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.”
Bryce rose in panic. “My liege, she killed my son!”
Henry froze in mid-step as if Bryce’s words had penetrated his skin like a chill breeze. Slowly, he turned. When he faced Bryce, his eyes were carefully blank.
“I ask that you spare her life so that I can inflict on her the pain she has put me through.”
“I should not allow this, Bryce. Harm could befall you, your castle, or even me because of her treachery.” Henry sighed heavily as if the conclusion was apparent. “But since you have been so faithful, I will allow it.”
Bryce rose from his chair as his heart soared. “You shall not be sorry, sire.”
Henry scowled. “The gleam in your eye does not befit a man who speaks of torture and pain.”
Bryce looked away.
Henry stepped closer to Bryce, having to raise his face to speak to him. “Do not take my boon as kindness. If, through any action of hers, my subjects come to harm, I will hold you personally responsible. You, not she, will answer to my punishment.”
Bryce bowed, acceptingly. “Yes, my lord.”
Henry nodded and moved to the flap. Before he exited, he paused to glance back at Bryce. “You are a stubborn man,
Bryce,” he said. “Beware. You have death in your camp.”
Chapter Twenty Six
The castle rose out of the flatland like an erupting mountain of stone, its man-made square towers and rectangular walls sharply contrasting with the natural roll of the earth. Bryce led his weary party over the drawbridge, trudging across the wooden planks that groaned beneath the passing weight of the returning warriors, and through the open gate. The outer ward was quiet, the peasants long since retired for the evening. The moon hid behind the clouds, afraid to shed its light on Dark Castle, and cast only a ghostly hint of illumination over the heavily shadowed fortress.
King Henry had given Bryce and his men a much-deserved rest from the endless war with the French. Bryce had surprised himself by accepting Henry’s offer without much hesitation. As he neared the castle, Bryce was not surprised that he had not been greeted by banners and villagers waving to him in the streets. They had not known he was coming. He was grateful. He could not be the dark lord they expected him to be and stand stoically before them. Not now. Every bone in his body ached from the three day march to Dark Castle. He had not allowed his knights to rest, stopping only when the horses needed water or tending. Bryce’s gaze shifted to the wagon he rode beside as he rolled his shoulders in an effort to relieve the tension in them. Ryen lay bundled in blankets and furs, barely visible except for her tranquil face.
He had driven his army on relentlessly because he wanted to get her to Dark Castle. The weather had remained fair and he was worried that if it changed to rain, she would become ill. She had not awakened from her long slumber during the entire trip back to England.
There was a commotion behind him and Bryce straightened, his hand flying to his sword’s handle as he turned. One of his soldiers was stumbling to his feet from the ground, being helped up by two other men. A third knight had captured the reins of his rearing horse before it could bolt away. The exhausted knight was rubbing his eyes and yawning. He must have fallen asleep on his mount and tumbled to the ground, Bryce thought. He sighed, attempting to relax, but his shoulders remained stiff, his neck tight. There were rumors that some lords were angry with King Henry for sparing the Angel of Death and had vowed vengeance. Bryce was tense, jumping into battle-readiness at every noise, every movement.
He was grateful they had finally reached Dark Castle, and without incident, even if it was the middle of the night. He knew Ryen would be safe.
As they crossed the outer ward gatehouse, he found the yard empty of people. Only the stone wall of the inner ward was there to greet them. Bryce led his tired group toward the towering gate of the inner ward. He knew the guards of the outer gatehouse were spreading the word of his return. Bryce expected that there would be no one in the inner ward to greet them, either. But as the gates creaked open, he saw a small group of raggedy people lounging in the middle of the square.
At last, Bryce felt the tension fall from his shoulders like a loosened cape. As Bryce brought his horse to a halt and swung his leg over the side, the group of five men and two women approached him. A comfortable grin spread over his tired features. Behind him, he heard the sound of sighs, shifting of clothing, and clang of armor as his men dismounted from their horses.
“It must be too cold to go roaming through the fields,” Bryce said.
The group formed a semicircle around Bryce. “We needed some ale,” one of the men replied. He wore brown breeches and black boots, and a pelt of fur hung loosely around his oversized tunic. He ran a hand over his white beard as he regarded Bryce.
“I think you’re becoming soft,” Bryce answered warmly.
A younger man with brown hair and a scrawny beard held out his hand. “It’s good to see you, too, brother,” he greeted.
Bryce clasped his arm tightly, nodding. His eyes drifted back to the first man. He looked older than Bryce remembered. Last time he saw Night, his beard had no gray and the hair on top of his head was dark. He looked into his eyes and saw the signs of age withering the corners.
Night nodded as if in answer. “Yes, it has been a long time.”
“We’ve been here three times since you left for court,” the younger man said.
Bryce’s gaze returned to him. Cub was ten Yules younger than Bryce, born here at Dark Castle. Bryce looked him over with a quick glance. Cub had filled out. Where before he had been scrawny and boyish, Cub was now muscular and…a man. Cub wore a tunic of fur and breeches which Bryce recognized instantly. His eyebrows shot up. “Raiding my chests while I am away?”
Cub shrugged. “I figured if you didn’t take it with you, you didn’t need it.”
Bryce nodded. “You are welcome to anything in Dark Castle.” His eyes swept the rest of the group. Grey stood beside Night. He was Bryce’s age, but looked older, gray peppering his brown, unruly hair. The chain mail he wore over his tunic was rusting. He wore a fur cape for warmth. Grey nodded at Bryce, a crooked grin tugging one of the corners of his lips. Bryce returned the greeting.
Hunter wore leather armor beneath a tunic of gray. His face was scarred across the cheek and on the chin; his black hair hung well past his shoulders, tied back with a piece of fur. His dark eyes narrowed at seeing Bryce’s appraisal.
Breed stood near the back of the group. He had a fresh cut across his cheek and a black eye. His hot temper had landed him in trouble again, Bryce knew. He wore a pair of breeches and tunic that Bryce knew were his. His eyes glinted with defiance and Bryce was amused by the challenge he saw in his stance. He chuckled and was rewarded by Breed’s scowl.
Bryce’s gaze shifted to the two women. He knew only one. Patch was thin and shapely, but far from feminine. Her blond hair hung in dirty clumps filled with thick knots. She wore breeches and a fur tunic. In her brown eyes, Bryce saw fondness as she gazed at him. He grinned in return.
Beside her stood a new addition to the Wolf Pack. She had the look of a hunted animal, her eyes constantly shifting from side to side, her wiry body bent as if in preparation to flee. Her dark hair was hidden in the folds of a woolen hood draped over her head.
Night stated, “Her name’s Trap.”
Bryce nodded once.
“Where’s Runt?” Patch wondered, glancing beyond Bryce at the supply wagons that were now entering the inner ward.
Bryce straightened his shoulders. He tried to push every painful emotion from his body, but could not manage to rid himself of even one. The boy’s image rose before his eyes, his black hair, that stray lock that fell into his blue eyes. In his mind, he heard Runt’s joyful cry upon returning home, saw Runt dash into Dark Castle, calling for his mother. But the vision was agonizing, the dying voice echoing in his head only. A memory. Bryce tightened his jaw against the heartache that once again filled his chest and burned his eyes. “He died in a fire,” Bryce replied, his voice cold, detached.
Patch’s brows furrowed deeply in sorrow.
Bryce turned to the wagon where Ryen was lying. He vaulted over the side and stood over her. As he gazed down at her still, pale face, his love for Runt consumed his heart. She had to be punished. It was in her camp that his boy died. It was on French soil. Even as he thought these things, the desire to touch her soft cheek, her silken hair, to kiss her full lips and breathe life into her again, to see her large, piercing eyes open, filled him so completely that he had to clench his fists tightly at his side to keep from acting on the impulse.
Finally, he bent and scooped her up into his arms. He pulled her close to his chest, shielding her from the chill of the night as he stepped off the wagon.
“Who is she?” Grey asked, moving toward him.
Bryce tightened his arms around her as if his strength would give her the power to recover. He looked down at the fur-lined brown cloak that concealed her face. A stray strand of hair had torn free from the wrappings and gently blew in the soft breeze that suddenly surrounded them.
“She is my prisoner,” Bryce replied possessively, and marched toward the castle.
Grey cast a baffled, curi
ous look at Night before following Bryce into Dark Castle.
Bryce sat in the chair beside Ryen, his face in his hands. He had been by her side for most of the night, refusing visitors.
“You can’t stay in here forever,” Talbot said from behind him.
“No,” Bryce replied wearily, rubbing his stubbled chin, “only until she awakens.” His gaze came to rest on Ryen. In the morning sun that shone through the window, Bryce could see how pale she was. He longingly remembered the red that had colored her cheeks when he had last seen her.
“What if she doesn’t awaken?” Talbot asked. “Will you follow her into hell?”
Bryce’s shoulders stiffened and set with anger. Only his friend would dare speak thus to him. She would not die. She could not. Not like this. He longed to hold her hand, to touch her skin, but he was afraid if he did that she would be so cold…that the last strands of hope would leave his body.
Talbot shook his head sadly. “Why do you sit at her side, my friend? You should awaken Lotte, tour your castle, or at the very least, get some sleep.”
“I can’t,” Bryce responded stoically.
“You sit here like some lovesick pup! Think of what your people will say. Think how it looks! God’s blood, Prince, she was responsible for the slaughter of hundreds of knights under your command! How can you allow her to live?”
“She was responsible for my son’s death,” Bryce answered quietly. “She must live. If only to pay for that.”
Talbot released his breath slowly. “If that is the reason, then why did you not throw her in the dungeon? Why did you bring her to your own room?” When Bryce did not answer, Talbot continued quietly, “Bryce, I vowed loyalty to you many many years ago. But I also took a vow to England and to King Henry. I hope you will not force me to choose one over the other.”
Bryce heard Talbot’s footsteps recede as he walked across the floor and departed. Why had he brought her to his room? To make sure she recovered, he answered silently. She could die from drafts and rat bites in the dungeon. At least here, in his room, he could see that she was able to rest and be well cared for. He looked at her again. She could not die. The thought rose in his mind over and over. I will not let her.
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