Lord of War: Black Angel (5 page)

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 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 know 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 in to 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.

With 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 blond hair and braid 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.  

It was the de Russe she remembered from the wharf, the massive warrior in mail and steel so wrapped up in his knighthood that it was difficult to ascertain where the armor ended and the man began.  His helm wasn’t on, but his broadsword was, strapped to his hips and right thigh with heavy leather binds to keep the scabbard stable.  His smoky eyes were oddly soft as he looked at her.

“I could hear you coughing downstairs,” he said. “Are you ill?”

She blew her nose into the rag in her hand. “I am,” she said, her nose stuffy. “I fear that I have somehow caught a chill.”

He wriggled his eyebrows in agreement. “An understatement, my lady,” he said. “I came to see if you were ready to move out but I see that perhaps we must wait until you are feeling better.”

She shook her head firmly before the words even left his mouth. “I will return today,” she said. “I will feel poorly here or on the road so it does not matter… hold a moment, my lord; what did you say?”

She was cocking her head at him curiously. He had no idea what she meant. “What do you mean?” he asked. “What did I say?”

She blinked as if surprised. “We?” she said. “You said
we
would move out?”

“I am not staying here.”

“Ah… I see,” she seemed to understand. “Then you are going home as well.”

“I am going to Erith.”

She was back to being surprised. “To
Erith
?” she repeated. “Why?”

He cleared his throat as if suddenly uneasy.  Why
was
he going to Erith? He’d spent all night wondering the same thing after he’d decided, at his conclusion of the meal with Ellowyn, that he would be accompanying her home. He wasn’t sure why he had made the decision, much less possess the ability to explain it to her. But she was looking for an answer and he looked her in the eye whilst giving one, mostly because he didn’t want her to sense anything but sheer, unadulterated decisiveness from him. He didn’t want her to see his uncertainty.

“Because,” he gestured with a big gloved hand towards the avenue outside. “You have nearly six hundred men to take back to Erith and not one knight to take charge.  I am concerned that Deston sent you to retrieve troops without anyone to control them, so I will therefore escort you, and them, back to Erith Castle.”

By this time, she was looking at him with greater surprise than ever. “They will take orders from me, although I thank you for your concern. Truly, it is not necessary.”

Refuted.
Brandt found himself in a very odd position as she rejected his offer of escort. He still wasn’t sure why he felt compelled to escort her back to Erith, but as he gazed down at the woman with the red nose and exquisite face, he knew it had nothing to do with the six hundred men outside in the rain.  It had everything to do with that damnable conversation last night when he had conversed with her as he’d never conversed with anyone in his life. She listened intently to him and made him feel as if he had something worth saying.

Certainly, in his position, everyone had respect for his word but it was because of his title. The Duke of Exeter was not a man to be ignored.  But last night, he felt as if Ellowyn de Nerra listened to him not because of his title, but because of who he was as a warrior. As a man. He was feeling foolish and unbalanced by it but he also knew that it made him feel as he’d never felt in his life.

“Perhaps,” he said after a lengthy, and contemplative, pause, “but it would seem I have business with your father as well, so we may as well travel together.  Are you opposed to this?”

Ellowyn wiped at her dripping nose. “Nay, my lord,” she shook her head. “But you never said anything about having business with my father. This is the first you have mentioned it.”

He was starting to feel like an idiot. “I had forgotten,” he muttered, then pointed towards the bed behind her in the hopes of changing the subject. “Perhaps you should retire for the day.  Our trip can wait until you are feeling better.”

Again, Ellowyn shook her head firmly. “I do not want to linger here,” she said, moving back into the room to claim her satchel. “I am strong enough to travel home.  Where is my escort? The men I brought with me?”

Brandt could see that she was determined.  In fact, if there was one quality about Ellowyn de Nerra that stood out to him, it was her determination. She was fierce about it.

“They are down in the main room,” he told her. “My lady, it is my sincere hope that you will reconsider traveling today. It is raining fairly heavily outside.”

She acted like she hadn’t heard him as she brushed past him, exiting the room. “I will ask the innkeeper if he has something hot to drink.  Perhaps that will help my cough.  I will be well enough – you’ll see.”

With a sigh of regret, Brandt followed.  The great room of the inn was fairly quiet at this hour, bodies strewn about the room in sometimes noisy slumber.  Ellowyn reached the bottom of the stairs with Brandt shortly behind her, making her way to the rear of the tavern in search of the innkeeper. Brandt watched as her escort, having been huddled near the smoking hearth, spied the woman and moved to greet her.  As the lady went in search of something for her cough, Brandt headed outside into the howling elements.

It was pounding in buckets as he made his way across the avenue where all of the de Nerra men were huddled under the trees, seeking shelter from the rain. Late last night, after the conclusion of his meal with Ellowyn, he had sent Dylan de Lara back to the wharf to disband his army. 

The bulk of four thousand, two hundred and thirteen men headed back to the duke’s seat of Guildford Castle while a smaller portion of skilled foot-soldiers had broken off from the main body and marched to Gray’s Inn along with five of Brandt’s most skilled and trusted knights and a few lesser knights. As Brandt moved closer to a thick cluster of trees, he could make out the features of his senior knights lingering in a group near the road.

Dylan and his identical twin brother, Alex, were the first faces to greet him.  The two were so alike that most people couldn’t tell them apart, but Brandt could. Alex was slightly bigger and led with his left hand, whereas Dylan led with his right.  As Alex acknowledged his liege with a silent salute, Brandt’s gaze fell on the knight standing next to him.

Brennan St. Hèver  was perhaps the very best knight to have ever swung a sword, eldest son of the Earl of Wrexham. A tall man with enormously wide shoulders, he had white-blond hair and eyes the color of the sea.  He was extremely fast, witty, and intelligent.  He was also extremely young and twenty years and two, but had a maturity well beyond his years.

Standing next to Brennan were the remaining two knights that rounded out de Russe’s top generals, Magnus de Reyne and Stefan le Bec, le Bec being the grandson of the legendary Guildford le Bec. Both young knights were from very fine families, descended from the bloodlines of illustrious warriors, and were two of the best knights Brandt had ever seen.  Their strength and cunning was beyond measure, and Brandt considered himself extremely lucky to command such a fine senior stable.  He had one hell of an arsenal.