The Angel And The Prince

by Laurel O'Donnell

  When the door closed silently behind him, the foreboding that had followed her down the stairs settled on her shoulders and made her skin crawl. Even though Andre was gone, she felt more trapped than before. One defenseless fox against one mighty man.

  Jean Claude said, “Sit down, Ryen.”

  The feeling of dread grew, stabbing Ryen’s stomach, and her knees crumbled, landing her in the seat Andre had vacated.

  The tension stretched like a bow strung too tightly. Ryen dared not move, dreading its eventual release. She watched silently as her father stared deeply into the fire. His blue silk jerkin reflected the firelight and when he turned toward her, the white fur around his collar looked red, almost matching the red in his cheeks. His face was unreadable, but his usually bright eyes were hard.

  “At first you had many suitors. All of which you conveniently ignored.”

  Ryen bowed her head. Her father should have just posted a banner offering her to the highest bidder.

  “No, I’m afraid there are very few. Most took back their offers.” His voice was strong, but strangely sad.

  Good, Ryen thought. How could she hope to lead an army as someone’s wife? He would want her home to produce heirs.

  “I want to hear it from your own lips,” Jean Claude said. “Tell me you did not free the Prince of Darkness.”

  All her years of swordplay could not protect her from his accusation. She could not parry his anger or dodge the anguish in his voice. Agony sliced through her like the sharp edge of a battle sword. Where had he heard such a thing? How could he believe it? Lucien. She opened her mouth to answer, to tell him the Prince of Darkness was dead, but she promptly closed it. Lucien had not believed her, so why would her father?

  Jean Claude stared coldly at his daughter.

  Ryen stood, stepping toward him. Her eyes burned with the effort of keeping her tears in check. He had to believe her! She stretched out her hands. “Father, please. I only wanted to bring him to you. I wanted him to kneel before you so that –”

  “How could you?” he groaned, not hearing her confession, turning away from her. “You released him so that he could kill more of our people. Don’t you see what you’ve done?”

  Slowly, Ryen dropped her arms. She knew Bryce could never raise a sword again, never kill again, for he was dead. I wanted to make you proud of me, she thought. That’s all I ever wanted. And for Bryce to love me. To tell me I was beautiful. But I couldn’t do either. He did not love me. And you aren’t proud of me. I have failed. Ryen struggled to straighten her back and raise her quivering chin. “I have done nothing wrong.”

  “Nothing wrong?!” he bellowed. “You have betrayed your king and your country!”

  He believed she had freed Bryce. He would never believe that the Prince of Darkness was dead. He would never believe that his daughter was innocent of this betrayal.

  “I feel I have been more than fair with you, Ryen. I have nurtured your whims for a long time. And I am sorry for what I must do now, but –”

  Ryen’s mind raced; her heart pounded. Something terrible was about to happen and she could not just sit there and let it. “Father –”

  “The only marriage offer that remains open, and the one which I’m afraid I must accept, is from Count Dumas.”

  “No,” Ryen gasped, stumbling toward her father. “You can’t.” Everything she had ever heard about Count Dumas raced through her mind. He was a hermit who was more than five decades old and had yet to see an heir to his estates. He had had five wives, all of whom were rumored to have been locked in a tower and tortured because they had produced no son. He was a monster!

  “I’m sorry, Ryen,” Jean Claude said. “Truly I am. But it is already done.”

  “Why must you accept? I am the leader of a French army! You do not have to –”

  “You think your men will follow a traitor? I am saving your life. If you return to the army, you will be stabbed in the back at the first opportunity.” He spoke more coldly than he had ever done before.

  Ryen lurched away from him, horrified. Her own men would never stab her in the back! They would not believe these lies that her family believed. Even Andre… “Father…”

  He turned away from her, his shoulders slumped.

  Ryen felt her legs going numb. She raised her chin, again fighting desperately to keep back her fear and her tears. “When is the wedding to take place?” she managed to ask, her voice growing weak.

  “In two months,” he said softly. “Adequate time for you to prepare yourself and your things.”

  Two months, she thought. That would be November. A perfect time for the ice to form around my heart.

  She turned and slowly walked to the door. She paused, her hand on the door handle. She wanted to tell him the truth, tell him that she didn’t free the Prince of Darkness. But he wouldn’t believe her. Just as Lucien did not. If she did tell her father the truth of what happened, she was afraid the guilt hiding beneath the surface of her thoughts would rise into her voice and betray her. And even with her confession, there would be questions she had no reasonable answers for. At least, no answers her father would accept. He would surely wonder how Bryce had gotten into her bedroom, and wonder why she hadn’t cried out in alarm when she had the chance.

  Her hand clenched around the door handle. Ryen wanted to say she was sorry for hurting him, for putting him through this. She wanted to tell her father how much she loved him. But she couldn’t. Her hand trembled with the effort it took to keep her emotions in check.

  He has already turned his back on me, she thought. Ryen opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, closing it softly behind her.

  “Come in,” Ryen called at the insistent knocking. She sat on the floor in a corner of her room, the leggings and tunic she wore her only means of defiance.

  Jeanne pushed the door open. “Ryen, have you forgotten that we were to dine together?”

  “I’m sorry, Jeanne. I wasn’t feeling well. I’m not very hungry,” Ryen replied, looking up from whittling a piece of wood.

  Jeanne shook her head. “Another arrow? I think the castle’s armory will be supplied by you alone.”

  Ryen grinned half-heartedly.

  Jeanne closed the door behind her. She looked worriedly at Ryen, who sat cross-legged, with a knife in one hand and a piece of wood in the other. “Is it true? Did Father really betroth you to that horrible hermit?”

  Ryen nodded and began to run the knife against the wood again.

  “Oh, Ryen. Why on earth did he do it?”

  “He believes I did something dishonorable,” Ryen replied. Her brows creased slightly in concentration as she gazed intently at her whittling.

  “You didn’t free him, did you?”

  Startled, Ryen glanced up at her sister, hurt at the doubt in Jeanne’s voice. She studied Jeanne’s childish yet sincere face until she saw the doubt replaced by embarrassment. Finally, Ryen looked at the window, which was not shadowed with darkness. Jeanne deserved to hear the truth. Perhaps her only sister would believe her. “He jumped out the window, into the moat.” Ryen heard Jeanne’s sharp intake of breath, then her soft footsteps as she approached. Jeanne sat beside her.

  “So that’s why you stare out that window.”

  Ryen waited for the reproach for having Bryce in her room.

  “Did he love you?” she asked, leaning toward Ryen.

  Ryen looked at her in surprise. There was no condemnation in Jeanne’s eyes, only sympathy and understanding. “No,” Ryen admitted quietly.

  “What will you do?”

  “I suppose I must marry Count Dumas.”

  “I want you to come with Jules and me.”

  “Defy Father?” Ryen asked, aghast. When Jeanne nodded, Ryen shook her head. “I couldn’t.”

  “You can’t go to Dumas Castle! They say his last wife fell from the tower window to her death. More likely she jumped to escape that horrible man, or worse yet, was pushed!”

  “I can still fight
for France. Whether they want me to or not.”

  “Please reconsider, Ryen. Come with us.”

  Ryen glanced at Jeanne. “And Jules agrees?”

  Jeanne dropped her eyes under Ryen’s probing gaze. “I – well, I haven’t spoken with him yet, but I shall.”

  Ryen could never go with her. She could never come between Jeanne and Jules. And that was certainly what would happen. Ryen couldn’t ruin Jeanne’s happiness. She shook her head. “I appreciate the offer, Jeanne. But no.”

  “If you change your mind, know that you will always be welcome in my home.”

  Ryen reached out and took Jeanne’s small hand. Not all her family had abandoned her. Her sister still believed in her, and for that Ryen would be forever grateful. She nodded, feeling the first spark of hope ignite within her soul.

  She did not know how badly it would be dashed.

  Chapter Twenty One

  It had started with two maids whispering. When Ryen stared at them, they stopped and glared angrily at her. As a puzzled look came over her face, they separated and continued on their way. It happened again in the main hall, and then again in the stables. The gazes were scornful and furious. Former friends and strangers alike began to turn their backs as she approached them. Ryen suddenly found that where yesterday she had been a famed knight, today she was a leper. She avoided the Great Hall and the practice yard, terrified that her father had been right, that her men believed the savage rumors.

  Ryen stared out at the road below the sitting room window. Traders and merchants moved toward the castle door in a long line of carts and wagons. The smell of the forest just beyond the town wafted to her senses on a light breeze and she lifted her eyes to the tall trees that towered over the thatched roofs.

  She heard the door open behind her and turned. Andre’s head was lowered as he entered the room. Ryen’s heart brightened. She had not seen Andre for a week and she missed him. Perhaps she could talk him into sparring with her. “Andre,” she said happily, pushing herself from the window.

  Andre’s gaze snapped sharply up to hers and Ryen saw the slight drop of his mouth and the surprise in his eyes. For just a moment, his brow furrowed and his lips thinned in misery, before he bowed his head once again and turned away from her.

  Ryen felt as though he had physically shoved her away. Hurt flared in her body, constricting her chest. Finally, she shrank back to the window, agonizingly aware that he was ashamed of her, of what he believed she had done. The rumors had conquered even her faithful brother.

  “Did Father summon you here?” Andre asked stiffly.

  Ryen answered with similar formality. “Yes.”

  Silence settled between them like an unwanted guest. Ryen returned to gazing out the window. She did not see the traders or villains; she only saw the far and distant trees as they swayed in an unseen wind, beckoning to her. She and Andre had always been close. He had always respected her, cherished her. But now, in his eyes, she was a fallen angel.

  The door opened again. Ryen turned her head and her eyes locked on Lucien. She watched the anger and disgust settle over his features as he saw her. She raised her chin, narrowing her eyes to mirror his look before turning away from him.

  When her father entered the room, Ryen did not turn around to see him softly close the door and clasp his hands behind his back. “We are all aware of the events that have taken place within the last week, bringing disgrace and dishonor to our name.”

  Ryen’s fantasy returned: she would tell her father that Bryce was dead and the rumors were all lies, and her father would smile, embrace her, and whisper, “I knew it all along.” As quickly as it materialized in her mind’s eyes, the fantasy vanished. In truth, he would never believe her. People wanted to believe that a woman was weaker than a man. It wasn’t proper for a woman to be out swinging a sword, defending her country. Now, it made no difference if it was true or not. And Ryen could not prove that Bryce was dead. No bodies had been found around the moat’s bank.

  “However, thank the Lord, Count Dumas is willing to overlook these matters,” Jean Claude continued.

  Ryen looked out the window. The sun was bright and hot, promising a warm day. Ryen planned to go to the glen and practice later. She needed to swing a heavy sword, to work out some of the tension she felt.

  “Naturally, since you are to be married, it is not possible for you to lead an army.”

  Ryen froze. He won’t do it. He can’t.

  “As of today, Lucien will lead the men.”

  Ryen did not move. Her body was numb. Everything she valued was taken from her.

  “Ryen? Did you hear me?” Jean Claude asked after a moment.

  His voice came to her as if from a great distance. Ryen could not understand what was happening. She could not find the strength that had once flowed so strongly through her heart. She could not find the words to voice her objection to all the wrongs that were happening to her. She could not find the confidence to stand up against her accusers. The Angel of Death was gone, and in her place guilt ruled.

  “Ryen?” Jean Claude repeated.

  In her mind’s eye, she saw the door closing. The lock sliding into place boomed in her head. She clutched the ledge of the window as blackness invaded her vision. For a moment, her world spun and she thought she was going to faint. I am the Angel of Death, feared by all of France’s enemies, she told herself, her knuckles turning white as she clung to her ledge of consciousness, struggling to find the rage she knew she should feel. Slowly, the blotchy darkness receded, but the flame of her soul remained a dying ember.

  “Yes, Father,” she replied meekly.

  “Good,” Jean Claude responded dubiously. “Then Lucien, the army is yours.”

  “Thank you, Father,” Lucien said.

  Ryen turned and left the room, her head bowed like a compliant servant being dismissed.

  ***

  The barren wasteland of unending white mist spread out before her. Ryen walked forward, not knowing where she was heading or even where she had come from. Her steps were sluggish and unsure as she continued on. Something behind her, a noise, made her stop. She turned to see that the cloud of white had turned completely red, forming a curtain of crimson. Her shoulders drooped as she turned back and moved deeper into the fog. She stared at her feet, watching the red seep out from beneath each step she took. Feeling like a poison, she moved forward, infecting the purity of the white cloud.

  Suddenly, she stopped dead in her tracks. A shadowed figure rose before her in a cloud of dark vapors. His shining suit of battle armor blended with the mist, as if it were the chain mail of a ghost. He floated, his hands on his hips, surveying the area before him as if it were new territory to conquer. Finally, his gaze came to rest on her, his black eyes sparkling like hot oil, hypnotizing her with the force of his presence. His lip curved in a grin and Ryen felt herself drawn to him like a warrior drawn to the sound of a battle cry. He lifted a hand and reached out to take her into his possession…

  Ryen sat bolt upright, her breath coming in rapid gulps. He is alive, she thought. She felt it to the core of her being. He is alive! Her heart pounded wildly with renewed hope.

  Ryen flew from her bed and was running out the door, racing down the hall in the blink of an eye. When she came to Andre’s door, she threw it open and dashed inside.

  He sat up, reaching for his weapon, but her voice stopped him. “Andre!”

  “By all the saints, you startled me, Ryen. Do you wish to be headless?” he asked.

  Ryen paid him no mind as she leapt onto his bed, her eyes wide with excitement and anxiety. “Andre, you must help me search the moat!”

  “What?” he asked, baffled.

  “Please. We must search the moat,” Ryen repeated desperately.

  “Good heavens, why?” Andre demanded, leaning back on his hands so he could regard her. “We’ve already searched the banks.”

  “Bryce is alive.”

  “He escaped. Of course he’s alive.”
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  Ryen sat back on her heels, her hands twisting in her lap. “He jumped out the window into the moat.”

  Andre leaned toward her and, through the moonlight, she could see the questions racing through his mind as clearly as if they were written on his face. His dark brows knit. “How do you know this?”

  Ryen looked down at her hands, feeling the head of his questioning as if she were being interrogated.

  When she didn’t answer, Andre persisted, “Ryen, you’re not telling me everything.”

  Ryen paused again, but when she looked up Andre’s scowl was so fierce that she thought he was going to strangle her right there. “He jumped into the moat from my bedroom window.”

  Andre straightened, his features suddenly shadowed. “What was he doing in your room?”

  “I went down to the dungeon,” Ryen explained, “only to find that the door was open. Bryce had an accomplice. Someone helped him escape. They took me prisoner.”

  “Did they hurt you?” Andre demanded. When Ryen shook her head he continued, “How did they get into your room?”

  “I – I led them up there,” Ryen stated. Andre’s brow darkened with indignation and Ryen hurried on. “I never though he would jump out my window. Never.”

  “Why did you lead him to your room? Why didn’t you call for guards?”

  “Oh, Andre.” Ryen looked down at her hands that were clasped in her lap. “I couldn’t. I didn’t intend him to escape, but… I just wanted to keep him safe until after the joust.”

  Andre paused for a long moment. Finally, he said, “The fall from your window would have killed him.”

  “But no bodies were ever found around the moat. We have to search the moat. I have to know for sure.”

  Andre sat quietly in the shadows cast by the moon’s frosty rays. He leaned back even further and Ryen could not see his features at all. “I would do it myself,” Ryen murmured, looking away from him. “But the men won’t take orders from me any longer.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” he asked.