The boy suddenly realized that he was surrounded by people, by guards with weapons. The bad man couldn’t get him. The guards wouldn’t let him. He raised his arm, pulled it back and threw, hurling the mud ball at the bad man. The clump of moist dirt sailed through the air, moving fast toward its target.
The boy’s aim was off the mark.
Ryen turned as her eyes caught a sudden movement, but she didn’t have time to react. The mud ball moved straight for her face.
Bryce saw it coming a moment before Ryen. He reacted quickly, raising his hand to catch it.
The crowd suddenly grew very silent, thinking the Prince of Darkness was about to strike their Angel. A guard instinctively turned his weapon toward Bryce.
The mud ball struck Bryce’s palm square in the middle, hitting it with a resounding smack. He closed his fingers around it and pulled his hand back from Ryen’s face.
Ryen stared in wonderment as Bryce showed her the flattened pancake of mud in his hand.
“I’m sure it was meant for me,” he whispered to her, then let the mud ball slip from his fingers to the ground.
Bryce watched her struggle with her emotions. Her full lips parted as if to speak, but then closed again. Not even a smile, Bryce thought with bitterness. But what had he expected? “We can’t have you looking all dirty, now can we?” he added.
Ryen’s jaw tightened and she spurred her horse on, leading her army toward the castle.
As they approached, Bryce watched his hope of escape dissolve as the guards from the castle rushed out to greet them. With the guards came women who eagerly ran to embrace husbands or sons. The well-armed men closed in around his horse, separating him from Ryen.
The moat, he noticed as they crossed the wooden plank, looked deep and slimy. He wondered briefly if he could swim it.
Bryce was led under the portcullis, its jagged spear-like frame pointing at his head as the mount led him beneath it, threatening to crush him beneath its spikes. His horse stopped in the middle of a large square and he glanced up. Her castle was smaller than his by far. Its towers were rounded where his were square. But it was immaculately well cared for. He remembered once returning home to see that one of the inner courtyard walls of his castle had crumbled. It wasn’t that there was no gold to repair it, it was just that his steward was a practical man, more concerned with keeping the castle properly armed and stocked with food supplies in case of a siege than with its appearance.
Bryce did not fight as hands reached up to pull him from the horse. Guards surrounded him and pushed him toward the castle. He paused before the great double doors to look back at Ryen. She was patting the neck of her warhorse. Bryce wondered where her greeting party was. Had she no one to welcome her home? Then bitterness replaced his confusion. She did not even notice he was gone.
***
Ryen nuzzled her horse affectionately, burying her face in his white mane. He whinnied in response, nudging her shoulder. Ryen relinquished the reins of her horse to her squire and turned, searching for Bryce. His mount was empty! Ryen knew instinctively where he had been taken. The dungeon. The thought of him locked in the gloomy, damp, rodent-infested prison made her cringe. She started to follow, thinking to stop them from throwing him into such a horrible place. Then she stopped dead in her tracks. Such an act would border on treason. He was a prisoner. He belonged in the dungeon. Her heart sank to the depths of the castle with him.
Suddenly, she almost fell over as a little whirlwind ran into her, throwing her arms around her. “Ryen!” the voice cried in jubilation. Ryen pried herself free from the embrace and stepped back to stare into wide brown eyes.
“My Lord,” Ryen gasped.
The girl giggled, covering her mouth with a small hand. “Please! Don’t greet me as though I am a stranger! I couldn’t bear it!”
Ryen could not catch her breath. Could this be Jeanne? Could this be her little sister? Have five years changed her so much I would not recognize her walking down a street? Ryen wondered. Jeanne had grown up. Her hair had changed from straggly straw to golden blond. Her skin was flawless, almost luminescent. Was this little Jeanne, the girl who teased me about masquerading as a boy? “You’ve changed,” Ryen muttered.
“I should hope so! It has been a long time! I never have forgiven you for missing my wedding,” Jeanne pouted.
“I’m very sorry, Jeanne. But I could not leave the siege. I tried to finish it before then. I lost twenty men rushing the castle,” Ryen stated.
“Pooh. Don’t talk of war. You know how it bores me. But the silks you sent from Paris. That was really too much, Ryen. They are so lovely that I couldn’t help but make you a dress.”
Ryen groaned inwardly. Dresses were confining and even burdensome. “They were for you, Jeanne. You didn’t have to go to the trouble –”
“It was no trouble at all. I’ve become quite good, you know. Jules says that I am the best dressmaker in all France. I believe he is exaggerating.”
“You’re happy, then?” Ryen asked sincerely.
Jeanne nodded and a dreamy smile touched her lips. “I am very lucky that Father allowed me to choose. He will do the same for you someday.”
“Where is Father?” Ryen raised her eyes to scan the crowd.
“Oh, you know Father. He had to see Andre and Lucien.”
Ryen’s bubble of hope burst. “Yes. I know Father,” she replied dully.
“Don’t look so sad. Not on a day as wonderful as this. You’ve come home to us.” Jeanne seized Ryen’s arm and began to tug her toward the castle. “Come. You must meet Jules. And you really have to tell me all about this Prince of Darkness.”
As Jeanne led her into the castle, Ryen was struck by the odd feeling that she was a stranger here. Nothing had changed, the entranceway was exactly the same as it had been, but there were little things that were proof of how long she had been away. She stopped at a tapestry hanging on the wall that depicted a knight with the De Bouriez coat of arms on his shield. She inspected the picture. An Englishman was dead beneath the foot of the knight. A stream of blood ran from the fatal wound in the fallen knight’s chest. “When was this hung?” Ryen wondered.
Jeanne flicked her wrist, dismissive. “It’s been here forever.” She continued down the hall, holding her sister’s arm tightly.
They rounded the corner and walked through the open doors to the Great Hall. Jeanne finally released Ryen’s arm and ran across the great room to throw herself at a tall, dark haired man standing near the fireplace, drinking and speaking earnestly with another man.
Ryen allowed her eyes to wander. The large room was in order, clean rushes on the floor, ale on the tables. A huge arced opening gave the room character and decoration. There were five entrances, each lit by two torches. The two arched entryways near the lord’s table led to the upper levels and the bedrooms. The two opposite her led to the kitchens. Servants dashed in and out of the entrances to the kitchen and Ryen could smell the roasting duck. Some of the peasants she recognized, some she did not. But Ryen noticed with a bit of annoyance that all were casting glances in her direction. She stood forlornly in the doorway of the Great Hall, searching the hallway for any sign of her father. Finally, Jeanne and Jules approached her.
Ryen took a quick moment to study them. They were both fashionably dressed, Jules in a red jupon with elaborate gold leaf embroidery on the breast. The jacket just covered his hips. It is shorter than my tunic, Ryen thought with shock. Could this truly be the latest style?
Jeanne wore a houppelande that fell in voluminous velvet to the floor. The green material was secured just under her breasts by a brown belt. For the first time, Ryen felt out of place in full plate armor.
Jules extended his hand in welcome. Ryen clasped his arm in the usual warrior greeting and she noticed the surprise that splashed over his features for the briefest of seconds. She withdrew her hand.
“I am pleased to finally meet you,” he said uneasily. “I have heard much of your brave deeds.”
Ryen fo
rced a smile to her lips and cast a glance over her shoulder, anxiously looking for her father. But the hallway remained empty.
Jules glanced at Jeanne. She set her arm on his shoulder. “Jules, you mustn’t flatter Ryen. She doesn’t like to be complimented. I have told her numerous times that she has lovely hair and she should leave it down. After all, if one doesn’t make oneself pretty, one will not be betrothed to the man of one’s dreams.”
“I do not wish to be betrothed to anyone,” Ryen answered. She turned her gaze to Jeanne to find her staring at her husband. For a moment, Ryen wondered what it would be like to live with a man she loved. Would Bryce gaze at her with the obvious adoration that Jules showed Jeanne? Where had that thought come from? she wondered, abashed.
Jeanne’s smile was instantaneous. “You’ve always said that. But one of these days, the right man will come to you and you will not be able to imagine life without him. Just as I have Jules.”
Ryen quickly looked away, down the hall. An uneasy feeling stirred in her stomach. Had she already found the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with? She could not forget how it felt when he kissed her. And yet when she thought of a life with Bryce, perhaps a castle of their own, she knew it was only fantasy. He hated her. Still…
“Where is Father?” she asked, attributing the anxious feeling to her father’s absence.
“He will be here,” Jeanne said. “Come, sit by the fire.”
Ryen cast one last look down the hallway. She could still hear the sounds of laughter and shouts of delight as wives, husbands, sons and daughters found each other. But she did not see her father. He would find her. If she left the hallway to sit by the fire, he would still come. Ryen removed her leather gloves and followed Jeanne and Jules. A young girl appeared at her side, offering a goblet of ale. As Ryen shook her head, she noticed the fear and awe in the girl’s large brown eyes before she bowed her head and backed away.
The Great Hall was emptying and Ryen knew it was because most of the servants were headed outside. As she reached the warmth of the fire, she heard his voice boom across the hall.
“Could that be my little Ryen?”
Utter joy raced through her body as she turned. Jean Claude De Bouriez strolled across the room toward her, his arms outstretched. Ryen’s heart filled with happiness and she threw herself into those arms. Even though she wore armor, she could feel her father’s strength as he crushed her in a powerful hug. She returned it wholeheartedly, reveling in the feeling of his embrace. Ryen knew he would be proud of her. She would look into his eyes and see the respect he had neglected to show her. He pulled back and his eyes bore into hers, a smile lingering in the depths of those brown eyes. Although so many things had changed in the castle, he hadn’t. Those warm eyes were the same ones that had smiled on her all those years ago; those lips the same ones that had whispered words of comfort when she had fallen.
“Oh, Father!” Ryen exclaimed. “We took their army completely by surprise! We routed the English and –”
Jean Claude patted his daughter on the head, nodding patiently. “Don’t worry yourself with matters of war now. You are home.”
“But Father, I captured the Prince of Darkness,” Ryen said, the happiness slowly draining from her.
“Yes. I know, child. And I look forward to seeing him.”
“I made him tell me of King Henry and his English army. They are coming to France!”
Jeanne gasped and buried her face in Jules’s chest.
Jean Claude scowled at Ryen. “You are frightening your sister. That is enough. Go change into proper clothing for our meal.”
Ryen felt a hot flush creep up her neck to her cheeks. Jean Claude stood a hand’s width taller than most Frenchmen, and even taller in Ryen’s eyes. She did not move, and finally, Jean Claude turned his eyes from her to Jeanne. A serene smile inched over his lips and he said, “Jeanne, show Ryen the new fashions. Perhaps she would like to wear one of your dresses to dinner.”
Jeanne relaxed, pushing aside her fear. “Oh, yes. You can wear the dress I made for you.”
Ryen sank into despair. She allowed Jeanne to lead her across the room to the stairs.
As she reached the cold stone steps, she paused to look back at her father. His elegant blue velvet tunic shone softly in the lighting from the fire as he approached the door. Lucien was entering, and Ryen felt a moment of fear that made her falter. Would Lucien tell her father about her and Bryce? Even from this distance, she could see the bruises on Lucien’s brow and cheek, his swollen lip.
Lucien looked around the room and his gaze halted on her. She saw his back straighten and felt the anger in his stare.
Her father’s voice boomed across the room. “Lucien! You must tell me the tale of the capture of the Prince of Darkness!”
Ryen turned her back on them. Lucien would say nothing. It would only cause Father heartache and bring scandal to the family name.
“I hear tell that the English are approaching France,” Jean Claude continued.
Ryen mounted the steps, her heart breaking.
Chapter Seventeen
Jeanne fluttered around the room like a bird, preparing Ryen’s clothing as if she were making a nest. She dashed to the wardrobe and pulled out a scarf, then flittered to the hand mirror on the table. She held the scarf to her neck and gazed at herself in the mirror, silently shaking her head. She put the mirror down and rushed back to the closet to toss the scarf inside. She began to rummage through piles of jewelry, holding a piece up to her neck and then, frowning, putting it back.
Ryen sat on her canopied bed and stared at her folded hands that lay listlessly in her lap. Why was he the only one she had never been able to stand up to? Why couldn’t she demand the respect she deserved? Why had she allowed herself to be swept aside like so much dirt? Ryen groaned and ran her fingers through her hair, burying her face in her hands. Because he was her father!
“Why, Ryen you haven’t even begun to remove your armor,” Jeanne said, sitting beside her, holding a sapphire necklace.
Ryen turned her face away from Jeanne. She wished her sister would leave her in peace just this once.
“Tell me how you captured the Prince of Darkness,” Jeanne asked with a touch of sympathy in her voice.
Ryen separated her fingers to peek out at her sister in disbelief. “Jeanne, you couldn’t even bear to hear that the English were coming. How could you listen to the tale of how I captured Bryce?”
“Bryce?”
Ryen dropped her hands with a sigh. “The Prince of Darkness.”
Jeanne was silent for a long moment and Ryen felt her gaze upon her. Finally, Jeanne patted Ryen’s wrist and jumped up. “I will show you the dress. It will make you feel better.”
Ryen stood, her jaw clenched. “I don’t care about the dress!” Jeanne turned to her, and Ryen saw the hurt in her expressive eyes. She immediately regretted her harsh words and continued more softly, “Not now. I want to know why Father doesn’t listen to what I have to say.”
Jeanne smiled. “Because you’re a woman.”
Ryen sighed. It was the one thing in her life that she couldn’t change.
“Don’t be sad, Ryen. We’ll have a grand time. Did you know that the Duke of Le Mans is here?”
“No.”
“We’re in very good company tonight. The Count of Sens is also here. They came to see the Prince of Darkness. It appears the fiend has a reputation.”
Ryen’s brows furrowed. “What do they want with him?”
Jeanne shrugged her dainty shoulders as she turned to sort through her wardrobe closet. “All I know is that Father is planning a…well, a sort of reception for him. I must tell you that I am very excited to see him. They say that a mere look from him will sentence a maiden’s heart to burn –”
“A reception?” Ryen wondered quietly.
Jeanne placed her hands on her hips as she turned to Ryen. “Really, Ryen. You must learn to listen when others speak. Yes. A reception. App
arently, Father has some sort of surprise in store for our enemy.”
Ryen felt a cold chill of dread creep up her spine.
***
Ryen was a vision of femininity as she stood at the bottom of the stairs that led from the bedchambers to the Great Hall. And she hated it! The full chemise and heavy velvets of the dress’s skirt swirled about her legs and inhibited her steps. She felt constrained by the cotte Jeanne insisted she wear beneath her chemise, to accent her feminine attributes, as she put it. The cotte was so stiff, Ryen felt as though she could not bend. But she had worn it for Jeanne. Then, her sister had helped her don the long, dark blue gown. Ryen was appalled at how it was fitted to her body, not at all like her tunics. And the wide, open neckline was so…revealing! Over this, Ryen wore a sideless surcoat made of velvet that had armholes that reached to her hips. Jeanne had giggled when Ryen swore the thing was going to fall right off her body! Jeanne fastened the surcoat to the gown with buttons that were hidden beneath the fur that edged the neck and armholes, assuring Ryen the buttons would hold it on.
The final straw was the headdress. Jeanne had pulled out this monstrous-looking thing with horns! Ryen had reared back and absolutely refused to wear it. She insisted that her hair be left down.
With that small, single victory, Ryen stood at the bottom of the stairway, wanting desperately to run back up into her room and put on her tunic and leggings. A gentle shove from Jeanne behind her urged her into the Great Hall, where all the guests had gathered. As she stepped into the room, voices began to subside as eyes turned toward her.
The longer Ryen stood, the longer the silence stretched. She was sure it was this horrible dress that drew their stares. It made her look weak.
Finally, Andre approached. “There’s a man I want you to meet, Ryen.” He gently guided her by her elbow into the gaping mass of people and the talking resumed, although at a quieter pitch.
Ryen halted and leaned close to him, whispering, “Does this dress look foolish?”
The Angel And The Prince Page 14
