Ryen wouldn’t look at him for a moment, embarrassed, ashamed that Bryce had thought she had brought him to her room for one last tryst, afraid that Andre would think the same thing. “You couldn’t even look at me in Father’s sitting room.”
“I was ashamed,” he admitted quietly.
Ryen tried not to let the hurt show on her face, but she was unsuccessful. “You see? You believed I had freed him.”
“Ryen,” Andre said, his voice tender, “I was ashamed of myself.”
Ryen raised startled eyes to him.
“I knew that Father was planning to marry you to the count. I tried to dissuade him, but he wouldn’t listen. I felt as though I had failed you.”
Relief washed through Ryen, engulfing her in its calming pool. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“No,” Andre insisted. “It is I who will apologize. I should not have let him do this to you. The marriage, your army…”
Ryen raised her hand and gently cupped his cheek. “Thank you.”
“What will you do if he is alive?” Andre wondered.
Slowly, Ryen’s hand dropped and she turned to stare out at the night sky. The moon was high in the star-speckled night sky, almost full except for a sliver carved out of the top. Ryen was silent for a long moment. Then she whispered, “I don’t know.”
***
The torches illuminated the murky black water, casting a red glow over the moat. Two men rose from the depths of the water and moved toward the shore, dragging a large object behind them. As they slowly approached, the dark object that they pulled became the figure of a man.
They dropped him, face down, at Andre’s feet.
Andre held the torch above the body. Dark hair, strong physique. With a gentle kick, he rolled the body onto its back. The face was a mass of mashed bone, broken beyond recognition. One dark eye was open, rolled back into what remained of the head.
Andre glanced over the murky water to the place where the body had been discovered. Then his eyes scaled the castle walls, up to the tower directly above the murky grave. It was Ryen’s room.
Andre heard a sound from behind him and turned. From the darkness of the road that lined the moat, Lucien emerged. “What are you doing, Brother?”
Chapter Twenty Two
“It was him, Ryen.” Andre’s voice was firm.
Ryen sat heavily on her bed. Suddenly, she felt as though all her breath had been sucked from her. Deep down inside, she had been afraid they would find his body in the moat’s dark waters. But she still could not believe that he could be dead. “I want to see his body.”
Andre lowered his eyes.
When he failed to respond, Ryen raised her head sharply. “What?”
“Lucien is displaying it throughout the streets,” Andre replied. “There was nothing I could do.”
The horrifying image of Bryce’s body, bloated with the moat’s brackish waters, dragged through the dirt of the streets behind Lucien’s horse for all to see, filled her mind. Ryen shot from her bed, her fists clenched into tight balls. She headed for the door, but Andre caught her arm.
“You can’t, Ryen. You can’t stop him.”
“I can and I will!” she snapped. She tried to yank free, but Andre’s grip was tight.
“And what are you going to tell him?” he demanded.
“I won’t let him drag Bryce’s body through the dirt.”
“The people already think you freed him. Don’t make them think worse.”
“Worse? How could they possibly think worse?”
“They’ll say you were in love with the Prince of Darkness! He jumped out your window, Ryen. Your bedroom window! What else could they possibly think?” Andre shook her, trying to get her to see the treason in her actions. “You hid him in your room so he would be safe.”
Ryen roared, pulling her arm free and facing Andre with fury. “He was my prisoner! My responsibility. Could I live with myself knowing that my countrymen had killed him on the field of honor!”
“Better in battle than wasting away in a dungeon.”
Ryen fumed silently. She did not know if she would have been content letting him sit in the dungeon. All she knew was that she had to stop Lucien. I will not allow him to display Bryce like some prize, she thought. I have to stop him. But first, I have to get past Andre. Ryen dropped her head, forcing her shoulders into a slouch. “You’re right.” Ryen whispered, her voice sad and contrite. “He is the enemy. And he is dead.”
Andre’s brows came together in disbelief.
“I’m sorry, but with what happened between us…it is difficult sometimes to see him as my enemy.”
Andre nodded. “You must let him go, Ryen. It will do you no good to dwell on it.”
“I know,” she murmured.
Andre turned and walked to the window. He gazed out over the rooftops and fields of the village. “Give it time, Ryen. Lucien will forget and all will be as it was.” He took a deep breath of fresh air. “Will you tell Father the truth now?” The silence stretched. When Ryen didn’t answer, Andre turned.
The door was open and Ryen was gone.
She rode her horse like a madwoman, barreling through the streets, a cloud of dust churning behind her racing mount. The streets were strangely empty, the shops closed early. She sent a group of chickens squawking, scattering them in all directions as she tore through the town, looking for Lucien. Finally, she came upon a farmer in his field. She reined up to ask him where Lucien was when she saw a cloud of smoke rising in the distance, near the outskirts of the village.
Ryen spurred her horse, heading for the thick black cloud that billowed up into the red sky of the setting sun. As she neared the last house, the stench of fire and burning flesh made her skin crawl, her heart pound with fear. When she guided her horse around the corner, her heart stopped.
Most of the villagers, men, women and children, were gathered around a large bonfire. The flames licked the red sky. In the middle of the fire, Ryen saw the blackened form of a burning body. For a moment, she could not move, frozen to the saddle under the heat of the flames. Oh, my God. Bryce.
Anguish gripped her heart. She stared at the part of the burning body that had once been the face – now nothing but a black shell. Bryce’s image rose in her mind, his strong chin, his sensual lips, his mysterious eyes, even the cut on his cheek that she had given him. Tears rose in her eyes. Look what he has done to Bryce’s face, Ryen thought despairingly. That handsome face.
She dismounted, pushing and fighting her way through the peasants, making a path to the front of the crowd. Finally, she found herself standing in the intense heat of the blaze. It was so hot that she had to put up her hand to prevent her face from burning. Her hair shifted slightly under the waves of hot air that assaulted her.
Ryen peered beneath her hand, through the ripples of heat that the flames fanned into the air. The fire had eaten away the man’s skin, and no matter how hard she tried, she could not absolutely identify the man as Bryce. I will never know for sure, she thought with a desperation that ate away at her sanity. Tears burned her eyes. Finally, the smell of charred flesh made her gag and turn away.
Lucien approached her. Ryen didn’t see her brother; she saw her torturer, the man who had condemned her to an infinity of uncertainty. She launched herself at him, her hands curved into claws. “You son of a bitch!” she screamed over the roar of the flames. “Do you know what you’ve done?”
Lucien grabbed her wrists before she could slash at him, but he was caught off guard and the impact of her body sent him onto his back. She fought wildly against his hold, shouting, “You torched him! You burned his body!”
Lucien flipped her onto her back, easily straddling her body, forcing her arms above her head. Ryen would not give up; she kicked and screamed like a cornered cat.
He shook her, shouting, “Stop it! Ryen!”
She twisted her arms in an attempt to free herself, bucking and flailing her legs. It wasn’t until his hand struck her check,
hard, that she stilled her fight. The tears came easily then, running from her eyes like little streams.
Lucien released her, sliding from her. Ryen sat up, burying her face in the crook of her arms.
Lucien leaned close to her to whisper, “For God’s sake, show some dignity.”
Ryen peered up at him with red, swollen eyes. “You bastard,” she murmured.
“He is the enemy,” Lucien retorted hotly.
“I’ll never know for sure,” she said, tears welling again in her eyes. “I’ll never know it was him.”
“It was him,” he said positively.
Ryen stared at him for a long moment. Perhaps he was sure. But she would never know for certain. There would always be that doubt. And it was all because Lucien had to destroy his enemy. Slowly she rose. “I hate you,” she gritted, before moving into the crowd. They opened a path for her and she walked stoically to her horse, mounted, and turned toward the castle.
She did not look back.
***
The rage in her heart remained strong the next morning. Ryen sought solace in the stables with her war horse, vigorously brushing his coat and thick white mane. She had just managed to get all the tangles out of his hair and was reaching over his back to run the brush through it again when she heard hoof beats enter the courtyard, followed by a shout of welcome.
She placed the brush on the floor and hurried to the doorway to see a man dismount from a black horse. Ryen noticed that the horse’s muzzle was flecked with white foam; the animal had obviously been ridden hard. She watched Lucien greet the man with a clasp of arms. They exchanged words and Lucien nodded before turning toward the castle. The man glanced around the courtyard once. That was when Ryen saw the insignia etched upon his tunic. He was the constable Charles D’Albret’s man! A tingle of excitement shot up her spine. The man was a messenger sent by the king’s closest confidant.
She hurried after them and entered the Great Hall just in time to see her father appear. Ryen pressed back against the cold stone wall, blending into the shadows. She could hear their words perfectly as they echoed through the room.
“Greetings from the constable,” the messenger said. “I have a message for the Angel of Death.”
A message! For me! The constable must want me to fight with them! Ryen thought. After all these days of pain, loneliness, and scorn, someone finally wanted her. And this someone was, next to the king, the mightiest person in all of France! Ryen’s feet moved instinctively. She began to step out of the shadows.
“My daughter is to be married,” Jean Claude said. “She will fight in no more campaigns.”
She froze instantly. For a brief moment she had completely forgotten that she no longer led an army. The melancholy that had plagued her these last days consumed her again. Never to fight again, never to brandish a sword. Instead, to bear an old hermit sons.
The messenger hesitated a moment before saying, “It is a great loss to France. I will inform the constable of this tragedy.”
“Tragedy? She is of marrying age,” Jean Claude answered defensively.
“Forgive me. I meant no insult. But it is a tragedy to lose such a great knight. France has need of all her warriors, what with England in her realm.”
“I command the army now,” Lucien spoke up loudly. “We are, of course, at the constable’s disposal.”
“The constable has ordered all lords and their armies to Rouen.”
“We can be there in three days.”
“I will tell the constable,” the messenger replied.
“First you must rest,” Jean Claude stated. “Come, I have food and ale.”
Their voices faded as they moved from the room toward the kitchens. Ryen turned and slowly climbed several steps before her legs seemed to give out beneath her and she sat down heavily. Her army would leave without her, with a new leader. She was never to fight for France again. There had to be something she could do. She could not sit on this step and let the world go by without her. She was a woman of action. She was a De Bouriez! Then how come she could not find the will to rise to her feet and storm down the stairs to confront her father?
Ryen stood and moved up the stairs toward her bedroom.
Ryen sat in a small alcove near a window. She stared down at the sword she held in her lap. The mirrored metal reflected her image. Her long hair hung over her shoulders, dark tendrils reaching for the blade and curling lovingly around it.
I cannot imagine never holding you again, she thought. Never wearing my armor. Never feeling that thrill of riding into a battle.
The cold metal sat in her hands, strangely calming in its hypnotic power. Suddenly, shouts from the courtyard below reached her ears and she lifted her head to gaze out the window. Below, she could see her army preparing to leave for Rouen. She scanned the rows of men until she came to the head, near the doors of the castle.
With the help of his squire, Lucien was mounting his warhorse.
A movement near the doors of the castle caught her attention. Her father was descending the stairs, his chest puffed out proudly.
Why is he so proud of Lucien? she wondered. Why does he bid farewell to my brother with a smile when all he had for me was a scowl?
Slowly, as her father stopped at Lucien’s side, she rose to her feet.
Why is there admiration when he stares at Lucien? Ryen demanded silently. When for me there is nothing but disapproval?
Jean Claude spoke to Lucien. Ryen could not hear his words, but she saw Lucien’s return smile.
Her hand tightened into a fist around the handle of her sword.
I will have the answers, she vowed.
Lord Jean Claude De Bouriez gazed in admiration at his youngest son. Lucien was mounted on his mahogany warhorse, his bright golden armor resplendent in the morning’s misty grayness.
Jean Claude’s eyes sparkled and his voice boomed with pride as he said, “Lucien, you do justice to the name De Bouriez.”
Andre nudged his horse up beside Lucien. “Where is Ryen?”
At the mention of her name, the glow on Jean Claude’s face dimmed and he turned to Andre, shrugging. “In her room.”
Andre’s dark eyes shifted to her window, and Jean Claude noticed the disappointment written on his face at finding the space empty. Andre addressed Lucien. “The men are ready.”
Lucien nodded. “Then we depart.” He rode forward, leading the way toward the town where peasants waited in the streets to cheer the knights on to victory.
With a sigh of contentment, Jean Claude turned and walked into his castle. Never in all his life had he felt so pleased. His son was leading the army to battle the English.
He walked jauntily through the hallway and was almost at the stairs when he heard soft footsteps and turned. She approached him in brown leggings and a cream-colored tunic. Her back was straight; her dark hair swirled around her slender shoulders as she moved, like coils of wispy smoke; her blue eyes flashed in the light of the torches on the wall. Her hand rested on the pommel of her sheathed sword. He did not know the woman who approached him, had never seen the likes of her smoldering fire before.
“Father,” Ryen said. “I would have words with you.”
Jean Claude nodded reluctantly. He led the way to a large room. Five precious books were on pedestals near the far wall. This was his library. He shut the door after Ryen entered. Sunlight streamed in through the large windows across from the door. A fire had been lit in the fireplace between the two windows.
“You’re very proud of him, aren’t you?” she asked softly, a tinge of remorse edging her voice.
Jean Claude did not turn. He kept his hands on the handle, almost as if he were keeping open an avenue of escape.
“Why, Father? I want to know why you never looked at me that way.”
“I cannot be proud of you any longer,” he replied softly.
“I am not speaking of now. I am speaking of when I was knighted. When I won the battle of Picardy. When I brought the Prince
of Darkness to you.”
Jean Claude replayed the events she’s named. Fragmented images flashed before his mind’s eye accompanied by sharp and vivid emotions.
Embarrassment. A slip of a girl in plate armor standing boldly before his neighbors, his friends. How could his daughter, a maiden, become a warrior? She should not be rescuing; she should be being rescued!
Sorrow. A castle in flames, thick smoke rolling from its innards. Armored men on horseback shouting victory. A young woman strolling toward him, carefully stepping over fallen knights and horses. No man would want a woman who could cause this much death.
Curiosity. A tall, dark man walking toward him through a room lined with people. This was the legend. The great Prince of Darkness. Somewhere in the shadows, his little girl stood.
Through all the flashes of pictures, the whispers floated. “Does she really have a heart of ice?” “Her kiss enslaves men to her will.” “She is the Angel of Death.”
“I am a De Bouriez, too, Father. I am a warrior. I deserve the respect you show Lucien, not a casual dismissal when I come home,” Ryen said.
Jean Claude turned and answered, “Mayhap you can gain the respect of your future husband. But I have no respect for a member of my family who betrays me.” There was a long silence and Jean Claude almost regretted the words he had spoken, but he believed them.
Ryen stared hard at her father, finally saying, “I worked my entire life to please you. When I was young, I saw the way you looked at Lucien and Andre when they were training, heard how you boasted of them. Just once I wanted you to look at me the way you did them. Everything I did, I did for you. I may have disappointed you, but you disappointed me, too.” Ryen added definitively. “I’m sorry, Father. I will not marry the count.”
“What?”
Ryen raised her chin slightly. “I am the Angel of Death and –”
“You are my daughter!” Jean Claude roared.
The Angel And The Prince Page 19