“There are far too many ears in the streets, don’t you agree, Bryce?” King Henry wondered.
“Aye,” Bryce answered, and followed as the king cut through the village to the countryside.
The Earl of March tried vainly to keep up. He was panting hard when he produced a lace handkerchief and patted his forehead with it. “It is a hot day, isn’t it, my liege?” he called.
King Henry cast him a sour glance. “March, go see to the countess. I believe she is having as hard a time keeping up as you.”
Bryce’s gaze shifted to the countess. She had swooned into a man’s arms and was being eased to the ground. Most of the court had lagged behind by now, and it was quite apparent to Bryce that the king wished to speak with him in private. He wondered if the earl was truly so oblivious.
But the earl simply bowed, saying, “As you wish.”
King Henry continued into the grasslands of the countryside. Bryce followed, thinking it was becoming much too hot to be wandering through the countryside in sixty-six pounds of plate mail.
“How are things for you, Bryce?” King Henry asked, taking a sip of cider.
Bryce shrugged his large shoulders slightly. “Dark Castle is in capable hands. The peasants are producing enough to support the lands. I believe it will be a good year.”
Henry nodded. “Good.” He stopped walking and looked out over the fields that stretched before them. The wild grass seemed to sigh as a breeze drifted through the long blades that reached to Bryce’s mid-calf. “Then you are prepared to leave England at a moment’s notice?”
“Aye,” Bryce said anxiously. He had been waiting months for the fleet of English ships to cast off for France. “We leave soon, then?”
Henry gazed hard at Bryce. “There is rumor of a plot against my life. I fear that I may not get to France as soon as I would like.”
Bryce frowned, his body stiffening with suppressed anger. “My lord, I offer my services to find out if these rumors are true.”
Henry smiled a weary grin. “I have others who will be my ears and eyes.”
Bryce scowled, ready to object.
Henry continued, “No, Bryce, you are a fighter. I need you in France. I cannot leave England until this is resolved.” He lifted the goblet to his lips again and continued walking. Bryce followed.
“Have you heard anything of this French knight called the Angel of Death?” the king wondered.
Anxiety rippled through Bryce like a flag in a soft breeze. Bryce had heard of his deeds, but he knew little of the man. Still, the way the king had asked…it was as though he were being tested. “I have heard the name.”
Henry turned to Bryce, his inquisitive eyes asking for details, his raised eyebrows encouraging more.
“He has taken and held land for the Armagnacs,” Bryce continued, and watched as a smile tugged the king’s lips before he averted his gaze. Bryce’s brows drew together in confusion. “He does well for his country,” he added, shifting uneasily. He had somehow failed the test, and it annoyed him.
“Yes, he does, doesn’t he?” Henry chuckled.
“Is there more to know?”
“Much.” Gradually, Henry’s smiled faded and he slowed his pace. His words were thoughtful and full of woe as he spoke. “The Angel of Death has caused more enemy deaths than any other French lord. This knight is unlike any we have ever come across.”
“He is mortal. Blood runs through his veins. And that blood can be spilled.”
“According to rumor, this Angel of Death has ice for blood.”
“Pah. Rumor is the gossip of cowards.”
“Yes. I suppose it is – Prince of Darkness.”
Surprise rocked Bryce. He knew he shouldn’t have been amazed that the king had heard the name, but he could not suppress the shock that flooded his body. The rumors had traveled so fast….and so far! The court. It thrived on any kind of gossip. “The peasants labeled me that,” he explained.
“Not without reason, I hear.”
“I am merciless only to our enemies, my lord.”
“And that is why you must be the one to go to France and find the Angel of Death. There are ships waiting to take you and your army across the channel.”
“Do you wish to keep him for ransom?”
“I would prefer a ransom. We can use the finances for the war. But if you cannot take the knight captive, then take this angel’s life. I will join you in France as soon as I can.”
“As you wish, sire.” Bryce bowed slightly.
“Many men have fallen beneath the knight’s sword,” King Henry added. “Be cautious.”
Bryce nodded and took a step away.
The king stayed him once again with his hand. “I warn you, Bryce: do not underestimate the Angel of Death.”
King Henry watched Bryce Princeton stride away. Perhaps he should have told him. But if he knew the truth, Henry was sure he would underestimate their enemy by far too much. Besides, the man needed a jolt to disturb that confident gait of his. He only hoped Bryce would be able to kill this Angel of Death…when he found out she was a woman.
Chapter Two
East of Ypres, France, 1415
The clang of metal against metal rang out in the large clearing as the two swords met, the echoing melody of their clash spreading throughout the surrounding forest.
“Watch out for her parry!” a voice called, joining the reverberating tune as it reflected off the nearby trees. Andre De Bouriez lounged on his side in the thick grass, his objective gaze scrutinizing the combatants as they swung their heavy broadswords. He nodded with satisfaction as his sister, tiny compared with Lucien’s height and broad shoulders, easily deflected a thrust of her brother’s. Andre chuckled low in his throat, his brown eyes twinkling merrily. She was good. She knew the limitations of her sword and her strength well; she was patient and observant. This made her a very dangerous opponent despite her size.
Ryen finished an arc, the impact of the weapons jarring her arm. She stepped back, panting. A trickle of perspiration ran from her hairline down her cheek, sparkling in the sun like a diamond. She brushed a strand of brown hair from her forehead with her free arm.
A perfect smile lit Lucien’s boyish face. “Come, come. You cannot tell me that you tire after so few exchanges!”
A cold grin stretched across her shapely lips. “I tell you no such thing, Brother. Only to guard your blind side.” Ryen lunged and then feinted right.
Lucien caught the blow with some effort and countered with an arc overhead.
Ryen sidestepped the swing and Lucien’s blade crashed into the ground. As he pulled it up, a clump of dirt came with it, impaled on the tip of his blade.
“You know she’s too quick for you, Lucien,” Andre called.
Ryen laughed at the dirt on Lucien’s sword. “Don’t take your anger out on the ground, Lucien. Your opponent stands before you, not below you.”
Lucien came after Ryen with two quick lunges. She easily parried the blows and drove forward with an arc of her own, then retreated and stood staring at Lucien.
“Little sister, you’re growing up,” Lucien commented.
“Don’t goad her, Lucien,” Andre advised, too late.
Ryen suddenly charged her brother, hitting him in the stomach with her shoulder. The impact knocked him onto his back. Breathless, Lucien lay stunned for a moment. Before he could recover, Ryen stepped on the wrist of his sword arm and placed the tip of her weapon to Lucien’s neck. “Yield or die,” she stated.
“I yield to the Angel of Death!” Lucien hollered good-naturedly.
Ryen lifted her foot from his wrist and withdrew her sword. She gently kicked his arm with her booted foot. “I hate it when you call me ‘little sister’.”
Lucien sat up, rubbing his wrist. “I won’t make that mistake again.”
Ryen stepped back, offering her brother a hand. Lucien clasped it and she helped him to his feet.
“That was a good move,” Lucien commented. “But a little
reckless.”
“It beat you,” Ryen replied, bending to pick up a cloth from the lush grass.
“If I had raised my sword, you would have run right into it.”
“But you didn’t,” Ryen said, wiping the cloth smoothly over her blade. “Don’t criticize my move just because it landed you on your buttocks. You yielded. I won. There are no ‘ifs’.”
“She has a point,” Andre agreed, stepping up beside Ryen. “She beat you and I’m afraid it grates on your nerves.”
“Nonsense!” Lucien exclaimed, brushing the grass from his yellow tunic. “I simply –”
“Angel!” a tiny voice called from the forest, interrupting Lucien.
Ryen’s head shot up and she saw her page, Gavin, crashing through the bushes in his hurry to reach her. His brown cotton smock caught on a branch, but he quickly yanked it free and continued toward her, gasping, “Angel!”
Ryen placed her hand on his shoulder. “Take a breath, Gavin, and tell me what’s happened.”
“We…” he started, breathlessly.
“A deep breath,” Ryen urged.
Gavin drew in a long breath and blurted out, “We’ve caught an Englishman, m’lady!”
Ryen raised an anxious gaze to Andre before moving to retrace Gavin’s path. She heard the heavy footfalls of her brothers as they followed her into their camp. The scent of venison wafted to her on a light breeze and her stomach rumbled despite her anxiety. She maneuvered through the sporadically placed tents like an expert, dodging a barking dog, stepping around two men who were absorbed in a game of chess.
She slowed upon seeing Jacques Vignon, her advance scout, approaching. “You found him?” she asked.
“Aye, m’lady,” Jacques replied.
It always unnerved Ryen to speak with Jacques, for while he was the best scout she had, looking into his face was like gazing into an emotionless abyss. His eyes were black, so black that she could not discern the pupil from the iris. Jacques had never done anything to earn her suspicion; on the contrary, he was a loyal fighter, as good at swordplay as he was at disappearing into the shadows, but there was something cold about him that set off every warning within Ryen. He avoided the sun, so his skin remained white, almost as white as the porcelain doll her father had once given her sister. His skill at infiltrating the English was what had earned him Ryen’s respect; his command of the English language surpassed even her own. “Where?” she demanded.
“Northwest of here,” he answered. “He said he was separated from his army. Lost.”
Ryen moved past him, eager to see her enemy. As she neared the prisoner tents, she noticed that, suspiciously, more than a few of her men were seated near one tent. Each head was bent over their work, the men diligently sharpening weapons or polishing armor until it sparkled like a gem. Ryen knew they were eagerly awaiting the outcome of the interrogation. It had been almost two weeks since they had seen any battle, and they were eager to confront the English.
“What can I do, Angel?” Gavin wondered.
Ryen stopped and the boy ran up before her. He was panting vigorously and Ryen knew he had run the entire way to keep up with them. She smiled at him and patted his unruly hair before carefully handing her sword to him. “Take this to my tent. Then find Mel to look after it.”
Gavin’s brown eyes widened as he stared at the blade. “Aye, m’lady,” he whispered reverently. He gazed at it a moment longer before heading toward her tent at a slow, careful walk.
Ryen exchanged a grim look with Lucien before continuing.
Two guards stood outside the tent, looking more like stone gargoyles poised on the pillars of a church than like men. They were clothed in chain mail, white tunics washing over the metal links that protected their bodies.
Ryen shoved the tent flap aside and entered.
The prisoner was tied to a large, planted stake, bound hand and foot. Small in build, and dressed in a leather jerkin, the Englishman reminded Ryen more of a squire than a foot soldier. His jaw was set with determination, his dark eyes cautious and distrustful. He assessed Lucien and Andre with a swift glance and his lip curled. When his gaze turned to Ryen, his eyes widened in surprise.
He was not dirty. His cheeks were not sunken from lack of food, nor were his lips parched from lack of water. “He is not lost,” she muttered. She didn’t think the prisoner would understand her French words but murmured just in case.
“I agree,” Andre stated.
Ryen stepped toward the prisoner.
Lucien followed protectively and stood beside her.
“What lord do you serve?” Ryen asked the man in perfect English.
His brow furrowed in confusion and his gaze slowly traveled over her body appreciatively. She straightened slightly as his insolent, laughing gaze locked with her eyes.
Lucien slapped the man’s impudent face and the blow twisted the man’s head to the side. A silver chain around the prisoner’s neck glinted in the candlelight.
Ryen stepped forward and the man gazed down at her with defiant eyes as she peeled his jerkin aside. There, hanging from the chain, was a medallion of a silver wolf enclosed in a circle. Ryen stared at the pendant for a long moment. Her teeth clenched slightly and her hand trembled with anger as she reached out, encircling the pendant with her fingers. Its cold metal bit into her palm as if it were alive.
“He’s closer than we thought,” Lucien sneered at seeing the crest.
Ryen nodded. “Much closer.” She dropped the medallion to the man’s chest. Her blue eyes lifted slowly to meet his gaze. “Bring me the truth powder, Lucien,” Ryen said. She watched recognition wash over the prisoner’s face, followed closely by fear and disbelief.
“The Angel of Death,” he gasped.
“He will tell us where the English army is camped. I will have the Prince of Darkness before tomorrow’s dawn.”
Chapter Three
Bryce jolted awake, every nerve in his body tingling. Something was dreadfully wrong. He sat up, trying to pierce the darkness with his eyes, his ears ringing with the effort to hear more than just silence. After a long moment, his eyes adjusted, but still he heard nothing.
He tried to relax, raking his hands through his ebony hair, but with every passing moment a feeling of impending disaster grew inside him, eating away at his nerves. It had been one day since his advance guard had missed their scheduled rendezvous. It had also been one day since Bryce had noticed tightness knotting his stomach.
Bryce swung his legs from his bed of straw and stood. He began to pace, hoping to end the unease that was settling over him. But his mind dwelled on the war…and the cause of his troubles. The Angel of Death had proved to be a tricky opponent. The French Army had repeatedly tracked his steps and retaken French towns that Bryce had won in the name of King Henry.
The Angel was a worthy adversary, and Bryce had learned to respect him. Then, yesterday, amid his growing anxiety, word had reached him of a new rumor about the knight, the most disturbing yet. The Angel of Death was said to be a woman.
Quickly, Bryce grabbed a pair of black hose and pulled them on. He donned his black leather boots before flinging aside the flap of his tent to gaze upon the starry night.
What if the Angel of Death was a woman? That would explain the irrational, unpredictable, and, to Bryce, totally maddening way in which the French Army moved.
But no woman was that brutal. No woman was intelligent enough to command an army. And certainly, no woman could wield a sword with enough strength to disarm a man, much less unhorse him at Tournament – as legend told of the Angel of Death.
A movement caught his eye and Bryce turned his head to see a small, familiar shadow walking through his camp. “Runt,” Bryce called.
The shadow stopped and turned toward him. The moon paused for a moment to reflect in the boy’s eyes before it disappeared behind a cloud. Again, Bryce had a momentary pang of guilt. Runt was so small, so young, to be here. He should have left him back in England. But as quickly as it had
surfaced, the doubt was gone. Runt belonged here, with him.
As the boy approached, Bryce asked, “What are you doing up at this time of night?”
Runt gazed up at him through a lock of rebellious black hair that refused to be swept aside. “I can’t sleep,” he replied.
“You either?” Bryce mused, his gaze shifting to the horizon, a row of hills just beyond the camp. He narrowed his eyes, trying to see something that wasn’t there. It bothered him that Runt couldn’t sleep, more than he was willing to admit. He and Runt were of the same blood. They had a sense of self-preservation that transcended any rational thought. Survival was instinct to them.
Memories washed over him as he stared at the hills. Bad memories. His father was sick, very sick. He could barely stand when the heavy plate mail was positioned over his shoulders. Once they had to have two knights ride next to him so that he would not fall from his saddle. He could barely stay atop his horse during a melee. He was the first to fall in every tournament, in every joust. The people began to call him “Lord Yield”, and the nobility quickly picked up the phrase.
The sickness lasted most of Bryce’s youth. He was five years old when his father began to lose jousts, six when the other children began to tease him. He had received a black eye more than once, fighting to protect his father’s name…his name.
Knights in his father’s service began to leave and his father had to replace them with mercenaries. He hired a group called the Wolf Pack, who wore thick animal skins and never bathed. Their hair, beards, and mustaches were matted and unkempt. At dinner, they paced the floor, waiting anxiously for their turn at the roasting boar. After his father had taken his meat and returned to his seat, they attacked the spit with the savageness of wild animals. After they had snatched handfuls of meat, they retreated to corners around the room to eat in darkness, away from those they thought would try to take their food. Often times, Bryce wondered why his father kept them on, why he actually paid to have them in his house.
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