Ryen remembered her father’s private room as a small warm room where he had held her in his lap by the fireplace and told her stories. Now, it was anything but warm. She saw her father leaning against the stone hearth, staring into the embers of the fading fire, his rigid back to her. She was surprised to see Andre seated in one of the plush red velvet chairs that surrounded a small wooden table. When her questioning eyes caught his, he turned away.
There was a tapestry on the wall farthest from the hearth depicting the slaughter of a small fox by two armored men. She instantly felt kinship with the fox.
“Leave us, Andre,” Jean Claude said in a quiet voice.
Andre rose stiffly, hesitated a moment, and finally strode past Ryen, his head bent. Ryen frowned as he passed her.
When the door closed silently behind him, the foreboding that had followed her down the stairs settled on her shoulders and made her skin crawl. Even though Andre was gone, she felt more trapped than before. One defenseless fox against one mighty man.
Jean Claude said, “Sit down, Ryen.”
The feeling of dread grew, stabbing Ryen’s stomach, and her knees crumbled, landing her in the seat Andre had vacated.
The tension stretched like a bow strung too tightly. Ryen dared not move, dreading its eventual release. She watched silently as her father stared deeply into the fire. His blue silk jerkin reflected the firelight and when he turned toward her, the white fur around his collar looked red, almost matching the red in his cheeks. His face was unreadable, but his usually bright eyes were hard.
“At first you had many suitors. All of which you conveniently ignored.”
Ryen bowed her head. Her father should have just posted a banner offering her to the highest bidder.
“No, I’m afraid there are very few. Most took back their offers.” His voice was strong, but strangely sad.
Good, Ryen thought. How could she hope to lead an army as someone’s wife? He would want her home to produce heirs.
“I want to hear it from your own lips,” Jean Claude said. “Tell me you did not free the Prince of Darkness.”
All her years of swordplay could not protect her from his accusation. She could not parry his anger or dodge the anguish in his voice. Agony sliced through her like the sharp edge of a battle sword. Where had he heard such a thing? How could he believe it? Lucien. She opened her mouth to answer, to tell him the Prince of Darkness was dead, but she promptly closed it. Lucien had not believed her, so why would her father?
Jean Claude stared coldly at his daughter.
Ryen stood, stepping toward him. Her eyes burned with the effort of keeping her tears in check. He had to believe her! She stretched out her hands. “Father, please. I only wanted to bring him to you. I wanted him to kneel before you so that –”
“How could you?” he groaned, not hearing her confession, turning away from her. “You released him so that he could kill more of our people. Don’t you see what you’ve done?”
Slowly, Ryen dropped her arms. She knew Bryce could never raise a sword again, never kill again, for he was dead. I wanted to make you proud of me, she thought. That’s all I ever wanted. And for Bryce to love me. To tell me I was beautiful. But I couldn’t do either. He did not love me. And you aren’t proud of me. I have failed. Ryen struggled to straighten her back and raise her quivering chin. “I have done nothing wrong.”
“Nothing wrong?!” he bellowed. “You have betrayed your king and your country!”
He believed she had freed Bryce. He would never believe that the Prince of Darkness was dead. He would never believe that his daughter was innocent of this betrayal.
“I feel I have been more than fair with you, Ryen. I have nurtured your whims for a long time. And I am sorry for what I must do now, but –”
Ryen’s mind raced; her heart pounded. Something terrible was about to happen and she could not just sit there and let it. “Father –”
“The only marriage offer that remains open, and the one which I’m afraid I must accept, is from Count Dumas.”
“No,” Ryen gasped, stumbling toward her father. “You can’t.” Everything she had ever heard about Count Dumas raced through her mind. He was a hermit who was more than five decades old and had yet to see an heir to his estates. He had had five wives, all of whom were rumored to have been locked in a tower and tortured because they had produced no son. He was a monster!
“I’m sorry, Ryen,” Jean Claude said. “Truly I am. But it is already done.”
“Why must you accept? I am the leader of a French army! You do not have to –”
“You think your men will follow a traitor? I am saving your life. If you return to the army, you will be stabbed in the back at the first opportunity.” He spoke more coldly than he had ever done before.
Ryen lurched away from him, horrified. Her own men would never stab her in the back! They would not believe these lies that her family believed. Even Andre… “Father…”
He turned away from her, his shoulders slumped.
Ryen felt her legs going numb. She raised her chin, again fighting desperately to keep back her fear and her tears. “When is the wedding to take place?” she managed to ask, her voice growing weak.
“In two months,” he said softly. “Adequate time for you to prepare yourself and your things.”
Two months, she thought. That would be November. A perfect time for the ice to form around my heart.
She turned and slowly walked to the door. She paused, her hand on the door handle. She wanted to tell him the truth, tell him that she didn’t free the Prince of Darkness. But he wouldn’t believe her. Just as Lucien did not. If she did tell her father the truth of what happened, she was afraid the guilt hiding beneath the surface of her thoughts would rise into her voice and betray her. And even with her confession, there would be questions she had no reasonable answers for. At least, no answers her father would accept. He would surely wonder how Bryce had gotten into her bedroom, and wonder why she hadn’t cried out in alarm when she had the chance.
Her hand clenched around the door handle. Ryen wanted to say she was sorry for hurting him, for putting him through this. She wanted to tell her father how much she loved him. But she couldn’t. Her hand trembled with the effort it took to keep her emotions in check.
He has already turned his back on me, she thought. Ryen opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, closing it softly behind her.
“Come in,” Ryen called at the insistent knocking. She sat on the floor in a corner of her room, the leggings and tunic she wore her only means of defiance.
Jeanne pushed the door open. “Ryen, have you forgotten that we were to dine together?”
“I’m sorry, Jeanne. I wasn’t feeling well. I’m not very hungry,” Ryen replied, looking up from whittling a piece of wood.
Jeanne shook her head. “Another arrow? I think the castle’s armory will be supplied by you alone.”
Ryen grinned half-heartedly.
Jeanne closed the door behind her. She looked worriedly at Ryen, who sat cross-legged, with a knife in one hand and a piece of wood in the other. “Is it true? Did Father really betroth you to that horrible hermit?”
Ryen nodded and began to run the knife against the wood again.
“Oh, Ryen. Why on earth did he do it?”
“He believes I did something dishonorable,” Ryen replied. Her brows creased slightly in concentration as she gazed intently at her whittling.
“You didn’t free him, did you?”
Startled, Ryen glanced up at her sister, hurt at the doubt in Jeanne’s voice. She studied Jeanne’s childish yet sincere face until she saw the doubt replaced by embarrassment. Finally, Ryen looked at the window, which was not shadowed with darkness. Jeanne deserved to hear the truth. Perhaps her only sister would believe her. “He jumped out the window, into the moat.” Ryen heard Jeanne’s sharp intake of breath, then her soft footsteps as she approached. Jeanne sat beside her.
“So that’s why you stare out that window.”
Ryen waited for the reproach for having Bryce in her room.
“Did he love you?” she asked, leaning toward Ryen.
Ryen looked at her in surprise. There was no condemnation in Jeanne’s eyes, only sympathy and understanding. “No,” Ryen admitted quietly.
“What will you do?”
“I suppose I must marry Count Dumas.”
“I want you to come with Jules and me.”
“Defy Father?” Ryen asked, aghast. When Jeanne nodded, Ryen shook her head. “I couldn’t.”
“You can’t go to Dumas Castle! They say his last wife fell from the tower window to her death. More likely she jumped to escape that horrible man, or worse yet, was pushed!”
“I can still fight for France. Whether they want me to or not.”
“Please reconsider, Ryen. Come with us.”
Ryen glanced at Jeanne. “And Jules agrees?”
Jeanne dropped her eyes under Ryen’s probing gaze. “I – well, I haven’t spoken with him yet, but I shall.”
Ryen could never go with her. She could never come between Jeanne and Jules. And that was certainly what would happen. Ryen couldn’t ruin Jeanne’s happiness. She shook her head. “I appreciate the offer, Jeanne. But no.”
“If you change your mind, know that you will always be welcome in my home.”
Ryen reached out and took Jeanne’s small hand. Not all her family had abandoned her. Her sister still believed in her, and for that Ryen would be forever grateful. She nodded, feeling the first spark of hope ignite within her soul.
She did not know how badly it would be dashed.