Heroes of Honor: Historical Romance Collection

by Laurel O'Donnell

  Bryce rose in panic. “My liege, she killed my son!”

  Henry froze in mid-step as if Bryce’s words had penetrated his skin like a chill breeze. Slowly, he turned. When he faced Bryce, his eyes were carefully blank.

  “I ask that you spare her life so that I can inflict on her the pain she has put me through.”

  “I should not allow this, Bryce. Harm could befall you, your castle, or even me because of her treachery.” Henry sighed heavily as if the conclusion was apparent. “But since you have been so faithful, I will allow it.”

  Bryce rose from his chair as his heart soared. “You shall not be sorry, sire.”

  Henry scowled. “The gleam in your eye does not befit a man who speaks of torture and pain.”

  Bryce looked away.

  Henry stepped closer to Bryce, having to raise his face to speak to him. “Do not take my boon as kindness. If, through any action of hers, my subjects come to harm, I will hold you personally responsible. You, not she, will answer to my punishment.”

  Bryce bowed, acceptingly. “Yes, my lord.”

  Henry nodded and moved to the flap. Before he exited, he paused to glance back at Bryce. “You are a stubborn man, Bryce,” he said. “Beware. You have death in your camp.”

  Chapter Twenty Six

  The castle rose out of the flatland like an erupting mountain of stone, its man-made square towers and rectangular walls sharply contrasting with the natural roll of the earth. Bryce led his weary party over the drawbridge, trudging across the wooden planks that groaned beneath the passing weight of the returning warriors, and through the open gate. The outer ward was quiet, the peasants long since retired for the evening. The moon hid behind the clouds, afraid to shed its light on Dark Castle, and cast only a ghostly hint of illumination over the heavily shadowed fortress.

  King Henry had given Bryce and his men a much-deserved rest from the endless war with the French. Bryce had surprised himself by accepting Henry’s offer without much hesitation. As he neared the castle, Bryce was not surprised that he had not been greeted by banners and villagers waving to him in the streets. They had not known he was coming. He was grateful. He could not be the dark lord they expected him to be and stand stoically before them. Not now. Every bone in his body ached from the three day march to Dark Castle. He had not allowed his knights to rest, stopping only when the horses needed water or tending. Bryce’s gaze shifted to the wagon he rode beside as he rolled his shoulders in an effort to relieve the tension in them. Ryen lay bundled in blankets and furs, barely visible except for her tranquil face.

  He had driven his army on relentlessly because he wanted to get her to Dark Castle. The weather had remained fair and he was worried that if it changed to rain, she would become ill. She had not awakened from her long slumber during the entire trip back to England.

  There was a commotion behind him and Bryce straightened, his hand flying to his sword’s handle as he turned. One of his soldiers was stumbling to his feet from the ground, being helped up by two other men. A third knight had captured the reins of his rearing horse before it could bolt away. The exhausted knight was rubbing his eyes and yawning. He must have fallen asleep on his mount and tumbled to the ground, Bryce thought. He sighed, attempting to relax, but his shoulders remained stiff, his neck tight. There were rumors that some lords were angry with King Henry for sparing the Angel of Death and had vowed vengeance. Bryce was tense, jumping into battle-readiness at every noise, every movement.

  He was grateful they had finally reached Dark Castle, and without incident, even if it was the middle of the night. He knew Ryen would be safe.

  As they crossed the outer ward gatehouse, he found the yard empty of people. Only the stone wall of the inner ward was there to greet them. Bryce led his tired group toward the towering gate of the inner ward. He knew the guards of the outer gatehouse were spreading the word of his return. Bryce expected that there would be no one in the inner ward to greet them, either. But as the gates creaked open, he saw a small group of raggedy people lounging in the middle of the square.

  At last, Bryce felt the tension fall from his shoulders like a loosened cape. As Bryce brought his horse to a halt and swung his leg over the side, the group of five men and two women approached him. A comfortable grin spread over his tired features. Behind him, he heard the sound of sighs, shifting of clothing, and clang of armor as his men dismounted from their horses.

  “It must be too cold to go roaming through the fields,” Bryce said.

  The group formed a semicircle around Bryce. “We needed some ale,” one of the men replied. He wore brown breeches and black boots, and a pelt of fur hung loosely around his oversized tunic. He ran a hand over his white beard as he regarded Bryce.

  “I think you’re becoming soft,” Bryce answered warmly.

  A younger man with brown hair and a scrawny beard held out his hand. “It’s good to see you, too, brother,” he greeted.

  Bryce clasped his arm tightly, nodding. His eyes drifted back to the first man. He looked older than Bryce remembered. Last time he saw Night, his beard had no gray and the hair on top of his head was dark. He looked into his eyes and saw the signs of age withering the corners.

  Night nodded as if in answer. “Yes, it has been a long time.”

  “We’ve been here three times since you left for court,” the younger man said.

  Bryce’s gaze returned to him. Cub was ten Yules younger than Bryce, born here at Dark Castle. Bryce looked him over with a quick glance. Cub had filled out. Where before he had been scrawny and boyish, Cub was now muscular and…a man. Cub wore a tunic of fur and breeches which Bryce recognized instantly. His eyebrows shot up. “Raiding my chests while I am away?”

  Cub shrugged. “I figured if you didn’t take it with you, you didn’t need it.”

  Bryce nodded. “You are welcome to anything in Dark Castle.” His eyes swept the rest of the group. Grey stood beside Night. He was Bryce’s age, but looked older, gray peppering his brown, unruly hair. The chain mail he wore over his tunic was rusting. He wore a fur cape for warmth. Grey nodded at Bryce, a crooked grin tugging one of the corners of his lips. Bryce returned the greeting.

  Hunter wore leather armor beneath a tunic of gray. His face was scarred across the cheek and on the chin; his black hair hung well past his shoulders, tied back with a piece of fur. His dark eyes narrowed at seeing Bryce’s appraisal.

  Breed stood near the back of the group. He had a fresh cut across his cheek and a black eye. His hot temper had landed him in trouble again, Bryce knew. He wore a pair of breeches and tunic that Bryce knew were his. His eyes glinted with defiance and Bryce was amused by the challenge he saw in his stance. He chuckled and was rewarded by Breed’s scowl.

  Bryce’s gaze shifted to the two women. He knew only one. Patch was thin and shapely, but far from feminine. Her blond hair hung in dirty clumps filled with thick knots. She wore breeches and a fur tunic. In her brown eyes, Bryce saw fondness as she gazed at him. He grinned in return.

  Beside her stood a new addition to the Wolf Pack. She had the look of a hunted animal, her eyes constantly shifting from side to side, her wiry body bent as if in preparation to flee. Her dark hair was hidden in the folds of a woolen hood draped over her head.

  Night stated, “Her name’s Trap.”

  Bryce nodded once.

  “Where’s Runt?” Patch wondered, glancing beyond Bryce at the supply wagons that were now entering the inner ward.

  Bryce straightened his shoulders. He tried to push every painful emotion from his body, but could not manage to rid himself of even one. The boy’s image rose before his eyes, his black hair, that stray lock that fell into his blue eyes. In his mind, he heard Runt’s joyful cry upon returning home, saw Runt dash into Dark Castle, calling for his mother. But the vision was agonizing, the dying voice echoing in his head only. A memory. Bryce tightened his jaw against the heartache that once again filled his chest and burned his eyes. “He died in a fire,” Bryce replied, hi
s voice cold, detached.

  Patch’s brows furrowed deeply in sorrow.

  Bryce turned to the wagon where Ryen was lying. He vaulted over the side and stood over her. As he gazed down at her still, pale face, his love for Runt consumed his heart. She had to be punished. It was in her camp that his boy died. It was on French soil. Even as he thought these things, the desire to touch her soft cheek, her silken hair, to kiss her full lips and breathe life into her again, to see her large, piercing eyes open, filled him so completely that he had to clench his fists tightly at his side to keep from acting on the impulse.

  Finally, he bent and scooped her up into his arms. He pulled her close to his chest, shielding her from the chill of the night as he stepped off the wagon.

  “Who is she?” Grey asked, moving toward him.

  Bryce tightened his arms around her as if his strength would give her the power to recover. He looked down at the fur-lined brown cloak that concealed her face. A stray strand of hair had torn free from the wrappings and gently blew in the soft breeze that suddenly surrounded them.

  “She is my prisoner,” Bryce replied possessively, and marched toward the castle.

  Grey cast a baffled, curious look at Night before following Bryce into Dark Castle.

  Bryce sat in the chair beside Ryen, his face in his hands. He had been by her side for most of the night, refusing visitors.

  “You can’t stay in here forever,” Talbot said from behind him.

  “No,” Bryce replied wearily, rubbing his stubbled chin, “only until she awakens.” His gaze came to rest on Ryen. In the morning sun that shone through the window, Bryce could see how pale she was. He longingly remembered the red that had colored her cheeks when he had last seen her.

  “What if she doesn’t awaken?” Talbot asked. “Will you follow her into hell?”

  Bryce’s shoulders stiffened and set with anger. Only his friend would dare speak thus to him. She would not die. She could not. Not like this. He longed to hold her hand, to touch her skin, but he was afraid if he did that she would be so cold…that the last strands of hope would leave his body.

  Talbot shook his head sadly. “Why do you sit at her side, my friend? You should awaken Lotte, tour your castle, or at the very least, get some sleep.”

  “I can’t,” Bryce responded stoically.

  “You sit here like some lovesick pup! Think of what your people will say. Think how it looks! God’s blood, Prince, she was responsible for the slaughter of hundreds of knights under your command! How can you allow her to live?”

  “She was responsible for my son’s death,” Bryce answered quietly. “She must live. If only to pay for that.”

  Talbot released his breath slowly. “If that is the reason, then why did you not throw her in the dungeon? Why did you bring her to your own room?” When Bryce did not answer, Talbot continued quietly, “Bryce, I vowed loyalty to you many many years ago. But I also took a vow to England and to King Henry. I hope you will not force me to choose one over the other.”

  Bryce heard Talbot’s footsteps recede as he walked across the floor and departed. Why had he brought her to his room? To make sure she recovered, he answered silently. She could die from drafts and rat bites in the dungeon. At least here, in his room, he could see that she was able to rest and be well cared for. He looked at her again. She could not die. The thought rose in his mind over and over. I will not let her.

  “She is very pretty for a prisoner,” the voice murmured at his side.

  Bryce started. He should have heard Grey coming, had always been able to. But now, his mind was occupied by the Angel.

  “Is she a duke’s wife?” Grey wondered.

  “She is Ryen De Bouriez,” Bryce answered.

  “A Frenchwoman?” Grey chuckled. “And this is all your mighty army brought back from France?”

  “She is the Angel of Death.”

  Grey was silent for a long moment. “A woman? Intriguing.”

  Bryce squeezed his tired eyes closed and dropped his head. Yes, a woman. During his days of captivity he had pondered the outrageousness of it for many a moment. He rose out of the chair, stretching his arms above his head.

  “You look like death itself.” A smile touched Grey’s weathered features. “Perhaps some food and a drink with old friends will resurrect you.”

  Bryce longed to leave his worries behind. He almost accepted. Then, he looked back over his shoulder at the woman lying in his bed. True, she was safer at Dark Castle than on the road, but even here there were people who would wish her ill. He could not leave her.

  Bryce turned to Grey to tell him, but before he opened his mouth, Grey smiled a knowing grin as if seeing his innermost thoughts. “Patch will guard her while you eat with us.”

  The Wolf Pack had the uncanniest ability to see into his soul. He’d forgotten how the gift could startle him. Finally, Bryce nodded. He needed to say no more.

  When they reached the door, Patch was there as if by intuition. She exchanged a nod with them before slipping into Bryce’s bedchamber. Grey shut the door behind them and together they walked the long hallway. Two sets of empty plate armor lined the corridor, silently guarding the passage. They were in bad need of a cleaning.

  They turned right and took the first set of steps into the Great Hall.

  The Wolf Pack was already seated around a long wooden table that stretched out just below the three stained glass windows, each painted with a snarling red wolf. The hearth fire was blazing, and Bryce felt the warmth cover his body, warming his cold soul. He was home. It had indeed been a long time. Too long. He noticed that the rushes were in dire need of changing. The room stank of soot and rotted meat, not of violets and ale, as had the De Bouriez Great Hall.

  Three of his hounds rushed to greet him. He paused momentarily to pat their heads and scratch behind their ears before he followed Grey to the table.

  Grey hurled his fur cape over the table onto the back of a wooden chair, then leapt over the table to take the seat. Bryce noted a vacant chair between Night and Grey intended, he supposed, for him.

  Bread and ale were before him, and Bryce noted how not one servant had met his eyes, how they’d trembled in his presence. He had grown accustomed to Ryen and her defiant looks and barbed tongue. Their sniveling repulsed him.

  Finally, an older maid he remembered as Polly lifted her eyes to meet his before quickly dropping them. She curtseyed and muttered, “It’s good ta have m’lord home,” then raced off.

  Bryce was surprised at her boldness. Usually, the servants didn’t dare raise eyes or words to him. Only his steward brought him word of important happenings throughout the castle, and then only when necessary. The villains of his lands feared him as the servants did. As a result, most squabbles were settled before he had to preside over them. Only occasionally did he have to make a judgment.

  Bryce watched the maid scurry from the room as fast as her plump little form would allow. An amused smile slid over his lips…he would have Polly care for Ryen.

  “It seems you were truly missed,” Night said, hunched over his bread, his eyes on the door through which Polly had disappeared.

  “Perhaps no one thought they would see you again,” Hunter murmured, tipping back in his chair.

  “We had heard that you were captured,” Night went on. “By some Angel of Death.”

  Bryce cast Grey a quick look in time to see a sly smile spread over his face. Bryce reached for the bread and tore off a large piece with his hands, filling his mouth with food.

  “Not once,” Hunter snorted, “but three times.” He ripped off a piece of bread with his teeth.

  “I thought I had taught you better than that, Bryce,” Night grimaced.

  “It was only twice,” Bryce argued softly.

  Grey and Breed laughed.

  “Prince!” The voice exploded through the room, echoing from wall to wall.

  Bryce didn’t have to raise his eyes to know the voice. He was dreading the confrontation with Lotte.
He heard her footsteps race across the hall and stood to greet her. As she rounded the table, approaching him, Bryce saw she had put on weight. Her breasts were large and bounced with each step. Her face had grown rounder, but her hair was just as dark and long as he remembered.

  Lotte reached for him with open arms, but Bryce grabbed her wrists to stop her embrace. Confusion washed over her features. She smelled of sweat, ashes, and burnt bread, not the sweet fragrance of roses. Her hair looked unkempt, as if she had not bothered to comb it in days, so unlike Ryen’s soft, silky tresses.

  Bryce found himself instantly repelled. He lowered her arms. Had she changed so much, or was it he who had changed?

  Yet there was something in her eyes, something familiar that caused his heart to contract with pain. He narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out what it was. Then she gently shook her head and a strand of dark hair fell into her eyes.

  Runt. He had his mother’s eyes.

  Bryce turned away from her, his throat tightening. “Runt is dead,” he announced.

  Lotte gasped. “No.” She clutched her neck and stepped back.

  “He was killed in a fire in the French camp,” Bryce explained. He half turned to her, expecting a wail or tears. All she did was lower her head, chewing on her lip. There were no tears, no regret, in her features. Bryce straightened. “He is gone, Lotte,” Bryce repeated.

  Lotte glanced up at Bryce. She tentatively reached out to put her hands on his shoulders. “That doesn’t mean that I can’t still be yours.”

  For a moment, he didn’t move, didn’t breathe. All Runt was to her was a claim to him, a place in Dark Castle. The fury was sudden and hot. It clenched his fists, hardened his will. He pushed her hands off his shoulders, his face twisting into a mask of disgust. “Get away from me,” he snarled.

  Tears welled in Lotte’s chestnut eyes. He could see her sharp mind working, plotting her return to his side. She raised her hands to cover her mouth, weeping. “My son! My son!” She leaned into his chest, resting her forehead against it.