A Warrior's Heart
Page 54
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.”
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.
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.”