A Warrior's Heart

by Laurel O'Donnell

  “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fascinated by the dark, rebellious curls that hung over her shoulders, held out of her face by a simple, if somewhat outdated, headband.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 Bryce. “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 chall
enge 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

  It is ridiculous, Ryen thought as she paced before the stone window in her room, the shutters open wide to the night sky. She did not feel the chilly air as it tried to wrap its frigid fingers around her bare shoulders; her body blazed with a blanket of anger. Her nightdress swooshed with each furious step. This was not a joust! It was murder. Knights did not behave in such an unchivalrous manner. What had happened to her men? To her brother? Had the war turned them into barbarians?

  Ryen paused to stare into the black night. She wondered how she had come to see things so differently than Lucien. There was a time when everything was black and white, right and wrong. Now that was not so. Or maybe it was. But Lucien’s right was suddenly her wrong.

  A forbidden thought came to her. It would be so easy to go to Bryce…to… She crossed her arms over her chest as a sudden chill swept over her, peppering her arms with tiny bumps. What had happened to right and wrong? Life was so clear before. England was the enemy of France. But she was not France. Just as Bryce was not England. He was a man.

  A man who had made her feel beautiful.

  He is my prisoner, she rationalized, and I will not let a bloodbath take place. She whirled and stormed to the door, determined to see her father and put a stop to this lunacy. She threw the door open and stopped instantly when she saw Lucien leaning casually against the stone wall opposite her room, like a lazy lion waiting for its prey. He was flipping a small pebble in his hand.

  Ryen’s hand fell to her side, clenching into a fist.

  “I thought you might be up late,” he said quietly, tossing the pebble aside.

  Tingles shot up her spine, and she had the oddest feeling of being trapped. As she walked into the hallway, the dim orange-yellow light from two flickering torches washed over her. “What are you doing here?” she wondered.

  “Giving you one last chance,” Lucien replied, a shadow flickering across his face. “I knew you’d fail.”

  Her eyebrows drew together in uncertainty.

  “You see,” Lucien continued, “I knew that when the jousts were announced, you would react as you have.”

  “He is my prisoner and I will not tolerate –” Ryen began, but stopped as she saw Lucien take a threatening step toward her.

  “That’s not the reason you protest.”

  “No, I protest because this is not a joust. It’s a massacre,” Ryen said. “He cannot fight all of France!”

  “Have you no worry for your knights? Or your brother?” His voice was oddly quiet, menacing in its softness. “After all, he is the strongest knight in England. Their best warrior.”

  “You are mad,” Ryen snapped in disgust, too angry to make him see the insanity of the situation through words of calm. “I won’t let you joust. I won’t let you fight him.”

  “But we want to. You cannot deny our right, Ryen. You cannot deny the Code of Chivalry,” Lucien said.

  “A hundred knights against one is not chivalrous!” she roared.

  “Why do you defend him? Let him die in battle.”

  “I would, if it wasn’t a slaughter!” Her eyes were dark with rage, her brows knit, her teeth clenched.

  Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t think you would. I don’t think you could sit there and watch him die. You love him, don’t you?”

  “No!”

  Lucien stepped closer. “You do. I’ve seen the way you watch him.”

  “No!”

  Closer still. “The way you light up when you see him.”

  “No!”

  “The pain in your eyes because you know it’s wrong.”

  The truth in his words stunned her. Yes. She did love Bryce. Why hadn’t she seen it? How had it happened? Her hands began to shake and she had to turn away from him. She could not let him see how true his accusations were. But Ryen knew that turning away was confirmation enough and she hated herself for not being able to look him in the eye.

  “I’m not going to let you interfere with this joust. I will kill him, if only for your sake.”

  “Lucien, no. You mustn’t –”

  Before Ryen realized what was happening, Lucien had seized her wrist in a grip as hard as iron shackle. He had pulled her halfway across the hall, toward her room, before she came to her senses and dug her bare heels into the floor. But his strength was too much for her and he easily flung her into her bedchamber, then closed the door with a resounding thud.

  Ryen caught herself before she lost her balance and stood absolutely still as images of her childhood came gushing into her mind: Lucien, a boy of twelve, hair the color of golden daffodils, dragging her to her room; she, a small child of eight, crying and screaming helplessly. She remembered his hard grasp bruising her wrist as he tossed her like a rag doll into her room. And finally she remembered the chilling sound of the bolt sliding home as the door was locked.

  Then, Ryen realized that the soft clang that echoed through her mind was not a memory! She ran to the door, pulling at the cold metal handle. The door did not open. Disbelief, followed closely by a feeling of dread, consumed her as she yanked frantically on the handle. Again it did not budge. She slammed her fist into the wooden door, screaming, “Lucien! Let me out!” She shook the handle again but the thick wooden door did not budge. She pounded on it, her heart aching with desperation, her mind filling with despair. “Oh, God,” she mumbled, a light sweat making her brow shimmer.

  She raced to the window. Through the moonlit shadows of the night, she could see no movement below her. The moat was calm, the forest beyond was still. She was at least fifty feet up and the walls were too slick for scaling. The ledge had a curving lip so even if a ladder were laid against the castle wall no one would be able to gain access to the room. It had been specifically chosen and designed by her father so no man could scale the wall and whisk her away.

  She had to get out. Bryce’s life was in danger! The joust was at noon and she had to stop it! They wouldn’t even allow his wounds to completely heal before they slaughtered him.

  Ryen whirled, her gaze darting about the room, stopping on the impenetrable stone walls, the useless arced windows, and then back to the bolted door. I did not find a way out before. Why should now be any different? she wondered. Her breath came in rapid gulps, as if the room were being sucked dry of air. A feeling of strangulation grabbed her and she put her hands to her throat.

  She had to get out! But how? There wasn’t a way. She had looked and looked! You fool, she chastised herself. You were a child! Now you are a warrior. But what am I to do? Splinter the door? How do you win battles? she asked herself. Through brawn? No. Throu
gh brains. Think!

  Ryen paced the room, trying to come up with a plan while attempting to calm the anxiety that was racing through her veins. Her gaze scanned the room again. She ran to the window, again a child of eight, and looked down the sheer wall of the castle. Like an abyss, the descent to the brackish water gaped before her. To a child’s mind, the curving banks of the moat seemed to frown up at her.

  Ryen turned away to scan the room once more. Her eyes came to rest on the four-poster bed. Even if she tied all the blankets together, they would not be enough to reach the ground. It was too far. If the fall to the ground did not kill her, and through some miracle she reached the moat, it was unswimmable. Of course, Ryen knew this. For she had thought of it before.

  Again she ran to the door, retracing the steps she had taken as a child. She pounded on the wood, screaming to be let out.

  But no one came.

  The tears of a scared little girl welled in her eyes. They would leave her here…she would never get out. She would grow old and die in this room, and no one would know.

  Slowly, Ryen’s hand clenched. Stop it, she told herself. Stop it. There is a way out of here. And it’s not setting fire to the room, as you thought those many years ago. And it’s not jumping into the moat.

  Ryen forced herself to calm her breathing and walked quietly to her bed. She sat down, her chin bowed to her chest. There is a way out, she told herself.

  The blind fear of a child was slowly replaced by a burning anger. How dare Lucien lock me in here, Ryen thought. I will get out. And I will get him back.

  Calmly, Ryen considered the door. It was much too thick to break down. But it was not the door itself that was her barrier. It was the bolt. She knew how a bolt worked. Somehow, she had to breach the bolt.

  Ryen shot to her feet, ran to her bureau, and dug through the silk dresses and gauzy chemises as if they were old rags. Finally, after parting rich bolts of material, she found it. After all these years, it was still there, buried deep beneath layers of Spanish satin and Venetian velvet. Carefully, she picked it up and held it before her eyes. The candlelight sparkled off its long, thin metallic surface. It was a hunting knife, Lucien’s pride and joy. She had taken it from him many, many years ago, after he had hidden a dead fish under her pillow. She grinned. He had never found it. It served him right for his prank.