He had to finish this battle. He had to go to Ryen. Bryce fought like a man possessed. His black eyes glowered through his helmet, and when he downed one man, he turned for another. His thirst for French blood was unquenchable.
He whirled to take on a new foe. But there were no more enemies. All he saw was his own men – some locked in the grips of their last battle, some looking about for another adversary.
The battle was over.
Bryce swung his gaze about, looking for Ryen amidst the carnage, but the field was littered with piles of bodies upon piles of bodies.
After only a few minutes of his search, Bryce saw the grimy beggars, the human vultures that always seemed to appear at the end of a battle, descend onto the field to loot the corpses. As he watched a beggar slide a sharp blade across a French knight’s neck, the blood that splattered painted Ryen’s memory in crimson. The beggar thrust his dirty hands in the knight’s pouches and stole whatever he could find of value.
Bryce could not stand the thought of one of these men defiling Ryen’s body. He had to find her.
“C’mon, ya bloody cur,” Rafe said to his companion. Dressed in a piece of soiled brown cloth that hung to his knees, torn at the elbows and shredded at the wrists, Rafe looked as if his whole life had been a battle. He stumbled up to the next knight, his bare feet sliding in the mud.
“I think I cut me bloody toe on one o’ the blades,” McDowell, his companion, said, limping and trying to peer down at his mud-covered foot. He was an older man with a head full of white hair. His entire body was caked with mud, his skin barely covered by a tunic and breeches that were so torn and ragged they hung from his thin limbs like an old cleaning cloth that had long outlived its usefulness.
“Oh, quit your complainin’. We ain’t got time.” Rafe bent down before the knight and lifted his helmet from his head. The knight groaned and Rafe stood quickly, backing into his companion, yelling, “’E’s alive!”
“Oh, bloody hot,” McDowell replied, and shoved passed Rafe. He bent on one knee in the mud and produced a dagger from his belt. He threw back the knight’s chin, exposing white flesh, and drew the blade across it. “You’re such a bloody woman,” he commented, before cutting the knight’s purse strings and handing the purse to Rafe.
Rafe took it. “Don’t forget his hands!”
McDowell shifted his position and reached for the knight’s gloved hand. He pulled the metal glove off and lifted up the bare hand. One ring glittered on the knight’s first finger, and it was promptly removed. McDowell handled the ring to Rafe.
“Blimey! I believe it’s sold gold,” Rafe gasped, and stuck it in his mouth, biting down.
His companion hit him in the leg and Rafe gagged before spitting the ring out into his palm. “What ya trying’ ta do, choke me? I coulda swallowed that!”
“Lookie ‘ere, mate,” McDowell said, and crawled over to another fallen knight.
Rafe followed and bent over the knight, hoping to find riches beyond measure. His mouth gaped at what McDowell had found.
McDowell lifted his hands to the knight’s helmet and gently tugged it off.
The soft feminine face was totally out of place amid the destruction and death.
“It’s her. It’s the Angel of Death!” Rafe gasped, staring raptly at her face.
McDowell shoved Rafe out of the way and climbed over her body to kneel at her head. He gathered her smooth hair in his bloody, mud-splattered hands and said, “I want this as proof. No one will bloody believe it.” His sharp dagger was dull with blood.
Rafe gasped as the demon appeared, coming out of the midst of fire, heading toward them. His eyes glowed red, like the devil himself, and Rafe knew immediately who it was. “McDowell,” Rafe croaked.
“Can’t ya see I’m busy here?” McDowell insisted, putting the blade to her white forehead.
Suddenly, a weight so intense it threatened to crush his arm bore down upon McDowell’s shoulder and he was lifted up until his feet were dangling in mid-air. The pain dulled his shoulder and his arm, and he dropped the dagger. Then, he was spun around until he was staring into eyes as black as coal.
“She is mine.”
The words seemed to come from the depths of hell, for the demon’s lips barely moved.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” Rafe interrupted meekly. When the black eyes turned to scorch him to the ground, Rafe quivered and stuttered, “Your Princelyship… Your Darkness… I – I believe she’s dead.”
For the first time, the Prince of Darkness’s shadowy eyes fastened on the woman and he released McDowell, who dropped to the ground like a heavy stone. “Pray you are wrong,” the giant snarled, and bent beside the Angel of Death.
Rafe edged around the warrior woman and the giant, moving to his friend’s side. The two exchanged glances and then turned back to the Prince of Darkness…to find that his black gaze was fixed on them. The demon stood slowly from his crouching position and Rafe’s knees shook.
“Be gone from this place,” the demon said, his eyes glowing as if the fires of hell had leapt to life in his body.
The two beggars turned and ran. McDowell slipped once in the mud and blood of the battlefield, but quickly stood and raced after Rafe.
Bryce watched until the two scavengers were out of sight, then turned back to her.
“Ryen,” he said, kneeling again at her side. And then more tenderly, “Angel.”
He slid his hand behind her neck and attempted to lift her head, trying to awaken her. He immediately felt moisture and pulled his hand away to see blood staining his fingers.
Anguish jarred his body and he scooped Ryen up into his arms, pushing another fallen knight from her legs. “Ah, God, Ryen,” he whispered miserably, wishing for the hundredth time that she was not a knight. And especially not his enemy.
With long strides, he took her to his tent.
Bryce stared at Ryen’s face. Gently, he ran the rag over her cheeks, wiping at the mud. He had removed her armor and cleaned and bandaged the cut on the back of her head. Through the whole process, she had not moved, not even groaned.
Bryce’s stomach was twined so tight that he thought he would snap. He wasn’t sure what the ache in his chest was, a heavy pressure that constricted, crushing his lungs until he could hardly breathe. Perhaps he was getting sick. He found that he could not take his eyes from Ryen’s somber face. It was as if she were sleeping. Her entire face was relaxed, her soft lips parted.
Bryce felt a sudden need for her. He wanted to kiss her, thrust his tongue between those lips. The memory of her kiss had lingered like the delicate fragrance of a rose these past weeks, unwanted and distracting. The thought had returned during the long, lonely nights, and he thought upon the vow he had given to Ryen in the last moments he was with her: I’ll find you again. For weeks he had wondered what had possessed him to promise that. No woman could be as he remembered her. So defiant and headstrong, yet so soft and innocent.
As he stared down at her, she was more than he remembered. Softer, more fragile.
“Damn,” he murmured, standing and raking a hand through his hair. Where had the hatred gone? Only weeks before he had convinced himself that he had vowed to find her so that he could bring her to England to be humiliated for the death of Runt, so she could be punished, imprisoned in his dungeons. He had told himself that had been the plan all along. Nothing more. The hatred had sustained him through the long nights and through the pain of missing Runt.
Then, in King Henry’s camp, word had reached them of her “betrayal”. He remembered the day with heavy guilt. He had been eating with Henry, discussing the strategy for reaching Calais. The French had been cutting off the roads so that forward progress was impossible. The conversation had somehow turned to Ryen.
“What is she like?” King Henry had asked.
Bryce had pondered the question for a moment. He would not lie to his king. “She is…a warrior, my lord.”
“No, no. What is the woman like? Is she ugl
y?”
“No,” he had answered, more quickly than he had intended. “When she does not have her armor on, she is delicate and soft. But she likes to pretend she is not. She is also as cunning as a fox.” He had looked Henry in the eye. “If she were born English, all of England would be at her feet.”
“I have never heard you praise a woman so. She is pretty, then?”
“The little vixen has caused me more than one restless night.”
Henry bit into a pear tart. “And a warrior, too? It is obvious you are intrigued by the girl. What does she think of you?”
Bryce thought upon the night he had been called to her tent, the way she had responded to his kiss, his touch. He did not answer, but attempted to change the subject. “I look forward to engaging the French Army.”
Henry’s eyes narrowed, and he pursued the topic with an unwavering single-mindedness. “She may not be there,” he replied.
Bryce paused in mid-bite to glance at his liege.
“Tell me, Bryce, did she aid in your escape?”
The hairs at the nape of Bryce’s neck tingled. “No. Talbot got me out.”
“Most of France believed she aided you.” Henry dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “She has brought dishonor to herself.”
Bryce’s brow darkened with each slanderous word. He dropped the meat onto the table and rose, walking to the tent flap. He stared out at the tents of English knights without really seeing them.
“This new disturbs you?” Henry wondered, his voice curious.
Bryce could not answer for the anger that closed his throat.
If Bryce had looked up, he would have seen his liege studying him with pensive eyes, obviously intrigued by his reaction. “Because if that disturbs you, I know something that may disturb you even more.”
Bryce felt his shoulder muscles tense, his neck grow stiff.
After a long pause, Henry said, “She has been betrothed to another man.”
Betrothed! Bryce felt his jaw clench, his hands tighten to fists. Rage burned through him like a roaring fire, enflaming his veins. The thought of another between her creamy thighs… His knuckles cracked, he was squeezing his fists so hard. He wiped the image aside. That was not the reason he was so angry, he told himself. She had to return to England with him to pay for Runt’s death.
“Bryce?” Henry called.
He turned and saw the glimmer of curiosity in Henry’s eyes. He could not get the picture of her vicious people ridiculing her out of his mind. His jaw ached from clenching his teeth, and his mind burned with feverish fury at the torment and anguish Ryen must have endured. “They are lies. She did not help me. She has been wrongly accused.”
“She did not publicly deny it.”
Bryce frowned in confusion.
Even now, as Bryce stared down at her peaceful face, the confusion returned. Why had she allowed the rumor to spread? And what of her marriage? Did she love the man? Bryce fumed. She would not marry anyone.
He had laid claim to Ryen, and no other man would touch her.
“Prince. The king has ordered all prisoners executed.”
Bryce spun to find Talbot standing in the entrance to his tent. His right arm was in a sling, but his left hand held a sword. The fall from Ryen’s ledge to the murky waters below had cost him the use of his arm. Bryce had reset it the best he could.
Talbot turned and Bryce felt his anxiety abate. He had not seen Ryen. For a moment, the thought of protecting Ryen from death overrode his sense of loyalty to his friend. Bryce would have stopped him from hurting her – in any way he could.
Then Talbot’s words struck him. King Henry had ordered the death of all prisoners! But why? The ransom alone would bring enough gold to finance the war for another year!
Slowly, Bryce rose and turned –
-- to find Talbot standing not two feet from him! Talbot’s eyes were accusing, and his knuckles were white with restrained anger. “You told me you killed her,” he bit out.
“I told you I took care of it,” Bryce replied, a strange calm settling over his entire body.
“Obviously you were wrong.” Talbot took only one step toward Ryen, but Bryce moved into his path, his broad shoulders squared.
“She is mine.”
“She is England’s!”
“She is mine,” Bryce repeated, staring his friend in the eye.
Talbot stepped back. “Henry has ordered all prisoners slain.”
The thought struck Bryce like a blow to the chest. He frowned and glanced at Ryen for a moment. “I will speak with him.”
“Bryce,” Talbot said, grabbing his arm. “She is poison to you. If you keep her, she will bring nothing but trouble.”
Bryce’s thoughtful gaze turned to Talbot. He studied his friend for a moment, the fierce anger in his clenched teeth, the confusion in his scowling brows. “Do not harm her,” he finally said, before leaving his tent to seek out King Henry.
His long strides took him through the camp quickly. He ignored the cries of pain that crescendoed around him, his ears deaf to the screams as death claimed the prisoners. He reached Henry’s tent and entered only to find it empty.
Bryce frowned, perplexed. He turned and quit the tent only to see King Henry and a group of knights approaching.
“Bryce,” Henry called as he came nearer. “Those bastard French raided our supplies.”
Bryce ignored his words. “My lord, did you order the prisoners executed?”
“Yes. They are attacking from the rear! There are too many prisoners for us to watch. If they rally, all of our gains will be lost,” Henry proclaimed, and moved past Bryce into the tent.
Bryce cast a quick look in the direction of his own tent before following Henry inside. He watched as Henry put out his arms and two squires appeared at his side and began to scrub his armor free of dried blood. Raucous voices resounded around Henry, who appeared to hear all of them, throwing an occasional nod to one knight and a violent shake of his head to another.
Finally, the armor was clear and the squires hurriedly returned his shining sword to its sheath. Henry moved toward the tent flap once again.
“M’lord,” Bryce called, his voice booming over the commotion.
All sound ceased and Henry turned to Bryce.
Bryce paused, trying to judge Henry’s mood. If he was jubilant over the victory, he would be generous. If Henry was angry over the French raids, he would order Ryen’s death. Indecision flitted through Bryce’s mind, an uncomfortable feeling he did not enjoy.
“You have something to say?” Henry wondered.
Bryce was aware that every gaze was upon him. He straightened his shoulders. “I would speak with you in private, sire.”
The ghost of a frown crossed Henry’s face before he motioned everyone out of his tent.
As the tent flap swooshed shut, Henry turned to face Bryce. “This had better be important. I am in the midst of a war.”
“Sire, I have found the Angel of Death,” Bryce said.
Henry’s brows drew together, his look thoughtful. “Is she alive?”
“Barely,” he answered, the word constricting his throat.
Henry moved past Bryce, saying, “I would see her.”
Bryce followed him into the camp. As they exited, the others gazed with curiosity as the king paused to ask, “Where is she?”
“This way, sire,” Bryce murmured, and moved to lead the way.
With each step, hope began to pound through his body. The king deemed Ryen important enough for a glance; perhaps he would see the wisdom of sparing her life.
When they entered his tent, Bryce had to glare at the other men to keep them from following.
Talbot’s face was grim, his mouth a hard line as he bowed to King Henry and stepped from Ryen’s side to let the king look down upon her peaceful form.
Bryce watched Henry carefully.
Henry’s brow furrowed as his blue eyes scanned every curve. “She is not what I expected,” Henry finally stated. “You
were right, Bryce. She does not look like France. She does not look like my enemy.”
“But she is,” Talbot snarled. “She alone has killed thousands of our men.”
“Talbot,” Bryce warned.
Henry turned slowly from Ryen’s soft features to face Bryce. “Talbot, leave us.”
With a slight, stiff nod, Talbot departed.
“He is right, you know,” Henry told Bryce. “You said it yourself. She is as cunning as a fox.”
“She has also been spurned by her people.”
“True.” Henry cast a long look over his shoulder at Ryen before looking back at Bryce. “But who do you think she will blame for it?”
Bryce frowned. He had not considered the consequences of his actions. He would deal with them as they arose.
Henry ran his hands over his face in fatigue and sat in a nearby chair. “How do you think it would look were I to spare her life?”
Bryce sat heavily across from Henry, watching silently for a sign of judgment.
“You have served me well, Bryce,” Henry told him, his back straightening with the weight of his decision. “Many battles have hinged on your strategic maneuvers, your skill on the battlefield. Perhaps a castle would be a better reward.”
“I have a castle, my liege,” Bryce replied evenly.
“A man can never have too many.”
“I am a fighting man. I am rarely at Dark Castle now.”
“Perhaps there is something else you need.”
Bryce glanced at Ryen. Her soft lips parted, her skin pale in her deathlike slumber, her long lashes resting like a feather against her cheek. He watched the rise and fall of her breasts for a moment. It was ironic how so many fought for her death, and he, her most hated enemy, was the only one who fought for her life. He pushed the image of this glorious woman from his mind and conjured images of Runt.
When he looked back at Henry, his eyes were hard. “I ask that you spare her life, my lord.”
Henry stood. “Damn it, man! I cannot do that. While she does not look like my enemy, she is. Nothing can change that,” Henry said, and headed for the tent flap. “My decision is made.”
Heroes of Honor: Historical Romance Collection Page 34
