The Angel and the Prince - Excerpt

The Angel and the Prince - Chapter One

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Chapter One

England, 1414

The cheers from the gathered crowd sounded like a thunderous rain as the horses charged at each other, their hooves kicking up dirt from the grassy field.  The two knights, fully armored for this joust, bent low over the heads of their equally well-protected mounts, their brightly striped lances gripped firmly.  The white plume on the helmet of the challenger knight appeared defeated and submissive as it flattened under the rush of wind created by his speeding stallion.  The champion shifted his shield to the front of his body, where the challenger could see it – a snarling red wolf strikingly painted against a black background.  Through the slit in the challenger’s visor, the champion saw his opponent’s eyes widen in fear.  Seconds later, the champion’s lance struck the challenger’s chest, the wooden tip crunching as it hit the man’s breastplate, and lifted him cleanly from his horse, depositing him roughly on the ground.

The crowd sprang to its feet, wild with applause and shouts of joy.  The champion slowed his horse and turned, raising the visor of his helmet to reveal dark, impenetrable eyes.  These orbs watched patiently as his staggering opponent was helped to his feet by his squire.  Bryce Princeton waited for the defeated knight to stumble from the arena before he urged his horse around the field for his victory lap.

The peasants who lined the jousting field’s fence shouted his success.  “Prince!  Prince!”

The rush of power that surged through his veins at every joust, at every triumph, gave Bryce the feeling of invincibility.  He savored the taste like a favored wine, relished the shouts.  He had never known defeat, either in battle or in Tournament.

As he rode past the nobles’ stand, all the women batted their eyelashes at him and some bent over the wooden railing to dangle their favors before him.  He gladly accepted them – all of them.  But he returned most of their heated, lusty gazes with a cool disdain.  These pampered and powdered women brought only an occasional twinge of curiosity to his mind.  They were all too much alike to be of any real interest.  Some men cast him envious glances, while others seethed quietly.  Finally, Bryce came to a halt before King Henry’s chair.  He dismounted and bowed before his sovereign.

Henry grinned at him and stood.  The king was a tall and muscular man, his brown hair trimmed in a bowl cut.

The crowd quieted as Bryce approached the stand.  He slid his helmet from his head to reveal a thick mane of long black hair that fell to the middle of his shoulder blades.  It gleamed in the sunlight, wet with moisture.  His face was bronzed by the sun.  There was an inherent power in the set of his jaw, the sensual curve of his lips, his dark eyes.

“You have done well today, as always,” King Henry said loudly so all could hear.  “You are truly England’s champion.”

Huzzahs and gleeful shouts erupted into a deafening roar.

Henry bent toward Bryce.  “Come, walk with me, Bryce,” he commanded.

Bryce led his mount across the field and handed the reins to his waiting squire as a small boy ducked under the wooden fence that surrounded the field and dashed up to him.  Bryce smiled and ruffled the child’s dark hair as the boy exclaimed, “You were great!”  His eyes shone with excitement and admiration.  “I knew he wouldn’t defeat you.”

“You had doubts, Runt?” Bryce wondered, a mock frown drawing his lips into a pout.

“Never!” Runt exploded.