“Will you be all right?”
“Yes, Jeanne,” Ryen replied, and staggered away from the door, her gaze riveted on the window and the ledge where just moments before Bryce had stood.
“I’ll come by later to –”
Jeanne’s voice drifted off as Ryen crossed the expanse of her room to return to the window. She bent over the ledge, her eyes scanning the moat below, but the water was like a silver mirror, showing her nothing of what might lie below its surface. He was gone. The sun’s light edged toward the dark grave of the waters. Numbness spread through Ryen’s body. All she could do was stare into the moat, hoping that somehow he would appear.
He didn’t.
Ryen followed listlessly as Jeanne tugged her along, blazing a path through the gentry to the platform that was reserved for her family and honored guests. The large, muddy flatland that served as the field of honor was overflowing with people. Over the simple wooden fence that surrounded the field, anxious spectators hung like eager children waiting for a treat. Peasants sat on the small hills just beyond the standing observers. A rope separated the rabble from the local gentry. The nobility sat on brightly colored blankets, eating fine breads and drinking ale.
Ryen could not get Bryce’s image from her mind. He haunted her thoughts like a vengeful ghost. The memory of the swirling smoke fading to reveal his dark visage, his long black hair, tanned skin, and the way his midnight eyes opened and pinned her, breathless, to the spot, made her tremble with the loss of this man who was so much more than just a man. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him reach for her from the darkness. And every time she opened her eyes to find that he wasn’t there, the pain of his death gripped her tighter.
The trumpets sounded, jarring Ryen from her daze. A deafening roar erupted from the crowd and Ryen lifted her eyes to see the De Bouriez banner leading the way before the brilliantly dressed knights as they rode onto the field. Armor glinted in hot flashes as whinnying beasts took their riders around the field. The thunder of hoofbeats pounded in Ryen’s ears and her heart ached. Bryce would have looked splendid in his shining armor, riding a magnificent battle steed.
Jeanne touched her arm. Ryen whipped her agonized gaze up to her sister. Jeanne’s joyful smile disintegrated. Ryen pulled her arm away and turned, racing back the way they had come through the crowd. She couldn’t bear to be with her countrymen with the memory of Bryce’s death so vivid in her mind.
Ryen hoisted the silken skirts of her houppelande above her knees and ran up the grassy hill toward the forest that surrounded the castle. She vaguely heard her sister call out after her but she paid her words no heed. She crashed through the foliage, sharp thorns and branches tearing at her dress, scratching her skin. The cheers of the crowd followed her into the darkness of the forest, mocking her attempt to escape his memory. She finally collapsed beside an old oak tree, burying her face in her folded arms. How could the mighty Prince of Darkness be dead? she demanded silently. How can a legend die? The moat surrounding De Bouriez Castle has swallowed many, but never one so strong as the Prince of Darkness! It cannot be. He cannot be dead. Fool, she chastised herself. You saw him leap from the window with your own eyes. No man can survive a fall that far.
“You set him free.”
Ryen jerked her head up and turned quickly. Lucien stood behind her, his golden plate armor gleaming in the shadows like a torch, threatening to burn her where she lay. He held his helmet in his arm and his blond hair wavered gently in a breeze. He took a step and knelt beside her, his armored knee making a deep impression in the dirt. His sharp blue eyes coldly assessed Ryen’s face for a moment before his upper lip curled in contempt. “Regretting your action already, Sister?”
His words shocked her and she sat up, brushing the tears from her cheeks.
“How did you get him out of the castle?”
“What?” she gasped.
“Which way did you send him?” Lucien asked through clenched teeth.
She began to shake her head. “Lucien, you don’t understand.”
“I understand quite well, Sister. I understand that you’re a fool. He used you. He used you to aid his escape.”
“No,” Ryen gasped.
“You will tell me where he went.”
“He jumped out the window, Lucien. Into the moat,” she replied miserably, baring her soul, her pain.
“Lies!” Lucien roared.
Ryen jerked back as if he had struck her.
“Why do you protect him?” he demanded.
Her mouth dropped in disbelief. “He’s dead! I can protect him from nothing!” she shouted, feeling her throat tighten to choke off her voice.
Slowly, Lucien stood and stared down at her, his upper lip curling in a sneer. “I do not need your aid to find him. I simply thought you might want to offer it.”
Ryen watched as he strode away, the beginnings of panic rising inside her. He did not believe her! Her own kin thought she lied. What would her people think?
Ryen gazed wearily into the moat. Tiny drops of rain pelted the gray water. Even after three days, she still could not believe Bryce was dead. His passionate touch seemed like a dream, another lifetime. At least it was easier for Ryen to think of it that way.
But there was also a nagging doubt that festered in her mind. Why had she led him to her room? At the time, her feet had taken the path to her room out of instinct. What had she planned to do with him once they got there?
Had she really meant to set him free?
No! her rational mind screamed. Never. She had meant to hide him in her room until the joust was stopped.
They would have found Bryce. And then the joust would have been scheduled for the following day, or the day after. The only way to truly be chivalrous was to set him free.
No! she argued in silence. I simply meant to… I never intended to free him.
And even though she told herself this over and over, she could never come to believe it with all her heart.
A knock on the door startled Ryen out of her reverie. “Come in,” she invited.
Jeanne bounced in and paused just inside the doorway, frowning. “Every time I come into your room, you are staring out the window. You must tell me what you see that fascinates you so.”
Jeanne took up a spot beside Ryen and carefully leaned over the ledge of the window, following her gaze.
“Gads!” Jeanne gasped. “Please tell me you do not stare at that dreary water!”
When Ryen did not reply, but simply moved away from the window to sit on the thick embroidered blanket on the bed, Jeanne sighed. “Really, Ryen. You are much too disheartening these last days. I wish what I’m going to tell you would make you feel better, but I’m afraid it won’t.”
Ryen raised weary, burning eyes to her sister.
Jeanne shook her head. She went to Ryen and knelt at her feet. “Ryen, what is wrong with you? I have never seen you this miserable. Is it Father?”
“No,” Ryen mumbled. “It isn’t Father.”
“Then what? Please tell me.”
A sad smile tugged at Ryen’s lips and she shrugged helplessly.
“Very well. But you can’t keep it a secret forever, Ryen.” Jeanne nervously smoothed out the folds of her skirt. “Jules and I are going.”
“Going where?” Ryen echoed with something close to panic in her voice.
“Home, of course, to our castle. Jules has villages to oversee and duties to perform.” Jeanne smiled just as glumly as Ryen. “Besides, you have your army to lead. Wasn’t it you who said the English were coming to France?”
“But you just got here.”
“We’ve been here for seven months now. It’s you who have not been here.”
“I’m so sorry, Jeanne. I’ve been preoccupied.”
“Yes, I know.”
“When are you going?” Ryen asked.
“Tomorrow.”
“So soon?”
“I’m afraid so,” Jeanne replied.
Ryen bow
ed her head, staring at her hands that rested in her lap.
Jeanne reached up and traced the curve of Ryen’s chin. “Poor Ryen. Don’t be sad. I couldn’t bear it. We must be happy. We have only a few hours left together. I will dine with you later tonight.” Jeanne climbed to her feet, carefully pulling her green skirts away from her feet. Her brown eyes, usually so happy and carefree, looked uneasy. “But now, Father is waiting for you in his private room.”
Chapter Twenty
Ryen remembered her father’s private room as a small warm room where he had held her in his lap by the fireplace and told her stories. Now, it was anything but warm. She saw her father leaning against the stone hearth, staring into the embers of the fading fire, his rigid back to her. She was surprised to see Andre seated in one of the plush red velvet chairs that surrounded a small wooden table. When her questioning eyes caught his, he turned away.
There was a tapestry on the wall farthest from the hearth depicting the slaughter of a small fox by two armored men. She instantly felt kinship with the fox.
“Leave us, Andre,” Jean Claude said in a quiet voice.
Andre rose stiffly, hesitated a moment, and finally strode past Ryen, his head bent. Ryen frowned as he passed her.
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, R
yen 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.
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