The Angel And The Prince

by Laurel O'Donnell

  Andre paused to glance at it, then up at her face. There was confusion in his eyes. “What else would you wear in Father’s castle?”

  Andre himself wore a houppelande of dark green velvet that fell in folds to the floor, gathered around his waist by a black belt. Ryen felt the cotte confining her and wished she had insisted on wearing a houppelande. Finally, she swiveled her head around the room. “Why are they staring at me?”

  “They are impressed that you captured the Prince of Darkness.”

  “They thought I couldn’t do it.”

  “Well, you must admit that most women would shiver and faint before your Dark Lord.”

  Ryen glanced at him, noticing the stress he put on “your”. She briefly wondered if Lucien had spoken with him. She chose to ignore it, casting a glance at Jeanne, who was leaning in to hear a whisper from an elderly woman dressed in an impeccable white sideless surcoat. Jeanne raised her eyes to Ryen for an instant and there was pain in them, then she quickly cast her head away and answered the woman, who blushed and straightened before quickly moving away.

  They hated her, Ryen was sure of it. She wasn’t what they thought a woman should be – quiet, married, and obeying every word her husband said.

  Ryen glanced at the nobles. As her eyes scanned them, she caught an occasional curious glance before the watcher noticed her look and quickly turned away.

  Disappointment raced through Ryen. This time was supposed to be different! She had captured the Prince of Darkness, a task no one else had managed to accomplish. A task to make anyone the envy of all France. Yet still they looked at her as though she were some sort of freak.

  Andre propelled her through the room again. The tables were being set up for their meal and the guests were congregating in the middle of the Great Hall. Most of the lords and dukes were in the middle of the room. They were dressed in richer clothing and would not be seen speaking with the common man.

  When Ryen neared the men gathered around the hearth she recognized many of them from her army. Captain Navarre was there in a yellow tunic and black leggings. He nodded to her. “M’lady.”

  She returned his greeting and moved past him. Finally, they came to a tall man whose back was to them.

  “Excuse me,” said Andre, and the man turned. He had a kind face and understanding eyes, yet lines of pain etched his forehead. He appeared almost as old as her father. “Lord Merle? I’d like you to meet my sister, Ryen.”

  “The Angel of Death! How nice to finally meet you,” he said enthusiastically. He extended his hand, palm up, but then stopped cold. He appeared panicked for a moment.

  Ryen immediately grasped his arm near the elbow, in the soldier’s fashion. His face seemed to relax as he returned her shake. “It’s very nice to meet you, too, Lord Merle. You have traveled far.”

  “Yes. I have been here for nigh on three days. I could not miss the opportunity to see the Prince of Darkness,” he replied. Ryen frowned. Dismayed at having apparently insulted her, he hastened to add, “Of course, I am delighted to meet you also. You are one of France’s greatest warriors. I am honored to be in your presence.” He bowed slightly.

  Ryen forced aside her fears for Bryce and smiled brightly.

  Andre interrupted, “Lord Merle was just telling us about the rumors that Henry of England has reached France.”

  “Yes, indeed,” he murmured, his voice dropping conspiratorially. His demeanor turned serious as he said, “I have it by good and reliable sources that the English king is laying siege to Harfleur as we speak.”

  “He’s in France?” Ryen asked. That would mean battle soon. I should gather my men and leave for Harfleur, she thought. No. I must wait until we are summoned. Perhaps we are needed elsewhere.

  Someone grabbed her arm and she pulled it away before turning. Her father stood behind her. He was dressed impeccably, as always, wearing a houppelande of red samite that swept to the floor. It had a high collar that rose to cover his neck and dagged sleeves lined with sapphires. “Sirs, my daughter is needed elsewhere. Please excuse us,” he said, and led her away by her elbow.

  “What is so important, Father?” Ryen wondered. “Is it an emissary from the king?”

  “Oh, no, my dear,” he chuckled. “I think it is important for you to speak with the right sort of people.”

  “Lord Merle seems like a nice man,” Ryen replied as they approached the group of noblemen.

  “If you prefer people with small lands.” Her father stopped and turned to her. “You must be seen with more important men. You must think of your future, Ryen.”

  Yes. Her future! To advance her career she must associate with men of power and wealth. And these were the noblemen, the arrogant, pompous men who knew nothing of warfare, but reveled in the grandeur of it. It was the soldiers who won wars and sieges for them. But she also realized that to be an effective commander, she must have influence with both sides.

  Her father led her to a small man with hair the color of the ground on a muddy day. His rich velvet houppelande waved like a flag as he spoke with a great flourish of his hands. It wasn’t until they were closer that she saw he had the leggings of his plate mail on beneath the gown. Ryen had to force a smile down. In her experience, the only ones who displayed their own armor in this fashion were the ones who never involved themselves in anything more strenuous than barking commands from a tent far from the heat of the battle.

  He was speaking with another man who was taller but just as thin. His padded blue samite jupon came to his hips. Ryen looked down to see that his black shoes extended nearly two feet beyond the tips of his toes, ending in points. Ryen almost giggled. She must remember to be careful not to step on them.

  When they saw Ryen and her father approaching, the first man broke off his conversation to hail them. “Jean Claude!” he called. “How wonderful it is to see you again. And how is that charming girl of yours?”

  “Jeanne is fine. She is here, you know. You must remember to speak with her,” Jean Claude responded. “She was always very fond of you.”

  “And I of her,” he said, his gaze coming to rest on Ryen.

  She couldn’t help but be repulsed at his small form. He appeared physically weak and very vulnerable, and there was something about his eyes that reminded her of a sick hound. She smiled anyway.

  “Ryen,” her father said, “this is our dear friend Count LeBurgh. Michel, this is my other daughter, Ryen.”

  He extended his hand and Ryen clasped it tightly around the lower arm.

  Surprise and disgust washed over his face and he quickly withdrew his hand. “Yes, well…” he murmured, offended at her greeting.

  Her father scowled heavily at her. Well, how did they expect her to act? By lowering her eyes and batting her lashes at him? When she had finally gathered her wits and was ready to put the situation to right, the count continued, “This is Duke Armand Caron,” he said, introducing the man standing beside him.

  The duke smiled warmly at Ryen. His pale visage seemed to color with life at the recognition. “Yes, of course. The Angel of Death. I must say, the pleasure is mine.”

  He did not offer a hand, but bowed slightly. Ryen was grateful.

  Count LeBurgh nodded his head and raised his nose to the ceiling, peering at Ryen down its slender line, as if now seeing her for the first time. “Ah, yes. The female warrior.”

  Even through his air of haughtiness, Ryen saw something akin to apprehension flash through his dark eyes. Her legend, she knew. Everything he had heard of her was crowding his small brain. She wanted to smile, but could not embarrass her father with such open mockery. Ryen glanced at her father. His heavy eyebrows were drawn down in a pout of disapproval.

  “Not just a warrior,” Duke Caron went on. “But the knight who brought us the Prince of Darkness!”

  “Yes,” the count sighed. “He must be a pitiful character, after all.”

  Ryen felt her blood beginning to boil at the insult. “I beg your pardon, sir. But I am sure you wo
uld not wish to come face to face with him on the field of honor. I have been told that in –”

  “Ryen, please,” Jean Claude murmured. “These men do not wish to hear of the Prince of Darkness now.”

  Ryen frowned. Wasn’t’ she supposed to impress them with her stature as a knight? To ensure them that their gold would not be wasted if they chose to add financing to her army?

  “Count LeBurgh, are you not looking for a wife?” Jean Claude continued.

  Ryen’s mouth fell open. Surely her father did not bring her over here to auction her off to these stuffy nobles like a prize mare!

  “On the contrary,” Duke Caron interrupted. “I would be most thrilled to hear of the Prince of Darkness. After all, this is why we are here. Please continue.”

  Ryen watched with dread as her father placed an arm around Count LeBurgh’s shoulder and steered him away. She saw the count glance at her and then nod and shrug at something her father was saying.

  She wanted to run to her room, or the stables, or the practice yard, strip off this horrible, confining dress, and don her tunic and hose, swing her battle sword like she were cutting off someone’s head…or nose.

  Instead, she turned back to Duke Caron with the most charming smile and related the bloody events that led to the capture of the Prince of Darkness…

  Bryce followed the guards up the stairs. The red glow of the setting sun stung his eyes as the light attacked him through the windows in the hallway. Two guards walked in front of him, two behind. They had dragged him out of the dark dungeon after what he guessed had been two days and two nights, not saying a word as to where they were taking him. His wounds were healing and his side did not hurt quite as badly, but he was weak from lack of any substantial food. The chains that bound him in the damp cell had not allowed for much movement, either; his muscles felt stiff and tight.

  Bryce thought he recognized the tapestry that hung on the wall as they passed and believed he was back in the original hallway they had ushered him through when they first brought him inside the castle.

  The guards stopped as they reached a massive set of oak doors, and pushed them open to reveal a room crowded with people. It appeared Bryce was a popular man in France. Expectant eyes fell on him and the room grew silent. Like the pickets of a fence, numerous armored guards were stationed on either side of a wide path that stretched from Bryce to the other end of the hall. Bryce followed the walkway with his eyes. The rich colors and textures of the people standing along the path made it clear that these were nobles. At the far end of the room, Bryce saw a man dressed in rich blue velvets seated in a chair. Beside him, a woman stood dressed in a deep maroon that reminded Bryce of blood. He found himself fascinated by the dark, rebellious curls that hung over her shoulders, held out of her face by a simple, if somewhat outdated, headband. Somehow, it seemed that her curls were waiting to spring free. Her figure was flawless and Bryce found himself imagining her warming his bed. Then his gaze was captured by the blue of her sparkling eyes, like two great gems shining across the room. His dark eyes widened in astonishment as he realized who the woman was.

  Ryen had discarded her tunic and leggings – her men’s clothing – for a gown of crimson velvet. The fabric clung to her breasts and hips, accenting them with a femininity he knew all too well. And yet, not well enough. His dark eyes moved hungrily over the curves of her body. Desire flamed through his body stronger than it had ever before. He knew that he must possess this woman. He must have her again. And this time, he would see the passion in her eyes and drink from her honeyed lips. He would hear her beg for more.

  He was shoved forward by a guard behind him and tripped over his ankle bindings. As he fought to right himself, he heard contemptuous snickers from the gathering. He immediately straightened, throwing daggers of hatred at anyone who dared look him in the eye. Of course they laugh, he thought. I am bound and they are safe. These people have the same look in their eyes as the French villains in the streets, Bryce thought. They’d be just as amused to see my head in a basket.

  He stopped only a few steps from the man seated in the chair. Bryce’s black eyes swept the man from head to toe. He was old. In the Wolf Pack, he would no longer lead. The younger men would have challenged his authority many years ago. This society was weak to allow a man such as this to continue to rule. His clothing suggested his life was soft and pampered. Gentle. But as Bryce’s gaze traveled up, he noticed the man’s eyes. There was an edge to them. A hardness. A challenge. And Bryce knew that the man’s appearance was deceiving. Bryce saw the grin that twitched the old man’s wrinkled lips.

  “So,” the man said, “you are the one the legends tell of. You do not disappoint.”

  Bryce did not reply, but cast a quick, wary glance at Ryen to see that her face was empty of emotion, before his gaze slid back to the man.

  “I am Jean Claude De Bouriez. Lord of this castle – and Ryen’s father,” the old man said.

  It was not Ryen’s castle! Bryce kept his surprise hidden behind a mask of indifference. Her father. Bryce found himself intrigued. He would have liked to speak with the man privately, to know why he allowed his daughter to be a warrior, but he knew this would never happen. “King Henry sends you his greetings,” Bryce remarked.

  “I rather doubt that what you say is true. Henry barely knows who I am.”

  “On the contrary. You are the Angel of Death’s father. Her legend is almost as great as mine.”

  “Such arrogance! Why, if I were in your shoes, I would be most meek. All of France favors my daughter. And you are in France, my dear boy.”

  Bryce threw Ryen a harsh glance. How could she throw me to these vultures?

  Ryen returned his gaze with her chin raised, without a glimpse of remorse. She came down the two steps of the dais to stand before him and Bryce found his anger subsiding as his desire flamed anew. The velvet clung to her hips like a second skin and he longed to run his hand over the smooth material, to feel the curves beneath it.

  Bryce heard the silence in the hall. Even the nobles were quietly watching as the Angel of Death, clothed in her crimson gown, stood before the Prince of Darkness, bound hand and foot, naked from the waist up. Bryce could not deny the malevolence that flowed around them, that threatened to sweep him away. Yet with all the interested stares and the gaping from the mass of people behind him, Bryce felt something else. There was something that bound him and Ryen, something far more powerful than hate.

  For just a moment Bryce thought he saw regret in her eyes before they hardened again, a wall of stone rising between them.

  “Kneel,” Jean Claude commanded. “Kneel to me so that all of France knows how loyal you are to this country.” His words dripped with mockery.

  A murmur rose through the hall before deadly silence engulfed the room again.

  Bryce’s face stiffened. His answer was directed at Ryen. “Never.”

  He heard a rustle of clothing and glanced at the dais long enough to see Jean Claude place a hand on Lucien’s arm, holding him back. Bryce noticed with some satisfaction that Lucien’s right eye was colored by a fading black and blue ring.

  Jean Claude’s eyes shifted to Ryen. A scowl crashed down over Bryce’s face and he, too, looked at Ryen.

  “Kneel to him,” she whispered urgently. “Please.” The sound of her voice kissed his ears, but the words stung them.

  Bryce would have done anything for her when she used that seductive tone. Anything except pledge his fealty to a lord other than Henry. “I cannot. Not even for you, Angel.” He saw disappointment flitter across her face, and beneath that, hurt. It angered him. How could she ask that of him? Would she kneel to another so quickly?

  Lucien shook off his father’s hand and stepped up to the edge of the dais. What was he planning? Bryce wondered. To kill me here? Lucien inclined his head toward a place behind Bryce. Had he gotten someone to help him? Is he still afraid of me even though I am chained? Bryce turned to see a man step forward, his dark eyes glaring at Br
yce. “M’lord?”

  Jean Claude sighed. “Yes, Sir Pierre?”

  “I request the right to challenge an enemy of France.”

  Jean Claude nodded.

  Sir Pierre turned to Bryce. “I challenge you to a joust.”

  Bryce grinned, pleased that he would finally get to exercise his sore muscles. “I gladly accept.” He had never lost a joust in his life and he knew this bumbler would be no match for him.

  “Such bravado,” Jean Claude exclaimed.

  The people parted as a second man on the opposite side of the floor stepped forward. “I do challenge you, also.”

  Bryce hesitated, but only for a moment. He turned to the second challenger. This one seemed more of a fool than the first. Bryce’s laughter was dark. “Had I known I was such a popular fellow here I would have come of my own accord.” He swept a deep, exaggerated bow. “I am flattered, good sir, and I do accept your kind offer.”

  The second man frowned, insulted, but returned the bow and sealed the duel.

  Behind Bryce, Lucien’s voice boomed over the crowd, quieting it. “And I. I challenge you, also. To a joust to the death.”

  Bryce wiped the grin from his face. He could feel the hatred emanating from Lucien’s body like heat from a flaming hearth. But he expertly masked his flash of apprehension and bowed at Lucien. “You do look like a man tired of living.”

  The room grew quiet again and Bryce fought off the prickling of danger creeping up his back. He addressed Jean Claude with a mocking smile. “Out of all your brave knights there are only these three swine who would challenge the Prince of Darkness? You make it far too easy.”

  The silence, and tension, in the hall grew.

  “Are there any others?” Jean Claude quietly asked the assemblage.

  Bryce heard the sounds behind him and he had the feeling he shouldn’t look. But he had to. And when he did, he wished he hadn’t.

  Every sword in the hall was raised in challenge.

  Chapter Eighteen