A Knight of Honor (57 page)

“I have been told it is a secret of the Rosa family,” the Earl of March said.
 
He wore a golden houppelande that flowed to the ground and was embroidered with flowers.
 
The edges of his long sleeves were cut in the shape of leaves and trimmed with jewels.
 
He was the most prettily dressed of all the nobles.

“Yes, well…”
 
The king waved a hand, dismissing the matter and the earl, and turned to continue down the dusty street.
 
The sun was hot, the ground parched.
 
The dust rose in little whirlwinds on the road before them.

Bryce walked at King Henry’s side, towering above most of the lords; even the king was dwarfed by his size.
 
In plate mail, Bryce Princeton was an enviable vision.

“There are far too many ears in the streets, don’t you agree, Bryce?” King Henry wondered.

“Aye,” Bryce answered, and followed as the king cut through the village to the countryside.

The Earl of March tried vainly to keep up.
 
He was panting hard when he produced a lace handkerchief and patted his forehead with it.
 
“It is a hot day, isn’t it, my liege?” he called.

King Henry cast him a sour glance.
 
“March, go see to the countess.
 
I believe she is having as hard a time keeping up as you.”

Bryce’s gaze shifted to the countess.
 
She had swooned into a man’s arms and was being eased to the ground.
 
Most of the court had lagged behind by now, and it was quite apparent to Bryce that the king wished to speak with him in private.
 
He wondered if the earl was truly so oblivious.

But the earl simply bowed, saying, “As you wish.”

King Henry continued into the grasslands of the countryside.
 
Bryce followed, thinking it was becoming much too hot to be wandering through the countryside in sixty-six pounds of plate mail.

“How are things for you, Bryce?” King Henry asked, taking a sip of cider.

Bryce shrugged his large shoulders slightly.
 
“Dark Castle is in capable hands.
 
The peasants are producing enough to support the lands.
 
I believe it will be a good year.”

Henry nodded.
 
“Good.”
 
He stopped walking and looked out over the fields that stretched before them.
 
The wild grass seemed to sigh as a breeze drifted through the long blades that reached to Bryce’s mid-calf.
 
“Then you are prepared to leave England at a moment’s notice?”

“Aye,” Bryce said anxiously.
 
He had been waiting months for the fleet of English ships to cast off for France.
 
“We leave soon, then?”

Henry gazed hard at Bryce.
 
“There is rumor of a plot against my life.
 
I fear that I may not get to France as soon as I would like.”

Bryce frowned, his body stiffening with suppressed anger.
 
“My lord, I offer my services to find out if these rumors are true.”

Henry smiled a weary grin.
 
“I have others who will be my ears and eyes.”

Bryce scowled, ready to object.

Henry continued, “No, Bryce, you are a fighter.
 
I need you in France.
 
I cannot leave England until this is resolved.”
 
He lifted the goblet to his lips again and continued walking.
 
Bryce followed.

“Have you heard anything of this French knight called the Angel of Death?” the king wondered.

Anxiety rippled through Bryce like a flag in a soft breeze.
 
Bryce had heard of his deeds, but he knew little of the man.
 
Still, the way the king had asked…it was as though he were being tested.
 
“I have heard the name.”

Henry turned to Bryce, his inquisitive eyes asking for details, his raised eyebrows encouraging more.

“He has taken and held land for the Armagnacs,” Bryce continued, and watched as a smile tugged the king’s lips before he averted his gaze.
 
Bryce’s brows drew together in confusion.
 
“He does well for his country,” he added, shifting uneasily.
 
He had somehow failed the test, and it annoyed him.

“Yes, he does, doesn’t he?” Henry chuckled.

“Is there more to know?”

“Much.”
 
Gradually, Henry’s smiled faded and he slowed his pace.
 
His words were thoughtful and full of woe as he spoke.
 
“The Angel of Death has caused more enemy deaths than any other French lord.
 
This knight is unlike any we have ever come across.”

“He is mortal.
 
Blood runs through his veins.
 
And that blood can be spilled.”

“According to rumor, this Angel of Death has ice for blood.”

“Pah.
 
Rumor is the gossip of cowards.”

“Yes.
 
I suppose it is – Prince of Darkness.”

Surprise rocked Bryce.
 
He knew he shouldn’t have been amazed that the king had heard the name, but he could not suppress the shock that flooded his body.
 
The rumors had traveled so fast….and so far!
 
The court.
 
It thrived on any kind of gossip.
 
“The peasants labeled me that,” he explained.

“Not without reason, I hear.”

“I am merciless only to our enemies, my lord.”

“And that is why you must be the one to go to France and find the Angel of Death.
 
There are ships waiting to take you and your army across the channel.”

“Do you wish to keep him for ransom?”

“I would prefer a ransom.
 
We can use the finances for the war.
 
But if you cannot take the knight captive, then take this angel’s life.
 
I will join you in France as soon as I can.”

“As you wish, sire.”
 
Bryce bowed slightly.

“Many men have fallen beneath the knight’s sword,” King Henry added.
 
“Be cautious.”

Bryce nodded and took a step away.

The king stayed him once again with his hand.
 
“I warn you, Bryce: do not underestimate the Angel of Death.”

King Henry watched Bryce Princeton stride away.
 
Perhaps he should have told him.
 
But if he knew the truth, Henry was sure he would underestimate their enemy by far too much.
 
Besides, the man needed a jolt to disturb that confident gait of his.
 
He only hoped Bryce would be able to kill this Angel of Death…when he found out she was a woman.

The Angel and the Prince - Chapter Two

East of Ypres, France, 1415

The clang of metal against metal rang out in the large clearing as the two swords met, the echoing melody of their clash spreading throughout the surrounding forest.

“Watch out for her parry!” a voice called, joining the reverberating tune as it reflected off the nearby trees.
 
Andre De Bouriez lounged on his side in the thick grass, his objective gaze scrutinizing the combatants as they swung their heavy broadswords.
 
He nodded with satisfaction as his sister, tiny compared with Lucien’s height and broad shoulders, easily deflected a thrust of her brother’s.
 
Andre chuckled low in his throat, his brown eyes twinkling merrily.
 
She was good.
 
She knew the limitations of her sword and her strength well; she was patient and observant.
 
This made her a very dangerous opponent despite her size.

Ryen finished an arc, the impact of the weapons jarring her arm.
 
She stepped back, panting.
 
A trickle of perspiration ran from her hairline down her cheek, sparkling in the sun like a diamond.
 
She brushed a strand of brown hair from her forehead with her free arm.

A perfect smile lit Lucien’s boyish face.
 
“Come, come.
 
You cannot tell me that you tire after so few exchanges!”

A cold grin stretched across her shapely lips.
 
“I tell you no such thing, Brother.
 
Only to guard your blind side.”
 
Ryen lunged and then feinted right.

Lucien caught the blow with some effort and countered with an arc overhead.

Ryen sidestepped the swing and Lucien’s blade crashed into the ground.
 
As he pulled it up, a clump of dirt came with it, impaled on the tip of his blade.

“You know she’s too quick for you, Lucien,” Andre called.

Ryen laughed at the dirt on Lucien’s sword.
 
“Don’t take your anger out on the ground, Lucien.
 
Your opponent stands before you, not below you.”

Lucien came after Ryen with two quick lunges.
 
She easily parried the blows and drove forward with an arc of her own, then retreated and stood staring at Lucien.

“Little sister, you’re growing up,” Lucien commented.

“Don’t goad her, Lucien,” Andre advised, too late.

Ryen suddenly charged her brother, hitting him in the stomach with her shoulder.
 
The impact knocked him onto his back.
 
Breathless, Lucien lay stunned for a moment.
 
Before he could recover, Ryen stepped on the wrist of his sword arm and placed the tip of her weapon to Lucien’s neck.
 
“Yield or die,” she stated.

“I yield to the Angel of Death!” Lucien hollered good-naturedly.

Ryen lifted her foot from his wrist and withdrew her sword.
 
She gently kicked his arm with her booted foot.
 
“I hate it when you call me ‘little sister’.”

Lucien sat up, rubbing his wrist.
 
“I won’t make that mistake again.”

Ryen stepped back, offering her brother a hand.
 
Lucien clasped it and she helped him to his feet.

“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!”