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a pawn of men’s political games! Or worse, a neglected bride required to suffer the whims of a reluctant bridegroom.
    Of their own accord, her fingers curled into fists. Only to herself would Ariane acknowledge a deeper truth: that her hurt over Ranulf’s long neglect might also be driving her resistance.
    It hurt to be unwanted. To hear the whispers. She was the forgotten bride, the rejected one. Is there something wrong with me that not even the promise of great wealth can overcome? For years she had pondered that question, had agonized over her inadequacies. For five long, wasted years she had waited and worried and pined—until finally hope had dwindled, leaving only anger and bitterness and despair. Until her resentment against Ranulf festered like a poisoned wound.
    Yet that was not her primary reason for defying him now. Her father’s very life was at stake. If she surrendered his holdings, everything he had striven for would be forfeit. Worse, he would be rendered powerless, at the mercy of the king’s justice. And in his absence, she was responsible for Claredon and its people, their lives and welfare. On her shoulders alone rested their fate.
    As in countless times during the past, Ariane’s gaze shifted to the east, focusing on a deep forest glade of birch and oak, some quarter league from the castle walls. The wood was said to be haunted by evil spirits and ruled by man-eating wolves, but she knew better. Only a handful of people were privy to the secret of those woods. Will the inhabitants there be safe from the Black Dragon?
    Her eyes blurring at the sight, she forced her gaze away, focusing again on the enemy forces. She could still see the fierce black dragon on a red silk field boldly waving above the invading army. What would her mother have done in these difficult circumstances?
    Why, Ranulf? Why did you never come for me?
    Swallowing, she fiercely brushed away the tears of anger that stung her eyes. She could not afford the luxury of weeping, or the indulgence of self-pity. Her regrets would have to keep for another day. Now, more than ever, she had to be strong.
    Defiantly, Ariane lifted her chin.
    Let Ranulf de Vernay come to Claredon now. She was prepared to defend the castle and people against her vengeful betrothed, if need be.
    And she would remain loyal to her father, even if her defiance made her guilty of treason.
     
    Safe behind his concealing monks robes, Ranulf watched his intended bride with increasing ire and bitter disappointment. A flaming torch had been set in a bracket in the parapet, casting an angelic glow about her as she stood in deep reflection. The innocent image was misleading, he was certain, as was the weary, troubled frown on her clear brow. No sweet, biddable wench, this. Her cunning ploy earlier was worthy of any sly deception perpetrated by the ladies of the Norman court—refusing to surrender the castle to FitzOsbern while at the same time not openly declaring her rebellion. Clever but mistaken. She would not succeed in evading the king’s wrath by such tactics, Ranulf promised silently, or escape penalty for her defiance.
    Ranulf’s eyes narrowed as the knight called Simon drew a fur-trimmed mantle solicitously about her shoulders. There was evident intimacy and affection between the two of them. The affection of lovers? An irrational surge of jealousy speared through Ranulf. Ariane of Claredon belonged to him, just as her father’s castle now did. She was his betrothed, soon to be his political hostage. If she was being faithless to him with her father’s vassal, she would suffer the consequences. Just as she would pay if she chose to challenge his authority.
    He had been charged with quelling resistance and imposing the king’s will on the land, and he would not be gainsaid. Not by a woman. Most definitely not by his own bride. If she forced him to resort to violence, he would crush her without mercy.
    Almost as if she had divined his thoughts, her head