The Angel And The Prince Read online

  It is ridiculous, Ryen thought as she paced before the stone window in her room, the shutters open wide to the night sky. She did not feel the chilly air as it tried to wrap its frigid fingers around her bare shoulders; her body blazed with a blanket of anger. Her nightdress swooshed with each furious step. This was not a joust! It was murder. Knights did not behave in such an unchivalrous manner. What had happened to her men? To her brother? Had the war turned them into barbarians?

  Ryen paused to stare into the black night. She wondered how she had come to see things so differently than Lucien. There was a time when everything was black and white, right and wrong. Now that was not so. Or maybe it was. But Lucien’s right was suddenly her wrong.

  A forbidden thought came to her. It would be so easy to go to Bryce…to… She crossed her arms over her chest as a sudden chill swept over her, peppering her arms with tiny bumps. What had happened to right and wrong? Life was so clear before. England was the enemy of France. But she was not France. Just as Bryce was not England. He was a man.

  A man who had made her feel beautiful.

  He is my prisoner, she rationalized, and I will not let a bloodbath take place. She whirled and stormed to the door, determined to see her father and put a stop to this lunacy. She threw the door open and stopped instantly when she saw Lucien leaning casually against the stone wall opposite her room, like a lazy lion waiting for its prey. He was flipping a small pebble in his hand.

  Ryen’s hand fell to her side, clenching into a fist.

  “I thought you might be up late,” he said quietly, tossing the pebble aside.

  Tingles shot up her spine, and she had the oddest feeling of being trapped. As she walked into the hallway, the dim orange-yellow light from two flickering torches washed over her. “What are you doing here?” she wondered.

  “Giving you one last chance,” Lucien replied, a shadow flickering across his face. “I knew you’d fail.”

  Her eyebrows drew together in uncertainty.

  “You see,” Lucien continued, “I knew that when the jousts were announced, you would react as you have.”

  “He is my prisoner and I will not tolerate –” Ryen began, but stopped as she saw Lucien take a threatening step toward her.

  “That’s not the reason you protest.”

  “No, I protest because this is not a joust. It’s a massacre,” Ryen said. “He cannot fight all of France!”

  “Have you no worry for your knights? Or your brother?” His voice was oddly quiet, menacing in its softness. “After all, he is the strongest knight in England. Their best warrior.”

  “You are mad,” Ryen snapped in disgust, too angry to make him see the insanity of the situation through words of calm. “I won’t let you joust. I won’t let you fight him.”

  “But we want to. You cannot deny our right, Ryen. You cannot deny the Code of Chivalry,” Lucien said.

  “A hundred knights against one is not chivalrous!” she roared.

  “Why do you defend him? Let him die in battle.”

  “I would, if it wasn’t a slaughter!” Her eyes were dark with rage, her brows knit, her teeth clenched.

  Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t think you would. I don’t think you could sit there and watch him die. You love him, don’t you?”

  “No!”

  Lucien stepped closer. “You do. I’ve seen the way you watch him.”

  “No!”

  Closer still. “The way you light up when you see him.”

  “No!”

  “The pain in your eyes because you know it’s wrong.”

  The truth in his words stunned her. Yes. She did love Bryce. Why hadn’t she seen it? How had it happened? Her hands began to shake and she had to turn away from him. She could not let him see how true his accusations were. But Ryen knew that turning away was confirmation enough and she hated herself for not being able to look him in the eye.

  “I’m not going to let you interfere with this joust. I will kill him, if only for your sake.”

  “Lucien, no. You mustn’t –”

  Before Ryen realized what was happening, Lucien had seized her wrist in a grip as hard as iron shackle. He had pulled her halfway across the hall, toward her room, before she came to her senses and dug her bare heels into the floor. But his strength was too much for her and he easily flung her into her bedchamber, then closed the door with a resounding thud.

  Ryen caught herself before she lost her balance and stood absolutely still as images of her childhood came gushing into her mind: Lucien, a boy of twelve, hair the color of golden daffodils, dragging her to her room; she, a small child of eight, crying and screaming helplessly. She remembered his hard grasp bruising her wrist as he tossed her like a rag doll into her room. And finally she remembered the chilling sound of the bolt sliding home as the door was locked.

  Then, Ryen realized that the soft clang that echoed through her mind was not a memory! She ran to the door, pulling at the cold metal handle. The door did not open. Disbelief, followed closely by a feeling of dread, consumed her as she yanked frantically on the handle. Again it did not budge. She slammed her fist into the wooden door, screaming, “Lucien! Let me out!” She shook the handle again but the thick wooden door did not budge. She pounded on it, her heart aching with desperation, her mind filling with despair. “Oh, God,” she mumbled, a light sweat making her brow shimmer.

  She raced to the window. Through the moonlit shadows of the night, she could see no movement below her. The moat was calm, the forest beyond was still. She was at least fifty feet up and the walls were too slick for scaling. The ledge had a curving lip so even if a ladder were laid against the castle wall no one would be able to gain access to the room. It had been specifically chosen and designed by her father so no man could scale the wall and whisk her away.

  She had to get out. Bryce’s life was in danger! The joust was at noon and she had to stop it! They wouldn’t even allow his wounds to completely heal before they slaughtered him.

  Ryen whirled, her gaze darting about the room, stopping on the impenetrable stone walls, the useless arced windows, and then back to the bolted door. I did not find a way out before. Why should now be any different? she wondered. Her breath came in rapid gulps, as if the room were being sucked dry of air. A feeling of strangulation grabbed her and she put her hands to her throat.

  She had to get out! But how? There wasn’t a way. She had looked and looked! You fool, she chastised herself. You were a child! Now you are a warrior. But what am I to do? Splinter the door? How do you win battles? she asked herself. Through brawn? No. Through brains. Think!

  Ryen paced the room, trying to come up with a plan while attempting to calm the anxiety that was racing through her veins. Her gaze scanned the room again. She ran to the window, again a child of eight, and looked down the sheer wall of the castle. Like an abyss, the descent to the brackish water gaped before her. To a child’s mind, the curving banks of the moat seemed to frown up at her.

  Ryen turned away to scan the room once more. Her eyes came to rest on the four-poster bed. Even if she tied all the blankets together, they would not be enough to reach the ground. It was too far. If the fall to the ground did not kill her, and through some miracle she reached the moat, it was unswimmable. Of course, Ryen knew this. For she had thought of it before.

  Again she ran to the door, retracing the steps she had taken as a child. She pounded on the wood, screaming to be let out.

  But no one came.

  The tears of a scared little girl welled in her eyes. They would leave her here…she would never get out. She would grow old and die in this room, and no one would know.

  Slowly, Ryen’s hand clenched. Stop it, she told herself. Stop it. There is a way out of here. And it’s not setting fire to the room, as you thought those many years ago. And it’s not jumping into the moat.

  Ryen forced herself to calm her breathing and walked quietly to her bed. She sat down, her chin bowed to her chest. There is a way out, she told h
erself.

  The blind fear of a child was slowly replaced by a burning anger. How dare Lucien lock me in here, Ryen thought. I will get out. And I will get him back.

  Calmly, Ryen considered the door. It was much too thick to break down. But it was not the door itself that was her barrier. It was the bolt. She knew how a bolt worked. Somehow, she had to breach the bolt.

  Ryen shot to her feet, ran to her bureau, and dug through the silk dresses and gauzy chemises as if they were old rags. Finally, after parting rich bolts of material, she found it. After all these years, it was still there, buried deep beneath layers of Spanish satin and Venetian velvet. Carefully, she picked it up and held it before her eyes. The candlelight sparkled off its long, thin metallic surface. It was a hunting knife, Lucien’s pride and joy. She had taken it from him many, many years ago, after he had hidden a dead fish under her pillow. She grinned. He had never found it. It served him right for his prank.

  She raced to the door and carefully inserted the blade between the frame and the door. She bit her lip, squinting as she pushed the blade up. All she had to do was slide the bolt back and push the door open. Slide the bolt back, she told herself. Careful. She felt the weight of the bolt on the blade as she slowly tilted the weapon to the side. But it slipped and the bolt slid heavily back into place with a thud. Ryen clenched her teeth. Getting angry won’t move that bolt, she told herself. Her jaw relaxed and she took a long, slow breath before making another attempt. Lift the bolt, move it back. Back. I have it, she thought. It’s working! Then, scrape. The bolt shot back into place. Silently, Ryen cursed. Lift. She wiped the perspiration from her brow. She pictured the bolt in her mind. Slide it back as if opening the door. Ryen bit her lips gently as the bolt eased back. Further. Don’t pull yet. Not yet. Her hands shook with the effort of holding the bolt open. Then, Ryen yanked on the door. It swung open and she nearly stumbled back into a bedpost. Elation coursed through her like the dawn bursting through the night sky.

  Ryen kissed the blade and quickly glanced down the hallway, half expecting Lucien to still be standing guard before her room.

  The hallway was empty.

  Ryen returned her gaze to the knife, staring at it for a long moment, knowing that she should bring it with her. The picture of her brandishing a knife before her brother seemed ridiculous. She would never hurt him, no matter what, and he knew it. Finally, she tossed the dagger back into the room.

  Ryen closed the door behind her and slid the bolt back into place, just in case Lucien happened to pass by while she was gone. Swiftly but quietly, she made her way down the hallway toward a stairwell, her bare feet making no sound. The stairwell should be empty at this time of night.

  The cold stones stung her feet as she descended, but she ignored the biting chill, watching and listening for any movements.

  “Are you ready for the joust?”

  Ryen came to an immediate halt, the momentum of her forward movement almost hurtling her down the rest of the stairs toward the source of the voice. She pulled back into the shadows of the staircase, pressing her back against the wall.

  “I can’t wait to slice him in two.”

  “You must leave some for me. Not all the fun can be yours.”

  Ryen was certain the second voice belonged to Lucien and she pushed herself further against the wall until she could feel the stones against her skin. A chill twisted up her spine. She must not be found. Least of all by Lucien.

  A chuckle sounded from below. “If you wanted to put your lance through him, why didn’t you challenge him first?”

  There was a rustle of clothing before Lucien’s words, whispered and furious, ascended to Ryen’s ears. “If you kill him before I have a chance, I will have your head!”

  Then, footsteps echoed in the Great Hall as one of them walked away. After a moment, the second, softer pair trod the same path. Slowly, she took one step and then another, until she could see the Great Hall stretching out before her. Lucien and the other knight were gone, and the hall was strangely empty. Long flickering shadows cast by the torches on the walls stretched across its length.

  Ryen dashed around a corner and ran down the stairs. It was dank and foul-smelling below. But the quick pounding of her heart pushed her on, down another narrower set of steps, to enter the dungeon from the rear entrance.

  A small, dark corridor stretched before her, ending at a barred door. She approached slowly, her bare feet slushing over cold, wet stones. Where was the guard who was stationed here?

  When she reached the door, she was surprised to find it ajar. Ryen stood on tiptoe to peer through the bars. The room beyond was black and she could make out no movement. Foreboding snaked through her body as she pressed the tips of her fingers to the door’s slimy wood and it opened slightly. She pushed harder and the hinges groaned as it swung inward.

  She stepped into the dark room and the hem of her nightdress snagged on something. Fearing a rat, she lashed out with her foot only to hit cold metal. Chain mail. She took a quick step back, startled by her discovery. The guard!

  Suddenly, Ryen saw a shadowed movement. Before she could react, a hand clamped over her mouth, stifling her gasp. Instantly, another hand seized her slim waist and pulled her back to a wall of muscle. Ryen’s heart raced as she cursed herself for being so stupid. She felt the sharp edge of a dagger press into her chin, stilling any struggles before they could start.

  “Not a word,” a husky voice whispered.

  A shadowed form stepped before her and looked out into the hallway. “It’s clear,” the second man said as he moved aside.

  Ryen felt herself being shoved forward through the dark hallway, to the stairwell, the first man right behind her.

  A familiar chuckle caressed her ear. “Come for the escape, Angel?” The hand about her waist loosened to roam upward, caressing her skin. “Or perhaps for another romp?”

  Bryce. Embarrassment blazed through her body, fueling her courage, and she began to struggle. When the dagger’s tip was again pressed into her chin, she stiffened.

  “Oh, no, my little Angel,” the voice stroked her ear with rich sarcasm. “We cannot have you calling attention to our venture.”

  Relief and anger surged through her as he half carried, half dragged her up the narrow stairs. He turned and continued up the next flight. Her bare feet scraped against the ragged stones because she couldn’t keep up with his large strides as he took two steps at a time.

  At the Great Hall, Bryce paused. Ryen tried to catch her breath, but it was difficult while his hand was over her mouth. They began crossing the large room. Fools, Ryen thought. How can they hope to escape through the Great Hall – shadows sneaking across the vast expanse of hall, metal glinting in the torchlight?

  “Someone’s coming,” the other man stated.

  They pulled back into the shadows of the stairway that led to Ryen’s room. She heard a soft whistling accompanying the echo of the footsteps as the person approached from the hallway, the way Lucien had disappeared.

  At that moment, a soft clang of rustling chain mail came from the entrance that led to the castle doors. It was the guards from the tower! And they were coming straight for them.

  Ryen jerked, trying desperately to move toward the stairs that led up to her room. But Bryce’s hold was like a shackle, binding her movements. If only he would follow her!

  Ryen yanked her head away sharply, hitting Bryce in the cheek. He mumbled a curse as Ryen gasped, “The stairs.” After a second’s hesitation, Ryen felt his hold on her loosen and she grabbed his arm, moving a step up the stairs. She tried to pull him, but he was like a wall to move. He had to come of his own will. It was the only way he would be safe. In the soft glow of the wavering torchlight she beseeched him with her eyes.

  Bryce moved unexpectedly, almost running her over. He bounded up the stairs, her wrist in his tight grip. Bryce paused at the top of the stairs and gazed down the hall. It was empty. Ryen hurried down the hallway, leading them to her room. She opened th
e lock and then the door, and let them pass before closing it quickly behind her. She breathed a small sigh of relief. Bryce was safe for the moment. Together, they could collect their thoughts and formulate a plan of action.

  “It’s a trap.”

  Ryen whirled, facing her accuser. It was the first time she had seen the man. And she disliked him on sight. His eyes were filled with loathing, his lip curled in a sneer. His clothes, the ragged trappings of a common beggar, were mud splattered and stained. Ryen looked closer at his eyes and saw an alert sharpness behind the loathing; this man was no beggar.

  “Where is the escape route?” he demanded. “The witch has led us into a trap.”

  “Yes,” Ryen answered bitterly. “You see thousands of my men crawling from beneath my bed to apprehend you.”

  The man raised the dagger he held in his hand and stepped toward her menacingly.

  Bryce’s strong hand rose in a motion to halt.

  Ryen’s gaze shifted to him. The candlelight washed over his features, bathing him in a soft, golden light. The scar on his cheek was ghostly. “This is no trap, Talbot,” Bryce murmured.

  As Ryen watched, his eyes shifted and she followed his gaze to the bed that stood invitingly near. She blushed and could not help turning back to Bryce. His dark, smoldering eyes raked her from the tips of her hair to her feet. Ryen crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly aware of how transparent her nightdress was.

  “She must die,” Talbot said grimly, approaching Bryce.

  Bryce tore his gaze away from Ryen to look at Talbot.

  “Vengeance for all those she killed in camp.”

  Bryce turned away from him. “I know.”

  With shaking hands, Ryen grabbed at the handle of the door. She had to escape! But a hand beside her head held the door in place when she attempted to pull it open. She tried once again, but the door didn’t move even a hair’s breadth.

  Ryen closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the door, prepared to feel the dagger’s death bite on her throat.

  It never came.

  Instead, a gentle hand upon her upper arm guided her away from the door. Numb, she could not lift her head to look at him, sick with the realization that she would betray her country to help him and in return he would kill her – the Prince of Darkness would slit her throat. She had given everything to him. And he would give her death.