The Angel And The Prince

by Laurel O'Donnell

  What would they think if they knew my only weakness was their greatest enemy, if they knew a small glance from her sapphire eyes could bring their lord to his knees? Bryce wondered. He clenched his fist and gently pounded the ledge. Damn, I must have looked like a fool in the Great Hall. If it hadn’t been for the warning in Talbot’s voice, I might have succumbed to her spell and fell to my knees pledging my devotion.

  “I – I want to know why your peasants are hungry,” Ryen’s soft voice came from behind him.

  “They are weak,” Bryce stated simply, not daring to turn to regard her.

  “They work all day! Bryce, please, let me into the kitchens,” Ryen stated.

  Bryce paused for a long moment. Then, he asked, “Why?”

  “I can supervise the making of corn meal.”

  “Why would you want to feed me, your enemy?” Bryce wondered, never taking his gaze from the field, trying hard to ignore the pounding of his passion.

  “The children,” Ryen replied, anguished.

  Bryce turned to her. She was standing near the bed, her hands folded before her stomach. Children. Yes, like Runt. But he had been strong.

  “They’re starving,” she added.

  Could she be trying to help the children because she felt guilty about Runt? No. Bryce stepped away from the window, moving closer to her. “Do not fool yourself. They are my people. They would not hesitate to stab you in the back if they thought it would please me.”

  “Would it?”

  No, Bryce’s mind answered, as he looked into her deep blue eyes. She was perfect. Oh, so perfect. He wanted to touch her so badly that he felt his hands shaking. He turned his back on her and clenched his fists. “You are needed for the ransom.”

  There was no sound, no movement.

  After a moment, he glanced over his shoulder. Her head was bowed; long wavy hair draped over her shoulder like a curtain as her slender finger traced the outline of a wolf carved in the bedpost.

  He moved toward her until they stood shoulder to shoulder, his long black hair brushing the velvet of her gown. He could smell lilacs in the air about her. As she looked up at him, he could see the slight scowl that creased her forehead. He had a sudden desire to kiss her frown away. And it angered him. He stiffened, every muscle in his body fighting the impulse. He looked away from her into the room. Yet, his eyes did not see anything as he proclaimed, “You cannot enter the kitchens.”

  He took two steps toward the door before anger washed over her. “Don’t take out your hate for me on those children.”

  But Bryce did not stop. He quit the room, shutting the door firmly behind him. He was relieved to be alone, away from those haunting eyes, away from that seductive body.

  Bryce grit his teeth. The ransom reply would come within a week. He could wait. After all, it was only seven days. He had spent more than seven days in the agonizing boredom of the court. He had spent more than seven days marching with his army in a torrential downpour. He had spent more than seven days in full armor laying siege to Castle Moore. Bryce sighed.

  It would be the longest week of his life…

  The firelight cast flickering shadows about the room. Polly sat in a chair before the small fire, her short, plump legs stretched out before her. She held her wool skirt up so her pudgy toes were bared to the warmth.

  “Gaw!” Kit planted herself in the vacant chair beside Polly. “I’m colder than a rat’s arse.” She tugged up her skirt and placed her feet near the fire. “I’d love ta put a curse on that Lotte. She’s the bloody one who keeps us poor folks out o’ the main room and away from the fireplace. Why, the bloody dogs are warmer!”

  “Keep your voice down. If we’re discovered ‘ere, we’d have a fit trying to explain why,” Polly hushed.

  Finally, Kit sat back in her chair, staring contentedly into the flames. “Now, I bet if the Angel were lady of the castle things would be different.”

  “Aye,” Polly nodded. “She has a good heart.”

  “Who’da thought we’d be talkin’ this way? I s’pected ta hate ‘er. Then she goes an’ does nice things. Did ya hear? She gave Jimmy her meat.”

  Polly nodded, a sluggish smile spreading over her face.

  “Thing would be different,” Kit continued. “Even his lordship would be sportin’ a smile.”

  “We’d be fed well,” Polly supplied.

  “An’ we’d have a warm place ta sleep. We would not have ta sneak ta the kitchen. Ah. That witch, Lotte.”

  “Yer right,” Polly said. “But until Prince can see the good Lady Ryen would do, we’re stuck with snotty Lotte.”

  Kit groaned. “Da ya ever think he’ll come ta his bloody senses?”

  Polly shrugged.

  “And ta think we believed all them bad things about her.” Kit shook her head, her dirty brown locks swaying with the movement. “I still can’t believe Talbot was goin’ ta have her whipped.”

  Polly’s face whitened.

  Kit continued, staring into the flames. “Why, ifn I every find out who gave ‘er that bloody dagger, I’ll –”

  “It was me,” Polly mumbled. Her heavy form sat absolutely still, shoulders slumping.

  Kit turned her head to Polly. “What’d ya say?”

  “It was me. That’s why I tried ta stop them.” Polly’s eyes became teary with the memory. “Why, that lass would have let them lash her before she revealed me name.”

  “Oh, Polly. Why’d ya do it?”

  “I meant no harm. But, ya know, the bread is so hard. And she was so thin.” Polly turned to her with haunted eyes. “Do you know what they’d do to me if they ever found out?”

  Kit’s eyes grew round. “The dungeon!”

  Polly nodded. “Ya mustn’t tell!”

  “I won’t,” Kit replied earnestly.

  “Swear,” Polly said, leaning forward to study her face.

  “I swear it on me mother’s grave, God rest ‘er soul.”

  Polly sat back heavily, putting a hand to her chest. “Oh, but telling someone is a weight off me chest. I thought fer sure I would burst with the secret. But now I have you ta talk to.”

  They watched the flames dance before their eyes, content and warm.

  “Lord have mercy,” Polly whispered into the silence. “But I owe the Angel ‘o Death me life.”

  A glimmer flashed in the shadows behind them, and a dark shape receded, taking with it the white of a smile.

  Chapter Thirty Four

  The distant clang of metal against metal caught Ryen’s attention. She threw the comb down on the bed and raced to the window. Was the castle under attack? She strained and tilted her head to find out which way the familiar noise was coming from. Then she spotted it. To the left, over the castle wall, she could see a clearing where men clothed only in breeches were practicing their knightly skills. Warm memories flooded over her. She could have been in France, watching her own soldiers.

  Except for Bryce. When he strode onto the field, she noticed him immediately. His presence filled the clearing like the dark lord he was named for. She watched him bend down and pick up his sword. Then, unmercifully, he attacked the man closest to him. His movements were swift and deathlike, each thrust a precise jab. Not once did he relent until his opponent lay defeated beneath him. Ryen’s face brightened as she leaned farther out the window in an attempt to watch him better. He was magnificent, there was no denying that. His tunic lay discarded in the grass; his shoulder muscles rippled like waves beneath a fine layer of perspiration. His dark hair reflected the sunlight in its obsidian depths, casting the fiery orange light back in defiance.

  Ryen felt a stirring inside her. She wanted to touch him, to caress that skin and feel the softness of his hair, but there was something else, too. There was delight at watching him best the other knights in swordplay, thrill at seeing him overpower all who challenged him.

  Then, Ryen saw Talbot walk over to Bryce, his arm out of the sling and hanging at an awkward angle at his side. They spoke together for
a moment and Ryen watched Bryce’s shoulders set and straighten. Then, together, the two men turned and looked right at her!

  Ryen yanked her head back into the room, smacking it on the bricks. She rubbed her injured skull and quickly withdrew into the room. She sat on the bed for a long moment, rubbing her throbbing head. She half expected Bryce to come up to her room and demand to know what she had been looking at. But as the minutes stretched on and the door did not bang open, Ryen knew he would not come.

  I’m glad, she told herself, knowing as she thought it that it was not the truth. She turned her thoughts back to the men and how they were training. How she longed to swing a sword again, to feel the weight of a weapon in her hands! Her body felt stiff and useless. She stood and imagined an opponent’s swing, and dodged to the side, ducking under the imaginary blade. But her gown tangled around her feet and she tripped, stumbling to the ground.

  For a long moment, she lay there on her back, dazed. She looked around the room from the floor. Have I lost all my senses? she wondered. I can’t practice in a dress! Ryen sat up and removed the dress. Then she stared down at her chemise. It would still get caught between her legs. If only she could hitch it up somehow. Then her gaze came to a towel lying beside the basin on the table next to the bed.

  Ryen carefully rolled the towel into a tight belt and pulled the skirt of her chemise up so it hung to her mid-thigh. She tied the towel around the skirt, about her waist. When she was done, she looked down at her makeshift belt. Her long legs were exposed from the knee down. Finally, she could move freely!

  Ryen ducked and sidestepped imaginary blows. Again and again. Her body, not used to the labor, ached. But it felt good doing the movements she had been used to. Still, even thought the dodges and parries were helpful in getting her body warmed up, Ryen knew she needed a weapon.

  Slowly, Ryen scanned the room…until she saw the tapestry. She moved to the elaborate hanging and stared at the devil’s face. His dark eyes seemed to be staring at her, his dark hair waving in the mysterious night breeze.

  Bryce. His smug smirk. The muscles that gleamed under the moonlight. She followed the picture up to the sliver of a moon and then to the rod that held the tapestry.

  A rod of gold!

  A sword!

  She stretched onto her toes and removed the rod from the thin strings holding it. Sitting on the floor, Ryen yanked the rod onto her lap and pulled it free of the tapestry. It was a bit long, but it would have to do. She got to her bare feet, throwing the rod from one hand to the other, weighing it. She tested it by arcing it over her head, then by thrusting. Ryen took tentative thrusts and parries until she became used to the weight and awkward height of the rod. Then, she gave it her all. Thrusts, dodges, parries, arcs. Everything.

  Bryce stood in the open doorway.

  Ryen froze, staring into his dark look. Her hair was wild about her shoulders, the skirt of her chemise hanging down on one side, having fallen loose from the towel. She held the rod out at him. The thought made her grin. It was ludicrous that a small, thin rod would stop him. She watched his dark eyes slowly lower, taking in every curve. Heat rose into her face and Ryen lowered the rod and snatched a blanket off the bed to cover herself with.

  Bryce stepped into the room. His eyes shifted to the rod she held in her hand. Then, his gaze whipped to her right.

  Ryen watched outrage filter across his face, saw the clenching of his hands. She turned to look at the object of his sudden rage. Only when her eyes found the crumpled tapestry did she recall it. Her head snapped back to Bryce, who was approaching her, his brows narrowed accusingly over his turbulent eyes, a muscle clenched in his jaw. Instinctively, she brought the rod up, halting him three feet from her.

  Bryce stared hard at the rod, as if he couldn’t understand its purpose. Then he raised his eyes to Ryen. The storm of anger threatened to sweep her into its whipping winds and furious lashing waves. Bryce swatted aside the rod so hard that the vibration shook her arm. He seized her shoulders in an iron grip. “Angel,” he said, from between clenched teeth.

  The shock of his naked touch against her skin sent tremors up her arms to her shoulders. Ryen clutched the blanket tightly to her chest, her tiny fist knotted into the folds of the cloth.

  His lips were drawn down into a frown of displeasure. Then, his rage exploded and he shook her. “Damn it, Ryen. Why do you have to be --?”

  Suddenly she was against his body, his lips searing agonizingly across hers. Hungrily his tongue forced her lips open, and when she parted them, he thrust deep inside, tasting her sweetness. He crushed her to his body, his large hands pressing her back closer against him, drawing her nearer.

  “Bryce,” Ryen gasped, tilting her head back to receive more of his kisses.

  He pulled back to gaze into her eyes and frowned down at her. He stepped quickly back, away from her.

  Ryen furrowed her brow in confusion, then raised her chin and swallowed the sudden pain of rejection that rose inside her.

  “Ryen –” Bryce murmured.

  She stared at him, large eyes sparkling like sapphires. Hope ignited in her heart. He was going to apologize, to tell her that she was beautiful.

  “You may use the kitchens,” he said.

  Ryen’s jaw slackened as disappointment stabbed her. Was that all? she wondered.

  Bryce turned and headed for the door.

  “Bryce!” Ryen called desperately.

  He paused not two feet from the door, his shoulders rigid.

  Ryen stared hard at his back, a thousand questions racing through her mind. “Why did you kiss me?” she asked softly.

  He did not move for a long moment. “Talbot will escort you to and from the kitchens. He will oversee everything you do.”

  The kiss was a punishment for the tapestry, Ryen thought, her heart aching. No, not the kiss, but the feelings that flooded her senses when he deprived her of another touch of those sensuous lips. That was the true punishment. She watched as he pulled the door closed behind him. Slowly her shoulder sagged and she sat on the bed.

  That night, Ryen ate alone in her room.

  Chapter Thirty Five

  Polly, Kit and Jimmy stood before Ryen in the rear of the Great Hall, staring at her with expectant eyes. Jimmy’s mother stood at her son’s side, her hollow brown eyes regarding Ryen with distrust. Her cotton dress was filthy; her feet were bare. She had no intention of masking the hostility that burned in her eyes.

  Ryen surveyed the room. At the tables near the front of the Great Hall, the soldiers attacked the bread the servants had just placed before them. The peasants lounged against the wall not far from her, waiting for their chance at the food. They all watched her with blank faces. Ryen couldn’t help but notice how Jimmy’s mother turned her gaze toward the food with a concerned look. She thinks she will go hungry today, Ryen thought, before turning to Polly.

  “Where do you usually sit to eat?” Ryen wondered.

  “Sit?” Kit asked, looking to Polly in confusion. “Why, we sit anywheres we can find a space. Sometimes we just stand.”

  “Aye,” Polly agreed. “It’s quicker to the food that way.”

  “A dark corner is the best,” Jimmy piped in. “Then ya might not get yer food taken.”

  A surge of sympathy swept Ryen. The poor child. There was no need to live like this. Everyone could have food – perhaps not as good as the nobles’, but nourishing and warm.

  Ryen led the group to an overturned table in the murky shadows in the rear of the hall. “Here,” Ryen said, bending down and placing her hands on the table’s edge. “Help me.”

  Polly and Kit moved to her side. But Jimmy’s mother stood, her hands rooted to her hips, glaring at Ryen. “What are ya up ta? Why should we work for you?”

  Ryen was about to reply, but Polly exploded. “Ya best not be talking to her that way!”

  “’N why not?” the woman demanded.

  “It’s all right, Polly,” Ryen said, after righting the wooden table with Ki
t’s help. She turned to Jimmy’s mother, studying her. Her face was streaked with dirt, her hair uncombed; two of her teeth were missing. Their life could be so much better. “Because,” Ryen stated, “if you help me, you will eat until you are full.”

  “’N why should I believe ya? Who are ya ta me?”

  “What do you have to lose?” Ryen wondered, bending to right a fallen bench. She was pleased to see Kit dragging another bench up to the opposite side of the table.

  “What ‘ave I got ta lose?” she replied, wiping a ripped sleeve across her dirty nose. “Ya’ll probably poison us all!” She grabbed Jimmy’s arm and pulled him away.

  Ryen watched them go. Her heart twisted for the boy. Because his mother was so stubborn didn’t mean the boy should have to go hungry. She heard snickers from the people around the room and turned to see the men and women at the tables watching her as they shoved bread into their mouths. Ryen raised her chin and turned her back on them. She didn’t need their help nor their approval. “Polly, your job will be to make sure this table is clean before every meal. And at the looks of this,” she ran a finger along the top of the table, then raised the dirt-coated tip before their eyes, “it may very well be a hard job.”

  “Aye,” Polly replied, beginning to rub the wood with her apron.

  “And yours, Kit, is to bring the meals. Polly will help, if need be.”

  Kit nodded.

  “There will be enough food to fill both your stomachs, as well as everyone else’s. So don’t be afraid to ask for more. And Kit, always set an empty bowl. Everyone is welcome at this table.” She shot a look at Bryce, who was sitting in his usual chair at the other end of the room. “Everyone.”

  When they were done scrubbing clean a small area of the table so that they could eat, Kit carried in their meal, a bowl full of pease pudding for each of them. As Kit sat beside Ryen to eat, she gasped, “Gaw! It’s still warm! I never had a warm meal before. Gaw.”