Ellowyn had been stepped on twice. She was overwhelmed by the chaos and fighting over her head but she heard Brandt’s voice, like a beacon in the darkness luring her towards it, and she grabbed on to Brandt’s leg with her good arm, using him to help her get to her feet. Once, he took a big step back and knocked her down, but she continued to struggle to her feet. Left hand pressed to the wound on her right shoulder, she tucked in behind Brandt and prayed they would survive.
She wasn’t the only one praying. Brandt was, too. He was using every part of his body to fight off the onslaught but trying to protect a wounded woman had him in a bad position. Fists met with jaws and feet met with bellies and groins. He’d already killed two men with blades through their chests. When he managed to disable the last man involved against him, he whirled to Ellowyn and put a big arm around her, battling his way out of the fight. He couldn’t pick her up because if he did, he wouldn’t have a free hand to defend them both. She had to walk on her own.
Men were ripping at his supply wagons and beating down his soldiers but Brandt didn’t care about that. All he cared about was removing Ellowyn from the chaos, an unprotected woman in a sea of razor-sharp blades. As he headed towards a break in the trees, a man rushed at him and he had to push Ellowyn away so he would be free to fight.
Ellowyn stumbled, watching Brandt engage a man in heavy armor but, strangely, without a helm. Still, he seemed to be a fairly accomplished warrior because he was able to withstand Brandt’s powerful thrusts. The duke was impressive to watch, in both strength and skill, and like a God, his skills were innate and flawless, his instincts without question. Ellowyn began to see what all men saw in de Russe. She saw the Black Angel of legend. She saw Death.
When the battling pair came close and Ellowyn was forced to move away lest she become swept up in the maelstrom, she ended up tripping and falling to her knee. Her left hand, bracing against the fall, fell upon a heavy piece of wood. Ellowyn grasped it. As Brandt gored his opponent in the groin and the man fell on his back, Ellowyn picked up the wood and smashed it across his face several times, beating in his features until they were a bloody pulp. There was panic to her movements, and there was fear. But there was also unmitigated bravery.
Brandt was somewhat surprised to see her rather brutal move, but in hindsight, he should not have been. Ellowyn de Nerra had thus far proven herself a strong and fearless woman, and she never failed to impress him. He looked at her, and she looked at him, and for a moment, they just stared at each other. Something was in the air between them, something inviting and curious no less, very misplaced in the middle of a battle, but they could both feel it. At that moment something ignited, at least for Brandt. Sword in his left hand, he went to Ellowyn andvery carefully tossed her up on his broad and armored shoulder. Without a word, he carried her off to safety.
CHAPTER NINE
“Welsh,” Dylan saidgrimly. “Our scouts said that they raided Kenilworth Castle to the south earlier today. Then they saw us and apparently saw something worth taking.”
It was just after sunset as Brandt stood outside of his tent, a massive structure that bore the black and white of the Duke of Exeter. The shelter, like all of the others pitched up around the edge of a small and dense forest to the south of Coventry, had seen more than its share of bad weather and use during Brandt’s campaign with the Black Prince in France. Everyone knew Exeter’s colors, announcing the onslaught of Edward’s war machine.
“They were furious and they were determined,” Brandt finally mumbled, scratching at his forehead. “To attack Kenilworth is foolish enough, but to attack a fully functional army smacks of madness. What is our final casualty count?”
“Eighteen dead and twenty-seven wounded,” Dylan replied. “Most of the dead are de Nerra men. When the Welsh hit us, they slammed into their column first.”
Brandt grunted softly. “And they almost took the lady down with them,” he grumbled, shaking his head. “’Tis a miracle she was spared.”
“How is she?”
Brandt glanced around his senior corps, standing in a semi-circle before him. They were still in full armor, battle-hardened men that were perhaps more comfortable in a fight than most. Alex and Magnus were sporting various cuts about the face but,for the most part, everyone had come through unscathed. His gaze came to rest on Brennan.
“Thanks to St. Hèver, she survived,” he said, his gaze fixed on the blond young knight. “His quick thinking is all that stood between her and certain death. Brennan, you are to be commended. Your father shall know of your valor.”
Brennan, standing between Stefan and Magnus, bowed his head modestly but didn’t reply. He was a humble young man. Brandt’s gaze lingered on him a moment.
“She will recover,” he said, addressing the group as a whole. “I sent to St. Mary’s in Coventry for a physic and two nuns were dispatched. They are with her now and barring anything catastrophic, the lady assures me she will be well enough to travel in the morning.”
The knights glanced at each other, around the semi-circle, unspoken questions presented in the guise of eye contact. The past six days with the lady had seen her remarkably quiet and accommodating, not at all like the banshee of description they had first been introduced to.
De Russe, in fact, had shown her an inordinate amount of courtesy during the trip north and she had responded in kind. They had all seen it. Now, her injury had them all feeling rather guilty, as if they had collectively let her down somehow. Only men were supposed to be injured in battle, not innocent women.
“Camp is established, my lord, and posts set for the night,” Dylan spoke up. “Is there anything else we can do for the lady?”
“Nay,” de Russe shook his head. “She is well-tended. For now, I would suggest you all take some rest. You have earned it.”
With that, the group disbanded, wandering off towards tents and campfires and food. The de Lara twins stayed together, usually including St. Hèver because they had all grown up together, while le Bec and de Reyne formed their own little group. They were insomniacs, requiring very little sleep, sothey tended to wander the night while the others slept. Brandt watched his men disappear into the night before turning for his tent and pulling back the flap.
Ellowyn was in the center of it, near the flat copper disc that, raised off the dirt floor with stones, contained burning peat or wood. Tonight, it burned wood and the soldiers who pitched his tent had opened a roof flap for ventilation. It made the tent very warm but also very smoky. It was enough to sting Brandt’s eyes as he entered.
“My lady?” he said from the entry. “May I come in?”
Ellowyn was on her back on a mound of furs. She waved her good arm at him. “Please,” she said.
He entered, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. Besides the fire, there were also three or four fat tallow candles sending greasy smoke to the ceiling. The tent was fairly well lit as he came to within a few feet of where Ellowyn lay but he was prevented from moving closer by one of the nuns. The woman in heavy brown robes, coarse but clean, rose from her seat near Ellowyn and nearly threw a body block in front of him.
“Psh!” she hissed, putting up her hands. “No closer, my lord. Thou wilt keep distance.”
Brandt lifted his eyebrows at the little nun, with her bird-thin hands and heavy Germanic accent. He didn’t have much patience for pushy women and struggled not to physically shove her aside. She was denying him his wants and he didn’t like that one bit.
“I have come to speak with the lady, not ravage her,” he said somewhat wryly. “How is she?”
The nun still stood in front of him with her hands up. “She will heal,” the woman said. “The wound was not deep.”
