Brandt chewed on his bread, digesting their conversation, reflecting on the intelligent and loyal woman he was coming to know. She was talking quite a bit, that was true, but he knew it was because of the alcohol. He was coming to learn a lot about her, understanding her, and liking it. In fact, sitting in the little room with the blazing fire, he was more comfortable with her than he had been with almost anyone in his life. There was something pure about the woman, open to a fault, but also strong-willed. She reminded him a lot of her father. She was a woman who knew what she wanted in life and would get it. He admired that.
“Brandt?” Ellowyn cut into his train of thought.
“Aye?”
“Do you think you shall ever marry again?”
He swallowed the bread in his mouth and went for the wine. “I have not given it much thought,” he said. “Perhaps.”
“You should, you know,” she said. “You should have sons to carry on the de Russe name. Who will inherit your dukedom if you do not?”
“As I said, I have not given it particular thought.”
“Are you returning to war again?”
“Eventually.”
“Then you should think about marrying again and having a son,” she said, splashing around behind him. “You should do this before you leave again, just to be safe.”
“I will take it under advisement.”
“Perhaps I will help you find a wife,” she said decisively. “I can do that, you know. I will search high and low for someone worthy of you.”
He smiled into his cup. “Although I am honored you would think so highly of me, marriage is not a priority at this time. I have many other things that need my attention and a wife is not among them.”
She wasn’t put off in the least. “When you are ready, you will let me know.”
His expression turned distant, pensive, perhaps interested more than he cared to admit. “I will let you know.”
He finished off the wine as she finished off her bath. She sneezed and coughed, but it was far less than she had been doing earlier. True to his promise, he didn’t turn around to look at her as she slithered out of the tub, dried off with a corner of the bed linen, and dressed.
By the time she came into view, she was clad in a simple shift that was of one piece, like a dressing gown. It was some kind of heavier fabric, perhaps cotton or even lamb’s wool, which clung to her figure almost indecently. In fact, Brandt had to make an effort not to stare at her as she passed in front of him and sat down on the opposite side of the table. Her long red hair was damp, and braided, and he caught distinct whiffs of lavender. It was a clean and delicious smell. He was starting to realize that he’d never in his life seen such a radiant and pure creature.
“You are breaking your promise, you know,” he remarked as she began to pull the bread apart.
Curious, she looked at him. “What do you mean?”
He was looking at his wine. “You promised not to look at me in my half-dressed state.”
She stared at him a moment before dropping the bread and slapping her hands over her face. “You are correct,” she muttered through her hands. “I will not look if you wish to dress.”
“Did you not even notice that I only have my breeches on?”
She nodded. “I did, but I did not give it much thought. Forgive me.”
He fought off a grin. “My, but you are comfortable around half-naked men.”
She shook her head, hands still over her eyes. “I suppose I was not paying attention,” she said. “I was more focused on eating. My head is beginning to spin from too much drink.”
He pursed his lips wryly. “So much for making an impression on you,” he grumbled. “Take your hands off your eyes. I suppose if you do not even notice me, then it is of no worry. I might as well be a horse sitting here for all you would notice of my state of dress.”
She giggled as she uncovered her eyes. “I have noticed you,” she insisted as she resumed her bread. “You are a very handsome man, Brandt. I am sure if you decide to marry, your wife will be a very fortunate woman and she will notice you all of the time.”
His eyes glimmered at her. “Flattery will get you everywhere,” he said in a low, and nearly flirtatious, voice, “but I am still not sure if I am comfortable with your abject kindness. It scares me.”
Her hands came away from her face. “Why?”
A smile played on his lips. “I am not entirely certain,” he said, looking down at his food. “Perhaps I want to believe it.”
Ellowyn gazed at him, still somewhat inebriated, but there was lucidity to her thoughts now as well. As Brandt cut off a hunk of cheese, she did, in fact, take a look at the man’s naked torso. Not being an expert on men’s naked torsos, she really didn’t have anything to compare it to, but she did know that he was exquisitely muscled with wide shoulders and a narrow waist. He had the biggest arms she had ever seen and his fair share of scars, all illuminated softly by the orange firelight. She could see his veins through the skin. As she looked at him, she realized she was feeling quite warm and breathless at the sight and she knew, instinctively, that she liked it.
“You should believe it,” she said, averting her gaze to find her bread. “It is the truth. I wish you much success with a future wife. She will be a fortunate woman.”
He looked at her, noting she was focused on her food and not on him. Strangely enough, her comment didn’t sound like a passing remark. It sounded sincere, something that piqued his interest more than he cared to admit. He also noticed, even in the weak light, that she was rather flushed. It didn’t occur to him that it was, in fact, because of him. He thought it was her illness. Wiping his hands off on his breeches, he reached across the table and trapped her head in his big hands. Feeling her forehead, he hissed.
“You have a fever,” he said somewhat grimly.
Head contained in his massive palms, Ellowyn looked surprised. “I do not believe so,” she said as he felt her warm cheeks. “It is because the bath was warm.”
He just shook his head. “This has nothing to do with the bath,” he told her. Then, he stood up and went over to the bed closest to the fire and pulled back the linens. “Get into bed. I will go in search of a physic.”
He said it in a manner that invited no resistance. Ellowyn stood up, bread still in hand, and looked at him with curiosity and bewilderment.
“I am fine, truly,” she said, punctuated by first a sneeze and then a hiccup. “I do not have a fever.”
“Get in bed. That was not a request.”
He had the innate ability to give an order that sounded as if the Devil himself had just given a command. Ellowyn tried not to be intimidated. “But I am hungry,” she said, pointing at the food behind her. “Can I please eat first?”
Brandt grunted, unhappy, but he relented. “Very well,” he said, ripping the coverlet off the bed and wrapping it around her like a babe in swaddling. He guided her back to the chair next to the table and pushed her down on it. “Sit there and finish your meal. But the very moment you are finished, I want you to get into bed. Is that clear?”
She gazed up at him, indecisive, preparing to refuse, but the look on his face killed any sense of resistance. She nodded with resignation.
“If you insist.”
“I do.”
“I do not need a physic. I am sure I do not have a fever. It is only the warm bath.”
“I would feel better if we had a physic make the diagnosis.”
With that, he pulled on his nearly dry padded tunic, his boots, his armor, and his overtunic with the dark green and black dragon of the Duke of Exeter. Ellowyn picked her bread apart, dipping it in the cold gravy, as he dressed. She found herself watching him more than she was paying attention to her food. When he was finished dressing, he quit the room with a lingering glance. But not a word came forth out of his mouth.
He didn’t need to speak, however. Ellowyn understood the silent words radiating forth from his eyes more than if he had shouted at her
.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The rain was back.
She was in the field of bodies again, avoiding the pleading hands of the dying, staring at her left hand and the gold and garnet ring upon it. She was married and somehow, somewhere in this mess, was her husband. That must be why she had come, to find him. She wasn’t sure how she knew, only that she did. In this sea of death and destruction, littered with the dead like flotsam upon the sea, she had to find him. She would do it or die trying.
She was knee deep in unfathomable mud, now a dark brick-red in color because of the blood mixed into it. Rivers of it coagulating, creating dark veins in the mud. She struggled to walk through it, panic in her throat.
She looked up at the sky, that great steel-colored mess, thankful for the lack of sun. It would dry up the mud and would trap the dead within it. She had to find her husband before that happened, heightening her sense of urgency. God, please help me, she prayed. Please help me find my love.
My love, she thought. Aye, he is my love, my life. As she moved towards a grove of stripped trees, the mud became shallower and less binding, and she struggled to get up onto firmer ground. But she slipped and fell to her knees, bracing herself with one arm to keep from falling completely while the other arm went around her belly. A big, swollen belly.
Shocked, she looked at her midsection to realize she was pregnant.
*
“I am with child!”
Ellowyn startled herself awake with those words, disoriented for a moment until she realized she was on the back of her mare, riding in the midst of de Russe’s column of battle-hardened warriors. She glanced around, sheepishly, realizing she had fallen asleep and praying no one had seen her.
“My lady?”
She heard the soft, deep voice over her left shoulder and she closed her eyes briefly, tightly, for a moment. She just knew she’d been caught. Slowly, she turned.
“Aye?” she asked.
It was the very young and very blond knight. The lad was absolutely gigantic, with a fair face, white eyelashes and brows, and intense blue-green eyes. They almost looked too bright within his pale face as he focused on her with polite concern.
“Did you say something, my lady?” he asked.
She shook her head and faced forward. “Nay,” she said, demurred. “Nothing of import. Thank you for your concern.”
“The duke has ordered us to stop at the next town,” he said. “We will make camp there for the night.”
Ellowyn merely nodded. There wasn’t much excitement in the fact that they were stopping for the night. It was the sixth day of their journey to Erith, which would take another ten days at the very least. De Russe was driving a fairly swift but steady pace, something that thoroughly exhausted Ellowyn but she wouldn’t let on. She had gone to great length to convince the man that she was strong and hearty, even with her sniffles and coughing, but that really wasn’t the case. She was putting on a big show when the truth was that she was sick, weary, and verging on tears nearly every second of the day. Traveling with all of these strange men unnerved her and she didn’t feel well, a bad combination. De Russe, as kind as he had been, was her only solace.
Fortunately, it was no longer raining and hadn’t been for two days as they had made their way north. Still, it was cold and the winds from the west had been brisk. From what she had heard that morning, if all went well enough, they would be at Coventry by evening’s fall. As the army plodded north through a series of small hills, she gazed off towards the west, towards Wales, and could see flat and green lands below with a very small and dark ridge on the horizon. It was a very faint crest, but she could see it because of the angle of the sunset and the clearness of the air. She pointed.
“Knight,” she said, addressing the young knight with the pale hair. “What is that over there?”
The knight turned his helmed head in the direction she was indicating. He flipped up his visor so he could see more clearly. “Wales, my lady,” he replied. “The Welsh mountains that define the Marches.”
She watched them a moment. “They look rather peaceful now.”
The knight cocked an eyebrow. “They look dark and jagged to me, like teeth preparing to bite. They are a testament to the darkness in the soul of every Welshman and their desire to tear the English apart like wolves to the feast.”
Ellowyn glanced back at the man, studying him a moment. “You are a poet.”
He looked at her, fighting off a grin. “Alas, I am not,” he replied. “Merely an observation.”
“What is your name?”
“Sir Brennan St. Hèver, my lady.”
“Do you know much about the Welsh?”
He nodded. “I grew up at Kirk Castle,” he replied. “It is very close to the Welsh border. My father is the Earl of Wrexham and we have seen much of what the Welsh can do.”
She cocked her head. “Yet you serve de Russe. His seat is in Exeter, far from the Marches.”
Brennan nodded. “That was my father’s decision,” he replied. “He and the duke have known each other for years. It was his wish that I serve the duke for a time before returning to assume my station.”
“How old are you?”
“I have seen twenty-two years, my lady.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “And you are already a knight?”
“Fully sworn, my lady.”
“Then you are exceptionally talented to be knighted so young.”
He shrugged modestly, not having an answer for her. Sensing their conversation was at an end, Ellowyn’s gaze moved back to the horizon, now illuminated with the fading sunset. There were clusters of small forests around them the closer they drew to Coventry and the hilly road leveled out. She could no longer see the sunset or the western horizon.
Bored, weary, she began picking at her cloak, thinking on what they would have for sup that night. She was hoping for beef or fowl as she was growing weary of mutton. It always tasted old, to her at least. But those were her last coherent thoughts before something nicked her chin, slammed into her right shoulder, and sent her hurling to the ground.
Horses were screaming around her as men began shouting. Everyone was in a panic. Conscious but stunned, Ellowyn’s only thought was to pull herself out of the mud but there was so much pain in her right shoulder that she was having difficulty sitting up. A large armored body was suddenly beside her, scooping her up. With her clutched against him, he ran towards a tightly packed grove of trees. As they bounced along, she could see the forest looming as a dark and protective embrace.
There was more shouting going on around her followed by the distinct sounds of fighting. They entered the grove of trees and the knight surrendered his burden to a few waiting soldiers, waiting to help, and Ellowyn was lowered to the ground by several pairs of hands. As they settled her on the ground, the knight knelt beside her and flipped up his visor. She could see it was St. Hèver.
His young face was flushed but he was in control. Their eyes met and he nodded his head at her, firmly, in a move that was both encouraging and businesslike.
“So sorry, my lady,” he said, and she could feel more hands holding her still. “I must remove this.”
She had no idea what he was talking about until he yanked something from her right shoulder, an evil projectile that had embedded itself near the joint. Now the shoulder pain was starting to make sense. It had been painful going in but it was excruciating coming out and she screamed as he removed it and tossed it aside, accepting a wad of boiled linen from someone and pressing it hard against the wound to stop the bleeding. But Ellowyn wanted no part of his battlefield medicine. She cried and squirmed, eventually kicked and beat at his hands as they held that damnable wad over her wounded shoulder. She didn’t want anything to do with it. She wanted out.
“Bren!” Someone shouted from the direction of the road. “Leave her! You are needed, man!”
He held pressure on the wound a moment longer before passing the duty to one of the soldiers. The man took t
he position occupied by St. Hèver, pressing firmly, as the knight ran off towards the fight.
At that point, Ellowyn was nearly hysterical. She was injured, bleeding, exhausted and ill, and truly wanted out. She began fighting the soldiers so badly that they eventually had to let her go or she would have probably hurt herself more. But they didn’t move far enough away from her, fast enough, so she screamed and kicked at them until they did.
The majority of the fighting was out on the road but there were dozens of men in the shelter of the trees as they had moved the wagons off of the road. There were many men protecting what they were carrying while the bulk of the army did the fighting. Trembling, on her knees, her right shoulder and arm virtually useless, Ellowyn watched the madness go on.
“What… what has happened?” she demanded, her voice cracking.
“We were attacked,” said one of the soldiers left to tend her. “M’lady, we need to wrap your shoulder. I promise….”
“Nay!” she snapped, struggling to her feet. Her right shoulder felt as if it weighed more than her entire body, dragging her down. “I am getting out of here. I am leaving.”
The soldiers followed her for a few feet as she backed away from them, eventually stumbling and falling onto her bum. Then she turned around and, on her hands and knees, tried to crawl away but her right arm wouldn’t support any weight so she ended up tumbling. A charger suddenly roared up and kicked dirt and rocks on her. As she tried to brush off the cloak that was covered with mud and blood, someone grasped her by the arms.
“My lady?” It was Brandt. St. Hèver had shouted to him of the lady’s wound and even though there was a fairly nasty fight going on around him, all he could seem to think of was her. He’d fought his way through a passel of determined Welshmen to get this far. Now all he could see was blood and her pale face. “Wynny, what happened? What are you doing?”
Ellowyn gazed up at him and, seeing his handsome and familiar face, burst into frightened tears. Deeply concerned, Brandt moved to pick her up but their safe haven of trees was suddenly overrun by the enemy, and Brandt stood up, fending off an onslaught of angry men with blades. There were at least three of them intent on harming him as he practically stood on top of Ellowyn in order to protect her, his heavy broadsword wreaking havoc against the enemy. But he knew, very quickly, that they were in a bad way.
Masters of Medieval Romance: Series Starters Volume 1 Page 82