The Angel And The Prince

by Laurel O'Donnell

  Then, one day, Bryce was wandering the fields, watching the few remaining knights practice their skills. He was nine years old and he had an urge to fight that was very strong. He father had never asked if he wanted to learn. So instead, Bryce would watch the knights practice and try to emulate their movements in the privacy of his room. On that day, three knights were out on the practicing field, two arcing their swords at each other, the third watching, shouting advice from the wooden fence surrounding the field. The Wolf Pack approached from the forest. They almost always traveled in groups, and this time was no exception. There were five men coming toward the practice yard. As they entered the field, Bryce wondered if the knights would put these savages in their place.

  The knights told them they were not allowed on the field.

  The Wolf Pack had looked amongst themselves, one to the other, until one man stepped forward. His hair was black, his face scarred from his cheek down to his neck and farther, the rest of the scar hidden beneath the wolf skin he wore over a torn tunic. His boots were ripped near the heel with what looked like a knife cut. He was shorter than the knight, but built like a stone wall. “We go where we please,” he said in a gruff voice.

  “Is that a challenge?” one of the knights wondered, laughter in his voice.

  “We do not challenge,” the man stated. “People let us be.”

  “Not this time, barbarian,” the knight replied and approached with his sword drawn. “I told you that you were not welcome here.”

  The man slowly brushed aside the wolf skin he was wearing and pulled his sword from his belt. The knight attacked immediately and the man defended himself for a short time. Then, with a howl, he pushed forward. Bryce watched with large eyes as the knight was disarmed in two moves.

  “I believe it is you who are not welcome here,” the man said, the tip of the sword to the knight’s neck.

  The three knights had fled the yard with as much dignity as they could muster. Two days later, they resigned from his father’s service. The following day, Bryce began to follow the Wolf Pack, and more important, the man with the scar, whom he learned was called Night. He started to copy them, their behavior. Especially Night’s. At mealtime, he waited until his father was seated before running to the feast and grabbing food with his bare hands. He slept in the Great Hall with the Wolf Pack. He followed Night on his watches. But they never paid him any heed.

  Until the day two squires attacked him as he was walking alone one night through the town. They shoved him and called him “son of Lord Yield”, and “Puppy”. When Bryce threw the first punch, they jumped on him. He tried to defend himself, but he was clumsy and young, and the squires were two years older. They left him with a bloody nose, a swollen lip, and more aches than he could count. He got to his knees shakily, wiping a sleeve across his bleeding nose…and saw them. Not far down the street, three men of the Wolf Pack stood watching him. Slowly, they turned their backs and walked away. Bryce was too embarrassed to follow them that night. And it wasn’t until the next morning that he realized they were watching him.

  He had awakened with sore muscles and a grumbling stomach. He stumbled to his feet and was making his way down the hallway of his father’s castle when a voice called, “Child!”

  Bryce came to a halt and turned to find Night standing half in the shadows of the stairway.

  “You have been following me.”

  Bryce did not move. He wanted to flee, but his legs would not obey.

  “I will help you, child.”

  Bryce’s eyes lit up. “You’ll teach me to fight?”

  “Oh, I will teach you much more than that.”

  During the next months, Night taught him to track and to hunt, but most importantly, he taught him how to fight. Day and night, Bryce had to stay alert, waiting for Night’s attack, anticipating his next strike. His innate sense of survival was honed to razor sharpness.

  One evening, when Bryce was twelve, he was sitting near Night before the fire in the Great Hall when Night seized his arm and cut it. More from shock than from the pain of it, Bryce pulled away, and watched with heart pounding as Night ran the blade across his own arm. He grabbed Bryce’s arm and pressed his open wound to Bryce’s, their blood merging as their cuts touched.

  “Always remember, you are one of us,” said Night, and withdrew his hand.

  The next day, Bryce had raced down the stone stairway and into the Great Hall…only to find that the Wolf Pack had gone. He was bitter and angry. He did not understand why they had left, but even more importantly, why they had not taken him. When his father tried to comfort him, Bryce rejected him. It was later that day when Bryce had his last confrontation with the boys of the castle.

  It was damp and cloudy, and Bryce could still recall the strong scent of leather from the blacksmith’s shop. He had been carrying his father’s sword back from the yard, thinking about a conversation he had just heard between his father and their steward, who was afraid the mercenaries would turn against them and try to take over the castle. Lost in these bitter thoughts, Bryce turned a corner and collided with three squires. He attempted to move past them, but they blocked his way, taunting him. The anger that surged inside him was swift and consuming. He threw down his father’s sword and attacked the closest boy. They rolled across the ground, through the dirt and mud, furiously throwing punches. Then, the other two joined in. Bryce didn’t remember much, except for the fact that when it was over, he stood with his fists clenched at his side while the three squires ran away from him.

  Bryce had not lost a battle since then. Night and his Wolf Pack had taught him well. Yet now, that old feeling of anxiety snaked through him. He looked down at Runt, who was quietly standing at his side, gazing off into the distance, as he had seen Bryce do. He knelt beside the boy and put his hand on his shoulder, turning him until those blue eyes gazed at him. “In case of attack, remember what I told you.”

  Runt nodded enthusiastically. “Fight with honor.”

  “No.” Bryce scowled. “You must go to the rear of the army and await the outcome.”

  “I want to fight,” Runt said, his lips drawing down into a disapproving frown. “I want to cut down one of those Frenchmen.”

  Bryce’s lips twitched with a proud smile, but the thought of Runt hurt was sobering. “This is not a game, Runt. This is war. Those men will kill you. You’re too small yet to battle an armored man.”

  “But I’ve been practicing,” Runt objected wholeheartedly.

  “I know. And you’ve improved. But not enough to stand against a man twice your size,” Bryce patiently explained. “Promise me, Runt. You must go to the rear of the army.”

  Runt sighed in disappointment and kicked at the dirt.

  Bryce squeezed his shoulder gently. “Promise me, boy,” he persisted.

  Runt nodded grudgingly. “I promise.”

  Bryce stared at the crestfallen look on his face. It broke his heart to have to refuse the child, but he was not willing to risk the boy’s life in a battle. He reached up and brushed aside the lock of black hair that fell over his eyes. “Try to rest, Runt,” Bryce advised. “If we are right, it will not be long until we see battle.”

  Runt scurried away.

  Bryce stepped back into the tent, allowing the flap to swoosh back into place as he turned to the basin of water on a stand near his bed. He braced himself over the table, hands on either side of the basin, and stared blankly into the dark water. What had happened to his advance guard?

  “Hell,” Bryce growled and plunged both hands into the water, cupping them to collect a pool to shower over his face. The water was cool against his hot skin.

  He splashed another palm of water onto his face, the water trickling from his chin down into the basin. Sighing, he rubbed the water from his eyes. There’s only an hour before dawn, he thought. There’s no point in trying to get any sleep.

  A single candle rested next to the basin, its shimmering image reflecting in the still water. As Bryce watched, the
image shifted, moving slightly. Slowly, the water began to ripple, distorting the figure of the candle. The ripples became stronger and more pronounced. And then he heard it, a thundering rumble in the distance, growing louder with each passing second. Bryce bolted upright. Horses! Coming in fast!

  He pulled his sword from its scabbard, the silver metal hissing as the night air kissed its surface. Scowling deeply, he urgently wrenched the flap of his tent aside and charged out into the night.

  Sharp black hooves thundered down upon him! He leapt back instantly, dropping and rolling. The riderless horse spat flecks of foam from its mouth as it whinnied and sped by.

  Battle cries resounded throughout the camp. God’s blood, he thought. We’re under attack! Someone screamed, the man’s cry piercing the air with sharp gasps of pain. Bryce moved toward the voice, crouching low, his hand clutching the hilt of his sword tightly. He turned right, moving around a tent, and saw an invader slumped over a barrel. Bryce smiled grimly as he saw Brian Talbot wipe his sword on the dead man’s tunic. Talbot was his second in command, the closest thing to a friend he had found during the last few years spent waging King Henry’s war.

  Talbot looked up to see Bryce approaching.

  “What the hell happened to our sentries?” Bryce yelled out to him, the din surrounding them threatening to drown out his words.

  “I don’t know!” Talbot shouted back.

  “Who are they?”

  Talbot reached down to the invader’s corpse and ripped off a piece of cloth from his tunic. He held it out to his lord.

  Bryce took the cloth and glanced down at it. His lips curled into a tight sneer, his eyes growing cold, as he clenched his fingers, crushing the fabric tightly in his closed fist. He recognized the symbol immediately, the silhouette of a black angel against a white background.

  The mark of the Angel of Death.

  Ryen finished her battle with an Englishman, cleanly slicing his sword arm, and raised her eyes to assess the situation. Her fully armored knights exchanged blows with men who were partially clothed. Many of the English had already fallen, and her men were closing in on the rest. The battle was almost over. The gritty taste of smoke filled her mouth and the crackle of fire could be heard as one of the tents burned brightly.

  She scanned the battlefield. Only a few tents remained standing and only a few Englishmen held their ground and refused to turn and run. Amid the armored men and flashing swords that remained, she saw a man who stood out from the rest by his height. His black hair defiantly reflected the firelight as easily as his quick sword deflected the blows of her men. He downed one, then another of her knights as she watched. Angry, Ryen moved to spur her white warhorse forward, but a thick cloud of smoke suddenly obstructed her vision. She furiously swatted aside the shield of smoke, but when it blew past and was gone, so was he. Ryen quickly looked left and right for the man, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  She dismounted and surveyed the grim scene before her. The sun hesitantly peeked over the horizon, as if afraid to illuminate the death and destruction covering the battlefield. Most of the tents had been trampled and men lay sprawled, dead or dying, everywhere. She shifted her gaze to watch the last of the English flee.

  Lucien jerked his horse forward, eager to pursue them, but Ryen seized his reins and shook her head. Let them go. They would serve her purpose, she knew, to spread the word of her victory. And of the Prince of Darkness’s defeat.

  “Find the Prince of Darkness!” Ryen ordered. She was sure he was here somewhere. He would never run. He was either dead or unconscious. And she hoped he was not dead. She wanted to see him. He was said to have evil black eyes, and dark hair that hid the horns of a demon; he had been raised by wolves, and his arm had the strength to cut down five men with one good swing of his sword. Ryen chuckled. He was probably a skinny man, nothing like his legend. But Ryen preferred to paint her hated enemy in the first, darker light. It added to his mystery, his legend, which claimed that he could steal a woman’s heart with one glance, a look heated from the very depths of hell.

  Again her eyes surveyed the carnage around her. I have truly earned my reputation this day, Ryen thought grimly. She walked out into what was left of the English camp, around smoldering tents, past impaled men. She stepped over a fallen knight, blood oozing from the fatal wound in his chest, his plate armor having fallen away to reveal the chain metal beneath. She paused, hating herself as she did it, knowing that the longer she stared at the man, the more human he would become to her.

  Ryen gazed into his open eyes and wondered, as she had done a thousand times before, if he had a family. Who would mourn him now that he was gone? A wife? Children? Oh, she hated herself. Why did she torment herself? This would not be the last man she would order killed, nor the last time she would wander among the dead and gaze at their faces, wondering. What was it like to be loved? To be sent to battle with a kiss?

  His hand twitched and Ryen stepped closer. His lids closed and a groan escaped his lips. Ryen knelt beside her enemy, concern etched in her brow. Perhaps he would, after all, return to those who loved him. She pushed back her chain mail hood and looked for something to staunch the flow of blood. Her eyes fastened on a tunic, trampled in the dust. Ryen seized it and immediately pressed it to his wound through the chain mail.

  His eyes flashed open, eyes filled with fevered pain. They locked on her and for a moment there was blankness.

  “Rest,” Ryen said in English. “The battle is over.”

  His gaze focused on her and confusion washed over his dust-covered features. Then Ryen watched in dismay as his lip curled in contempt.

  “Are you the Angel of Death?” he sneered.

  Ryen ignored him, pressing the shirt against his open wound, trying to move his armor aside. “You will need a leech or you will not survive.” She lifted her eyes to his and saw such hate and loathing there that she was taken aback.

  “I would rather die than have your foul hands touch me,” he said and spat in her face.

  Stunned, Ryen sat back on her heels. She had tried to help him! To save his life so he could return to his loved ones. But he’d spurned her efforts. Anger swiftly replaced her amazement. Her mouth closed and her eyes narrowed. Slowly she stood, towering over him. The wind picked up, whipping her cape out behind her, dust swirling about her feet. It was her turn to loathe him. Her eyes dulled with bitter hatred and she lifted her arm to wipe the spittle from her cheek.

  The lashing of the wind’s fury suddenly died, and for a moment everything was still as Ryen gazed down at the man. “Then you shall die,” she said, and whirled away.

  “Ryen!”

  She turned, outrage boiling in her veins. “What?” she snapped.

  Lucien tore off his helmet in excitement, his blue eyes glittering.

  Ryen knew the look. She had seen that confidence many times before. It meant only one thing. Success. Her anger washed away and excitement filled her veins. They had him! He was in her camp…her prisoner! The Prince of Darkness was hers.

  Lucien said, “I will bring him to the tent for the truth powder.”

  Ryen nodded. Then, as Lucien turned to leave, her hand shot out to capture his arm. When he glanced at her, she jerked her head at the fallen English knight. “And order a leech for that cur.”

  Chapter Four

  The cloud of white parted slowly before Ryen as she stepped through the soft, whirling smoke created by the smoldering candles placed around the tent. Quivers of anticipation rippled through her as she saw the wisps swirl around the shadowy shape. She stopped, not wanting the thrill to dissipate from her veins. So often in the past did a man not live up to her expectations that she was afraid she would be sorely disappointed by him, the mightiest of legends. But his shadow beckoned to her and she pushed any doubts aside. She had to know his secrets.

  Ryen continued to move through the frosty smoke, the dark blur of his body forming into a solid shape. He had fought to the end, she thought, just as I would have. Luc
ien said it had taken twenty men to bring him to his knees. Twenty men? She wanted to believe this, but surely Lucien must have been exaggerating. Yet it wasn’t like him to inflate the truth. She moved toward the figure chained to a post in the tent, stepping out of the mists.

  His head was hanging down, his long black mane draping over his chest. So he did have black hair! Was it truly hiding horns?

  Ryen moved closer, slowly, her gaze appraising him, his body. He was no disappointment there. The urge to touch him was overwhelming. She stretched her fingers toward him and touched the hair on his naked chest, running her hands along his torso, marveling at the size of his muscles. They were hard, sculptured curves of warm flesh. Magnificent, she thought. The smell of him, the heady musky scent of him, enveloped her.

  Her prisoner stirred, his head moving slightly from side to side, as if he were struggling to clear his mind. His head slowly lifted. A thrill of anticipation touched Ryen’s spine as his dark eyes, the eyes of midnight, rose like the moon to gleam at her.

  “Enjoying yourself?” he asked, his voice low, suggestive.

  Through the darkness he wore like a veil, she saw the flash of his white teeth. Ryen pulled her hands away and watched the shadows slide off his features as his face slowly came into the flame’s light. A shiver snaked its way up her spine. The candlelight revealed a sensual mouth with a cynical twist to it, a Spartan chin hewn from an ancient line of warriors.

  Ryen realized that she had been holding her breath and released it slowly in admiration. She could not believe the sight that greeted her. This is the man who was born without a heart? The man who is in league with the devil? The most feared barbarian in all of England?

  Then how can he be so handsome?

  She ignored his comment and stepped back, the mist swirling around her body like a cape. She quickly regained her composure and her blue eyes swept him without a hint of emotion. “So,” she murmured, “you are the Prince of Darkness.”