Ellowyn turned to the old chatelaine. “I will go,” she said, jaw ticking. “If you will not help me, then get out of my way.”
Mme. Simpelace seemed to go through the throes of fainting without actually accomplishing the act. She was distraught, as were they all, but there was no changing the course that Ellowyn and Rosalind were about to take.
They went their separate ways to prepare for the journey, both women with people trailing after them begging them not to go, but they were determined. Eventually, those same people gave up the battle and began to help. There was no discouraging the inevitable.
With a purpose, with resolve and bravery bred from a love for her husband that ran deeper than the earth itself, Ellowyn was mounted and ready to ride only a few hours later. Astride a leggy warm blood stallion, she was dressed in peasant clothing disguised as a male just as Rosalind was. It was determined that would be the safest way to travel.
With six armed soldiers from the contingent guarding Melesse and with Sully in the lead, Lady de Russe and Lady Rosalind thundered from Chateau Melesse, heading south into the fiery jaws of death and destruction.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
20 September 1356
Near the woods of Nouaillè
Ellowyn was on the edge of a meadow, looking at a massive castle in the distance, partially obscured by sheets of driving rain. In spite of the weather, smoke rose in ribbons over the damaged battlements.
Overhead, the sky was the color of pewter with fat, angry clouds, but upon earth, the field was flooded from the unforgiving rain that had been falling for days, perhaps weeks, mayhap even months. It was difficult to know. It seemed as if it had been raining forever.
A great battle had concluded the day before upon the field and there was a sea of bodies strewn about, like pieces of driftwood upon an endless muddy sea. Ellowyn’s heart was in her throat as she observed the scene, her breathing coming in panicked little gasps. Something was here for her, something she loved so desperately that she couldn’t think of anything else. Even though she couldn’t see Brandt, she knew he was here.
“Sweet Jesus,” Rosalind breathed at the sight. “Is this possible?”
Ellowyn couldn’t even speak. Her eyes were drinking in the horror that she had seen in her mind’s eye before. Everything was as it should be down to the color of the sky. The castle towards the northeast was heavily damaged, the top of the walls nearly sheared off from the projectiles flung at it. With the rain and the debris, it gave the illusion that it was melting.
Melting….
Ellowyn fought down the panic. She handed her reins over to the nearest soldier. It didn’t matter that she was exhausted from over a week of travel in horrible weather and still recovering from birthing a child. All that mattered was that she locate her husband. She knew he was out here, somewhere. She had to find him.
“One of you stay with the horses,” she ordered in a trembling voice. “The rest of you fan out and look for the duke’s men. Find them!”
The soldier holding Ellowyn’s horse was designated to stay behind. He collected everyone’s reins as the small group began to descend into the pit of Hell where men were dead or dying, and a sea of mud was slowly swallowing everything up. Rain, buckets of it, was falling and no matter how tightly Ellowyn pulled close the oiled cloak around her shoulders, she was still wet. She had been wet for days. But that did not deter her. Brandt was here and she had to find him.
She thought back to that terrible dream. She had found him lying beneath a tree. A tree. She began to look around frantically for something that seemed recognizable to her, but the landscape was slightly out of place from what her dream had conveyed. Rosalind was next to her, peering at the dead and dying to see if she recognized Brandt’s colors and, indeed, she came across several dead men bearing Brandt’s standard. There seemed to be quite a lot of them. Rosalind eventually turned to Ellowyn in confusion and horror.
“So many of my father’s men are lying here,” she hissed. “What does it all mean?”
Ellowyn was struggling to remain calm. God help her, she was. “It means that they were the bravest,” she said hoarsely. “It means that they were the first into battle and fought the hardest.”
She trudged off with Rosalind hanging on to her and together the two of them slugged through the mud as Ellowyn tried to get her bearings, struggling to separate the dream from reality, looking for her husband with such desperation that her stomach was in horrific knots. Twice they had to pause as she dry-heaved, riddled with nerves, but nothing would stop her. She had to find him.
“My lady!” Rosalind hissed, tugging at her and pointing off to the right. “Is that not one of the duke’s knights?”
Ellowyn was electrified with the possibility, straining to see through the rain at what Rosalind was indicating. She began to move in that direction even though she couldn’t clearly see, but soon enough a big man bearing the Duke of Exeter’s tunic appeared.
Ellowyn broke into a run, sliding over the slippery mud, getting stuck in it at times. It was like a nightmare, the ground as it tried to suck her down and prevent her from getting to her husband. As she drew closer to the knight, she could see who it was.
“Stefan!” she screamed. “Stefan!”
Le Bec had been tasked with assessing the duke’s dead. He was looking down at a group of infantry that had been brutally slaughtered when he heard his name. It was a woman’s voice and he thought that, quite possibly, he was going mad. But his head came up, seeking the sources of the shout. He could see two small peasants struggling towards him through the mud, but one peasant’s hood came free and he recognized Lady de Russe immediately. He went into a panic.
“My lady!” he called, struggling towards her just as she was struggling towards him. “Here, my lady, here!”
“Stefan!” Ellowyn called again.
They came together near a pile of dead French infantry. Stefan reached out to grab her.
“My lady!” he gasped. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“Stefan,” Ellowyn breathed, holding on to him for dear life. “Where is my husband?”
Stefan just looked at her, his pale and worn features tightening. “Oh… my lady,” he sighed. “Why have you come? Who was stupid enough to let you come to this place of death?”
Ellowyn was very aware that he had not answered her question. Struggling to keep her terror at a manageable level, she fixed him in the eye.
“I will ask you one more time,” she said, sounding stronger. “Where is my husband? You will tell me now and you will not delay.”
Stefan stared at her. Then, his eyes filled with tears. Both Ellowyn and Rosalind could see it.
“He is this way,” he said hoarsely. “I will take you.”
Ellowyn clung to him as he led her out of the mud, moving away from the castle and the horrific dead. In fact, both Ellowyn and Rosalind were trying not to look down at the many dead at their feet, but it was difficult considering how bad the footing was. They had to look down to make sure they didn’t step on anything. There were men without heads, without limbs, without faces. Ellowyn thought it was even worse than the dream.
“Tell me what has happened,” she begged softly.
Stefan had a good grip on her as he pulled her carefully with him. “We met the armies of Jean yesterday,” he said quietly. “I will omit most of the tactical details but in spite of being heavily outnumbered by the French, it was a decisive English victory. The Black Angel was once again victorious.”
Ellowyn listened carefully. “Why do I see so many de Russe men among the dead?”
Stefan sighed faintly. “Because we were charged with splitting the French forces in two,” he said. “We accomplished a great strategic victory that allowed the Prince of Wales to gain the upper hand. It was very, very costly, however. We lost Dylan in the fight and Magnus was badly injured.”
They had come to the end of the sea of mud and stood on more solid ground. Ellowyn gained
her footing as she digested Stefan’s words. As they stood on firmer soil, she turned to the exhausted knight.
“Dylan is dead?” she asked.
Stefan nodded, his lower lip trembling. “Aye.”
Ellowyn was deeply and wholly saddened. She closed her eyes at the thought of the brave, efficient knight now counted among the dead.
“Dear God,” she breathed. “Poor Dylan. Poor Annabeth! How badly is Magnus injured?”
“He lost an eye but the physic believes he will recover.”
“Thank God for small mercies,” she whispered. “And my husband?”
Stefan wouldn’t look her in the eye. He began to pull her with him. “I am sorry to say that he was badly injured as well.”
Ellowyn’s knees buckled and it took both Stefan and Rosalind to steady her. Her calm demeanor shattered, Ellowyn began to gasp, struggling not to scream or weep. She had to keep her head.
“Take me to him now,” she gasped. “Now, Stefan.”
He was already on the move, half-carrying her, half-dragging her. Even though Ellowyn had known what the answer would be, still, it was a shock to hear the truth. Her dream had forewarned her of this moment but she found she was wholly unprepared. He has been badly injured. The reality of it was too great.
There was a collection of hastily pitched tents off to the west and Stefan took her in that direction. With the wind blowing and the rain pouring, they moved swiftly through the elements, making way to the large Exeter tent that Ellowyn had become so familiar with during her travels with Brandt. She recognized it immediately.
Breaking free from Stefan, she ran as fast as her shaking legs would carry her and plunged into the de Russe tent. Once inside, she nearly crashed into one of several men standing inside the tent. Recoiling from the strange man, she looked around in a blind panic through the sea of unfamiliar faces until she came to one she recognized. It was Alex de Lara. As she rushed to him, she realized that he was kneeling on the floor next to a supine body. That body happened to be Brandt’s.
One look at her husband’s ashen face and Ellowyn collapsed beside him. She had no control any longer, only fear and panic.
“What has happened to my husband?” she demanded of anyone who would answer. “Tell me now!”
Gasps of shock went up throughout the room, including Alex. A woman was here! Alex grasped Ellowyn to keep her from pitching forward onto Brandt.
“Lady de Russe!” he exclaimed. “How did you get here?”
Ellowyn only had eyes for Brandt. His eyes were closed and he was stripped from the waist up. A massive bandage wound around his muscular torso as his surgeon, squatting on the other side of him, tugged at the wrappings. Ignoring Alex’s question, she put her arms around Brandt’s head with exquisite gentleness, feeling pain in her heart that was too deep for words. Her tears, warm and soft, pelted his pallid face. The raw ache, the horror, was indescribable.
“Brandt?” she whispered. “I am here, my love. I am here.”
“He is badly injured, my lady,” Alex said, his voice faint and hoarse. “He was fighting on horseback yesterday when we broke the French lines. You should have seen him, my lady. He was magnificent. He felled man after man with no signs of slowing. He was fighting near Gascon knights that were supposed to be allied with Edward but they turned on him. One knight gored him in the back while a second knight gored him in the gut. My brother saw this occur and went to save him. He managed to kill two of the assassins but he was killed by a third. As my brother fell away, Lord de Russe, severely injured, then killed my brother’s assassin before he himself fell to the ground. Magnus saw it all and told us.”
“Assassins?” she breathed, horrified.
“Aye, my lady. That was the only way anyone could get close enough to kill him, for he is too great to be felled by any ordinary enemy.”
Ellowyn closed her eyes at the information, never more appalled or proud. Tears rained on Brandt’s face as she knelt low, kissing him tenderly.
“He is a hero,” she murmured.
“He is a legend.”
Ellowyn couldn’t help it. The sobs came and she wept pitifully over Brandt as the man lay dying. Alex, too, gave up the battle against his tears and wept with her. He had lost his brother and his tears were for himself. He didn’t know how he was supposed to go on without his other self. It was tragic on so many levels.
Rosalind came up behind Ellowyn, laying gentle hands on her shoulders as she, too, wept. In fact, there wasn’t a dry eye in the tent, listening to Lady de Russe weep in sorrow over her dying husband. As Ellowyn lay there with her forehead against Brandt’s as if forcibly willing her life into him, she felt a timid hand on her arm. She happened to look up into a face she didn’t recognize.
“My lady,” the young man said hesitantly. “I am Edward. I want you to know how much I love your husband and how grateful I am to him. No finer warrior has walked this earth and I am greatly diminished without him.”
Through her grief, Ellowyn realized that she was looking at the Prince of Wales. Her head came up, her gaze drinking in the sight of the handsome young man with the fair hair. Finally, they were face-to-face. There was something Ellowyn had to say to him.
“Your Grace,” she greeted hoarsely. “I am greatly diminished without him as well, but not for the same reasons. He is my life, my love, and my heart. I hate you for doing this to him, do you hear? I will hate you forever.”
Edward wasn’t offended. At this moment, he hated himself also. So much death and waste because of him. Before he could reply, however, a weak, deep voice interrupted.
“Wynny,” Brandt mumbled. “You will apologize to Edward. It is not his fault.”
Hearing Brandt’s voice sent Ellowyn into loud and agonizing sobs. He held his head against hers, weeping, as his very weak hand came up to very gently touch her. It was all he could manage.
“Shhhh,” he soothed her, so faintly that she could barely hear him. “Do not despair. I will be well again. Have I come home?”
Ellowyn was a mess, wiping at her face and kissing his mouth with her salty lips. “You are not home,” she replied. “I have come to you. I will make you well again, I swear it.”
Brandt grunted, that disapproving grunt that he was so capable of making. “Where are we?”
“Still at Poitiers.”
“What fool would bring you here? Tell me now so that I may thrash him for allowing you to travel into the midst of Hell.”
She glanced at Edward, at Alex, before replying. “It does not matter who brought me here,” she told him, stroking his face tenderly. “All that matters is that you will get well again. We will return home to Guildford. Perhaps we will even travel to Erith to visit my mother and grandmother. We will live our life, do you hear me? We will live and have a dozen children to surround ourselves with.”
Brandt tried to open an eye to look at her but it was extremely difficult. “My son,” he murmured. “Where is my son?”
Ellowyn froze, looking at him with shock. She could hear Rosalind behind her, still weeping softly. Strangely, her courage seemed to make a return and she wiped at her face, thinking on his question. She already knew that she would not tell him the truth, at least not now. Perhaps if he thought he had something more to live for, it would help him. She had to give him all the ammunition she could to help him. Later, when the storm had passed, she would tell him the truth and pray he would forgive her.
“He is at Melesse,” she replied steadily, kissing his cheek with painful tenderness. “His name is Gaston. Brandt, you have always been a warrior but now you are in for the most difficult fight of your life. You must fight your way back from the brink of death so that your son may come to know you. You must live for your wife and child who adore you more than words can express. Please, Brandt, you must do this for us.”
Brandt sighed faintly, unconsciousness clutching at him. He was so very, very weak, but Ellowyn’s words rang about in his hazed mind.
“My son,”
he whispered. “Does he look… like me?”
Ellowyn smiled, tears pooling in her eyes. “He looks just like me.”
It was a tease. Even in his current state, Brandt knew that. But Ellowyn had been correct. The knowledge of his son, of his loving wife, gave him the will to fight. He couldn’t even think of the fact that she had made a dangerous journey to be with him. The fact that she would risk herself so was not surprising. She was a brave and astonishing woman, and he loved her more with every beat of his heart.
“I love you, my sweet husband,” Ellowyn whispered in his ear. “You are my sweet angel. Sleep, now. I will be here when you awaken.”
His big fingers found hers and he held her hand tightly as he drifted away. Thoughts of the day they met in London flashed through his mind, thinking on the first time he ever laid eyes on her. She had been so very beautiful and so very angry. The thought of it brought a smile to his lips. He wondered if their children would have the same hair-trigger temper. He hoped he would find out many times over.
The Black Angel had done his duty for king and country. Now, he had his own life to live.
EPILOGUE
“Die!” the child cried. “Die already! I have killed you!”
A big lad with dark hair and dark eyes pointed the stick in his hand imperiously at a similar looking child slightly younger than he was. But the younger boy shook his head stubbornly.
“You did not kill me,” he said. “I am the evil black knight and you cannot kill me. I am holding your children hostage! Fight me!”
The big lad with the stick frowned terribly. At six years of age, he was rather large for a boy of his years. He was also good with a sword, or really a stick, during the times his mother didn’t know he was using one. She didn’t allow them to strike at each other with sticks and she wouldn’t let them have real swords. It made it difficult to play battle games if they weren’t allowed to be armed.
So they had to plan their play times in secret, for example, during times when they were supposed to be napping. It was easy to slip past their fat nurse, who would fall into a heavy sleep in the afternoons. At this moment, his younger brother by one year was holding their little brother and sister hostage. In reality, the two and three year old children were sitting on top of a hay pile in the stables, but in their minds, it was a great castle. Now the great castle was under siege and the two older boys began smacking each other with their sticks. It was deadly battle.