Startled, Ellowyn jumped away from the door. Her first instinct was to protect herself and she grabbed the first thing she could find, which happened to be a well-used ash shovel propped up near the hearth. She raised it like a club just as a giant figure emerged from the dark hallway and into the weak light of the room.
It was de Russe. He spied Ellowyn pressed against the far wall with a small, dented shovel in her hand. She was poised, ready to brain him if he came any closer. He paused in the open door, inspecting the woman who was half-illuminated by the firelight.
“Are you planning on using that?” he asked somewhat drolly.
He was nodding his head in the direction of the shovel. Ellowyn’s attention flickered between Brandt’s face and the spade in her hands, not wanting to admit that it looked rather ridiculous. It was like trying to fight off a bull with a twig. But she didn’t lower the shovel.
“That depends,” she said. “What am I doing here?”
He came into the room, slowly, and shut the door. He didn’t want to make any sudden movements because he could see that she was genuinely frightened.
“I brought you here,” he said. “You fainted.”
Ellowyn thought hard on her last memories of the angry knight and de Russe’s involvement in… something. She couldn’t quite remember. After a moment, she shook her head.
“I do not remember much,” she admitted. “What happened?”
Brandt shrugged. “You were overwrought, I assume,” he said. “You fainted in the street so I brought you back to the inn and secured a room. You were wet so I put you in front of the fire to dry off.”
Her gaze flicked up to the hanging surcoat. “Did… did you remove the coat?”
He nodded. “I did, but one of the tavern wenches assisted. Never was I alone with you, I swear.”
It was a rather chivalrous statement and something he wanted to be clear on. Ellowyn eyed him. She had known a lot of knights in her life, as her father and grandfather were great knights, and it was her grandfather who had taught her to be a good judge of character. He had instilled the caution and the protocols in her.
From the moment she’d met the Duke of Exeter, he’d come across as arrogant and rude, that was true, but never lascivious. He wanted her to be clear that he’d not molested her and her instincts told her to believe him. At that moment, she started to see something more in the man, not simply the haughty warrior.
More than that, he was starting to make some sense about the situation so she slowly lowered the shovel. As she eyed him, she also recalled the army he had dumped on her, leaving her to fend for the shelter and nourishment of nearly six hundred men. Her head was throbbing and she was feeling nauseous, made worse now that her memory was returning. She was remembering every sickening and frightening thing. With a heavy sigh, she tossed the shovel aside.
“I thank you for your concern for my safety,” she replied, “but I have several hundred of my father’s men I must attend to. If you will kindly vacate the chamber, I shall dress and be gone.”
Brandt shook his head. “It is not necessary,” he told her. “I have tended to the men.”
She regarded him with some doubt. “Why would you do that? They are no longer your concern. At least, that is what you told me.”
He could feel the brittle peace between them and sensed she was not particularly the forgiving type. At least, not with him. Not that he blamed her. He’d had a momentary flash of guilt when she had fainted and had sought to make amends by taking charge of her welfare. Now he was starting to feel stupid for allowing himself to feel any compassion for her. The woman was still as hostile towards him as she had ever been.
“My concern is with the men,” he said. “With you incapacitated, someone had to tend the weary troops so I took the initiative.”
Truth be told, Ellowyn felt marginally better knowing she didn’t have to worry over housing and feeding all of those men this night. However, along with her relief was a measurable amount of awkwardness. She wasn’t particularly comfortable with de Russe, nor did she care for him much, so she was determined to vacate his presence as soon as possible.
“You have my thanks,” she said. “Now, if you will kindly leave the room, I shall dress and find my own way.”
He didn’t move. “It is late, my lady,” he said. “You may sleep here tonight. I have ordered food and your cloak is still being cleaned. It would not do for you to be out and about at this time of night.”
Her brow furrowed as she looked at him. “You do not need to be concerned for me. I can take care of myself.”
He lifted an eyebrow as if he did not doubt her. “Be that as it may, your father would never forgive me if something happened to you. Please be my guest this eve, enjoy the room and the meal, and that will be the end of it.”
“The end of what?”
“Our association. I apologized that it has not been pleasant.”
Ellowyn was caught off guard by the apology. She was smug in her acceptance of it, gratified he had been the one to acknowledge and make amends for their rough relationship, but it began to occur to her that he was not entirely to blame. If she thought hard on their first meeting, she realized that she had been the first one to throw a metaphorical punch. True, he had been rude, but she had taken it to an entirely different level with her reaction. Perhaps if he was apologizing, she should give it a try as well. But swallowing her pride was easier said than done.
“It…,” she tried again, shrugging in resignation. “It is not solely your fault, my lord. I… well, I believe I was quite angry with you this afternoon when you ignored me and I should not have been so…furious.”
“You were belligerent.”
“Aye, that too.”
He fought off a smile. “You, my lady, have a bit of a temper.”
“I do. I admit it. But if you know my father, then you also know it is an inherited trait. He is a de Nerra, after all.”
Brandt’s grin broke through, a surprising gesture. “Your father and I have fought a few battles together,” he said. “Fortunately, I was always on his side. There were times when I pitied the enemy.”
Ellowyn couldn’t help but smile in return, she really couldn’t. It came so easily when he smiled first. She also couldn’t help but notice de Russe was a truly handsome man with a dashing smile. He had straight white teeth and big dimples in both cheeks. Embroiled as she had been in her anger towards the man, it was the first time the thought of his handsome looks had occurred to her.
“He has considered taking me into battle with him, in fact,” she said. “He is convinced I would make a fine commander.”
Brandt’s grin broadened, an unusual gesture for him and one he did not readily display. But Ellowyn, in spite of everything, seemed to easily provoke it. Perhaps it was because she was truly a beautiful woman, more beautiful when she smiled, and her smile erased her bad behavior from his mind. Something about that warm, angelic face just made him want to smile as if he had no control over such a thing.
“I would believe that implicitly,” he said. “You have shown tremendous bravery in the short time I have known you, an admirable quality. And you showed no hesitation in showing me that side of you.”
He meant earlier by the Thames. Ellowyn simply lifted her shoulders. “I was angry,” she said, realizing she was feeling rather bad for her behavior now that the conversation was becoming civil. Warm, even. “I am sorry if I was insulting.”
He waved her off. “You already apologized,” he said. “Further apologies are not necessary. I am as much to blame as you are. I am willing to forget about it if you are.”
She nodded fervently. “I am.”
“Then you will accept my hospitality tonight?”
She had to admit, the bed looked inviting. “I will. Thank you. You are very kind to offer.”
He continued to smile at her, his smoky dark eyes acquiring something of a glimmer. “And you are very kind to accept.”
Ellowyn giggl
ed, something she didn’t normally do. She wasn’t silly or flighty by nature, but the duke, in a complete swing of the situation, had taken her from suspicious to giggly. It was rather remarkable, Ellowyn thought, but she didn’t give it much thought beyond that. She was a little too naive of her own emotions to realize the man had managed to garner her interest.
“Have… have you eaten yet, my lord?” she asked. “I would be honored if you would partake with me. As you are friends with my father, I would like to hear what you know of his valor. He has been ill most of my adult life, you see, so I do not know the man as a great knight. I only know from the stories I have heard. Perhaps you know more stories?”
Brandt’s lips twitched with a smile. “I have never met a lady who was interested in tales of valor. That is a man’s inclination.”
She shrugged, almost embarrassed. “I come from a long line of great knights. I can remember tales of my grandfather’s exploits as far back as I can remember. And my father… well, I love him dearly and it is sad that so great a knight has suffered such bad health. I am always eager to hear stories of his greatness.”
Brandt’s smile broke through at the tender sentiment, something that, even an hour ago, he would not have believed her capable of. He could see in that statement that she had a very soft side. She was capable of deep emotion, like attachment. He liked that side of her much better than the aggressive side.
As he gazed at her, softly illuminated by the firelight, he found himself thinking of all of the duties he had awaiting him. The king was expecting his report as a result of the Black Prince’s wars in France, plus he had a meeting with his subordinates that needed to take place before they could begin moving men and material again. So many things awaiting the Duke of Exeter’s attention, but at the moment, all he could see was a lovely red-head before him who had invited him to sup. He wasn’t a man normally given to accept such a thing. In fact, he made it a policy to avoid women in general. Too much trouble. But her gently-uttered invitation had him thinking of accepting.
“Very well,” he agreed quietly. “It would be my pleasure to sup with you and tell you what I know of your father. We have had a few adventures together, Deston and I.”
Her entire face lit up happily and a strange, giddy feeling fluttered in his chest. It was odd but not unpleasant. It was another of those feelings that made him smile before he could stop himself, a trigger release that was quick and before he realized it, he was smiling in return.
A soft knock at the door interrupted the repartee, returning Brandt to the grim and imposing knight as if he were afraid someone might see him with warmth in his expression. He didn’t reply to the summons, choosing to open the door instead. A serving wench stood outside, a heavy tray of food in her hands, and he silently summoned the woman inside. When the food was set out on the very small table, which leaned a little so the food slid to the edge, Brandt kicked the woman out and shut the door.
When he turned back to the table, he saw that Ellowyn had dragged it over to the bed. She was also trying to keep the tray from sliding over the edge. When she looked up and saw that his attention was on her, she smiled weakly.
“There is only one chair,” she said. “I can sit on the bed and you may have the chair.”
Brandt dipped his head in thanks, in acknowledgement, as he accepted the only chair. He wasn’t entirely sure it would hold his weight, being that it leaned about as much as the table did, so he tested it out before allowing his entire weight to rest on it. Meanwhile, Ellowyn had planted herself on the bed opposite him. By the time he glanced up from the chair, he noticed the butt-end of a knife in his face.
“Please serve yourself,” Ellowyn said as she extended the utensil.
He took it without a word. The meal, as it turned out, was a mostly silent affair, but he didn’t mind in the least. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence but it was as if they had moved past the rough introduction, the words of apology, and were now simply settling in to what had now become a tolerable association. More than that, with all of the bad blood between them reconciled, there was a definitive warmth settling. Brandt couldn’t put his finger on it, but he could definitely sense it. He didn’t particularly want to admit it but the more he tried to ignore it, the more it would not be ignored.
As Brandt silently served both himself and Ellowyn, he realized at some point that he stopped viewing her as de Nerra’s spoiled daughter. Now, he was starting to view her as a woman.
And a very beautiful one at that.
CHAPTER FIVE
Ellowyn was fairly certain she had been miserable for quite some time, but by the time she fully awoke and became lucid, she was coughing her head off and dealing with generally uncomfortable symptoms. Her nose was running, her chest hurt, and her head was killing her. She could only surmise that the dousing of both cold water and mud had somehow weakened her and she was back to a thoroughly grumpy mood as a result. Misery claimed her with swift and unjust claws.
The fire in the small room had gone out some time ago. All that remained was ash. Coughing, she struggled up from the bed and called for warm water and firewood from a serving wench lingering in the corridor outside her room. By the time the woman returned with a big, burly man who smelled like a privy, Ellowyn was sitting on the bed, wrapped in the coverlet and shivering uncontrollably.
The smelly man in torn breeches had brought wood with him and started the fire, waiting until it sparked up before fleeing the room with the serving wench. When the door slammed, Ellowyn shuffled over to the leaning table, now with a big bowl of steaming water that was leaking over the side due to the angle of the table, and inhaled the steam deeply. Then she coughed some more, trying to clear her lungs.
At some point towards the end of her meal with the Duke of Exeter, her escort had brought her satchel. Ellowyn wondered where they had been the entire time she had been unconscious, and subsequently alone with de Russe, but no one seemed to offer an explanation and, by that point, she didn’t much care. De Russe had ceased to become a horrible beast and had somehow morphed into a man capable of amiable behavior. Sniffling, Ellowyn turned away from the steaming water and heaved her bag upon the mattress. Digging through her belongings, her thoughts drifted to de Russe.
He’d not spoken a great deal through their meal. In fact, he’d only really answered her questions. He’d never offered anything of his own volition. Ellowyn had asked him a dozen questions about her father, what de Russe knew of him, of the adventures they’d had together. De Russe had answered thoroughly, speaking of a man of great power and cunning before the ravages of swollen joints had forced him to retire.
Now, Deston could scarcely walk, a true tragedy for so great a knight from a long line of great knights. As de Russe had recalled a story involving saving several knights from captivity in a well-guarded castle, Ellowyn had been enthralled at the prowess and daring. She could picture her father, young and strong, and his much younger and much stronger companion, de Russe, as they charged out to save the world.
But the stories or answers to her questions had been dotted with stretches of silence. Although not uncomfortable, Ellowyn had found herself thinking on what more to say to him just so they wouldn’t have to sit in silence and as she pondered her next question, she stole glances at the man sitting across from her.
De Russe was enormous, as she’d noted from the start, and he had the biggest hands she had ever seen. She’d noticed his male comeliness before but at close range she noticed his thick dark lashes and the surprisingly smooth skin of his face. And his eyes… she had thought they were the color of smoke but upon closer inspection, she could see they were a very dark hazel. They were quite attractive, as was the rest of him. When she stopped viewing de Russe as her mortal enemy and started seeing him as a man, she realized that he was an extraordinarily handsome one.
But that was where those thoughts ended. She knew nothing about the man other than what her father had told her and she suspected she didn’t want to kn
ow any more. Men weren’t something, as a group, that particularly interested her, although she’d had more than her share of suitors. She was far too pretty a lass not to, but she had no patience for pretty words or wretchedly sweet wooing. Men of bravery and skill on the battlefield interested her most, but those men were usually so wrapped up in their own glorious ego that she could not, and would not, compete with such a thing. After her conversation with de Russe the previous night, as great as the man was, she suspected he fell into that category.
Digging into her satchel, she removed a clean shift and the only other surcoat she brought with her. She also brought forth a carefully wrapped bar of white soap that smelled of lavender. Whereas most people bathed infrequently, Ellowyn was not that sort. She washed, and washed often, mostly because it kept her skin clear because she was prone to ugly blemishes on her chin. She had found that washing daily kept her skin clean and unfettered, so it was something of a daily routine.
Using the same linen cloth that the soap had been wrapped in, she quickly lathered up the soap in the steaming water and proceeded to wash herself down. Thoughts of de Russe would not go away as she washed her body before the snapping fire, rinsing off as best she could and drying herself with her worn shift. Dressing in the clean lamb’s wool shift and heavy dark blue woolen surcoat, she put on the rest of her warm things before wrapping the soap back up and re-packing her satchel. Her last act of dressing was to run a bone comb through her long red hair and braided it, draping the single braid elegantly over her right shoulder. And with that, her bags were secured and she was prepared to move out.
Her health had other ideas, however. Her nose was running terribly and the cough, having briefly died down, was now enjoying a triumphant resurgence. She hacked like an old woman dying of the damp. As she pulled out a linen kerchief from the depths of her satchel to wipe her nose, there was a soft knock at the door. Holding her kerchief to her nose, she went to the door and unlatched it only to find de Russe standing in the doorway dressed for battle.
Masters of Medieval Romance: Series Starters Volume 1 Page 78