“Why did they say their mother wasn’t dead?” she finally brought up the subject she had wanted to discuss since the moment he had entered. “Did you ask them?”
Brandt didn’t look at her. He poured himself more wine. He didn’t want to lie to her, but he still believed it might not be the truth. He didn’t know his girls. He didn’t know if they were liars or not. He didn’t want to upset Ellowyn with something that could very well be a vindictive lie. Until something could be proven, it wasn’t worth mentioning.
“I did,” he finally said. “They were simply being spiteful. They hate me, which means they hate you as well.”
Ellowyn accepted his explanation. There was no reason not to. Brandt said a silent prayer that she did not ask more, instead focusing on her knitting. He sipped his wine, watching her from the corner of his eye.
“They will stay here tonight and be gone in the morning,” he told her. “I hope that does not distress you.”
Ellowyn shook her head, focused on her project. “It does not,” she said. Then, she paused somewhat wistfully. “It seems so sad to me that there are girls who have fathers they do not like and then girls who love fathers they no longer have. It is unfair, really.”
He looked at her, waiting to see which way her mood would swing. She was volatile these days, as easy to cry or anger as she was to laugh. She seemed to reflect on her father’s passing those months back without bursting into tears for which he was thankful. She still grew teary-eyed when she thought on Deston. Wine in hand, he made his way over to her and sat on the bed next to her.
“How is my son today?” he asked softly, changing the subject.
She forced herself from her bleak thoughts, smiling at him. “He is well,” she said, shifting her knitting so he could put a big hand on her belly. “He is very active.”
He returned her smile, waiting with anticipation to feel the activity she was describing but the baby was largely still. “I have been thinking on names for him.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “I thought we were to name him after my grandfather, Braxton.”
He shrugged. “It is a fine name,” he agreed, not wanting to offend her, “but I was thinking that I would very much like to name him after my father’s brother. He died some years ago but he was often much kinder to me than my father. I suppose he was more a father to me than my own, although that is not saying much.”
“You have never mentioned him.”
“I have not thought of him in years.”
“What was his name?”
“Gaston.”
“Gaston de Russe,” she repeated softly. “I like it very much.”
“Better than Braxton de Russe?”
She smiled. “There will be more children and more opportunities to name our children after every male member of my family.” She laughed when he did. “If you wish to name him Gaston, I am agreeable.”
He grasped her gently by the arms and pulled her to him for a sweet kiss. “Thank you,” he murmured. “That means a good deal to me.”
Ellowyn put her knitting aside to touch the man, running her hands over his face, watching him kiss her palm sweetly. Her mind was moving on from the birth of the child to the not so distant future. She was also thinking of her husband and his duties to the prince. He had been home a short while and they hadn’t much chance to discuss the way of things, including how long he planned to remain at Melesse.
“I have not yet had the opportunity to ask you how long you will remain with me this time,” she said softly. “Will you be leaving again soon?”
He cupped her face with a big hand, stroking her cheek with his thumb. “Too soon for my taste,” he told her. “I must return to Edward by the end of the month.”
Her face fell a little. “That is only eight days away,” she said. “Where must you go?”
“Poitiers,” he replied, still stroking her cheek. “I can only spend the next three or four days here before I must return. I brought my army back with me, you know. It takes time to move a body of that size to Poitiers.”
She fell silent a moment, feeling his hand on her face, relishing his touch. She had missed it so. “Magnus…,” she started to say, stumbling over the words. “Magnus said that Edward has moved north from Aquitaine, burning and pillaging. He said it is as bad as he has ever seen such things. Is this true?”
Brandt sighed faintly, thinking of the horrors he had caused over the past several weeks. It was his duty and he did not feel guilty for such things, but he couldn’t help but think of Deston’s accusations of hischevaucheewarfare. They called it scorched-earth tactics, and it was exactly that. It was devastation on a massive scale, only over the past few months, it had been even worse than that.
“War is never pleasant,” he said, unwilling to tell her the truth of it because it was too terrible for her to comprehend. “It has been very bad indeed.”
She gazed into his face, seeing the exhaustion in the dark depths. “To what end?” she asked. “What I mean is that wherewillit end? Will the prince simply keep raiding and burning without end or is there a purpose to all of this?”
He shrugged. “Of course there is a purpose,” he said. “The purpose is to reach Paris and capture the city, but the army was halted at Tours. We spent a good deal of time there trying to take the city to no avail. Now we have regrouped at Chavigny. The prince has sent a message to the King of France to discuss a resolution to all of this, which is why I must return to Poitiers. I must be part of those negotiations.”
