“As do I.”
Brandt gave her a faint smile. Not wanting the conversation to deteriorate into something heady on the subject of Braxton de Nerra’s passing, he shifted the subject.
“Well,” he said, turning to Deston and Annalora, now seated on the opposite side of the table. “I suppose you would like a full report of my use of your men, my lord.”
Deston waved him off. “I wish to hear more of this battle with the Welsh that nearly killed my daughter.”
Brandt thought back to the fight and the fact that Ellowyn had indeed been in a good deal of peril. But he didn’t want to frighten the family over something that was over with, so he did his best to be truthful yet tactful.
“There is not much more to tell,” he replied. “I told you that the Welsh rebels had attacked Kenilworth earlier that day and set their sights on us as well. They plowed through the middle of the column first, blindsiding us, and that was where Ellowyn was riding. She took an arrow to the shoulder but she was taken to safety immediately where she was tended first by my knights and then by the nuns from Coventry. She recovered quickly and is in fine shape, as you have seen.”
As Deston nodded his head, Annalora and Gray were in various states of horror. They had not heard of Ellowyn’s injury and both of them bolted up from the table.
“My sweetling!” Annalora was already rushing for the stairs. “I must see to her!”
Brandt felt rather bad that he had startled them, but Deston yelled after the pair. “She is well,” he told his wife and mother. “You saw for yourself– she is fine!”
Annalora muttered something that sounded suspiciously like an insult to her husband’s sense of compassion as she and Gray disappeared up the stairs. Brandt turned to Deston somewhat sheepishly.
“I did not mean to upset them,” he said. “I was not aware that they did not know of our Welsh encounter.”
Deston waved a careless hand. “They are always looking for something to work themselves into a froth,” he said as servants brought forth pitchers of wine and trays of cheese and bread. “You know women. They like to be upset and then blame us for causing it.”
For some reason, Brandt thought back to the moment he and Ellowyn had first met. She had been furious and had blamed him. Although there was blame on both sides, he could see Deston’s point.
“I will admit,” he said as he reached for a cup of wine, “that I upset your daughter when we first met. She did not announce herself right away and… well, I was not kind in my reaction.”
Deston collected his wine cup, a twinkle in his eye as he looked at Brandt. “Did you chase her away?”
“Something like that.”
He snorted as he drank. “Did she return with a stick and try to beat you? She is fiery like that.”
Brandt gave him a half grin. “Not quite,” he said. “She is quite bold, however. She did not hesitate to let me know what she thought of me.”
Deston laughed. “You do not know the half of it,” he said, reaching for the cheese and bread. “She possesses bravery and a sense of vengeance that exceeds that of most men I know. Had she been born a man, she would have made a magnificent knight. Sometimes I wish… well, it does not matter what I wish. I still have Ellowyn and for that, I am grateful.”
Brandt watched the man intently. “What about your son?” he asked. “Surely whatever profession he has chosen does not make him any less your son.”
Deston cocked an eyebrow at him. “That is what my father said,” he replied, drinking his wine in thought. “Fenton… he could have been the greatest knight we have seen yet. Do you know him?”
Brandt nodded. “I am acquainted with him,” he replied. “When your father and I served together in France for a time, he spoke of him. He was very proud of Fenton.”
Deston regarded his wine, the pensive look of a disappointed father evident. “We all were until he joined that damnable cloister,” he said. “He said he felt as if his true calling was to God and not the knighthood. He broke my heart on that day.”
Brandt could see the sadness, the frustration, in the man. He could see that it was a sensitive subject.
“Well,” he said quietly as he reached for his own bread and cheese, “the knighthood is not for every man. Sometimes I wish it was not for me, but alas, I am too entrenched in the very fabric of the profession to ever retire from it. I will die on the battlefield and not warm and safe in my bed as most men.”
Deston watched him as he took a healthy bite of the tart, white cheese. “When do you return to France?”
Brandt chewed and swallowed the bite in his mouth. “We spent the last year raiding the Aquitaine,” he said. “Edward may be young, and fairly hot–headed, but he is a brilliant leader. He knows what it takes to lead men to victory. We moved through the Aquitaine raiding and weakening strategic towns and those we did not raid, we set about building alliances. France is still quite divided with many houses laying claim to the throne. Edward intends to gain a foothold there.”
Deston was listening carefully. “Edward? Or you?” When Brandt shook his head, Deston put up a hand to silence him. “Brandt, we all know it is you who is the military intelligence behind Edward. It isyou. You have planned the systematic weakening of the Aquitaine and you are the military leader planning the Black Prince’s movements. Edward may be a great leader of men, but you are the man behind the leader. Make no mistake. England understands that and so do those in France. When all of this is over, you will be an extremely powerful man in both countries.”
Brandt didn’t have much to say to that. He returned to his bread and cheese, ripping off great hunks of bread and washing them down with the rich red wine. Deston could see the man was silent on the matter of his greatness, as most great men were. He was not humble, but he knew the truth. He saw no need to confirm it. Deston poured himself more wine.
“It is well known that you are a master ofchevauchèe,” he continued quietly. “Quite an effective tactic– burn, pillage, and loot, and then move on to the next town. I understand that Edward has used your tactics for the past year quite heavily. That is what has weakened the Aquitaine most of all and I am sure that is why the French call youl’ange noir. Even they know who is truly the master behind the prince– Exeter, the Angel of Death.”
