A Warrior's Heart

by Laurel O'Donnell

  “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 you
ng, 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.

  Then, one day, Bryce was wandering the fields, watching the few remaining knights practice their skills. He was nine years old and he had an urge to fight that was very strong. He father had never asked if he wanted to learn. So instead, Bryce would watch the knights practice and try to emulate their movements in the privacy of his room. On that day, three knights were out on the practicing field, two arcing their swords at each other, the third watching, shouting advice from the wooden fence surrounding the field. The Wolf Pack approached from the forest. They almost always traveled in groups, and this time was no exception. There were five men coming toward the practice yard. As they entered the field, Bryce wondered if the knights would put these savages in their place.

  The knights told them they were not allowed on the field.

  The Wolf Pack had looked amongst themselves, one to the other, until one man stepped forward. His hair was black, his face scarred from his cheek down to his neck and farther, the rest of the scar hidden beneath the wolf skin he wore over a torn tunic. His boots were ripped near the heel with what looked like a knife cut. He was shorter than the knight, but built like a stone wall. “We go where we please,” he said in a gruff voice.

  “Is that a challenge?” one of the knights wondered, laughter in his voice.

  “We do not challenge,” the man stated. “People let us be.”

  “Not this time, barbarian,” the knight replied and approached with his sword drawn. “I told you that you were not welcome here.”

  The man slowly brushed aside the wolf skin he was wearing and pulled his sword from his belt. The knight attacked immediately and the man defended himself for a short time. Then, with a howl, he pushed forward. Bryce watched with large eyes as the knight was disarmed in two moves.

  “I believe it is you who are not welcome here,” the man said, the tip of the sword to the knight’s neck.

  The three knights had fled the yard with as much dignity as they could muster. Two days later, they resigned from his father’s service. The following day, Bryce began to follow the Wolf Pack, and more important, the man with the scar, whom he learned was called Night. He started to copy them, their behavior. Especially Night’s. At mealtime, he waited until his father was seated before running to the feast and grabbing food with his bare hands. He slept in the Great Hall with the Wolf Pack. He followed Night on his watches. But they never paid him any heed.

  Until the day two squires attacked him as he was walking alone one night through the town. They shoved him and called him “son of Lord Yield”, and “Puppy”. When Bryce threw the first punch, they jumped on him. He tried to defend himself, but he was clumsy and young, and the squires were two years older. They left him with a bloody nose, a swollen lip, and more aches than he could count. He got to his knees shakily, wiping a sleeve across his bleeding nose…and saw them. Not far down the street, three men of the Wolf Pack stood watching him. Slowly, they turned their backs and walked away. Bryce was too embarrassed to follow them that night. And it wasn’t until the next morning that he realized they were watching him.

  He had awakened with sore muscles and a grumbling stomach. He stumbled to his feet and was making his way down the hallway of his father’s castle when a voice called, “Child!”

  Bryce came to a halt and turned to find Night standing half in the shadows of the stairway.

  “You have been following me.”

  Bryce did not move. He wanted to flee, but his legs would not obey.

  “I will help you, child.”

  Bryce’s eyes lit up. “You’ll teach me to fight?”

  “Oh, I will teach you much more than that.”

  During the next months, Night taught him to track and to hunt, but most importantly, he taught him how to fight. Day and night, Bryce had to stay alert, waiting for Night’s attack, anticipating his next strike. His innate sense of survival was honed to razor sharpness.

  One evening, when Bryce was twelve, he was sitting near Night before the fire in the Great Hall when Night seized his arm and cut it. More from shock than from the pain of it, Bryce pulled away, and watched with heart pounding as Night ran the blade across his own arm. He grabbed Bryce’s arm and pressed his open wound to Bryce’s, their blood merging as their cuts touched.

  “Always remember, you are one of us,” said Night, and withdrew his hand.

  The next day, Bryce had raced down the stone stairway and into the Great Hall…only to find that the Wolf Pack had gone. He was bitter and angry. He did not understand why they had left, but even more importantly, why they had not taken him. When his father tried to comfort him, Bryce rejected him. It was later that day when Bryce had his last confrontation with the boys of the castle.

  It was damp and cloudy, and Bryce could still recall the strong scent of leather from the blacksmith’s shop. He had been carrying his father’s sword back from the yard, thinking about a conversation he had just heard between his father and their steward, who was afraid the mercenaries would turn against them and try to take over the castle. Lost in these bitter thoughts, Bryce turned a corner and collided with three squires. He attempted to move past them, but they blocked his way, taunting him. The anger that surged inside him was swift and consuming. He threw down his father’s sword and attacked the closest boy. They rolled across the ground, through the dirt and mud, furiously throwing punches. Then, the other two joined in. Bryce didn’t remember much, except for the fact that when it was over, he stood with his fists clenched at his side while the three squires ran away from him.

  Bryce had not lost a battle since then. Night and his Wolf Pack had taught him well. Yet now, that old feeling of anxiety snaked through him. He looked down at Runt, who was quietly standing at his side, gazing off into the distance, as he had seen Bryce do. He knelt beside the boy and put his hand on his shoulder, turning him until those blue eyes gazed at him. “In case of attack, remember what I told you.”

  Runt nodded
enthusiastically. “Fight with honor.”

  “No.” Bryce scowled. “You must go to the rear of the army and await the outcome.”

  “I want to fight,” Runt said, his lips drawing down into a disapproving frown. “I want to cut down one of those Frenchmen.”

  Bryce’s lips twitched with a proud smile, but the thought of Runt hurt was sobering. “This is not a game, Runt. This is war. Those men will kill you. You’re too small yet to battle an armored man.”

  “But I’ve been practicing,” Runt objected wholeheartedly.

  “I know. And you’ve improved. But not enough to stand against a man twice your size,” Bryce patiently explained. “Promise me, Runt. You must go to the rear of the army.”

  Runt sighed in disappointment and kicked at the dirt.

  Bryce squeezed his shoulder gently. “Promise me, boy,” he persisted.

  Runt nodded grudgingly. “I promise.”

  Bryce stared at the crestfallen look on his face. It broke his heart to have to refuse the child, but he was not willing to risk the boy’s life in a battle. He reached up and brushed aside the lock of black hair that fell over his eyes. “Try to rest, Runt,” Bryce advised. “If we are right, it will not be long until we see battle.”

  Runt scurried away.

  Bryce stepped back into the tent, allowing the flap to swoosh back into place as he turned to the basin of water on a stand near his bed. He braced himself over the table, hands on either side of the basin, and stared blankly into the dark water. What had happened to his advance guard?

  “Hell,” Bryce growled and plunged both hands into the water, cupping them to collect a pool to shower over his face. The water was cool against his hot skin.

  He splashed another palm of water onto his face, the water trickling from his chin down into the basin. Sighing, he rubbed the water from his eyes. There’s only an hour before dawn, he thought. There’s no point in trying to get any sleep.

  A single candle rested next to the basin, its shimmering image reflecting in the still water. As Bryce watched, the image shifted, moving slightly. Slowly, the water began to ripple, distorting the figure of the candle. The ripples became stronger and more pronounced. And then he heard it, a thundering rumble in the distance, growing louder with each passing second. Bryce bolted upright. Horses! Coming in fast!