A Warrior's Heart

by Laurel O'Donnell

  Kit’s scream joined his as she bounded after him. But she was too late; the door slammed in her face. Her fingers were clawing desperately at the wood when the sound reached her. She stopped, listening.

  Laughter!

  Slowly, Kit turned, wide eyes gazing over her shoulder to see Ryen rolling on the bed, her arms wrapped around her stomach, gales of laughter issuing from her lips.

  Kit turned, pressing her back to the door. She was frozen with fear.

  When Ryen saw her, she wiped the tears of mirth from her eyes and sat up. She pitied the girl for listening so trustfully to the legends. “It’s what he wanted, wasn’t it? It was what he paid for.”

  Kit gaped speechless as she stared at Ryen with terror.

  Ryen grinned mischievously. “And you got your shilling.”

  Kit did not move from the door.

  “Kit, is it?” Ryen asked, rising from the bed. She held out her hand. “Pleased to meet you. I am Ryen De Bouriez. I am the knight people call the Angel of Death.” When Kit didn’t move forward or take her hand, Ryen lowered it. “I’m the person you see before you now, Kit. Just a woman like you who has feelings and fears. I do not worship Satan, I am not an ice maiden, and I have never, in all my life, hurt a child.”

  Kit swallowed. “Ya mean, yer not gonna eat me heart?”

  Ryen chuckled, but quickly stopped as she saw the horror and belief etched in the girl’s face and recoiling body. “No,” Ryen stated simply, curbing the impulse to add, I only do that when the moon is full.

  Kit frowned. Hesitantly, she edged a step closer.

  “I suppose I should be furious with you,” Ryen stated. “After all, you did sell me for a shilling.”

  A different kind of concern filled Kit and worry washed over her face. “You’re not gonna tell his lordship, are ya?” Ryen opened her mouth to reply, but Kit continued, “I didna see any harm in it. ‘E just wanted ta get a look at ya, is all.”

  Ryen smiled brightly. “No…I won’t tell.”

  Kit sighed, but then, just as quickly, doubt furrowed her eyebrows. “I ain’t signin’ me soul away now.”

  The door opened quite suddenly, causing Kit to whirl around.

  Ryen saw Polly waddle into the room with a tray in her chubby hands. The old maid cast a sour look at Ryen, her fat cheeks puckered, her eyes narrow. Then, she turned her anger on Kit. “An’ what are ya doin’ here?”

  “I – I –” Kit stammered under Polly’s berating tone.

  “Out. Now!” Polly ordered, slamming the tray down on the night table.

  Kit scampered to the door. Ryen saw Kit pause in the doorway long enough to cast her a thoughtful gaze. Then, she turned and was gone.

  Polly whirled and with a ‘harrumph’ was off toward the door.

  Ryen opened her mouth to object, but the door was already slamming shut, leaving her alone in the room. With a sigh, Ryen lay back on the bed.

  Her eyes were again drawn by the tapestry. The horned man’s eyes seemed to be focused on her. They were dark, like a midnight sky, reflecting the moon in their obsidian depths. They were so familiar…like…

  Venison. The smell wafted to her senses and she sat up. Following the smell with her nose, she inched toward the tray.

  It was not until she saw the bowl of soup and the hard, crusty bread on the tray that she realized her stomach was rumbling. It had been days since she had last eaten.

  The day before the battle.

  She descended on the food like a starved child, shoving things into her mouth, slurping the tasty soup. When she had eaten almost half, she found she could not eat another bite nor take another sip or her stomach would explode. Ryen slowly sat on the edge of the bed. She rubbed her stomach, letting the wonderful taste of the food wash through her body, filling it. She lifted the towel and wiped her mouth, running her tongue over her lips to get the last taste.

  Ryen groaned with pleasure and looked gratefully at the half-empty bowl. That’s when she saw it; it had been hidden beneath the towel.

  The blade glinted in the morning light, and as if in a dream, Ryen reached out. Her long, slim fingers wrapped around the wooden handle of the dagger. She picked it up, holding it before her eyes, trying to convince herself it was real.

  A dagger! She quickly looked to the wooden door. It somehow did not seem so large or impeding as it had before.

  Ryen pushed herself to her feet, only to find that the room tilted suddenly and she had to clutch the edge of the small table to steady herself. I should rest, she thought. But the lure of escape was much too strong.

  As soon as the dizziness faded, Ryen crossed the room on shaky legs, her bare feet treading lightly on the cold stones. When she reached the door, Ryen lifted the blade, easily sliding it between door and stonewall. She paused for a moment, wishing she had seen the lock, hoping it was similar to the bolt on the door of her room, the one Lucien had locked her in with.

  Lucien. She froze, all of her nerves becoming numb. Where were her brothers? If they were alive, they never would have let her be captured. The thought flitted through her mind before she could stop it. Waves of cold terror crashed over her body and she had to slide the blade out of the door frame, afraid her trembling hands would drop it.

  No, she told herself firmly. I mustn’t think of this now. I have to escape. I have to get away before Bryce…before I see him. Before he sees me and those deep eyes of his turn my senses into a confused muddle, before he touches me and brands me with his raw heat, before those lips touch mine and wipe out any rational defenses I have left.

  She forced calm through her body. Again she slid the blade into the small opening. She moved the blade up until it hit the bar preventing her escape on the outside of the door. Then she worked it back and forth, searching for the knob. The blade caught on nothing.

  Frustrated, she stopped, switching hands. Back and forth. Again, nothing.

  “Damn it,” she muttered, flinging the blade up. It hit the bar with a thud – and the bar swung free! It twirled in a half circle and swayed uselessly. The door creaked open.

  Ryen stared, shocked at the simplicity of the lock. Slowly, she pushed the door open just enough to peek out.

  The long cold hall was dim except for muted rays of clouded sunlight from the windows high above that speckled the bricks with spots of brightness. There was not a soul in sight as Ryen stepped from her prison.

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Ryen hunched her shoulders, her bare feet treading delicately with each step as she moved down the murky hallway. She clutched the dagger in her hand, ready to do battle to escape. Anything to get away from Bryce. Her escape would humiliate him, as he had humiliated her.

  She turned the corner, her white nightdress swirling about her ankles. The halls were strangely quiet. At her father’s castle, the sound of children’s laughter, the whispering of two maidens, or her father’s bellow could be heard at any given time. But here there was nothing except a strange silence, as if she were in the bowels of an abandoned hell.

  Suddenly, her senses magnified. The hairs on the nape of her neck straightened and she froze, listening. No sound, no movement. Was it a trap? Every fiber in her body tingled with warning. Something was not right. Slowly, cautiously, she resumed her walk.

  A grumble in her stomach, followed by a sudden onslaught of nausea, caused her to stumble. She grabbed the wall with her hand and bent over. The soup that had tasted so good rose violently in her throat and she vomited until dry heaves shook her body. Tears dripped from the corners of her eyes as she wiped a hand across her mouth. Gasping, she leaned her back against the cool stones of the wall.

  She heard a noise from behind her and slowly turned her head. A girl no more than twelve stood staring at her.

  Ryen watched recognition wash over her young face. The girl gasped and ran away. Ryen knew she should move, that an alarm would be sounded soon, but her body suddenly felt heavy, like the floor was pulling her down. As she pushed herself from the wall,
her muscles ached with protest. Every bone in her body objected as she continued down the hall and her mind reeled, causing her to stagger more than once. Finally, she paused and shook her head, trying to clear it.

  “It’s the Angel of Death!”

  Ryen looked up to see two knights. The shorter knight wore a full suit of chain mail, where the taller knight with the bright red hair and thick crimson beard wore only a tunic and leggings. They both stared at her in fear and awe.

  Ryen’s senses cleared enough to recognize their hesitancy. She raised the dagger before her. “Back away or I will cut out your hearts.”

  “She is only a woman,” the red-haired man said after a moment. “We can take her.”

  “She is the Angel of Death, McFinley,” the second hissed, already backing away, his hand protectively covering his heart.

  McFinley growled and stepped toward Ryen. Through the haze that had surrounded her, Ryen saw the respectful distance he gave the dagger as he circled to her left.

  “Come on, girl,” he goaded.

  The dizziness fell over her like a blanket and she stumbled, lowering the dagger.

  He came at her, and Ryen reacted by instinctively lifted the weapon.

  “Argh!”

  Ryen pulled back and shook her head to clear it. When the haze retreated, she gasped at the sight before her. McFinley was slumped over, clutching his arm. Her dagger was on the floor, its tip marked with his blood.

  Ryen inhaled sharply and stepped back. She turned to flee, only to run straight into Talbot! His fist came around fast. The impact numbed her cheek as the force of the blow spun her to the floor. Blackness invaded her vision, and Ryen clenched her fists, willing the darkness away.

  “My arm!”

  “How did she get out?” Talbot’s voice sounded in her head like a gunpowder blast. “Where did she get a dagger?”

  Ryen felt the cold stone beneath her fingertips as she clutched at them for an anchor. Suddenly, she was pulled to her feet by her hair and held dangling before Talbot. Ryen tried to stop the pain that shot from her scalp through her body by standing on her toes. She grabbed her hair where Talbot held it to prevent another sharp burst of agony.

  His voice rang in her ears. “Where did you get the dagger?”

  Ryen fought the pounding that rocked her head. But when Talbot shook her, yanking her hair until it felt like it was going to rip out of her skull, the throbbing exploded into a million stars of pain. Ryen wanted to scream from the agony that seared across her head with each tug, but she held it in with all her willpower. She vowed she would never show such weakness to these English.

  Talbot snarled. “Who gave you the dagger?”

  Even under his abuse, she did not open her mouth. Her pride kept her lips tightly shut. Suddenly, the violent shakes ceased.

  “Perhaps a flogging will loosen her tongue,” McFinley commented, eyeing her.

  Ryen had witnessed many floggings, and fear stiffened her innards.

  McFinley shoved his arm at Talbot. Blood dripped from the open wound and he snapped, “It is my right.”

  Ryen saw Talbot nod before McFinley seized her arm and pulled her down the hall and down a flight of stairs. She could barely keep up with the knight’s large steps. She stumbled, only to be hauled back to her feet by his hold on her arm.

  When they paused before the outer door of the castle, Ryen turned her head to see an immense group of people following. Some were knights, some servants. All looked angry. Some opened their mouths, but Ryen could barely make out what they were saying. Through her fear and sickness, her mind muffled and combined voices so that she could not understand the words.

  The door opened before her and a small body dashed out into the dim sunlight, running down the road. Directly before her in the dusty courtyard she saw a small platform on top of which were two wooden poles, each with a rope dangling from it.

  McFinley yanked her forward, drawing her toward the platform.

  Stormy gray clouds rolled in, blocking the sun from view. Ryen saw lightning flash in the sky. A roar began in her head, and at first, Ryen thought it was thunder from the storm, but then, after it continued relentlessly, she realized it was the crowd. She twisted her head around to see that the large crowd was following them, streaming from the castle like jelly oozing from a spilled jar.

  McFinley yanked her up the two stairs of the platform. Her nightgown entangled her legs and she would have fallen except for the knight’s viselike grip on her upper arm. As he pulled her between the two poles, the first drops of rain broke from the clouds, spattering the platform below her feet. The knight seized her arm and tied it tightly to the pole, wrapping the rope around and around her wrist, until the blood stopped flowing to her hand.

  Ryen stood still, her chin raised, gazing off down the road. Villagers were coming, running up the dirt road, a horde of incensed English.

  A pellet of rain struck Ryen’s cheek.

  As McFinley tied her other wrist, the first villager reached them.

  So did the first rock. The stone missed her by a foot, bouncing harmlessly on the wooden platform.

  McFinley whirled on the villagers, his lips curled in fury. He held up his arm to show his cut. “First blood. I claim it. There will be no stoning.”

  A moan of disappointment rippled the crowd. Ryen saw some of the villagers open their hands. Rocks fell out.

  Suddenly, her hair was yanked back and she cringed as McFinley stuck his face into hers. “Fifty lashes, love,” he whispered before his snakelike tongue flicked out and ran along the length of her cheek. He released her and disappeared somewhere behind her.

  She felt the neck of her gown being seized, and with a savage yank the back of the nightdress tore free from the front.

  The downpour began, heavy and punishing. What was left of Ryen’s dress clung to her body, the material hugging her tighter with each drop.

  The crowd became strangely quiet and Ryen saw the men’s eyes rake her. No one moved for cover from the rain. They wanted her hurt. They wanted blood. What kind of people were these? Ryen hated them. She had never hated the English as much as she did now. Her mind cleared, all sickness washed away by the cleansing rain.

  She felt someone press against her back, heard a voice. “No, m’lord! She is ill! She will na last under fifty lashes!”

  “Out of the way, Polly,” McFinley answered. “There is a traitor in our midst, and I am to find out who gave her the dagger.”

  “But she is sick!” the woman protested. “M’lord Princeton will be furious.”

  “Stand aside, old woman,” the knight’s voice was stern. “Or you will be next.”

  Slowly, Polly backed away, wringing her hands.

  Ryen heard the crack of the whip behind her. Instinctively, she stiffened, preparing herself for the pain.

  The crowd swayed with anxiety.

  “Whip her!” a faceless voice screamed.

  Another crack of the whip sounded behind her. Someone laughed. The rain trickled down her forehead, over her eyes and cheeks and into her mouth. Ryen blinked it away.

  The crowd gasped and she prepared to feel the bite of the whip, waited for the stinging lash to strike her, steeled her body for the pain…

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  The pain of the biting whip never came.

  Instead, the rope that held Ryen was unbound from first one wrist, then the other. She stood shuddering, her fists clenched against the sudden chill that engulfed her body. A blanket was hung over her shoulders, and heavy hands kept it in place. She felt herself being turned around. Ryen raised her eyes to the giant who stood before her. She blinked the downpour of rain from her eyes to see –

  Bryce!

  A sudden surge of happiness swept her entire body. He was not dead! She had wanted to believe it, wanted so desperately to let herself believe it, but until now there had still been doubt. She wanted to throw her arms around his shoulders and cry with relief, but she could not move or breathe. At hi
s touch, warmth seeped from his fingertips through the length of her body. She shivered, but it had nothing to do with the rain.

  He guided her back toward the castle, but McFinley stood to block their path. He presented Bryce with the damage done to his arm. The rain smeared the blood, making the cut look ugly and gaping. “It is my right,” he charged.

  “Inside,” Bryce commanded.

  His voice, carefully controlled, sent stirrings of anxiety racing like goose bumps along Ryen’s skin.

  McFinley whirled, storming into the castle.

  Bryce pushed her inside and the great crowd that had gathered to see her punished followed, surging through the doors. Bryce’s grip was much gentler than the knight’s. He curbed his long strides so she could keep up with him. Then he took his hand off her, leaving her to walk under her own power, and Ryen found herself missing the warmth his touch had offered her.

  Once inside, Bryce halted. His dark gaze sought out the knight. “What is your grief with my prisoner?”

  At his cold words, her heart froze. Prisoner? But I thought… her mind screamed. Fool! You thought what? That your enemy, the man who lied to you, who thought you were worth no more than just to use you, would steal you away from your people, your country to – to love you?! Fool!

  “She has taken first blood,” McFinley stated, again showing Bryce his wound. This time the blood flowed freely from the sore. “It is my right to do the same to her.”

  “Talbot!” The word ripped angrily from Bryce’s throat.

  Talbot pushed his way through the crowd to stand before Bryce.

  “How did this happen?” Bryce demanded.

  “She escaped. A traitor gave her a dagger,” Talbot answered.

  Bryce swung his gaze back to Ryen. Hard black eyes stared at her, but Ryen stood her ground. “Who gave you the dagger?”

  Ryen raised her chin. “It was mine.”

  “It is English-made, Bryce,” Talbot supplied, staring at her with hostile, slitted eyes.

  Bryce’s gaze did not waver from Ryen. She would have withered under the penetrating intensity of that stare had she not been so enraged.