The Angel And The Prince

by Laurel O'Donnell

  “You have nothing to fear,” Talbot told the man, then turned to Bryce. “I overheard him telling the story at the Inn.” Talbot then addressed the man. “Go ahead.”

  It was the way Talbot’s voice coaxed the man that grated Bryce’s nerves. He was up to something and Bryce didn’t know whether to believe what the man was going to say or behead them both.

  “Go on,” Bryce said, his voice echoing softly in the large room.

  When he spoke, his voice was tiny. Like a mouse, Bryce thought. If he had a tail it would swoosh. “I went up to her room.”

  Bryce felt an unreasonable rush of anger, but he kept his body absolutely still. He knew instinctively that it was Ryen they were speaking of. “Did you touch her?”

  For a moment, the man looked baffled. His gaze darted to Talbot before he said, “No.”

  “Then what were you doing there?”

  “I – I wanted to see the Angel of Death.”

  “He paid one of the serving girls,” Talbot supplied.

  The man clutched his hands before him. “Please, m’lord. Don’t punish me. I only wanted ta see –”

  “Continue,” Bryce’s voice boomed in the room.

  Visibly trembling, the man swallowed hard and lowered his fists to his side before Bryce’s dark demeanor. “She is a demon, m’lord. She had fangs the size of a cow’s calf, glowing red eyes, and claws!”

  “And you actually saw these fangs and claws?” Bryce asked darkly.

  The man nodded vigorously. “And she flew!”

  Bryce turned away and bowed his head.

  “’N she came at me like a bloody bat from…” He made the sign of the cross. “Lord protect us.” The man looked up at Bryce and finished with, “…hell.”

  “You are dismissed,” Bryce whispered.

  “I jus’ come in and she be all docile and quiet like. But as soon as I got close ta her, she swooped down, shrieking and saying she wanted me bloody heart!” He placed his hand protectively over his chest, his words now directed at Talbot, who was watching Bryce.

  Bryce’s shoulders trembled and Talbot was positive it was with anger.

  “Go!” Bryce barked.

  The man promptly scurried from the room, bowing all the way out.

  Talbot frowned. “Prince?”

  Bryce threw back his head and gales of laughter burst from his lips, echoing throughout the large room. A servant paused as he crossed the hall to the kitchens to cast a curious glance at his lord. A dog foraging in the rushes for food raised its head, his straight, pointed ears listening to the strange sound. The thought of his Angel, with the pliant lips and soft skin, depicted as a demon, was ridiculous! The only glowing he had ever seen in her eyes was the fire of lust.

  Talbot’s mouth dropped. “I – I fail to see the humor.”

  “Don’t you see what the little vixen is doing?” Bryce said after catching his breath. He put his hands on his thighs and bent over from a slice of pain in his side.

  “You mean, besides scare the man half to death? I’m surprised she didn’t sprout wings!”

  “What a mind! Even here, a prisoner within my own walls, she continues her legend!” Bryce threw up his hands in exasperation. “And I thought it was her brothers who had spread the lies!”

  “You don’t believe she’s a demon?”

  “Good heavens, no.” Bryce turned to stare at him, his mood sobering as he saw the seriousness in Talbot’s eyes. “You can’t tell me you, a warrior, a knight of the realm, actually believe in demons.”

  Talbot looked away from his questioning lord, giving Bryce his answer.

  “Demon or no, as soon as France’s missive returns and she learns that her king has turned his back on her, she will be mine – on my terms.”

  Chapter Thirty One

  Polly rushed into Ryen’s chamber before the sun had even risen. “It’s gonna be a beautiful morn,” Polly exclaimed, fluttering about Ryen like a mother hen.

  Ryen stretched and glanced at Polly, who was continuing her monologue. “I can tell because farmer Naughton is still sleeping. If it were going ta rain, the man would be out tendin’ his animals already. He’s got a bloody sense about such things.”

  Ryen groaned and buried her face in the pillow. She wanted to return to the comfort and warmth of her slumber. Then, through the haze of sleep, Ryen suddenly realized that Polly was no longer talking. She lifted her eyes to the maid to see her standing over her, hands folded in front of her stomach.

  “I – I wanted to thank ye,” Polly said contritely. Her eyes pierced Ryen with such guilt that it sent waves of sympathy coursing through Ryen. “Ya woulda been flogged,” Polly continued, as Ryen sat up. “I – I put the knife on the tray because – well, because the bread here can be like a bloody stone. And ya were sick. I never thought –”

  “It’s all right, Polly. I won’t tell anyone,” Ryen said gently, a slight grin curving her lips.

  “Thank you.” Polly turned away to open the door to the room. Three young women entered, each carrying a beautiful gown.

  Ryen watched the nervous, jerky movement of Polly’s hands as she straightened each dress, smoothing the wrinkles. She doesn’t believe me, Ryen thought. She stood, a stab of hurt in her chest, and approached Polly.

  A vivid image of Jeanne, smaller and better dressed, standing before her wardrobe closet at home flashed through Ryen’s mind, the dresses that lined the walls inside glimmering in the sunlight, Jeanne’s disappointed voice saying, “I have nothing to wear –”

  But then, Polly was speaking, her hands wrapping over each other nervously. “M’lord will come for ya.” Her voice quivered, betraying her anxiety.

  Ryen stepped forward, gently placing her palm over Polly’s hand, stilling her movements. When Polly looked up into her warm gaze, Ryen grinned kindly at her. “I know,” Ryen said quietly.

  Ryen shifted her gaze to the dresses. She chose the gown closest to her. It was a samite light blue dress with a very dark blue velvet surcoat over it. Ryen pretended not to notice how the girl shrank before her as she took the dress. She brought it back toward the bed and Polly dismissed the girls with an impatient flick of her wrist. Polly helped Ryen out of her nightdress and into her chemise. She broke the silence by saying earnestly, “Ya really should be nicer to him. He did save yer life.”

  But Ryen didn’t hear her words. She sat on the bed beside the dress, her head bowed. “Polly, I have to ask you a question.”

  Polly’s face turned white.

  “It’s important to me, or I wouldn’t ask.”

  Polly stiffened and declared, “I won’t do anything against me lord nor me country.”

  Ryen’s brows drew together in confusion as she raised her sights to the heavy woman. Finally, she said, “The battle. I must know. Who won?”

  “We did, of course.”

  Ryen and Polly both started at the voice and looked to see Talbot entering the room. While Ryen scrambled, pulling a blanket from the bed to cover her silk chemise from his view, Polly stepped forward, hollering, “Out, ya rogue! M’lord gave strict orders –”

  “To bathe her,” Talbot finished. “Not answer her every damn question. So get a tub and some servants to fill it with water.” He strode past Polly to the bed.

  Ryen raised her chin and narrowed her eyes at him.

  Polly shook her head. “I cannot leave ‘er in here alone with the likes a you.”

  “Now,” Talbot commanded.

  Polly harrumphed and whirled, heading out the door.

  Ryen saw the hate in Talbot’s stare, the anger and loathing. She prepared for a verbal melee.

  “We slaughtered your precious French army,” Talbot sneered.

  Ryen raised her chin further, clutching the blanket to her chest. “I don’t believe you.”

  Talbot shrugged. “Believe what you will.”

  Ryen had been about to ask Polly about her brothers, but she absolutely refused to question Talbot.

  Talbot stepped forward
and Ryen moved away from him. She did not trust him. He fingered the silk dress lying on the bed, and somehow Ryen felt violated. Her back straightened.

  “Your treacherous people struck from the rear, killing our squires and burning our supply wagons.”

  Outrage soared through Ryen. While her mind realized there was earnest pain in his voice, her heart refused to acknowledge that her countrymen would commit such an atrocity.

  “King Henry had all the French prisoners executed as retribution.”

  “What?” she managed to gasp, as his words murdered the hope she held in her heart for her brothers. “It cannot be,” she murmured. Her brothers! She knew Andre had to have been taken prisoner. She had seen him wounded, struck by an arrow! Furious and frightened, she shouted, “Liar!”

  Talbot raised his head. To her surprise, his eyes were sad, ringed with doubt and confusion. For a moment, they stopped in time, his finger still on the dress, her fists desperately clutching to the blanket she held before her.

  Finally, Talbot spoke. “No warrior should die thus.”

  “It can’t be,” Ryen repeated helplessly. “I, too, would be dead.”

  Talbot’s eyes hardened and the hate returned. “You should be.”

  Ryen blinked and her heart twisted in anguish. All prisoners killed. The French defeated. Their arrogance was, finally, their downfall.

  But…Andre must have been captured. He couldn’t be dead. She would never believe it. But the scene of bodies falling to the ground and being trampled and smothered beneath the thick mud filled her mind’s eye. Ryen turned her back on Talbot, hoping to hide her turmoil and fear. Worry gripped her heart, squeezing it until it threatened to stop beating.

  She had been so angry with Lucien. She had never forgiven him. He could not die without giving her that chance!

  Despair filled her and her shoulders slumped even though she fought to right them. In her mind, she couldn’t judge who were the more barbaric, the English or the French, and it tore her apart. How could she be certain that the constable had given the order to slaughter the English squires, and not some vengeful knights?

  She was no longer certain who was right.

  The door opened and Polly entered with a group of servants carrying pails of water, trailed by two others carrying a wooden tub. She was out of breath, as if she had run the entire way.

  With a last glare at Ryen, Talbot quit the room.

  Ryen did not watch him leave. She raised her head to see the servants lift the pails they had carried in and dump the water into the tub. Steam rose, its white vapors twisting and turning as they reached toward the ceiling.

  Polly came toward her. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but when she locked gazes with Ryen, she closed it and frowned. “Did that bloody scoundrel touch ye?” Polly finally asked.

  Ryen shook her head. “I’m not going, Polly.”

  “But m’lord…” Polly’s words disintegrated as she saw the pain in Ryen’s face, her agonized gaze. “Yes. Ya are pale. Perhaps ya have a bout of illness. I’ll inform Lord Princeton that you are not well enough to dine.”

  When Ryen glanced away from Polly, the maid’s brows drew together in concern.

  Ryen sat on the edge of the bed, letting her hands fall to her lap. Her brothers…her countrymen. She had to know. She had seen the arrow in Andre’s stomach; the bloody scene played over and over in her anguished mind.

  Lucien must have gotten to him and dragged him to safety. But no one had saved her.

  She distantly heard Polly clap her hands and shout for the servants to leave. Then the door closed.

  She was alone. The fear ate away at the corners of her mind, demanding acknowledgement. But Ryen stood, pushing her doubts aside. She walked to the window and gazed out over the gates of the castle and into the town. Ryen saw farmers in their fields far in the distance.

  She remembered that once, when she was younger, she had gone to watch the men practice their swordplay. Andre had been there, young and handsome. He had stopped to speak to a maiden from the village, and Ryen remembered how jealous and angry she had been at his attentions to the girl. Why, he hadn’t even noticed that she had arrived. Ryen had thrown herself between the two, her hands on her hips, her eyes blazing, demanding to see his swordplay. He had smiled at her, his eyes full of humor and understanding.

  She knew he had given up having a wife and family to fight beside her. Now, he would never have a family of his own. No, she thought, and turned from the window. He is not dead.

  But images of Andre’s kind face flooded her eyes. What if he is? a tiny voice inside asked. And Lucien? She had been so angry with him for burning the body she had thought was Bryce’s. He couldn’t die before her rage dissolved! She had to forgive him. She had to speak with him again. It couldn’t be true! Had her brothers really been murdered by the English?

  She found herself staring at the tapestry, at the horned man. His mocking grin, his knowing eyes. It was Bryce. He would know. He had the answers.

  Ryen ran to the door and threw it open, intending to go to the Great Hall for Bryce. She reared back as a wall of flesh blocked her path. She jerked her head up to find Bryce standing before her. Her fear-filled mind clouded her reality and she did not see the dark, stormy look on his face.

  “Attempting another escape?” he wondered, stepping toward her.

  “No. I…was going to find you.” She retreated into the room as he approached.

  Bryce paused to close the door behind him. When he turned to face her, his eyes glowed hotly. “In your chemise?”

  Ryen looked down, startled to find that he was right. She wore only the transparent cloth. “I – I…” her voice died as she turned large eyes to him. Ryen self-consciously crossed her arms over her chest, only to find her hands trembling. She felt her resolve weakening under his presence and tears welled up in her eyes.

  Concerned, Bryce stepped forward. “Are you ill?”

  “Bryce,” Ryen gasped and swallowed hard. “My brothers.”

  Bryce froze at her words.

  “Where are they?”

  Something close to fear crossed his face before anger lowered his brows. “They’re dead.”

  His words, delivered in a cold, vindictive tone, made her stumble back from him, her face pale. She backed up and wilted onto the bed like a dying flower.

  Bryce stepped toward her, but Ryen did not notice. Dead. Her brothers. She felt her insides begin to tremble.

  “Tears, Angel? Is that how the French handle defeat?”

  Stunned, Ryen glanced up at him as if he had slapped her. His vicious sarcasm stunned her.

  “Or perhaps you learned it from your brothers,” Bryce continued. “Why else would they allow their sister to command them? Perhaps they were not men at all.”

  Slowly her mouth closed and rage colored her cheeks. The vulnerability disappeared behind a mask of loathing.

  Bryce seemed pleased with himself, a tiny grin curling up his lips. “Now, bathe and get dressed.”

  Ryen sat absolutely still for a long moment, staring hard at him. Her jaw was clenched tightly and her heated gaze threw daggers of blue flame at him. Finally, Ryen brushed imaginary lint from her lap and replied matter-of-factly, “I wouldn’t eat with you if you were the King of France.”

  Bryce’s lips turned up in a grin. “But I’m not. And you will eat with me.”

  She opened her mouth to reply, but he raised a hand, stopping her. “If I have to feed you every drop, you will eat.”

  Ryen’s eyes narrowed.

  “I will return for you in a half hour. Be ready,” he commanded, and strode to the door.

  Ryen watched him walk away. His step was so confident, so arrogant. Rage consumed her body, twisting the emotions of pain and sorrow, and even love, until they were concentrated on hate. She wanted to hurt him. To make him wish he had not shown her coldness when she’d needed warmth. She made her voice velvety soft. “To think I wanted you to hold me and tell me that everything
would be all right.”

  Bryce stopped cold, realization dawning through him.

  “To think that I wanted your arms around me.”

  Slowly, suddenly aroused by her soft, delicate words, he turned to regard her. She was sitting on the bed, his bed, watching him with eyes the color of the sea.

  “To think that I wanted you to touch me.”

  He took one step forward.

  “Makes me sick,” Ryen finished, before his foot hit the ground.

  His foot came down hard. He stood glaring at her in shock for a long moment.

  A slow, calculating smile slid across her lips.

  At seeing her delight, Bryce straightened, dark eyes smoldering. He spun and quit the room, bolting the door behind him.

  Bryce stood outside the dungeon doors, staring through the celled window at the darkness within. The hallway was humid; his clothing stuck uncomfortably to his skin. He could hear a drip, drip, drip somewhere in the cavernous corridor. The smell of mold, decay and urine surrounded him. But all of it faded away as his black eyes focused on the cell.

  A shadow moved restlessly within.

  Tension tightened his shoulders. He watched the thing pacing back and forth. He rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the cramping muscles. But the tension and guilt were engraved there. I should tell her, he thought.

  He knew he could not tell her. Not now; not ever. The man, the thing, inside the cell was wild, mad. Dangerous. He did not want Ryen to see him like this. It would be better to let her remember him as he was.

  The wild thing stopped its pacing, and Bryce saw him lift his head. The torchlight in the hallway glinted off the man’s orbs. Bryce’s eyes narrowed as the prisoner called, “Prince? Is that you?”

  Bryce did not move, even when the prisoner launched himself at him, his hands outstretched for Bryce’s throat, until they stopped just inches short of his neck when the wild man slammed into the door that separated them.

  “I will kill you! If it’s the last thing I ever do!” he shouted.

  Bryce stood for a moment, eyeing him blankly. Then he turned his back on Lucien De Bouriez.