“This will end now,” he rumbled.
He carried Ellowyn, kicking and struggling, all the way up to the keep. She beat her hands against his plate armor, demanding he put her down, but he wouldn’t listen to her. By the time he got her into the keep, she had torn her surcoat in her struggles and her carefully braided hair was unraveling. He set her on her feet when they reached his solar.
Ellowyn twisted her way from his grip as he tried to put her down and ended up straining her injured torso. She hissed in pain, pressing a hand against the wound as she staggered away from him.
“What is the matter with you?” she demanded. “How dare you handle me like a common wench!”
He stood by the entry to make sure she couldn’t escape. “How dare you behave like one,” he fired back quietly. “You are the Duchess of Exeter. Your recent behavior does not suit that position.”
Ellowyn scowled. “I do not know what you mean,” she said. “You told me I could return home. I am doing that.”
He faced her, hands on hips, jaw ticking. “Wynny, I am not entirely sure how the mood between us has deteriorated so, but it will end now,” he said, struggling to calm. “I do not like it when you ignore me. I realize the past few days have been disruptive to say the least, but you are taking all of your frustration out on me. Is that fair?”
Ellowyn’s features relaxed, somewhat, as she considered the question. After a moment, she appeared to deflate. Her gaze lowered. Then, she turned away from him, hand resting gingerly on her injured torso.
“You are going to France,” she said with a shrug. “You said yourself that I should go back to Erith.”
“I asked you if you wanted to return to be with your mother and grandmother,” he said. “I never told you to return to Erith. Furthermore, while you have been stomping around like a petulant child and ignoring me at every turn, I have been busy making arrangements for my return to France, the plans of which now include you.”
It took her a moment for his words to sink in. When they did, she whirled to face him, eyes wide with astonishment.
“Me?” she gasped. “I am going with you?”
He put his hands on his hips. “I should just as well leave you here for all of the tantrums you have exhibited over the past few days.”
She could see that his irritation was real. His mood tempered her joy with uncertainty. “Then why did you decide to bring me?”
He lost some of his irritation. “Because… oh, hell, I suppose it is because your words the other day meant something to me,” he said. “You must understand that until recently, all I knew was war. It is in my blood. But somehow, someway, you are in my blood now, too. You have shown me a life I never knew existed, Wynny. You are my wife and you are the most important thing in the world to me. When I return to France, it is because I said I would. It is not because my heart is in it. That particular part of me seems to belong to you.”
All of Ellowyn’s hurt and anger evaporated and she smiled at his sweet confession. “I am sorry if it seemed as if I was being difficult,” she said softly. Then she shrugged awkwardly. “You said you were leaving and all I could think was that I would never see you again. Everything we have now, between us, would be gone forever. I started to think on my father’s words, of how I would always be second in your life behind Prince Edward, and I was deeply hurt by it. Mayhap… mayhap ignoring you was a way of saving my heart. It is so fragile where you are concerned.”
He sighed heavily, his eyes raking over her lovely face. “Being ignored by you for two days has hurt my heart deeply,” he said softly. “I wonder what you will do to make it up to me?”
It was an invitation and a peace offering. Ellowyn didn’t hesitate. She moved to him, putting her arms around his neck as he swallowed her into his enormous embrace. Feeling him in her arms, alive and vibrant, brought her relief and joy. She shoved her face into the crook of his neck, smelling him and feeling the texture of his skin against hers. It was heavenly.
“I will do whatever you wish,” she whispered, squeezing him. “Thank you for taking me with you, Brandt. I swear I will be no trouble at all.”
He kissed her, hard, because he hadn’t kissed her in two days and he found he was fairly starving to taste her. His big hands stroked her face, her hair.
“I have traveled with you before and know what to expect from you,” he said. “But I went on an errand this morning to a neighbor, a Lady Catteshall. She is old and matronly but, as I remember from my younger days, she is a woman of tremendous grace and wisdom. I went to ask her what I should do in order to make your travels more comfortable and she was kind enough to provide me with two of her ladies.”
Ellowyn cocked her head. “Ladies?”
He nodded and released her from their embrace. “Lady Catteshall is well-known for schooling young women who have gone on to be fine ladies for countesses and duchesses and even royalty. Even when I was there, she had at least twelve or fifteen ladies with her. She provided me with two she feels would make good companions for you so you will not be entirely lonely.”
Ellowyn looked dubious. “Women I do not know?” she said, pursing her lips. “I do not believe that I need companions, Brandt. You will be my companion.”
He nodded. “I realize that, but there will be times when I will not be with you,” he said. “I will be away, fighting, and I want to make sure you have suitable companionship while I am away. Most titled women have ladies in waiting, and you shall be no different.”
She still looked doubtful. “Can I at least meet them?” she asked. “What if I do not like them? Can I send them away?”
He took her hand and led her towards the entry. “If you do not like them, I shall take you to Lady Catteshall and you can choose your own companions.”
It was enough to pacify her reluctance, at least until she could look the women over. He took her from the keep, holding her hand as they moved down the treacherous motte stairs which had recently had a rope hand-rail installed. The coach was still there, now with the gray team reattached and the baggage loaded inside. It was ready and waiting for the determined Lady de Russe.
Brennan was standing with the driver, watching Brandt and Ellowyn descend the stairs. He could tell by their body language that things were well between them once again. He met the pair at the bottom of the steps.
“Shall I arrange for an escort to Erith, my lord?” he asked Brandt.
Brandt cocked an eyebrow. “She is not going to Erith,” he said frankly. “Did you arrange for this carriage, St. Hèver?”
Brennan opened his mouth to reply but Ellowyn cut him off. “I ordered the carriage,” she said. “Brennan did everything possible to discourage me from going and even refused to help me find an escort. In fact, he did everything he could to prevent me from leaving, the sly Devil. He should be commended for being so loyal to you.”
Brandt eyed her. “I can only imagine how you verbally pummeled the man because he would not do your bidding.”
She turned her nose up at him, although she was smiling. “I did nothing of the sort,” she said. “Even if I did, he is too chivalrous to say otherwise.”
Brandt was still inclined to feel some jealousy over Brennan but it had been fading as of late. The more secure he felt in his relationship with Ellowyn, the more his jealousies seemed to fade. Still, he wasn’t entirely free of it. He nodded curtly to Ellowyn’s statement.
“Indeed,” he said, eyeing Brennan. “Get this damnable coach out of here.”
Fighting off a grin, Brennan did as he was told. As he whistled loudly between his teeth and ordered the carriage away, Brandt took Ellowyn by the hand and led her over towards the great hall.
It was very warm inside the hall, almost too warm on the temperate day. A fire sputtered in the enormous hearth and the two dogs that had been up in the keep had somehow made their way down to the hall, sleeping near the fire. Ellowyn immediately spied Dylan at one of the tables with two young women, seated and with cups before them. Gi
lbert, the old servant, was filling the cups with rich red wine. Brandt led Ellowyn to the table that was strewn with a collection of dried fruits, cheese, and bread.
“This is my wife, the Lady Ellowyn de Nerra de Russe, Duchess of Exeter,” Brandt introduced Ellowyn to the women. “Wynny, this is the Lady Annabeth du Gare and the Lady Bridget St. John.”
He indicated the lush brunette first and the pale red-head second. Both women jumped to their feet at the introduction and very gracefully curtsied.
“My lady,” they greeted Ellowyn in unison.
Ellowyn was polite as she acknowledged them. “My husband just told me I am to have ladies accompany me to France,” she said. “That being the case, mayhap we should become acquainted.”
Lady Annabeth was petite, pretty, and big-breasted. She was also very young. She smiled at Ellowyn as she moved down the bench.
“Will you sit, Lady de Russe?” she said, indicating the open spot next to her.
Ellowyn took the offered seat. When Brandt moved to sit as well, she stopped him. “Nay, husband,” she told him rather pointedly. “I will sit with the ladies alone for now. I am sure you have other duties to attend to and women talk would not interest you.”
Brandt wriggled his eyebrows and grabbed Dylan by the arm, pulling the man with him. “As you wish, my lady,” he said. “I will station a soldier outside the entry should you require anything.”
“Thank you,” Ellowyn said, smiling sweetly.
Brandt’s lips twitched with a smile as he pulled Dylan with him from the hall, basically being thrown out by his wife. But he understood. She wanted to speak with the women alone and make her own determination as to whether or not she thought they were suitable companions. As he reached the hall entry, Brennan, Stefan and Alex were standing right outside the door. Brandt nearly plowed into them.
“What are you doing crowded around?” he wanted to know.
Brennan looked innocent, Stefan shrugged, and Alex was the only one to answer truthfully.
“I saw the red-head, my lord,” he said. “I wanted to get a better look at her.”
Brandt just shook his head. “I brought these women for my wife, not for you,” he said, thumping Alex on the chest and turning the man around. “Get on with your tasks, all of you. You will not hound those women like dogs on the prowl.”
“A pity,” Dylan muttered. “The brunette is something to behold.”
Before Brandt could scold him, he scattered with the rest of them. Brandt should have gone along with them but he just couldn’t seem to do it. He stood outside of the hall entry, listening. For several minutes it was very quiet, but soon enough, female voices could be heard lifted in humor and every once in a while someone would laugh. Eventually, he heard his wife laughing. It was good to hear. After what she had gone through, he was pleased to hear that she hadn’t lost her ability to laugh.
With a smile, he went about his business.
FRANCE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
August 1356 A.D.
Chateau Melesse
Brittany
Ellowyn and Annabeth were giggling so hard that they were nearly crying. They could hear Bridget screaming at the French chatelaine of Melesse Castle, a severe woman who had to be at least seventy years old. She was precise, nasty-tempered, knowledgeable, and a bully. Ever since Brandt and Ellowyn had arrived nearly seven months prior, the woman went out of her way to make the duke and duchess comfortable but she was horrid with their retainers.
It had proven something of a challenge for Annabeth and Bridget. Both young women had turned out to be wonderful companions and Ellowyn was very fond of them both, and they both seemed to have a somewhat wicked streak when it came to the haughty French servants of Melesse. The chatelaine, Mme. de Simpelace, was the queen of the roost and Ellowyn’s two ladies had taken to calling her Mme. de Pimpleface. The chatelaine was not amused when she caught wind of the nickname and the battle for supremacy was on.
Ellowyn had brought up the subject of dismissing the woman but Brandt wasn’t keen on hiring anyone new. They were, for all intent and purposes, in an enemy land, and he didn’t want a new chatelaine, perhaps with a great hatred for the English, so close to his beloved wife.
Meanwhile, old Mme. Pimpleface would go out of her way to make things difficult and this moment was a perfect example. On this warm and lazy afternoon in the last week of August, Ellowyn had asked for warmed cider and the woman had produced a scorching product that was anything but cider. Very protective of their young duchess, Bridget had gone after the woman and even now was demanding that she squeeze the apples herself and boil the juice. Mme. de Simpelace was not inclined to do so, and the catfight was on.
So Ellowyn and Annabeth giggled like fools as they sat in a richly appointed solar that Brandt had assigned to Ellowyn for her personal use. She sat in a very comfortable chair, perhaps the most comfortable in the entire castle, and held her swollen belly as she snorted.
“Mayhap I do not need any cider after all,” she finally said, sobering. “It seems to be too much trouble for madam.”
Annabeth made a face. “It is not too much trouble for her,” she sniffed. “She simply likes to make things difficult, and I am positive she likes to argue with us. I think she feels she is doing her duty to France to protest the English in her own small way.”
Ellowyn, still grinning, picked her knitting up off her lap and looked to resume where she left off. “I suppose,” she said. “Brandt trusts her because she has been with the family for so long so I suppose there is not much we can do about her.”
As Ellowyn resumed knitting a large and lovely blanket that was to be part of the baby’s trousseau, Annabeth picked up the needlepoint she had been working on. She watched Ellowyn out of the corner of her eye, her slow and steady stitches with the soft white wool. Having spent every single day with the woman since the moment she met her, not only had they become good friends but she was also very attuned to Ellowyn’s moods. She could tell by her mannerisms, her behavior, and her movements what she was feeling. And she knew that today she was feeling particularly blue.
“Mayhap the duke will return today,” she said as she stabbed at the material in front of her. “He has been gone for quite some time now. He never leaves you for long.”
Ellowyn was carefully stitching her blanket. “Forty-seven days,” she said softly. “It is the longest he has been away yet. Sometimes I think I forget the color of his eyes or the feel of his skin. It seems like such a long time.”
Annabeth sighed faintly. They had the same conversation almost every day since the duke left. Since the moment they arrived in France back in February, the duke would go off with the Prince of Wales for days or weeks at a time, but he would always return. Strangely, the prince had never come to Melesse and Annabeth had heard the knights whispering that it was because he was jealous of the woman who had stolen the Black Angel’s heart. For whatever the reason, they had never met the man.
“But the duke will return,” she insisted softly. “When he left this last time, he said he would be in the Aquitaine, did he not? That is some distance away. It will take time to return home again.”
“And Dylan with him?” Ellowyn glanced up, grinning at Annabeth when the woman blushed.
“I would hope so,” Annabeth said softly. “And Bridget is most anxious for Brennan to return.”
“I know she is,” Ellowyn looked down at her knitting again. “Has he even kissed her yet?”
Annabeth shook her head. “Not yet,” she said. “But Bridget is determined that he will very soon. She wants to be married to him before the end of the year.”
The door to the solar opened, interrupting their conversation. Bridget entered the room, the pale and lovely red-head, with a cup in her hand wielded high like a trophy.
“I have it!” she said. “Cider, my lady. I had to kill several Frenchmen to get it, but here it is.”
Ellowyn and Annabeth were back to giggling. “Really, Bridge
t,” Ellowyn admonished softly. “Warmed cider is not worth murder.”
Bridget grinned as she carefully handed Ellowyn the cup. “I beg to differ, my lady,” she said. “The infant demands apples and apples he shall have. Whatever goes into your mouth goes directly to him to make him big and strong like his father. We are quite anxious to meet him, you know.”
Ellowyn rubbed her belly. “Not too soon,” she said. “He is not due until October. We do not want to meet him too soon.”
Small talk bounced between them as Bridget went to one of the three long and slender lancet windows in the room to secure the oilcloth that had come loose from its binding. There was a nice breeze, cooling the warm air as she gazed out over the enormous bailey of Melesse.
It was a massive bastion that had been in Exeter’s family for nearly two hundred years, part of a dowry from a grandmother several generations back. Situated on the top of a wooded hill with vast views of the surrounding countryside in all directions, it was a truly magnificent structure of golden stone and soaring towers. It was at least twice the size of Guildford and four times the size of Erith, with rooms and passages, kitchens, two halls, and innumerable miscellaneous chambers. For the first several months of their residency, they’d had great fun exploring it all until Brandt put a stop to it, fearful his pregnant wife would hurt herself going up and down narrow stairs or squeezing through tight passages.
It wasn’t particularly strange that a man so devoted to his wife should become even more devoted with the event of her pregnancy. Ellowyn had felt fine since the beginning and ate like a horse as Brandt watched every move she made with a nervous edge. He was thrilled and deeply thankful for the pregnancy, which made it extraordinarily difficult for him to leave from time to time to go on campaigns with Edward.
In fact, the situation was heating up with Edward’s wars as he drove north from Aquitaine on a campaign to grow his base and strengthen his troops, and Brandt was simply going through the motions. His heart wasn’t in it. He wanted to be home with his wife and he certainly wanted to be present for the birth of the baby. Rumor had it, according to the knights, that Edward and Brandt were growing increasingly hostile towards each other because of it.
Masters of Medieval Romance: Series Starters Volume 1 Page 100