Jeanne’s smile was instantaneous. “You’ve always said that. But one of these days, the right man will come to you and you will not be able to imagine life without him. Just as I have Jules.”
Ryen quickly looked away, down the hall. An uneasy feeling stirred in her stomach. Had she already found the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with? She could not forget how it felt when he kissed her. And yet when she thought of a life with Bryce, perhaps a castle of their own, she knew it was only fantasy. He hated her. Still…
“Where is Father?” she asked, attributing the anxious feeling to her father’s absence.
“He will be here,” Jeanne said. “Come, sit by the fire.”
Ryen cast one last look down the hallway. She could still hear the sounds of laughter and shouts of delight as wives, husbands, sons and daughters found each other. But she did not see her father. He would find her. If she left the hallway to sit by the fire, he would still come. Ryen removed her leather gloves and followed Jeanne and Jules. A young girl appeared at her side, offering a goblet of ale. As Ryen shook her head, she noticed the fear and awe in the girl’s large brown eyes before she bowed her head and backed away.
The Great Hall was emptying and Ryen knew it was because most of the servants were headed outside. As she reached the warmth of the fire, she heard his voice boom across the hall.
“Could that be my little Ryen?”
Utter joy raced through her body as she turned. Jean Claude De Bouriez strolled across the room toward her, his arms outstretched. Ryen’s heart filled with happiness and she threw herself into those arms. Even though she wore armor, she could feel her father’s strength as he crushed her in a powerful hug. She returned it wholeheartedly, reveling in the feeling of his embrace. Ryen knew he would be proud of her. She would look into his eyes and see the respect he had neglected to show her. He pulled back and his eyes bore into hers, a smile lingering in the depths of those brown eyes. Although so many things had changed in the castle, he hadn’t. Those warm eyes were the same ones that had smiled on her all those years ago; those lips the same ones that had whispered words of comfort when she had fallen.
“Oh, Father!” Ryen exclaimed. “We took their army completely by surprise! We routed the English and –”
Jean Claude patted his daughter on the head, nodding patiently. “Don’t worry yourself with matters of war now. You are home.”
“But Father, I captured the Prince of Darkness,” Ryen said, the happiness slowly draining from her.
“Yes. I know, child. And I look forward to seeing him.”
“I made him tell me of King Henry and his English army. They are coming to France!”
Jeanne gasped and buried her face in Jules’s chest.
Jean Claude scowled at Ryen. “You are frightening your sister. That is enough. Go change into proper clothing for our meal.”
Ryen felt a hot flush creep up her neck to her cheeks. Jean Claude stood a hand’s width taller than most Frenchmen, and even taller in Ryen’s eyes. She did not move, and finally, Jean Claude turned his eyes from her to Jeanne. A serene smile inched over his lips and he said, “Jeanne, show Ryen the new fashions. Perhaps she would like to wear one of your dresses to dinner.”
Jeanne relaxed, pushing aside her fear. “Oh, yes. You can wear the dress I made for you.”
Ryen sank into despair. She allowed Jeanne to lead her across the room to the stairs.
As she reached the cold stone steps, she paused to look back at her father. His elegant blue velvet tunic shone softly in the lighting from the fire as he approached the door. Lucien was entering, and Ryen felt a moment of fear that made her falter. Would Lucien tell her father about her and Bryce? Even from this distance, she could see the bruises on Lucien’s brow and cheek, his swollen lip.
Lucien looked around the room and his gaze halted on her. She saw his back straighten and felt the anger in his stare.
Her father’s voice boomed across the room. “Lucien! You must tell me the tale of the capture of the Prince of Darkness!”
Ryen turned her back on them. Lucien would say nothing. It would only cause Father heartache and bring scandal to the family name.
“I hear tell that the English are approaching France,” Jean Claude continued.
Ryen mounted the steps, her heart breaking.
Chapter Seventeen
Jeanne fluttered around the room like a bird, preparing Ryen’s clothing as if she were making a nest. She dashed to the wardrobe and pulled out a scarf, then flittered to the hand mirror on the table. She held the scarf to her neck and gazed at herself in the mirror, silently shaking her head. She put the mirror down and rushed back to the closet to toss the scarf inside. She began to rummage through piles of jewelry, holding a piece up to her neck and then, frowning, putting it back.
Ryen sat on her canopied bed and stared at her folded hands that lay listlessly in her lap. Why was he the only one she had never been able to stand up to? Why couldn’t she demand the respect she deserved? Why had she allowed herself to be swept aside like so much dirt? Ryen groaned and ran her fingers through her hair, burying her face in her hands. Because he was her father!
“Why, Ryen you haven’t even begun to remove your armor,” Jeanne said, sitting beside her, holding a sapphire necklace.
Ryen turned her face away from Jeanne. She wished her sister would leave her in peace just this once.
“Tell me how you captured the Prince of Darkness,” Jeanne asked with a touch of sympathy in her voice.
Ryen separated her fingers to peek out at her sister in disbelief. “Jeanne, you couldn’t even bear to hear that the English were coming. How could you listen to the tale of how I captured Bryce?”
“Bryce?”
Ryen dropped her hands with a sigh. “The Prince of Darkness.”
Jeanne was silent for a long moment and Ryen felt her gaze upon her. Finally, Jeanne patted Ryen’s wrist and jumped up. “I will show you the dress. It will make you feel better.”
Ryen stood, her jaw clenched. “I don’t care about the dress!” Jeanne turned to her, and Ryen saw the hurt in her expressive eyes. She immediately regretted her harsh words and continued more softly, “Not now. I want to know why Father doesn’t listen to what I have to say.”
Jeanne smiled. “Because you’re a woman.”
Ryen sighed. It was the one thing in her life that she couldn’t change.
“Don’t be sad, Ryen. We’ll have a grand time. Did you know that the Duke of Le Mans is here?”
“No.”
“We’re in very good company tonight. The Count of Sens is also here. They came to see the Prince of Darkness. It appears the fiend has a reputation.”
Ryen’s brows furrowed. “What do they want with him?”
Jeanne shrugged her dainty shoulders as she turned to sort through her wardrobe closet. “All I know is that Father is planning a…well, a sort of reception for him. I must tell you that I am very excited to see him. They say that a mere look from him will sentence a maiden’s heart to burn –”
“A reception?” Ryen wondered quietly.
Jeanne placed her hands on her hips as she turned to Ryen. “Really, Ryen. You must learn to listen when others speak. Yes. A reception. Apparently, Father has some sort of surprise in store for our enemy.”
Ryen felt a cold chill of dread creep up her spine.
Ryen was a vision of femininity as she stood at the bottom of the stairs that led from the bedchambers to the Great Hall. And she hated it! The full chemise and heavy velvets of the dress’s skirt swirled about her legs and inhibited her steps. She felt constrained by the cotte Jeanne insisted she wear beneath her chemise, to accent her feminine attributes, as she put it. The cotte was so stiff, Ryen felt as though she could not bend. But she had worn it for Jeanne. Then, her sister had helped her don the long, dark blue gown. Ryen was appalled at how it was fitted to her body, not at all like her tunics. And the wide, open neckline was so…revealing! Over this, Ryen
wore a sideless surcoat made of velvet that had armholes that reached to her hips. Jeanne had giggled when Ryen swore the thing was going to fall right off her body! Jeanne fastened the surcoat to the gown with buttons that were hidden beneath the fur that edged the neck and armholes, assuring Ryen the buttons would hold it on.
The final straw was the headdress. Jeanne had pulled out this monstrous-looking thing with horns! Ryen had reared back and absolutely refused to wear it. She insisted that her hair be left down.
With that small, single victory, Ryen stood at the bottom of the stairway, wanting desperately to run back up into her room and put on her tunic and leggings. A gentle shove from Jeanne behind her urged her into the Great Hall, where all the guests had gathered. As she stepped into the room, voices began to subside as eyes turned toward her.
The longer Ryen stood, the longer the silence stretched. She was sure it was this horrible dress that drew their stares. It made her look weak.
Finally, Andre approached. “There’s a man I want you to meet, Ryen.” He gently guided her by her elbow into the gaping mass of people and the talking resumed, although at a quieter pitch.
Ryen halted and leaned close to him, whispering, “Does this dress look foolish?”
Andre paused to glance at it, then up at her face. There was confusion in his eyes. “What else would you wear in Father’s castle?”
Andre himself wore a houppelande of dark green velvet that fell in folds to the floor, gathered around his waist by a black belt. Ryen felt the cotte confining her and wished she had insisted on wearing a houppelande. Finally, she swiveled her head around the room. “Why are they staring at me?”
“They are impressed that you captured the Prince of Darkness.”
“They thought I couldn’t do it.”
“Well, you must admit that most women would shiver and faint before your Dark Lord.”
Ryen glanced at him, noticing the stress he put on “your”. She briefly wondered if Lucien had spoken with him. She chose to ignore it, casting a glance at Jeanne, who was leaning in to hear a whisper from an elderly woman dressed in an impeccable white sideless surcoat. Jeanne raised her eyes to Ryen for an instant and there was pain in them, then she quickly cast her head away and answered the woman, who blushed and straightened before quickly moving away.
They hated her, Ryen was sure of it. She wasn’t what they thought a woman should be – quiet, married, and obeying every word her husband said.
Ryen glanced at the nobles. As her eyes scanned them, she caught an occasional curious glance before the watcher noticed her look and quickly turned away.
Disappointment raced through Ryen. This time was supposed to be different! She had captured the Prince of Darkness, a task no one else had managed to accomplish. A task to make anyone the envy of all France. Yet still they looked at her as though she were some sort of freak.
Andre propelled her through the room again. The tables were being set up for their meal and the guests were congregating in the middle of the Great Hall. Most of the lords and dukes were in the middle of the room. They were dressed in richer clothing and would not be seen speaking with the common man.
When Ryen neared the men gathered around the hearth she recognized many of them from her army. Captain Navarre was there in a yellow tunic and black leggings. He nodded to her. “M’lady.”
She returned his greeting and moved past him. Finally, they came to a tall man whose back was to them.
“Excuse me,” said Andre, and the man turned. He had a kind face and understanding eyes, yet lines of pain etched his forehead. He appeared almost as old as her father. “Lord Merle? I’d like you to meet my sister, Ryen.”
“The Angel of Death! How nice to finally meet you,” he said enthusiastically. He extended his hand, palm up, but then stopped cold. He appeared panicked for a moment.
Ryen immediately grasped his arm near the elbow, in the soldier’s fashion. His face seemed to relax as he returned her shake. “It’s very nice to meet you, too, Lord Merle. You have traveled far.”
“Yes. I have been here for nigh on three days. I could not miss the opportunity to see the Prince of Darkness,” he replied. Ryen frowned. Dismayed at having apparently insulted her, he hastened to add, “Of course, I am delighted to meet you also. You are one of France’s greatest warriors. I am honored to be in your presence.” He bowed slightly.
Ryen forced aside her fears for Bryce and smiled brightly.
Andre interrupted, “Lord Merle was just telling us about the rumors that Henry of England has reached France.”
“Yes, indeed,” he murmured, his voice dropping conspiratorially. His demeanor turned serious as he said, “I have it by good and reliable sources that the English king is laying siege to Harfleur as we speak.”
“He’s in France?” Ryen asked. That would mean battle soon. I should gather my men and leave for Harfleur, she thought. No. I must wait until we are summoned. Perhaps we are needed elsewhere.
Someone grabbed her arm and she pulled it away before turning. Her father stood behind her. He was dressed impeccably, as always, wearing a houppelande of red samite that swept to the floor. It had a high collar that rose to cover his neck and dagged sleeves lined with sapphires. “Sirs, my daughter is needed elsewhere. Please excuse us,” he said, and led her away by her elbow.
“What is so important, Father?” Ryen wondered. “Is it an emissary from the king?”
“Oh, no, my dear,” he chuckled. “I think it is important for you to speak with the right sort of people.”
“Lord Merle seems like a nice man,” Ryen replied as they approached the group of noblemen.
“If you prefer people with small lands.” Her father stopped and turned to her. “You must be seen with more important men. You must think of your future, Ryen.”
Yes. Her future! To advance her career she must associate with men of power and wealth. And these were the noblemen, the arrogant, pompous men who knew nothing of warfare, but reveled in the grandeur of it. It was the soldiers who won wars and sieges for them. But she also realized that to be an effective commander, she must have influence with both sides.
Her father led her to a small man with hair the color of the ground on a muddy day. His rich velvet houppelande waved like a flag as he spoke with a great flourish of his hands. It wasn’t until they were closer that she saw he had the leggings of his plate mail on beneath the gown. Ryen had to force a smile down. In her experience, the only ones who displayed their own armor in this fashion were the ones who never involved themselves in anything more strenuous than barking commands from a tent far from the heat of the battle.
He was speaking with another man who was taller but just as thin. His padded blue samite jupon came to his hips. Ryen looked down to see that his black shoes extended nearly two feet beyond the tips of his toes, ending in points. Ryen almost giggled. She must remember to be careful not to step on them.
When they saw Ryen and her father approaching, the first man broke off his conversation to hail them. “Jean Claude!” he called. “How wonderful it is to see you again. And how is that charming girl of yours?”
“Jeanne is fine. She is here, you know. You must remember to speak with her,” Jean Claude responded. “She was always very fond of you.”
“And I of her,” he said, his gaze coming to rest on Ryen.
She couldn’t help but be repulsed at his small form. He appeared physically weak and very vulnerable, and there was something about his eyes that reminded her of a sick hound. She smiled anyway.
“Ryen,” her father said, “this is our dear friend Count LeBurgh. Michel, this is my other daughter, Ryen.”
He extended his hand and Ryen clasped it tightly around the lower arm.
Surprise and disgust washed over his face and he quickly withdrew his hand. “Yes, well…” he murmured, offended at her greeting.
Her father scowled heavily at her. Well, how did they expect her to act? By lowering her eyes and batting her lashes
at him? When she had finally gathered her wits and was ready to put the situation to right, the count continued, “This is Duke Armand Caron,” he said, introducing the man standing beside him.
The duke smiled warmly at Ryen. His pale visage seemed to color with life at the recognition. “Yes, of course. The Angel of Death. I must say, the pleasure is mine.”
He did not offer a hand, but bowed slightly. Ryen was grateful.
Count LeBurgh nodded his head and raised his nose to the ceiling, peering at Ryen down its slender line, as if now seeing her for the first time. “Ah, yes. The female warrior.”
Even through his air of haughtiness, Ryen saw something akin to apprehension flash through his dark eyes. Her legend, she knew. Everything he had heard of her was crowding his small brain. She wanted to smile, but could not embarrass her father with such open mockery. Ryen glanced at her father. His heavy eyebrows were drawn down in a pout of disapproval.
“Not just a warrior,” Duke Caron went on. “But the knight who brought us the Prince of Darkness!”
“Yes,” the count sighed. “He must be a pitiful character, after all.”
Ryen felt her blood beginning to boil at the insult. “I beg your pardon, sir. But I am sure you would not wish to come face to face with him on the field of honor. I have been told that in –”
“Ryen, please,” Jean Claude murmured. “These men do not wish to hear of the Prince of Darkness now.”
Ryen frowned. Wasn’t’ she supposed to impress them with her stature as a knight? To ensure them that their gold would not be wasted if they chose to add financing to her army?
“Count LeBurgh, are you not looking for a wife?” Jean Claude continued.
Ryen’s mouth fell open. Surely her father did not bring her over here to auction her off to these stuffy nobles like a prize mare!
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