A Warrior's Heart

by Laurel O'Donnell

  Ryen took the linen and absently wiped at the blood on her wrist. “And if I marry Count Dumas, the outcome might be the same.”

  Lucien’s blue eyes danced in the fluttering candlelight as he regarded her. Finally, he said quietly, “I would rather you join my army than marry that old hermit.”

  Ryen raised her eyes from the scrape on her arm to stare at her brother with surprise. Then, her shock faded and she looked away from Lucien. “Even after the war, I will not return to De Bouriez Castle,” she announced.

  “And what will you do?” There was disbelief and outrage in his voice.

  “I am not helpless. I will sell my skills.”

  “Mercenary?” he stated with disgust. “No one will hire you. Not a ‘traitor’.”

  “I can’t go back!”

  “We’ll never see you again,” he stated quietly.

  Lucien was right. She would never see her family again. Unless by some chance Andre or Lucien went to serve for the same lord that hired her. She swallowed heavily. “You must tell Jeanne that I’ll miss her. And that I’m not a traitor.”

  Lucien tried to see into her eyes, but she averted them. “You think you’re going to die in the battle with the English.”

  Ryen smiled gloomily. “If I am not cut down by an Englishman, one of our own may well stab me in the back.”

  Lucien’s brows knit with anger. “Then don’t fight!”

  She stared at him, strangely pensive. “I have to. I have to fight the best I’ve ever fought, cut more of them down. This is my only chance to regain my honor.”

  Lucien bowed his head. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “I only wish that I could make you believe that I did not betray out country.”

  His jaw tightened. But when he raised his eyes to her, Ryen saw a strange thing. His blue eyes, so like hers, were full of tears. She was so startled that she could not say a word.

  Lucien rose until he towered over her. He nodded once and turned away, striding to the entrance. It was only after he left that Ryen wondered if they were tears of remorse or tears of guilt.

  Three weeks later, Ryen stood with the French Army at her back. They were fifty thousand men strong, blocking the way to Calais. When the English approached, the French knights had donned their sparkling armor and displayed banners that quickly drooped in the constant onslaught of rain.

  Ryen sat atop her white battle horse, mud staining its coat. The English spread out over the plain before her, equally drenched. She estimated they had about ten thousand men at arms. Briefly, she recalled Bryce sweating under the influence of the truth powder…he had said there were five thousand men at arms! Ryen frowned as an ill feeling settled like lead in the pit of her stomach. Had Henry received reinforcements? That must be the answer. Where else would the extra men have come from? But the French were still more than four times their number.

  “We will squash them like bugs!” The Duke of Alencon called, his fist raised as he shook it at the English.

  He was echoed by more threats of vengeance and torture. Ryen did not join in. She sat silently staring at their enemy. There was something about the situation that made her uneasy. Maybe it was the quiet way the English stared at the French. Or maybe it was the arrogant attitude of the soldiers around her, an overconfidence that could easily lead to defeat. Doom settled around her as strong as the stench of war and she fought to rid herself of the foreign feeling.

  “They won’t attack today,” Ryen said to Andre.

  Andre looked at the setting sun, hidden behind gray clouds. “I think you’re right.”

  “I believe he will lodge at Maisoncelles.”

  “Have the men sleep where they are. We shall await first light,” Lucien instructed.

  “Aye,” Andre replied and rode off through the camp, passing the word.

  As banners were furled around lances and knights began to remove their rain-drenched armor, Andre returned to Ryen’s side, nudging his horse up beside hers. “You’re shivering. You should get out of those wet clothes,” he murmured.

  Ryen barely heard him. She felt her horse slide and looked down. Thick mud sucked at the animal’s feet, engulfing his hooves. She scanned the field to see that all around them the ground was wet, and as the men and horses trod through the camp they created even more mud. On either side of them, rows of trees stood tall and majestic, encroaching upon the field as if they were anxious to see the upcoming battle. “This field is not suitable to battle the English. We should retreat to more solid ground,” Ryen said.

  Andre was silent for a moment as his gaze swept the field.

  “The ground is slick and with the weight of our armor, let alone our horses, I’m afraid that we will have trouble,” she added.

  He looked across the field to the English camp. “Henry’s men have traveled a long way. They are tired and far from home. They will be easy to defeat.”

  “The field is too narrow, the men packed in too tightly. We will have trouble using the archers. I can’t see what the constable is thinking, waging battle here,” Ryen mused.

  “I disagree with you. With all our men, how can we possibly lose?”

  Ryen glanced at him, her brow creased.

  “Do not worry, Ryen. The coming morn will bring our victory.”

  That arrogance will be the downfall of the French, Ryen thought.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Ryen De Bouriez was already awake when morning came on that fateful day in October in the year 1415. She had stepped outside her brother’s tent and her lips immediately arched down into a frown as she watched dawn break on the horizon. The muted red rays of the sun brought only a cold dampness with them, a wet chill that seeped into her bones.

  She turned at the sound of hoof beats and watched two French messengers ride through the muddy field as they returned from the English camp. She had little hope that they would be successful in their negotiations; if the English commanders were anything like Bryce, they would never surrender, even if they were outnumbered a thousand to one. And from the grim looks on their faces, she knew she was right.

  She looked away from the messengers to study the French positions. The constable had placed the army between Tramecourt on their left and Agincourt on their right, thus firmly blocking the English army’s route to Calais. But the field before them was restricted to about three quarters of a mile by the woods that fringed the two villages.

  She frowned as she noticed that most of the French nobility seemed to have pushed themselves to the front of the line in their eagerness to participate in the expected massacre of Henry and his army. The dukes, counts, and barons had displaced many of the lowborn archers and crossbow men who were so crucial to the successful execution of the battle plan; how could they be effective if they were too far back from the line of attack? She shook her head.

  “Did you hear that the constable has promised to cut off three fingers of the right hand of every archer taken prisoner so that none of them will ever draw a bow against us again?”

  Ryen turned to see Andre stepping out of the tent. She pretended she hadn’t heard his query. The idea turned her stomach. “I have an ill feeling about this battle, Andre,” Ryen said, staring into the distance toward the enemy.

  “I think your feeling is due more to an empty stomach.” He gently grabbed Ryen’s elbow and tried to pull her with him. “Come, Sister, let us eat before we wage war.”

  Ryen resisted and stayed where she was. She turned her head, glancing at Andre from the corner of her eye. “I am not hungry.” She didn’t tell him that she had tried to drink a cup of ale when she awoke, but fearful that the queasiness in her stomach wouldn’t let her keep it down, took only a small sip.

  The men grew restless as an hour passed and the English did not attack. Banners fluttered in the wind, so many of them that the constable finally had to order half of them furled so that everyone could have a direct line of sight to the English. By this time, Ryen had finished putting on her full b
attle armor and was in the saddle of her white warhorse.

  She patted her brave steed, whispering words of encouragement to him, when a flurry of movement caused her to snap her head back to the muddy field before her.

  The English were moving forward!

  Her horse danced nervously beneath her as the air thickened with anticipation. She watched the army approach, felt the anxiety of the men behind her as they waited for the constable to give the order to engage the enemy.

  Just as suddenly as they had started, the English stopped some two hundred yards away. Ryen watched as Englishmen ran forward with large wooden stakes. They placed them in the ground, pushing them into the mud so that the sharp spikes stuck out of the earth, angled skyward. More men charged up behind the wooden spikes and Ryen could see them preparing their bows.

  Archers! And a lot of them! But under the truth powder, Bryce had told her that they would be few in number because there were not enough skilled men to be found. Perhaps this was a ploy. Perhaps these men were not archers, at all, but placed behind the stakes to intimidate the French.

  Ryen’s horse pranced skittishly, feeling its rider’s anxiety. It took a stern hand to steady the animal. It was not as easy to settle the uneasy feeling inside her.

  To Ryen’s left, Sir Clugnet exclaimed, “I will take some men and go around to the west to strike at the archers. Sir William, you take twelve hundred men and go east, toward Agincourt. We will cut down those English archers before they can do us much harm!” The two knights rode off with their men eagerly following, shouting defiant words for all to hear.

  The English suddenly uttered a loud cry and started forward again. Simultaneously, Ryen saw a great cloud rise from the earth and come toward the French like a swarm of locusts. Arrows! She quickly lowered her head, knowing that the arrows could not pierce her armor, and spurred her armored horse on.

  The animal rode forward to meet the English, but Ryen felt his hooves slip and slide in the mud. The mud was so deep he was having trouble lifting his legs. Slowly, the French trudged closer, the thick mud retarding their movement. Arrows continued to rain down upon them.

  Ryen ducked again as the arrows landed around her. She could hear the screams of her countrymen, and when she raised her eyes she was amazed at how accurate the aim of the English archers was. Many men already lay dead around her, arrows protruding from exposed flesh.

  Dread passed through her. Bryce had lied. He had lied under the powder of truth! The archers were not in bad form at all. On the contrary, Ryen had never seen better aim.

  She did not have time to consider the disastrous consequences because her horse stumbled, jarring her. She slid her leg over the beast and dropped to her feet. The horse fell to his knees before sluggishly regaining his balance. Ryen swatted the white steed away so the arrows would not harm him.

  Around her the battle raged. The French were so thickly packed that many of them could barely lift their arms, let alone control their animals. She was almost knocked over by a horse that brushed her arm as it passed. Ryen clutched her sword in two hands. To lose it now would be death. Another knight collided into her from behind. This is madness! Ryen thought. I haven’t even encountered the enemy yet and we are at war – with each other!

  Amid the confusion, she heard someone shout to retreat. She tried to turn, echoing the command, but could not because of the momentum of the men surging forward behind her. The mud clung to her feet, inhibiting her steps.

  Suddenly, the English charged and Ryen was immersed in battle. She was surrounded by whistling swords, clanging blades, and death cries. The mud sucked at her feet, pulling her down. Still, she managed to strike at the charging men, cutting down one only to be attacked by another.

  Ryen disposed of her next opponent, then raised her head to quickly evaluate her position. All about her swords clanged. The field was littered with fallen men. Knights who tumbled in the thick mud floundered helplessly like turtles, the weight of their armor weighing them down. Ryen moved forward to help a soldier to his feet. She grasped his arm and pulled. Under the added weight, her foot slipped and she almost fell, but caught herself on his shoulder. After pulling him up, her eyes again scanned the field. She could not retreat because the anxious French, now out of formation in their hurry to reach the English and gain fame and glory, were shoving forward.

  Her only option was to forge ahead into the enemy. She locked gazes with the knight standing beside her, saw the fear clearly branded in his eyes. Ryen knew he was one of the nobles not accustomed to the rigors of war and he would surely die if she did not help him. “Stay close to me,” she ordered him firmly, and he nodded.

  Ryen took a deep breath, preparing to push into the fray when she noticed two foot soldiers glancing about in confusion and desperation. Somehow they had become separated from their lord. “Follow me!” Ryen commanded, and they quickly fell in behind her. With the three men at her back, she charged forward, clearing a path through the English with a swipe here and a thrust there, her warrior instincts leading her on. She could feel the men fighting beside her with renewed confidence, could hear their blades clashing with renewed vigor. She smiled grimly with tightly clenched teeth as the fighting around her intensified.

  Then, Ryen caught a glimpse of Andre. He was sitting on his horse, his armor smeared with blood, when suddenly he clutched at his stomach where an arrow had magically appeared. He slumped forward, rolling off his horse into the mud.

  “No!” Ryen shouted, and turned, her legs aching with the effort it took to lift her feet.

  She ran as best she could toward her brother. Suddenly, an English knight blocked her path, causing her to rear back. A savage scream of frustration ripped from her anguished throat as she arced her sword toward the enemy’s head. Their swords clanged, hot blue sparks exploding from the point of impact as he expertly blocked the swing with his own blade.

  Ryen’s angry glare turned fully on him. Suddenly, she froze, unable to move, or breathe. It was his eyes that gave him away. His black eyes. She recognized them through the visor he wore. “Bryce,” she gasped.

  Ryen saw his lips move and recognition wash over his face before pain exploded from the back of her head and blackness invaded her vision.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Ryen!

  Bryce lowered his sword and was about to reach out a hand toward her when she suddenly crumpled to her knees, and then slumped to the ground.

  Bryce stared with shock at the blood forming at the base of her helmet as she lay in a heap. She had fallen on top of two knights who had died before her.

  Died. The hairs on Bryce’s neck stood straight; his flesh became cold at the thought. He heard a movement behind him. With perfect instinct, he turned to deflect a blow from an attacking French knight. His adversary rained blow after blow on him, pushing him back, trying to cut him down, but Bryce deflected every swing. Training guided his movements, training that had ingrained his skills so deeply that they had become habit – and the only thing keeping him alive, because all he was conscious of was Ryen.

  Then, suddenly, his adversary’s sword bounced off his armor, jarring his thoughts. Anger soared through every vein in his body, and power returned to his limbs. With an angry cry, Bryce swung his blade, the strength of years of experience behind the blow. The blades clanged only once before Bryce’s sword snapped the Frenchman’s weapon in two. Then, still shouting, Bryce ran his adversary through.

  He had to finish this battle. He had to go to Ryen. Bryce fought like a man possessed. His black eyes glowered through his helmet, and when he downed one man, he turned for another. His thirst for French blood was unquenchable.

  He whirled to take on a new foe. But there were no more enemies. All he saw was his own men – some locked in the grips of their last battle, some looking about for another adversary.

  The battle was over.

  Bryce swung his gaze about, looking for Ryen amidst the carnage, but the field was littered with piles of bo
dies upon piles of bodies.

  After only a few minutes of his search, Bryce saw the grimy beggars, the human vultures that always seemed to appear at the end of a battle, descend onto the field to loot the corpses. As he watched a beggar slide a sharp blade across a French knight’s neck, the blood that splattered painted Ryen’s memory in crimson. The beggar thrust his dirty hands in the knight’s pouches and stole whatever he could find of value.

  Bryce could not stand the thought of one of these men defiling Ryen’s body. He had to find her.

  “C’mon, ya bloody cur,” Rafe said to his companion. Dressed in a piece of soiled brown cloth that hung to his knees, torn at the elbows and shredded at the wrists, Rafe looked as if his whole life had been a battle. He stumbled up to the next knight, his bare feet sliding in the mud.

  “I think I cut me bloody toe on one o’ the blades,” McDowell, his companion, said, limping and trying to peer down at his mud-covered foot. He was an older man with a head full of white hair. His entire body was caked with mud, his skin barely covered by a tunic and breeches that were so torn and ragged they hung from his thin limbs like an old cleaning cloth that had long outlived its usefulness.

  “Oh, quit your complainin’. We ain’t got time.” Rafe bent down before the knight and lifted his helmet from his head. The knight groaned and Rafe stood quickly, backing into his companion, yelling, “’E’s alive!”

  “Oh, bloody hot,” McDowell replied, and shoved passed Rafe. He bent on one knee in the mud and produced a dagger from his belt. He threw back the knight’s chin, exposing white flesh, and drew the blade across it. “You’re such a bloody woman,” he commented, before cutting the knight’s purse strings and handing the purse to Rafe.

  Rafe took it. “Don’t forget his hands!”

  McDowell shifted his position and reached for the knight’s gloved hand. He pulled the metal glove off and lifted up the bare hand. One ring glittered on the knight’s first finger, and it was promptly removed. McDowell handled the ring to Rafe.