The Angel And The Prince

by Laurel O'Donnell

  Ryen continued implacably, “And I will finish my days in battle.”

  “I forbid it,” Jean Claude said, his eyes dark with fury. “You will remain at the castle and marry Count Dumas. I have indulged your fantasy for far too long, Ryen. That’s been my biggest mistake. I should have stopped this nonsense when I had the opportunity.”

  Ryen’s eyes narrowed with bitter resolve as she stared hard at her father. Then, with determined steps, she brushed past him stiffly as she moved to the door.

  “I forbid it, Ryen!” Jean Claude hollered after her. “Do you hear me? By all that’s sacred, you will marry the count!”

  Ryen slammed the door shut as she left the room.

  Jean Claude’s fingers curled tightly into a fist. With a loud roar of rage, he smashed his hand into the small wooden table beside the door.

  The wood splintered beneath his fury and the table collapsed.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Lucien’s horse shied to the side, whinnying nervously. He steadied the beast with an easy swivel of the reins.

  Lightning ripped the sky in two, striking the barren field far off to their left. A cloud of dust exploded upward from the impact of the sharp spear of energy. The formerly white clouds had darkened quickly to a row of dirty cotton churning toward them from the left. The wind started to pick up and as its whistling grew louder the troops quieted.

  Suddenly, Andre brought his animal to a halt, straining to see across the empty wasteland.

  Lucien followed his brother’s gaze. The empty field extended into the dark gray horizon. The end of the barren earth was nowhere in sight. As thunder rumbled above their heads, a dark dot appeared on the horizon, clearly visible against the unblemished gray sky.

  Lightning flashed again, this time high in the air, stretching its crooked fingers toward the army. The black dot in the field grew until they could see that it was a horse. A horse riding hard, its rider driving it forward.

  A clap of thunder startled a horse near Lucien and the animal reared, its forelegs kicking wildly at empty air.

  Still the rider came, outlined by streaks of lightning, hailed by booming thunder.

  Lucien drew his sword, the metal hissing like a snake as it came out of the sheath. “We meet this demon with death.”

  “Hold!” Andre called, seizing the reins of Lucien’s steed so he could not move. When Lucien snapped his gaze to bore into him, Andre continued, “I know that horse.”

  Lucien returned his gaze to the rider. Recognition slowly dawned on his face. “My Lord,” he gasped.

  Thunder clashed in the dark sky as drops of rain began to pummel the earth.

  The rider stopped not twenty feet from Lucien, the white warhorse pawing the ground as if in challenge.

  For a long moment, neither moved until Lucien sheathed his sword and, blinking the rain from his eyes, muttered, “Welcome, Angel.”

  Ryen removed her helmet. It felt slick in her wet hands, the metal cold and damp from the persistent rain. Reverently, she placed the helmet on the ground beside her sleeping mat. It had been Andre’s suggestion that she share his tent, and she had agreed. After days of riding, even her bones felt sore.

  The army had arrived in Rouen just before the sun had set. She remained with the men to make camp while her brothers went into town to find the Constable Charles d’Albret, the king’s commander who was to lead the fight against the English.

  Ryen reached up to untie the leather straps holding her shoulder plates in place.

  Andre had not asked what she was doing there. Lucien had not spoken to her at all.

  She pulled the second shoulder plate from her arm and unstrung the straps that held the arm plates on. It was difficult removing her armor without a squire, but she could not ask someone to help her. Her pride would not allow it. And she had left Mel and Gavin back at the castle, not knowing what fate had in store for her.

  Finally, she removed the final layer of her armor – the chain mail.

  Ryen had not been invited to the meeting with the constable, and in a way, she was glad. If he, too, suspected her of treason… It was hard enough riding all this way with the men, some she had known for years, scorning her. She had seen the shifting of the ranks, the moving away, wherever she drew near. She saw the bitter glances from people who used to respect her.

  Ryen bent and unsheathed her sword. As she turned it, she caught sight of her reflection in the flat edge of the cold steel. Her hair hung down to her waist, dull with perspiration and dust. Her eyes were ringed with weariness, her complexion flaxen. How could Bryce have ever thought she was beautiful? She remembered his strong arms as he held her close, his breath hot on her cheek. And his eyes. How bright with passion they were, glowing like candlelight as they swept up and down her body, enflaming it.

  Suddenly, a chill swept up her spine. She felt eyes on her. Eyes burning with desire. She gasped and raised her head.

  But the tent was empty.

  For a moment, she had been sure that Bryce…

  Ghosts.

  Shaking her head sadly, she turned her gaze to her weapon. Its handle was cold, its blade sharp. It was no comfort. It could not love her. And she could not love it. Not anymore. Not when one man’s image was engraved upon her heart. Her skin trembled for his caress; her heart ached for his presence.

  What am I doing? she thought. He is dead! I will never see him again.

  Ryen lay back on the mat that served as her bed. His face hovered in the dark just above her, as it had since he had leapt out the window. But tonight, a restless feeling in her lower stomach would make sleep evasive.

  A muffled sound. Ryen rolled instinctively away from it. Through the gray darkness, she saw the shadowy outline of a man, then the flash of a blade as it sliced downward, missing her by mere inches, imbedding itself into the covers she had just rolled out of.

  Ryen shot to her feet, eyeing the man as he pulled the blade from her blankets. He was poised like a cobra, ready to strike at any moment. Ryen’s eyes shifted downward to her mat. It was not the mat she saw, but her sword that lay beneath the covers. She stepped back, hoping to draw him away from her weapon. Even in the dark, Ryen could see the hatred that flamed from his eyes. He straightened, stepping over the mat.

  “Traitor.” The snarl came from the darkness like an arrow, piercing Ryen’s heart. As she staggered back, the man lunged, swinging his dagger out. She thought she was prepared, but the bite of the blade as it caught the front of her wrist sent sharp pain spearing through Ryen’s arm. She tore her hand back, quickly clutching at the open wound, and stepped away from him. She had misjudged his reflexes.

  Block out the pain, she silently told herself. I must get to my sword. She wavered beneath his gaze and, as she’d expected, the man closed in for the kill. She knocked his dagger arm aside with her bloodied fist and brought her knee into his stomach. She turned and dived for her sword.

  Her fingertips brushed the metal handle of her weapon. She had it! Then the man seized her hair, yanking her head back sharply. She uttered a small cry as she was drawn away from the sword, her hand empty.

  Through the stinging pain, she heard the tent flap swooshing aside. Then, the scrap of metal against metal and suddenly the pain was gone. Ryen lurched forward as the man released her, closing her hand over the handle of her sword. She whirled, weapon raised.

  The shadow of two figures stood outlined against the white tent. Lucien’s sword arm was extended and his blade was lodged in the man’s chest.

  The man collapsed to the ground.

  Relief flooded Ryen so completely that for a moment she was unaware of the throbbing in her arm. Only when the pain flared did she remember she was hurt. She dropped the sword to grasp her wrist and sat heavily on her mat.

  Lucien pulled his sword out of the body and turned to face Ryen. “Why did you come here? To my army?” he demanded sharply.

  Ryen looked up at him, baffled.

  “You knew this would happen! The men
don’t trust you any longer.”

  Her father had warned her, but she had not wanted to admit that one of her soldiers would try to kill her. The hurt was unbearable. “Then why did you allow me to join? Why didn’t you send me home?”

  Lucien lit a candle and the pale light illuminated the tent. “Why didn’t you go somewhere safe? Why couldn’t you join Jeanne?”

  “You know I couldn’t do that!” she shouted. “How could you ask me to come between Jeanne and Jules?” Pain flared from Ryen’s wrist and she squeezed it, fighting back a grimace.

  “Ryen?” Lucien stepped closer to her. “You’re hurt.”

  She glanced at her wound and then withdrew. “It’s nothing,” she replied stubbornly.

  Lucien looked at the dead man and shook his head, then turned back to his sister. “This is no place for you,” he said quietly.

  “Your point has already been made,” Ryen said.

  Lucien reached out to a nearby table and pulled a clean linen from its surface and handed it to his sister. “If I hadn’t come along when I did, you would be dead.”

  Ryen took the linen and absently wiped at the blood on her wrist. “And if I marry Count Dumas, the outcome might be the same.”

  Lucien’s blue eyes danced in the fluttering candlelight as he regarded her. Finally, he said quietly, “I would rather you join my army than marry that old hermit.”

  Ryen raised her eyes from the scrape on her arm to stare at her brother with surprise. Then, her shock faded and she looked away from Lucien. “Even after the war, I will not return to De Bouriez Castle,” she announced.

  “And what will you do?” There was disbelief and outrage in his voice.

  “I am not helpless. I will sell my skills.”

  “Mercenary?” he stated with disgust. “No one will hire you. Not a ‘traitor’.”

  “I can’t go back!”

  “We’ll never see you again,” he stated quietly.

  Lucien was right. She would never see her family again. Unless by some chance Andre or Lucien went to serve for the same lord that hired her. She swallowed heavily. “You must tell Jeanne that I’ll miss her. And that I’m not a traitor.”

  Lucien tried to see into her eyes, but she averted them. “You think you’re going to die in the battle with the English.”

  Ryen smiled gloomily. “If I am not cut down by an Englishman, one of our own may well stab me in the back.”

  Lucien’s brows knit with anger. “Then don’t fight!”

  She stared at him, strangely pensive. “I have to. I have to fight the best I’ve ever fought, cut more of them down. This is my only chance to regain my honor.”

  Lucien bowed his head. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “I only wish that I could make you believe that I did not betray out country.”

  His jaw tightened. But when he raised his eyes to her, Ryen saw a strange thing. His blue eyes, so like hers, were full of tears. She was so startled that she could not say a word.

  Lucien rose until he towered over her. He nodded once and turned away, striding to the entrance. It was only after he left that Ryen wondered if they were tears of remorse or tears of guilt.

  ***

  Three weeks later, Ryen stood with the French Army at her back. They were fifty thousand men strong, blocking the way to Calais. When the English approached, the French knights had donned their sparkling armor and displayed banners that quickly drooped in the constant onslaught of rain.

  Ryen sat atop her white battle horse, mud staining its coat. The English spread out over the plain before her, equally drenched. She estimated they had about ten thousand men at arms. Briefly, she recalled Bryce sweating under the influence of the truth powder…he had said there were five thousand men at arms! Ryen frowned as an ill feeling settled like lead in the pit of her stomach. Had Henry received reinforcements? That must be the answer. Where else would the extra men have come from? But the French were still more than four times their number.

  “We will squash them like bugs!” The Duke of Alencon called, his fist raised as he shook it at the English.

  He was echoed by more threats of vengeance and torture. Ryen did not join in. She sat silently staring at their enemy. There was something about the situation that made her uneasy. Maybe it was the quiet way the English stared at the French. Or maybe it was the arrogant attitude of the soldiers around her, an overconfidence that could easily lead to defeat. Doom settled around her as strong as the stench of war and she fought to rid herself of the foreign feeling.

  “They won’t attack today,” Ryen said to Andre.

  Andre looked at the setting sun, hidden behind gray clouds. “I think you’re right.”

  “I believe he will lodge at Maisoncelles.”

  “Have the men sleep where they are. We shall await first light,” Lucien instructed.

  “Aye,” Andre replied and rode off through the camp, passing the word.

  As banners were furled around lances and knights began to remove their rain-drenched armor, Andre returned to Ryen’s side, nudging his horse up beside hers. “You’re shivering. You should get out of those wet clothes,” he murmured.

  Ryen barely heard him. She felt her horse slide and looked down. Thick mud sucked at the animal’s feet, engulfing his hooves. She scanned the field to see that all around them the ground was wet, and as the men and horses trod through the camp they created even more mud. On either side of them, rows of trees stood tall and majestic, encroaching upon the field as if they were anxious to see the upcoming battle. “This field is not suitable to battle the English. We should retreat to more solid ground,” Ryen said.

  Andre was silent for a moment as his gaze swept the field.

  “The ground is slick and with the weight of our armor, let alone our horses, I’m afraid that we will have trouble,” she added.

  He looked across the field to the English camp. “Henry’s men have traveled a long way. They are tired and far from home. They will be easy to defeat.”

  “The field is too narrow, the men packed in too tightly. We will have trouble using the archers. I can’t see what the constable is thinking, waging battle here,” Ryen mused.

  “I disagree with you. With all our men, how can we possibly lose?”

  Ryen glanced at him, her brow creased.

  “Do not worry, Ryen. The coming morn will bring our victory.”

  That arrogance will be the downfall of the French, Ryen thought.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Ryen De Bouriez was already awake when morning came on that fateful day in October in the year 1415. She had stepped outside her brother’s tent and her lips immediately arched down into a frown as she watched dawn break on the horizon. The muted red rays of the sun brought only a cold dampness with them, a wet chill that seeped into her bones.

  She turned at the sound of hoof beats and watched two French messengers ride through the muddy field as they returned from the English camp. She had little hope that they would be successful in their negotiations; if the English commanders were anything like Bryce, they would never surrender, even if they were outnumbered a thousand to one. And from the grim looks on their faces, she knew she was right.

  She looked away from the messengers to study the French positions. The constable had placed the army between Tramecourt on their left and Agincourt on their right, thus firmly blocking the English army’s route to Calais. But the field before them was restricted to about three quarters of a mile by the woods that fringed the two villages.

  She frowned as she noticed that most of the French nobility seemed to have pushed themselves to the front of the line in their eagerness to participate in the expected massacre of Henry and his army. The dukes, counts, and barons had displaced many of the lowborn archers and crossbow men who were so crucial to the successful execution of the battle plan; how could they be effective if they were too far back from the line of attack? She shook her head.

  “Did you hear that the constable has pr
omised to cut off three fingers of the right hand of every archer taken prisoner so that none of them will ever draw a bow against us again?”

  Ryen turned to see Andre stepping out of the tent. She pretended she hadn’t heard his query. The idea turned her stomach. “I have an ill feeling about this battle, Andre,” Ryen said, staring into the distance toward the enemy.

  “I think your feeling is due more to an empty stomach.” He gently grabbed Ryen’s elbow and tried to pull her with him. “Come, Sister, let us eat before we wage war.”

  Ryen resisted and stayed where she was. She turned her head, glancing at Andre from the corner of her eye. “I am not hungry.” She didn’t tell him that she had tried to drink a cup of ale when she awoke, but fearful that the queasiness in her stomach wouldn’t let her keep it down, took only a small sip.

  The men grew restless as an hour passed and the English did not attack. Banners fluttered in the wind, so many of them that the constable finally had to order half of them furled so that everyone could have a direct line of sight to the English. By this time, Ryen had finished putting on her full battle armor and was in the saddle of her white warhorse.

  She patted her brave steed, whispering words of encouragement to him, when a flurry of movement caused her to snap her head back to the muddy field before her.

  The English were moving forward!

  Her horse danced nervously beneath her as the air thickened with anticipation. She watched the army approach, felt the anxiety of the men behind her as they waited for the constable to give the order to engage the enemy.

  Just as suddenly as they had started, the English stopped some two hundred yards away. Ryen watched as Englishmen ran forward with large wooden stakes. They placed them in the ground, pushing them into the mud so that the sharp spikes stuck out of the earth, angled skyward. More men charged up behind the wooden spikes and Ryen could see them preparing their bows.