The portcullis lifted, spilling de Russe and his five frightening-looking knights forth across the drawbridge and into the clearing that fanned out from gatehouse. As the heavily armed knights stood back by the portcullis, Brandt came forth into the clearing and faced de Nerra’s enormous army. He just stood there, waiting, while the tension mounted. They all knew what he was waiting for.
De Nerra wasn’t long in showing himself. A big man who had been muscular back in his prime, most of that muscle had gone to fat with age and inactivity. It caused his armor not to fit very well and he struggled with it even as he made his way towards Brandt. He kept pulling at the mail. Not a man watching the spectacle didn’t feel a sense of what was about to happen. The once-great knight was about to face a man who inarguably was the most formidable warrior on any battlefield, ever. It was like watching a lamb to slaughter. The drums of doom beat silently, growing louder with each footstep Deston took as he approached his executioner.
Brandt felt it, too. As Deston advanced, he knew the moment he drew his sword it would only be a matter of time before he was the victor, and probably a short time at that. Deston was not in any sort of battle condition. He was out of practice and weak. What he was doing was pride and honor driven alone, which made him foolish and careless.
“You may as well throw yourself on your own sword, de Nerra,” Brandt said as the man drew close. “What you are doing is suicide.”
Deston slowed as he came near. “Mayhap,” he said. “But it is something I must do.”
“Is there no other way?”
“Unless you want to hand my daughter over, there is no other way.”
“I will not hand her over. She is my wife. Why is it so hard to accept that?”
Deston didn’t say anything. After a moment, he unsheathed the broadsword that had once belonged to his father. It was a wicked-looking thing, exquisitely crafted, and with the blood of thousands of men on it. It was an instrument meant to kill, and far outweighed the capabilities of its master.
“Lift your sword, de Russe,” he said after a moment. “Let us get on with it.”
Brandt looked at him. Really looked at him. He knew that Ellowyn was on the wall, watching. He still had fear that she would grow to hate him for killing her father no matter what reassurance he had from her. Emotions had a way of changing people’s minds, so he deduced at that moment he had two options – he could either draw out the fight and make it look like Deston had a chance before goring him, or he could refuse to fight at all and see how Deston reacted. He couldn’t imagine the man would kill him in cold blood. Perhaps if he refused to fight, Deston might consider it a stroke of good fortune and back off. It would be a way for the man to save his pride in a sense if the great Brandt de Russe refused to fight him. For Ellowyn’s sake, he was willing to take the chance.
“I am not going to fight you,” he finally said.
Deston’s helmed head cocked. “What do you mean?”
“Just what I said, I am not going to fight you. Deston, this is foolish. You know I am going to kill you. I cannot and will not fight my wife’s father because of what it will do to her. Did you know she woke up weeping last night because she’d had a dream that you were dead?”
Deston faltered somewhat. “She has many dreams. That is not unusual with her.”
“So you would have me kill you in front of her and give her nightmares the rest of her life? She is watching right now, you know.”
Deston’s head turned upward, towards the wall behind Brandt. “Where is she?”
Brandt turned around, scanning the wall until he caught a glimpse of a red-head with a scarf on it. She was near the seam where the curtain wall met the gatehouse. He pointed a massive finger in that direction.
“There,” he said. Then, he lifted his voice. “Ellowyn? Show yourself to your father.”
The men on the wall shifted and Ellowyn’s pale face came into view. She was wrapped in a deep blue surcoat and scarf, all wrapped up against the chill morning air. Brandt’s gaze lingered on her, drawing strength from the sight, before returning his focus to Deston.
“Please do not make me kill you in front of her,” he muttered. “Go home, de Nerra. Go home and forget this foolishness.”
Deston flipped up his visor, his gaze fixed on his child. His expression was wrought with longing.
“Wynny?” he called. “Come down from there. I have come to take you home.”
Ellowyn boosted herself up so she could see him better. “I am not going home,” she called down to him. “I demand you stop this foolishness right now. You are making a spectacle of yourself and I am ashamed.”
The wistful expression on Deston’s face changed to one of irritation. “You shame me by running off with a man not worthy of you,” he bellowed, pointing his sword at her. “It was stupid!”
Ellowyn’s face disappeared. Brandt kept searching for her on the battlements but she was nowhere to be seen until she suddenly appeared in the gatehouse, skirts gathered as she ran beneath the portcullis. Dylan tried to grab her but she slapped him as she pulled free.
“I will not embarrass myself further with a shouting match for all to hear,” she barked at her father, pointing a finger at him. “How dare you come here with an army to take me home. If I’d wanted to stay home, I would have never gone with Brandt.”
She appeared as if she were headed for her father to punch him, so Brandt grabbed her before she could get near him. He held on to her, fearful of what would happen if he let her go.
“How could you do this to me, Wynny?” Deston said, his control slipping now that he was faced with his daughter. “I cannot believe you would disobey me so.”
“And I cannot believe you would deny me the man I love!” Ellowyn shot back. “Think about what you are doing. Even if you kill Brandt today and take me home, I am still his wife. I am still the Duchess of Exeter, and this entire empire would be mine. You cannot take me back to the days when I was only your daughter. Those days are gone forever. I am Brandt’s wife now and I love him, and it would make the situation so much better if you were simply to accept that and give us your blessing. I do not understand your reservation.”
Deston’s face was dark but his sword was still lifted, still in-hand. “He has done terrible things, Wynny. How could you love such a man?”
“I love you and you have done terrible things,” she countered swiftly. “You were a young man when Roger Mortimer and Isabella stole the throne from young King Edward. Mama said you served Isabella and Mortimer, and when young Edward attacked Nottingham Castle and took Mortimer a prisoner, you turned on Mortimer and killed several of his personal guards so the king could be victorious. That makes you a traitor, Da. That makes you terrible.”
Deston tried not to look too contrite. “Times were different then, lass,” he said, lowering his sword. “It was a much harsher time.”
Ellowyn shook her head. “It was not,” she said. “It was war and you did what you had to in order to survive. That is what Brandt did, too. He does what he has to in order to survive.”
Deston shook his head. “He is not defending a king,” he pointed out. “He is simply furthering the claim of a greedy man.”
“If that is the case, then you are supplying him men for the cause. That makes you just as guilty as he is.”
Deston’s jaw ticked furiously. He averted his gaze, wondering how this entire situation had veered so out of control. He couldn’t surrender now, not when he had come so far.
“Do you not understand that I want something better for you?” he finally hissed, his hesitant gaze lifting to Ellowyn’s beseeching face. “You are meant for far better things in this world than a man who lives and breathes battle for a selfish young man. I know that vocation all too well, for I was involved in something like it years ago. You may be de Russe’s wife, but war will always be his mistress. You will have to share him. Even now, he prepares to leave you for France. You are not the most important thing to him, Wynny, Ed
ward is. You will always be second. I wanted something better for you than that.”
It was an extraordinarily valid point. Brandt heard it like hammer blows to his heart. He didn’t dare look at Ellowyn, mostly because they both knew it was true. He had never heard his life put into those terms before, but Deston was entirely correct. It was a sickening realization.
“I understand your words,” Ellowyn replied, more subdued than she had been during the entire conversation, “but this is a choice I made. You must let me make my own decision and, if necessary, live with the consequences of my choice. I am a woman grown, Da. You must accept that.”
Deston drew in a long, deep breath. “I want you to come home with me, Wynny. De Russe is going to France as it is and you will more than likely never see him again. I want you to come home with me now.”
Ellowyn frowned. “He is going to France and I am going with him,” she told him frankly. “Edward may hold his fealty but I hold his heart and he holds mine. The only way that will change is if he is dead.”
“He will die,” Deston was growing heated again. “It is only a matter of time before he is dead and when that happens, I will take you home.”
Because he was growing angry again, so was Ellowyn. “I will not go home,” she said hotly. “Guildford is my home now. If Brandt is dead, I will administer his dukedom in a manner that will honor him. I will not run home to my father who only seeks to shame and demean me.”
Deston’s mouth fell open. “I do nothing of the sort,” he fired back. “You are a stubborn, willful wench, Ellowyn de Nerra. You disrespected and shamed your family when you ran off with de Russe. You are fortunate that I forgive you for that.”
They were back on the same old subject and Ellowyn would not be sucked into it. She pulled free of Brandt’s grasp and took a few steps towards her father, shaking a finger at him.
“I do not care if you forgive me or not,” she told him sternly. “Go home. I do not want to see you here ever again. You are hateful and nasty, Da. Go home and never return.”
Deston was starting to turn shades of red. “You cannot order me about, you little fool.”
Ellowyn put her hands on her hips. “I just did,” she snapped. “Go home. I do not want to see you anymore. Everything I ever believed in, my father whom I loved so dearly, has all been a lie. The father I knew and loved would have never hurt me this way. If you do not go home this second, I swear that any love I ever felt for you will be forever turned to hatred.”
Deston was struck with the devastating impact of her words. He sensed the conversation was at an end and he was furious, shattered, and all things in between. He had never heard Ellowyn speak to him like that, not ever. It was de Russe’s doing, he was sure. The man had turned his loving, sweet daughter against him. He could hardly believe it. Rational thought gave way to irrational thought. He had to eliminate what stood between him and Ellowyn. Only then would things be right between them again. De Russe had caused all of this and the man would pay.
With a growl, he brought his sword up again. He was aiming for Brandt but Ellowyn heard the noise, saw what he was intending, and all she could think of was preventing it. She was deeply protective of Brandt, in any situation, and this was no different. With a scream, she threw up her hands and charged at her father, putting herself between Deston and Brandt.
Unfortunately, there was a sword between her and Deston, and it was the beloved and powerful sword of Braxton de Nerra that accidentally carved a searing path into the right side of Ellowyn’s torso.
It all happened so fast. Brandt saw Ellowyn rushing towards her armed father but he was unable to get to her in time. When he saw the blade pierce her torso, he shouted something. He wasn’t even sure what it was. All he knew was that it was a cry of pure anguish. As he shouted his agony, a nervous St. Hèver archer thought it was a command to fire and let loose an arrow that hit Deston in the throat. As Ellowyn went down with a sword wound, Deston slammed onto his back with a spiny arrow in his throat.
Chaos ensued.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Brandt stood at the lancet window in the master’s bower, his gaze moving out over the bailey of Guildford. It was dawn and the eastern sky was turning shades of pink and purple as gray ribbons of clouds lingered on the horizon. He thought he could smell rain but he wasn’t sure.
Behind him on the big bed, Ellowyn was sleeping heavily. She had been sleeping for nearly two days. The physic from Guildford, a thin wiry man by the name of Seever, had given her a poppy potion for the pain on the day of her injury that had knocked her out cold. He continued to give it to her every time she woke up, sending her back down into the black abyss of slumber where she would heal and forget the turmoil of her last lucid memories. Brandt was grateful for the merciful unconsciousness.
So much had happened since that fateful accident. Deston’s lingering and gurgling death as his daughter lay in the dirt several feet away and witnessed the horror, the painful hysteria of transporting his wife from the gatehouse to their second floor chamber, Ellowyn’s grief at her father’s passing, his own stunned grief at her injury… God, it had all passed in a blur. As Ellowyn had lain wounded and sleeping, Brandt had tried not to drink too much simply to help him cope but that plan had seen multiple failures. He wasn’t a weak man by nature, nor did he drink much, but seeing his wife gored with a broadsword had taken something out of him.
Seever had been summoned from the village because Brandt didn’t want his surgeon, a burly bear of a man, touching his wife. The old surgeon had a penchant for molesting young women and Brandt didn’t want to have to worry that the man was lusting over his wife. So he had sent Stefan into town to retrieve the best physic he could find and the knight had returned with the lanky physic recommended by the priests and the man’s wife. The pair had sat with Ellowyn, tending her carefully under the duke’s watchful eye.
As Brandt’s focus was on his wife, a knight by the name of le Mon had bundled up Deston’s corpse and made haste for Erith. Brandt probably should have paid more attention to the care of Deston, but he couldn’t manage it. Not with Ellowyn so badly injured. Therefore, he consigned Deston’s fate to God and trusted le Mon to take him home… and that was the end of it as far as he was concerned. He couldn’t invest any more time and emotion in it than that.
Now, at dawn of the third day, Brandt was emotionally and physically exhausted. He never left Ellowyn, not for a minute – not even when Alex de Lara returned the day after the incident with twenty-five hundred men from the Duke of Carlisle and another eight hundred from his father’s ally, the Earl of Richmond. Now, here were almost five thousand men swelling the bailey of Guildford and even at sunrise Brandt could smell the stench of too many men. He knew his time was drawing short before he had to return to France because he had what he’d come for – men and support. But he also had a wife he didn’t want to leave.
“Brandt?”
He heard the softly uttered question, turning with a start to see that Ellowyn was awake. She was watching him from her stew of pillows and blankets, and he quickly left his post by the window and went to her.
“Why are you awake?” he asked, concerned, as he sat on the bed and put a hand on her forehead to see if she was with fever. “You should be sleeping.”
She gazed up at him, groggy. “If the physic sees that I am awake, he will give me some of that damnable potion again and put me back to sleep,” she muttered. “Where is he?”
Brandt was relieved to see that she was without fever and he took her hand in his big one, kissing it. “He and his wife are sleeping,” he said softly. “They have not left you in two days. I told them to sleep and I would watch over you.”
Her groggy gaze turned warm. “I suspect you have not left me, either.”
He shook his head, whispering. “Nay.”
“Have you slept?”
“Not much.”
Ellowyn continued to gaze up at him, perhaps seeing the mighty Duke of Exeter through n
ew eyes. She knew he loved her. She knew he would do anything for her. But the measure of devotion she was coming to see from him was something she could have never imagined. Reaching up a weak hand, she gently touched his face.
“I will be well again very soon,” she promised. “Already, I can feel the wound healing. It does not pain me terribly.”
He kissed the fingers that lingered on his lips. “I am pleased to hear it.”
“I do believe I could sit up and take some nourishment.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am famished. Will you help me to sit up?”
He nodded, kissing her fingers again. “Of course I will,” he said as he stood up. He began hunting around for pillows to prop her up with. “What do you feel like eating?”
Ellowyn shrugged. “Something warm,” she said. “Perhaps broth or gruel. And bread with butter.”
He nodded as he reached out to take her hands. “Ready?”
“Ready.”
Very gently, he pulled her up from the mattress, watching her make faces as her wound pained her. Groans accompanied the effort. Eventually, she was sitting up enough so that he could wedge several pillows behind her back to support her. Ellowyn, however, was struggling not to become ill. She was pale and gray as she tried to get her balance.
“Oh, heavens,” she gasped. “I do not suppose I feel as well as I thought.”
He looked concerned. “Do you want to lie down again?”
She feebly shook her head. “Nay,” she said firmly. “I would sit here a moment. I shall be fine.”
He watched her with concern as she struggled to acclimate herself. “Is your injury paining you?”
Again, she shook her head. “It hurts, but the pain does not consume me,” she said. “I can stand it.”
Masters of Medieval Romance: Series Starters Volume 1 Page 98