Bryce had not lost a battle since then. Night and his Wolf Pack had taught him well. Yet now, that old feeling of anxiety snaked through him. He looked down at Runt, who was quietly standing at his side, gazing off into the distance, as he had seen Bryce do. He knelt beside the boy and put his hand on his shoulder, turning him until those blue eyes gazed at him. “In case of attack, remember what I told you.”
Runt nodded enthusiastically. “Fight with honor.”
“No.” Bryce scowled. “You must go to the rear of the army and await the outcome.”
“I want to fight,” Runt said, his lips drawing down into a disapproving frown. “I want to cut down one of those Frenchmen.”
Bryce’s lips twitched with a proud smile, but the thought of Runt hurt was sobering. “This is not a game, Runt. This is war. Those men will kill you. You’re too small yet to battle an armored man.”
“But I’ve been practicing,” Runt objected wholeheartedly.
“I know. And you’ve improved. But not enough to stand against a man twice your size,” Bryce patiently explained. “Promise me, Runt. You must go to the rear of the army.”
Runt sighed in disappointment and kicked at the dirt.
Bryce squeezed his shoulder gently. “Promise me, boy,” he persisted.
Runt nodded grudgingly. “I promise.”
Bryce stared at the crestfallen look on his face. It broke his heart to have to refuse the child, but he was not willing to risk the boy’s life in a battle. He reached up and brushed aside the lock of black hair that fell over his eyes. “Try to rest, Runt,” Bryce advised. “If we are right, it will not be long until we see battle.”
Runt scurried away.
Bryce stepped back into the tent, allowing the flap to swoosh back into place as he turned to the basin of water on a stand near his bed. He braced himself over the table, hands on either side of the basin, and stared blankly into the dark water. What had happened to his advance guard?
“Hell,” Bryce growled and plunged both hands into the water, cupping them to collect a pool to shower over his face. The water was cool against his hot skin.
He splashed another palm of water onto his face, the water trickling from his chin down into the basin. Sighing, he rubbed the water from his eyes. There’s only an hour before dawn, he thought. There’s no point in trying to get any sleep.
A single candle rested next to the basin, its shimmering image reflecting in the still water. As Bryce watched, the image shifted, moving slightly. Slowly, the water began to ripple, distorting the figure of the candle. The ripples became stronger and more pronounced. And then he heard it, a thundering rumble in the distance, growing louder with each passing second. Bryce bolted upright. Horses! Coming in fast!
He pulled his sword from its scabbard, the silver metal hissing as the night air kissed its surface. Scowling deeply, he urgently wrenched the flap of his tent aside and charged out into the night.
Sharp black hooves thundered down upon him! He leapt back instantly, dropping and rolling. The riderless horse spat flecks of foam from its mouth as it whinnied and sped by.
Battle cries resounded throughout the camp. God’s blood, he thought. We’re under attack! Someone screamed, the man’s cry piercing the air with sharp gasps of pain. Bryce moved toward the voice, crouching low, his hand clutching the hilt of his sword tightly. He turned right, moving around a tent, and saw an invader slumped over a barrel. Bryce smiled grimly as he saw Brian Talbot wipe his sword on the dead man’s tunic. Talbot was his second in command, the closest thing to a friend he had found during the last few years spent waging King Henry’s war.
Talbot looked up to see Bryce approaching.
“What the hell happened to our sentries?” Bryce yelled out to him, the din surrounding them threatening to drown out his words.
“I don’t know!” Talbot shouted back.
“Who are they?”
Talbot reached down to the invader’s corpse and ripped off a piece of cloth from his tunic. He held it out to his lord.
Bryce took the cloth and glanced down at it. His lips curled into a tight sneer, his eyes growing cold, as he clenched his fingers, crushing the fabric tightly in his closed fist. He recognized the symbol immediately, the silhouette of a black angel against a white background.
The mark of the Angel of Death.
Ryen finished her battle with an Englishman, cleanly slicing his sword arm, and raised her eyes to assess the situation. Her fully armored knights exchanged blows with men who were partially clothed. Many of the English had already fallen, and her men were closing in on the rest. The battle was almost over. The gritty taste of smoke filled her mouth and the crackle of fire could be heard as one of the tents burned brightly.
She scanned the battlefield. Only a few tents remained standing and only a few Englishmen held their ground and refused to turn and run. Amid the armored men and flashing swords that remained, she saw a man who stood out from the rest by his height. His black hair defiantly reflected the firelight as easily as his quick sword deflected the blows of her men. He downed one, then another of her knights as she watched. Angry, Ryen moved to spur her white warhorse forward, but a thick cloud of smoke suddenly obstructed her vision. She furiously swatted aside the shield of smoke, but when it blew past and was gone, so was he. Ryen quickly looked left and right for the man, but he was nowhere to be seen.
She dismounted and surveyed the grim scene before her. The sun hesitantly peeked over the horizon, as if afraid to illuminate the death and destruction covering the battlefield. Most of the tents had been trampled and men lay sprawled, dead or dying, everywhere. She shifted her gaze to watch the last of the English flee.
Lucien jerked his horse forward, eager to pursue them, but Ryen seized his reins and shook her head. Let them go. They would serve her purpose, she knew, to spread the word of her victory. And of the Prince of Darkness’s defeat.
“Find the Prince of Darkness!” Ryen ordered. She was sure he was here somewhere. He would never run. He was either dead or unconscious. And she hoped he was not dead. She wanted to see him. He was said to have evil black eyes, and dark hair that hid the horns of a demon; he had been raised by wolves, and his arm had the strength to cut down five men with one good swing of his sword. Ryen chuckled. He was probably a skinny man, nothing like his legend. But Ryen preferred to paint her hated enemy in the first, darker light. It added to his mystery, his legend, which claimed that he could steal a woman’s heart with one glance, a look heated from the very depths of hell.
Again her eyes surveyed the carnage around her. I have truly earned my reputation this day, Ryen thought grimly. She walked out into what was left of the English camp, around smoldering tents, past impaled men. She stepped over a fallen knight, blood oozing from the fatal wound in his chest, his plate armor having fallen away to reveal the chain metal beneath. She paused, hating herself as she did it, knowing that the longer she stared at the man, the more human he would become to her.
Ryen gazed into his open eyes and wondered, as she had done a thousand times before, if he had a family. Who would mourn him now that he was gone? A wife? Children? Oh, she hated herself. Why did she torment herself? This would not be the last man she would order killed, nor the last time she would wander among the dead and gaze at their faces, wondering. What was it like to be loved? To be sent to battle with a kiss?
His hand twitched and Ryen stepped closer. His lids closed and a groan escaped his lips. Ryen knelt beside her enemy, concern etched in her brow. Perhaps he would, after all, return to those who loved him. She pushed back her chain mail hood and looked for something to staunch the flow of blood. Her eyes fastened on a tunic, trampled in the dust. Ryen seized it and immediately pressed it to his wound through the chain mail.
His eyes flashed open, eyes filled with fevered pain. They locked on her and for a moment there was blankness.
“Rest,” Ryen said in English. “The battle is over.”
His gaze focused on her
and confusion washed over his dust-covered features. Then Ryen watched in dismay as his lip curled in contempt.
“Are you the Angel of Death?” he sneered.
Ryen ignored him, pressing the shirt against his open wound, trying to move his armor aside. “You will need a leech or you will not survive.” She lifted her eyes to his and saw such hate and loathing there that she was taken aback.
“I would rather die than have your foul hands touch me,” he said and spat in her face.
Stunned, Ryen sat back on her heels. She had tried to help him! To save his life so he could return to his loved ones. But he’d spurned her efforts. Anger swiftly replaced her amazement. Her mouth closed and her eyes narrowed. Slowly she stood, towering over him. The wind picked up, whipping her cape out behind her, dust swirling about her feet. It was her turn to loathe him. Her eyes dulled with bitter hatred and she lifted her arm to wipe the spittle from her cheek.
The lashing of the wind’s fury suddenly died, and for a moment everything was still as Ryen gazed down at the man. “Then you shall die,” she said, and whirled away.
“Ryen!”
She turned, outrage boiling in her veins. “What?” she snapped.
Lucien tore off his helmet in excitement, his blue eyes glittering.
Ryen knew the look. She had seen that confidence many times before. It meant only one thing. Success. Her anger washed away and excitement filled her veins. They had him! He was in her camp…her prisoner! The Prince of Darkness was hers.
Lucien said, “I will bring him to the tent for the truth powder.”
Ryen nodded. Then, as Lucien turned to leave, her hand shot out to capture his arm. When he glanced at her, she jerked her head at the fallen English knight. “And order a leech for that cur.”
Chapter Four
The cloud of white parted slowly before Ryen as she stepped through the soft, whirling smoke created by the smoldering candles placed around the tent. Quivers of anticipation rippled through her as she saw the wisps swirl around the shadowy shape. She stopped, not wanting the thrill to dissipate from her veins. So often in the past did a man not live up to her expectations that she was afraid she would be sorely disappointed by him, the mightiest of legends. But his shadow beckoned to her and she pushed any doubts aside. She had to know his secrets.
Ryen continued to move through the frosty smoke, the dark blur of his body forming into a solid shape. He had fought to the end, she thought, just as I would have. Lucien said it had taken twenty men to bring him to his knees. Twenty men? She wanted to believe this, but surely Lucien must have been exaggerating. Yet it wasn’t like him to inflate the truth. She moved toward the figure chained to a post in the tent, stepping out of the mists.
His head was hanging down, his long black mane draping over his chest. So he did have black hair! Was it truly hiding horns?
Ryen moved closer, slowly, her gaze appraising him, his body. He was no disappointment there. The urge to touch him was overwhelming. She stretched her fingers toward him and touched the hair on his naked chest, running her hands along his torso, marveling at the size of his muscles. They were hard, sculptured curves of warm flesh. Magnificent, she thought. The smell of him, the heady musky scent of him, enveloped her.
Her prisoner stirred, his head moving slightly from side to side, as if he were struggling to clear his mind. His head slowly lifted. A thrill of anticipation touched Ryen’s spine as his dark eyes, the eyes of midnight, rose like the moon to gleam at her.
“Enjoying yourself?” he asked, his voice low, suggestive.
Through the darkness he wore like a veil, she saw the flash of his white teeth. Ryen pulled her hands away and watched the shadows slide off his features as his face slowly came into the flame’s light. A shiver snaked its way up her spine. The candlelight revealed a sensual mouth with a cynical twist to it, a Spartan chin hewn from an ancient line of warriors.
Ryen realized that she had been holding her breath and released it slowly in admiration. She could not believe the sight that greeted her. This is the man who was born without a heart? The man who is in league with the devil? The most feared barbarian in all of England?
Then how can he be so handsome?
She ignored his comment and stepped back, the mist swirling around her body like a cape. She quickly regained her composure and her blue eyes swept him without a hint of emotion. “So,” she murmured, “you are the Prince of Darkness.”
He stared hard into her eyes as if he were reading her mind.
Ryen watched the emotions play over his face: recognition, disbelief, and then furious anger.
His eyes widened with incredulity. “The Angel of Death? A woman?”
“You have heard the legends --?”
“Unchain me this instant!”
Ryen could not help but laugh as he rattled his chains and ordered her around like a serving wench. “I welcome you to my camp.”
His eyes grew cold, narrowing to razor thin slits. When he spoke, his voice was a thick growl of acrimony. “I don’t feel much warmth in your greeting, woman. Perhaps you are truly made of ice, as the stories say.”
Ryen felt the heat of his hateful gaze sweep her body. It chilled her blood. “And should I welcome a most deadly enemy with open arms?” she asked softly. Her slim hand flew to her belt in a sudden, swift motion, drawing forth a sharp dagger. “Or with the edge of a blade?” She paused waiting to see the fear flash over his handsome features.
But it never came.
Instead, her prisoner laughed.
Fury, immediate and hot, coursed through her body in a churning black cloud of rage. Like a lightning bolt, erupting from a dark haze of anger, her hand shot out and she slapped him. The edge of the dagger caught his cheek, cutting the surface of his skin, and the open cut spewed forth red, glistening blood. She watched the crimson liquid drip down his face and a feeling of horror cooled her flaring temper. She had not meant to hurt him.
The smile never left the Prince of Darkness’s face as he cocked his head. “You are indeed brave, my lady. It takes the stoutest of hearts to strike a defenseless man.”
She recovered with a nervous laugh. “Do you take me for a fool? Shall I release your bonds so you can snap my neck with your bare hands?”
He turned his unscathed cheek toward her. “Perhaps you’d like to cut this side.”
Ryen stood, appalled. However, his goading made the idea attractive, and she raised the sharp blade to press it against his skin. Her knuckles brushed his cheek and a tremor ran down her spine. She stared for a long moment at his profile, realizing how close she was to him, and that the shiver was neither coldness nor repulsion. She enjoyed touching his skin. Angry with the knowledge and with herself, she narrowed her eyes and gritted her teeth. Her hand trembled as she pulled the blade away. “You’d like it too much.”
“Bitch,” he snarled.
Ryen ignored his outburst. “Tell me how many men your Henry has in his army.”
As she expected, the Prince of Darkness’s witty mouth remained closed to her question. She returned the dagger to its sheath.
“Is he going to attack France?” she asked, lifting her eyes to meet his, slipping the tips of her fingers into the pouch tied to her belt. The powder felt soft and velvety to her touch. It was a mixture of herbs, roots, and wildflowers all ground together into a fine powder. Lucien had gotten the ingredients from an old Gypsy woman he used to frequent when he wanted his fortune told. Ryen had used it well, its strange power adding potent fuel to the spreading fear her legend had ignited in the weak minds of France’s enemies.
“If you really expect me to answer your questions truthfully, then you must be more of a halfwit than legend has it,” he replied.
Ryen dismissed his insult and leaned closer to him so their lips were almost touching. “You will tell me all your deepest thoughts. Nothing will remain a secret from me.”
“I think not,” he spat.
Ryen, seeing the confusion in his eyes d
espite his brave words, grinned. She lifted her powdered fingers and ran them seductively over his lips before he could turn his face away. She stepped back as he jerked his head from side to side, spitting out the powder.
Suddenly, his teeth started chattering. Then his entire body twitched! Ryen knew spears of ice, thin and sharp, were speeding through his blood, solidifying, threatening to burst his veins. He struggled to speak, the powder speckling his lips like pixie dust. “I…I…” He stopped as another onslaught of chills racked his body. “I…will…”
“Yes. You will,” Ryen said. She frowned, feeling cheated. It had been so easy to subdue the legendary Prince of Darkness. He was no prince, she thought. He was just a man like all the others.
She saw him force his teeth to be still and raise his head to glare at her, his eyes ablaze with ebon fire. “I…will…kill you for this,” he gritted through clenched teeth.
Ryen’s eyes glittered with the challenge. No man had ever needed two doses. But this was the great Prince of Darkness. A second dosage ought to bend his will, she thought, as she again touched the powder. The white flecks adhered immediately to her fingers. She raised her hand, but as she neared he turned away and her fingers brushed his cheek, moving across his open wound. Ryen pulled back quickly, staring down at his blood on her fingers. When she looked up she saw the Prince of Darkness force back a cry of pain. She knew he was cold. So very cold. His shoulders were hunched against the chill of the powder. Her gaze traveled over his naked chest. She was awed by the size of the corded muscles in his neck and shoulders, the firmness of his chest, the ridges in his flat stomach. His body shuddered, and then he was still.
She stepped closer to him. His eyes were blank, as if his mind had suddenly been emptied. “What is your name?” she asked him, absently rubbing her fingers together.
“People call me the Prince of Darkness.” His voice was flat as he answered.
Heroes of Honor: Historical Romance Collection Page 16