Lord of War: Black Angel (31 page)

“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.”

He adjusted her pillows carefully, trying to help her. “The physic said it did not cut anything vital and that it was not particularly deep,” he said. “We can be thankful for that.”

“Thankful indeed,” she grunted.  He was so busy fussing with her pillows that he didn’t notice she was tearing up.  “My father… where is he?”

He heard the weepy tone and stopped adjusting the pillows, looking her in the face.  He was immediately stricken with her sadness, wiping at the tears on her cheeks.

“I sent him home,” he told her softly, kissing her forehead even as he helped her wipe her tears. “I am so sorry you had to witness all of that, sweetheart, but I promise that we took care of him. Your father is on his way home, as he requested.”

She sobbed softly. “What happened?” she begged. “Why was he fired upon?”

He sighed heavily, thinking back to that moment in time when Deston lay on the ground drying and Ellowyn lay several feet away, screaming as her father bled to death in front of her.  Brandt’s only concern had been Ellowyn at the moment and not the mechanics of what had happened. He didn’t care why, only that it had. But he had certainly found out after the fact what had happened. Now, it was time for Ellowyn to know.

“It was an accident,” he said quietly. “When your father advanced, the archers thought I gave a battle command.  It was a nervous mistake and nothing more.”

She looked up at him with her big watery eyes. “So they killed my father?” she whispered. “I tried to stop him… he was going to kill you, Brandt. I could not let him do it.”

His jaw ticked with sorrow as he cupped her head in his big hand, pulling her cheek to his lips to comfort her. She had every right to be distraught.  But, then again, he was fairly distraught himself. He’d spent two days living that moment over and over again, astonished that Ellowyn would put herself in danger to save him. He was having difficulty accepting that someone other than a loyal knight should be so devoted to him.  His knights were loyal out of respect to him and respect to their oath; she was devoted purely out of love.

“I am the most fortunate man on earth,” he said after a moment. “That you should try to protect me with your life, Ellowyn… I do not know what to say except how fortunate I feel to have such devotion. But he could have killed you.”

Ellowyn didn’t reply; she was still weeping softly, wiping at her cheeks, and he left her long enough to find a kerchief among the goods strewn about the room and bring it back to her.  She wiped her face off

“If given the chance, I would do the same thing again,” she said softly. “I could not let him kill you. I will not let anyone kill you.”

“You are very brave.”

She shook her head, fixing him in the eye. “I am not brave,” she said. “I am in love with my husband and there is nothing I would not do for him, even if it cost me my life.”

He stroked her head with a big hand. “As I said,” he whispered, “I am the most fortunate man on earth.”

Ellowyn smiled weakly, blowing her nose and wiping off the remainder of her tears.  It was evident that she was attempting to regain her composure.  But the tears weren’t finished yet.

“Dear God,” she sighed, gazing up to the ceiling, the window, as if seeing things beyond. “What is my mother going to say? She will be crushed.  And my grandmother… I cannot even fathom what she will be feeling.”

He watched her a moment. “Do you want to return home?”

Her head snapped to him, eyes wide with surprise. “Home?” she repeated. “Why would you ask that?”

He shrugged. “To tend to your mother and grandmother in the wake of your father’s death,” he said softly. “If you wish to return to Erith, I will send you with an escort.”

She cocked her head. “You will not go with me?”

He sighed heavily, again, and moved towards the lancet window that overlooked the bailey.  The day was cool and breezy at dawn as the men below were already awake and going about their affairs.

“Alex returned yesterday with over three thousand men,” he said. “I have what I returned to England for; I have men to support Edward’s war in France. There is no longer any reason for me to remain here.  I would be happy to send you back to Erith to stay with your mother and grandmother, but I must return to France.”

Ellowyn stared at him. “Just like that?” she asked. “With everything that has happened and everything we have said to each other, you would leave me behind without a second thought?”

He turned to look at her. “It is not how you make it seem,” he said, rather perplexed that she should seem so emotional when they’d had the same conversation a dozen times. “Of course I do not want to leave you, but I certainly cannot take you with me. I….”

“Why not?”

He shook his head firmly, leaning up against the windowsill. “We have been over this subject, Wynny,” he said. “You know why I cannot take you.”

“But I do not want to go to Erith. I want to go with you.”

“You cannot.”

Emotional, exhausted, and wounded, she burst into angry tears, falling over on the bed and sobbing into the pillows that surrounded her.  Then she screeched somewhat when her wound pained her from the sudden movement. Brandt came away from the window and went to the bed, trying to soothe her.  She was lying awkwardly and he carefully gathered her up and tried to move her, but she cried out in pain when he tried so he simply left her.  His big hand stroked her hair.

“Please do not do this,” he begged softly. “Please do not upset yourself so. You know I must go and you cannot go with me. Why do you torment yourself so?”

She wept pitifully. “My father is dead,” she sobbed. “Now you would leave me. I will be all alone.”

“You will not be alone if you return to Erith,” he reminded her gently. “You will be with your mother and grandmother.”

“Please do not leave me,” she cried, acting as if she had not heard him. “I am afraid that this heaven that we have known, this bliss that has become everything to me, will cease to exist once you are gone and will never be the same.  When you return again, we will be as strangers and perhaps things will be different, and if you do not return at all, I do not want my news of your death to be delivered by cold and unfeeling men who have no regard for the love you and I share. Please, Brandt… I beg you… take me with you.”

He sighed sadly; unfortunately, he was feeling himself relent. He had been now for some time.  It was true that he had many properties in France and it was true that she could live there and he could see her far more often than if she remained behind in England.  Aye, he wanted her with him. He wanted her more than he would admit.  He struggled to make one last stand against the pleading that was breaking down his walls like a battering ram.

“Wynny, I cannot,” he whispered. “All of France is in turmoil. It is no place for you.”

She covered her face with her hands. “Then it is true,” she wept. “What my father said is true. War is your mistress and Edward is more important than I am.”

“That is
not
true.”

“Aye, it is,” she nearly screamed at him. “If it were not true, you would ensure that we were never apart.  But your prince, and your wars, are by far more important than I am. What a fool I was to think a declaration of love would change all of that.  You are a warrior, Brandt, and a husband second.  That pains me more than you will ever know and if I mean no more to you than that, I may as well return to Erith.”

He looked like a beaten dog. “You told your father that you would stay here and administer my lands,” he reminded her softly.

The hand flew away from her face, the pale eyes blazing. “I will
not
stay here and be reminded of my loneliness at every turn,” she snapped. “I will go home to my mother and grandmother, and try not to think of my husband who thinks less of me than his horse.  At least his horse gets to go to France.”

It would have been a comical and petulant statement had he allowed himself to think so, but he couldn’t because Ellowyn was off on a crying tangent. Brandt gazed down at her, feeling incredible sadness and guilt.  He just stood there, looking at her, listening to her sobs and feeling more turmoil than he had ever felt in his life. He was a man of strong decisions and a firm mind, never one to be swayed by another and certainly never one to be swayed by a woman.  But this wasn’t just a woman; this was his wife whom he loved with all his heart. He didn’t want to leave her, either.

As Ellowyn eventually cried herself to sleep, Brandt stood over the bed, lost in thought.  He was coming to think that somehow, someway, his battles with Edward were no longer the most important thing to him.  It was more that the prince’s warfare was all he knew; it was his life, his vocation. 

King Edward had personally asked Brandt to control and manage young Edward’s wars in France because he knew that Brandt de Russe was a lord of war from a long line of warlords. The de Russe family was well known for breeding the biggest and the meanest and the best.   The Prince of Wales was young and rash at times, and de Russe was the perfect balance with his wisdom and strength. It had been a perfect partnership until the moment Brandt knocked Ellowyn into the water trough outside of Gray’s Inn. 

After that, everything changed.

***

“My lady, I must state quite clearly that the duke will be furious if he discovers you have left the castle,” Brennan said. “More than that, he will be furious with me for enabling such a thing. I beg you to reconsider.”

Five days after her encounter with a sword, Ellowyn was on her feet.  She was moving very stiffly, but at least she was moving.  Dressed in a mustard-colored silk surcoat with an eggshell-colored shift beneath, she looked radiant except for the smudge of dark circles beneath her eyes.  It was the only outward appearance that she had suffered a brush with violence.   

As Brennan spoke the words, she eyed the stiff young knight. “He is off doing things that are more important to him,” she said briskly.  “I had the servants help me pack this morning. I am going to Erith today and I want you to take me.”

Brennan was in over his head; he knew that already.  “Lady de Russe, I have many pressing duties to attend to today,” he told her. “Although it would be a great privilege, I cannot escort you to Erith.”

Ellowyn looked at him as if he had just grievously insulted her; her emotions, aggravated by her injury, had been raging over the past couple of days since Brandt had told her he planned to return to France right away and refused to take her with him.  She had convinced herself that he had lied to her when he told her that he loved her.  A man couldn’t love his wife and then leave her behind as far as she was concerned. 

Her father had been correct; she would always be second to Brandt’s ambition and devotion to the Prince of Wales.  She felt demeaned, humiliated, and terribly hurt.  She just wanted to go home with the people who truly loved her. She needed to tell her father, who would surely be in his grave by then, how sorry she was for everything.

Perhaps that was the crux of the entire situation; had she not run away with Brandt, Deston would more than likely still be alive so, in a sense, she killed her father.  Her guilt was great, perhaps great enough to taint her views on Brandt.  He had expressed fear once that she would change her mind about him if he had killed her father and she assured him that nothing would change. Perhaps she had been wrong, about a lot of things.

“Very well,” she snapped. “If you cannot do it, then I will ask you to find someone who can. If you cannot find anyone by the nooning meal, I will leave on my own. Do you understand?”

Brennan was quite aware that he was being bullied. “Aye, my lady, but I must tell your husband what you have asked of me.”

She shook finger at him “If you tell him, I shall never forgive you or trust you again, Brennan St. Hèver . You will promise me that you will not say anything to him at all.”

He shook his head but took a step towards the door as he did so. “I regret that I cannot make that promise, my lady.”

“Do you mean to tell me that you would violate my trust in you?”

“I mean to tell you that I am sworn to your husband, my lady, and it is Lord de Russe that I answer to. If he found out that I aided you on a flight from Guildford, he would have my head.”

Furious, Ellowyn pointed imperiously at the door. “Out!” she commanded. “I will find someone else I can trust!”

Brennan moved swiftly for the door, a rather comical sight because it looked as if the man was truly afraid of the very angry lady.  Once outside the door, he breathed a sigh of relief but made haste to locate Brandt.

A perusal of the entire castle had not turned him up. Dylan was missing, too.  Le Bec, who had the watch upon the wall, could only tell him that de Russe and de Lara had ridden off towards the town but he didn’t know any more than that.  He suspected that the duke had ridden south to Godalming to a smaller castle inhabited by the wealthy and refined Lady Catteshall, because the woman was wildly wealthy.  Part of his mission for the prince was to seek monetary support, and the knights suspected he was doing just that.

Surprisingly, Lady Catteshall had a damn good army of three hundred men and owned a great deal of land, and she ruled the province perhaps more than Brandt did. She was very respected and very generous.  Nervous about Lady de Russe, Brennan remained upon the wall, watching anxiously for Brandt’s return.

Unfortunately for Brennan, Lady de Russe sent for her carriage just before noon.  He knew this because he saw the thing brought around from the stables, pulled by the two fine gray horses.  Just as he was preparing to descend the wall to prevent Lady de Russe from leaving by any means necessary, including throwing himself down in front of the carriage, Stefan sighted incoming riders.   There was a small group approaching from the south and one of the sentries, with particularly good eye sight, was convinced it was Brandt.  The shout went out and the race against time was on.