose. Tents and pavilions spread over a vast acreage, with banners waving at each entrance and great destriers tethered nearby. Everywhere there were crowds-knights and archers, squires and pages, cooks and camp followers, smiths and armorers, as well as couriers riding to and fro.

Ranulf eyed the commotion with little enthusiasm. How profoundly he had changed in the past months from the eager warrior he once had been. He had battled, feasted, reveled, and whored with the best of them, yet now all he wished was to return home to Claredon, to Ariane.

The royal tent was the largest of the lot, but even Ranulf, as high ranking and valued a knight as he was, could not gain immediate entrance. He was made to cool his heels outside for the better part of ten minutes, awaiting the king's pleasure.

The delay, however, allowed him to learn of the events that had occurred in his absence since escorting Queen Eleanor here. It seemed Henry's efforts to bring the rebellious barons to heel was nearing success.

"They have sued for pardon," a fellow knight informed Ranulf jovially. "Their resources are so depleted, they would make terms with the Devil, I trow."

Ranulf nodded in approval. Henry had been reluctant to storm Mortimer's castle and lose valuable men by ordering the walls destroyed, and so had chosen to starve the inhabitants with a lengthy siege. But it was clear the campaign to crush the rebels was nearing the end. At this very moment, Henry was in council with his earls, who had conducted the terms of surrender.

When at last he was bid entrance, Ranulf found Henry pacing the ground as was his wont, surrounded by his high-ranking knights, as well as stewards and servitors, all in a gleeful mood.

Pressing through the crowd, Ranulf went down on one knee and kissed the king's hand. "My lord king, I congratulate you on your victory."

"Ah, Ranulf, best of my knights! You come just in time to partake in the spoils."

The youthful, red-haired ruler of England and Normandy was not overly tall, but he bristled with a fierce energy that, in addition to his broad shoulders and powerful body and booming voice, gave him a commanding presence second to none. Henry also possessed a fiery temper that was the stuff of legends, yet at the moment, his famous fits of rage were nowhere in evidence. Instead, he was grinning broadly.

Ranulf let out a breath he hadn't been conscious of holding. In such an expansive mood, Henry would be more amenable to a subject he would doubtless find unpleasant; Walter would at least be afforded a hearing.

Ranulf kissed the king's hand again and rose. "I have no need to share the spoils, sire," he said carefully. "In truth, I have but one boon to ask of you. That you lend me your ear as a merciful and impartial judge. See you, I think there is good reason to believe Walter of Claredon has been falsely accused of treason."

That night the terms of surrender were accepted and Mortimer's castle at last fell to the siege. Ranulf was one of the first inside the keep, but while others searched the tower for stray rebels, he and his men headed straight for the dungeons.

He received no protest when he commandeered the keys from the jailer. Opening the heavy, metalbanded door, he gestured for his squire, Burc, to follow with a torch, and nodded permission for Simon Crecy to accompany them. Then he crouched to enter the pit.

The stench was almost overpowering. Within, there was barely room to stand erect. Ranulf held his breath as he searched the dismal chamber.

A dozen figures-thin, filthy, ragged-stood chained to the walls, bodies slumped, heads lolling on weakened necks. Ranulf's throat tightened with pity for these poor souls who once had been men. He would not wish this fate on his worst enemy, and yet he prayed Ariane's father was among them.

"I seek Walter of Claredon," Ranulf said quietly, compassion roughening his voice.

One man's head slowly came up, his chains clanking as he lifted his arm and tried to shield his eyes from the blinding torchlight.

"I am Walter," he whispered hoarsely. He held himself proudly, despite his suffering, a courageous knight even in torment.

Ranulf swallowed hard. "I am Ranulf of Vernay. Remember me, my lord? I am here at your daughter's behest."

"Ariane?" the hoarse voice rasped.

"Aye, Ariane," Ranulf said humbly as he moved to release Walter from his chains. "Your daughter, who never forsook you. Who never abandoned faith in your innocence."

Walter of Claredon was a free man. He had been found imprisoned in the Bridgenorth dungeon, just as rumor purported-a circumstance that went a long way toward supporting his claim of innocence. His wretched physical condition attested to the tortures he had suffered. And with a dozen knights willing to vouch for his refusal to join the rebellion and his defiance of Mortimer, Walter received the king's full pardon while lying in an invalid's bed. He had suffered no debilitating wounds other than starvation, and God willing, with time and sustenance, he would recover fully.

It was a full fortnight, however, before he regained enough strength to stand before the king and swear fresh allegiance. No longer considered a traitor, Walter was reinstated to the king's good graces and his lands restored. Additionally, he was granted a gift of another handsome fief for his unwavering loyalty.

"You have served me well, Walter of Claredon," Henry declared before ordering a clerk to bestow on Walter a writ proclaiming his new barony.

As for the other rebellious warlords, the rift with their king was not mended without blood. Hugh Mortimer was hanged for his treachery, as an example to future insurgents, and many of his followers imprisoned for life.

Too weak to travel, Walter remained at Bridgenorth for another fortnight. Ranulf stayed as well, refusing to return to Claredon without Ariane's father, not daring to face her otherwise. He had dispatched messengers regularly to her with reports of her father's progress, and had received two replies, expressing her gratitude. But gratitude was no substitute for love.

Summer was spreading its nourishing warmth over England by the time they at last made preparations to return to Claredon. They made the journey on horseback, in easy stages, for Walter refused to ride in a litter. Even weakened as he was, the aging knight possessed a spirit that bore a decided resemblance to his beautiful daughter's; Ranulf could clearly see from whence Ariane gained her stubborn streak.

As the cavalcade drew closer to Claredon, though, Ranulf alternately chafed with impatience and gnawing fear. He wanted desperately to know his fate, and yet at the same time, wanted to delay as long as possible the moment when he would have to confront his uncertain future.

He had once been too craven to confront Ariane when he thought her a mere child bride. And now that he knew the steel she was made of, he was doubly afraid.

She had no reason to wed him now. Her father was free, her inheritance restored. And after the trials she had endured at his own hands, Ariane ought very well to wish him in Hades.

28.

The waiting was the hardest. At times Ariane wanted to scream with impatience as she awaited the outcome of events at Bridgenorth. The fate of the two men she loved most in the world hung in the balance, as did her own.

With the failure of the rebellion, at least her fears on one score diminished. Her father's release from imprisonment and his full pardon by the king made Ariane weep with relief. She could look forward to Walter's return to Claredon with joy and anticipation.

Her mother's situation, too, was cause for hope. Layla had begun administering treatments of mold to Lady Constance's skin, although it was far too soon to predict the result. Gilbert, who had been shocked and distressed to learn the identity of the leper in the woods, faithfully provided escort for Layla on her missions of mercy, eager to aid the generous, loving Lady of Claredon who had raised him from serfdom.

It was her relationship with Ranulf that still frightened Ariane. Would she ever have a future with him? Would he ever come to love her? To trust her? She had trusted Ranulf to save her father if he could; she did not trust him to know his own heart. More damning, in his absence a messenger had arrived from Rome with an official document bearing the Pope's seal. Whatever that scroll contained would decide her fate, Ariane knew, struggling against the urge to open a missive meant for Ranulf.

When one fine summer's afternoon in July, the watchman's horn announcing visitors at last sounded, Ariane fairly flew to the window of the ladies' bower. She could see two banners flying over the party, and even though she could not make out the devices, judging from the colors of the two fields, she was certain one boasted her father's hawk, the other a fearsome dragon.

Joy filled her at the sight. Joy and apprehension. Her father was safe. And Ranulf had returned. She had greatly feared he might stay away forever; he was no longer lord here now that Claredon had been restored to her father.

My beloved, have you come for me at last?

Summoning her ladies to her at once, Ariane hurried to change into a gown of forest green samite so that she might present the best possible appearance.

Her heart was pounding by the time she raced down the stairs and took her place beside Payn in the bailey. She scarcely had time to regain her breath or her composure before the party of horsemen rode through the inner gates. Trembling with nerves, Ariane clasped her hands before her in an effort to hide her trepidation.

She could not take her eyes from the two lead knights. They appeared so tall and formidable as they sat their powerful destriers, although Ranulf was the larger of the two. Her gaze shifting anxiously between them, she fervently wished she could tell what Ranulf was thinking, and found herself cursing the helm that shielded his expression.

Only with effort did she tear her gaze from him as Lord Walter was aided from his horse by his squire and his helm removed.

"Father," she murmured, tears filling her eyes as she offered him her hands. He seemed to have aged ten years in the months he was away, and his face was far thinner and drawn with fatigue. "Welcome home."

To her surprise, her father embraced her tightly, nearly crushing her against his mailed form, as if desperate to hold her. "I thought I might not see you again," he whispered hoarsely.

He held her thus for a long moment, and when at last he stood back, Walter smiled down at her. "You did well, daughter. My lord Ranulf tells me you defended Claredon bravely and championed me when all the world spoke against me."

Her father's unfamiliar praise stunned Ariane, making tears of pride and happiness slip unheeded down her cheeks. Ranulf, waiting quietly to one side for her attention, felt a stab of envy at the obvious closeness father and daughter enjoyed at this poignant moment. He longed to share that closeness.He wanted the right to hold Ariane, to be the one she greeted with love and devotion shining softly from her gray eyes.

In truth, he could not take his own eyes off her. She was a breathtaking vision with her long, pale copper hair hanging loose under a gold circlet, her carriage as regal and graceful as a queen's.

He yearned to take her in his arms, to ease the pounding of his heart that was like a huge drum of fear inside him. Without Claredon in his possession, he no longer held any power over Ariane. With both her father and her inheritance safe, she could easily forswear him. When at last Ariane glanced at him, their eyes met and locked in a question.

Her expression held uncertainty as she searched his face. "Ranulf . . . my lord. How can I ever repay you for aiding my father?"

His smile held a bleakness he could not hide. "I do not seek your gratitude, demoiselle." What he wanted, what he needed was her love.

Payn took the opportunity to break the tension by slapping Ranulf on the back and bowing to Walter. "My lords, come inside the tower and celebrate this glad day with wine. The Lady Ariane has been preparing for days for your arrival, and plans a feast tonight to honor your homecoming."

Walter nodded approvingly and patted the chain mail covering his stomach. "A splendid notion, daughter. I could do with a good meal to put some flesh on this bony form. I trow a green babe could unhorse me with a feather."