“Walking through life with you, madam, has been a very gracious thing,” he told her. “I love you more than words can express.”
“And I love you,” Ellowyn whispered, struggling against the tears. “I will see you soon.”
He nodded slowly, his dark eyes riveted to her. “Aye, you will.”
“Be safe, my love.”
There was nothing more to say. He kissed her one last time and climbed out of bed. His heart was so heavy he didn’t think he could stand it. He knew that if he turned to look at her one last time, all would be lost. He wouldn’t leave at all. So he squared his shoulders and quit the room without a hind glance. There was no other way he could accomplish it. By the time he hit the stairwell, he was weeping silent tears.
Back in the bedchamber, the one that smelled of sage and peppermint to ward off the bad spirits, Ellowyn was weeping sorrowful tears of her own. Dear God, she missed him already.
But Brandt had a job to do, one he had no choice but to see through. He had wiped his face and cleaned up by the time he reached the bailey where the army was waiting. It smelled strongly of smoke, men, and animals as he set foot in the dusty bailey and as he glanced overhead, he could see dark and angry storm clouds well off to the south. It must have been the terrible weather the scouts had described. As he made his way towards his big black charger, he noticed a painted white wagon off to his left.
Rosalind and Margarethe were standing next to the wagon. Brandt noticed them, hesitated his forward momentum, and then headed over in their direction. The girls seemed to grow increasingly nervous as he approached.
“Are you leaving?” he asked, indicating the wagon. “It will grow dark soon. Mayhap you should remain here until I return and we can speak more of your return to England at that time.”
The young women looked at each other, shocked, before returning their attention to him.
“You… you would have us return to England?” Rosalind was genuinely shocked. “We thought that mayhap… well, you certainly have a good deal on your mind. We thought we should return to Gael and perhaps speak to you again about England another day.”
Brandt could see they were nervous, as they seemed to be around him. He was growing soft in his old age, feeling more and more pity for them. He was also reconsidering his harsh stance against them. They had made the effort to come see him, after all. As Rosalind put it, perhaps it was time for a rapport between them. He was coming to hope so.
“Remain here until I return,” he said again. “At some point I plan to return to England and mayhap you will go with me. Moreover, I would have you here where you will be better protected than at Gael. Is that acceptable?”
The young women nodded readily. As Margarethe turned back to the wagon, Rosalind took a few timid steps towards Brandt.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said genuinely. “We are very appreciative of your offer.”
Brandt nodded his head, not having much more to say. As he turned away, Rosalind caught his attention one last time.
“My lord,” she called. When he turned to look at her, she grew nervous again. “I… I wanted to wish you luck in battle.”
He looked at her, seeing a well-spoken young woman who, much like him, had been without parents for most of her life. Her father had been absent and her mother had run off. Now, she was trying to make an effort to know him, having the opportunity that he himself never had with his own parents. Something about her effort warmed him. He wasn’t sure if he trusted her completely, but he was willing to give it a try. Ellowyn had given him the confidence to open himself up emotionally. He was much more sure of himself than he had ever been.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “Should you need anything, please let Mme. Simpelace know. She will provide for you.”
“And your lady wife, my lord?” Rosalind asked. “May… may we come to know her?”
He cracked a smile. “I think she would like that.”
Rosalind smiled timidly in return and gave him a little wave to bid him farewell. “Thank you, my lord.”
“You may call me Father if you wish. I am yours, after all.”
With that, he turned away and headed to the area where the bulk of his army was staging.
He had a battle to fight.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Three weeks later
12 September 1356
Ellowyn sat motionless in a chair, gazing out of the long lancet window over the rainy Brittany landscape. A cold breeze was blowing and she could smell the mist. Although the bedchamber was warm and fragrant with new rushes, the cold breeze made her shiver. She thought she could smell death upon it.
The door to the chamber opened quietly and Annabeth entered. She carried a tray of food with her, laden with all manner of tempting offerings. Her mistress hadn’t truly eaten in over a week so she wanted to entice her. Setting the tray on a small table against the wall, she approached Ellowyn.
“My lady?” she said timidly. “I have brought you something to eat.”
Clad in a dark blue, wool surcoat with a heavy, knitted sweater over it that flowed all the way to the floor, Ellowyn glanced over her shoulder at Annabeth. Her face was pale, her lips without color, and her red hair knotted at the nape of her neck.
“I am not hungry,” she said quietly. “Please take it away.”
Annabeth didn’t turn away as she should have. “My lady, please,” she begged softly. “You have hardly eaten in days. You must keep up your strength.”
Ellowyn was still staring out the window, her eyes glassy and distant. “For what?” she asked, her tone dull. “For the son who will not suckle my breast? For the child now buried in the earth of Melesse’s chapel? There is no reason to keep up my strength. That reason died ten days ago, birthed blue and with the cord strangling him. Nay, Annabeth… there is no reason to keep up my strength.”
Annabeth sighed heavily. They had been through this subject daily, sometimes hourly. The stillbirth of the duke’s son nearly a week after the duke’s departure had done something to Ellowyn. She was dead inside, too. She hadn’t even had the strength or the will or the nerve to send her husband word of the child. Reports had come back from Poitiers telling tale of preparations for a massive battle because negotiations between the French and the English had failed. Ellowyn didn’t want to distract Brandt in the fight of his life. Or perhaps he was already dead. Instead, she spent every day staring out of the window as if waiting for the man to return to her. Her mind was wandering far, far away and sometimes those around her wondered if she had lost control completely. There was no soul left in her with Brandt’s departure and the death of their child.
“It was God’s Will, my lady,” Annabeth said softly. “We do not know why these things happen, only that they do.”
“Do not speak to me of God,” Ellowyn snapped softly. “You may speak to me of anything else, but not of God. I will not hear of him within these walls. God has failed me.”
Annabeth shushed her. “Dare you speak that way with your husband fighting a vicious battle? Say a prayer of forgiveness, quickly, that God will not abandon him because of your blasphemy!”
Ellowyn merely shook her head. “Say it for me, my pious friend,” she murmured. “God and I are not on speaking terms right now.”
As Annabeth muttered a prayer for Ellowyn and Brandt, Bridget appeared in the doorway. She looked at Annabeth, who merely shook her head sadly. Bridget summoned a deep breath for courage, understanding the silent implication that the mood of the room was bleak.
“My lady?” she said, entering the room. “Lady Rosalind has asked me if she may come to visit you. Would you receive visitors today?”
Ellowyn sighed. Rosalind and Margarethe had been allowed to remain at Melesse while Brandt was away and they had come to visit her before the birth of the child. Ellowyn had actually enjoyed her time spent with Rosalind, who seemed like she genuinely wanted to be friendly. Margarethe, however, was still reserved and uncertain. Ellowyn had
enjoyed the brief conversations she and Rosalind had before the event of the birth, but since then, she hadn’t felt much like conversing. She still didn’t.
“Please tell Lady Rosalind that I am still not well today,” she said sadly. “Mayhap tomorrow. We shall see how I feel.”
Bridget nodded and prepared to leave the room when Mme. Simpelace was in the doorway, her severe face taut. Her gaze found Ellowyn.
“Madam,” she addressed her breathlessly. “A messenger has arrived from Chavigny. He comes from your husband.”
Ellowyn felt a bolt of fear and excitement rush through her. It was enough to set her hands to shaking as she moved away from the window.
“Where is he?” she demanded.
“In your solar, madam,” the chatelaine told her. “He has come with news for you!”
Ellowyn was moving faster than she had in months. Even though she had birthed a child only ten days before, the truth was that the birth had been rather fast and easy, and she wasn’t particularly sore. She felt rather good.
But all thoughts of births and deaths and battles were purged from her mind as she scooted down the spiral stairs with Annabeth, Bridget, and Mme. Simpelace in tow. She could hear Bridget hissing insults at the old woman and being called a rodent in return. It was almost enough to make her smile, but not quite.
It was warm on the lower living area as she gathered her heavy skirt and sweater, and charged into her solar. It was even warmer in that room, as Rosalind and Margarethe had been using it for their sitting room with Ellowyn holed up in her chamber. The young women were there even now, seated before the blazing hearth, as Ellowyn and her entourage rushed in. The messenger, an exhausted cavalry soldier bearing Brandt’s crest, was seated near the hearth with a hunk of bread in his hand. He bolted to his feet when Lady de Russe swept in.
“My lady,” he said with his mouth full, startled by her swift appearance. “I come with a message from your husband.”
“Well?” Ellowyn demanded. “What is it?”
The young soldier swallowed the food in his mouth before continuing, nearly choking on it as he forced it down.
“My lord de Russe says to tell you that he is hopeful that you and the child are of excellent health and that he prays for you by the hour,” he began. “On the eve of my departure, there was a terrible battle brewing, my lady. On the fields outside of Poitiers, King Jean of France, Dauphin Charles, and Prince Phillip were aligning their armies against the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Exeter. Thousands and thousands of men, my lady. The duke wanted me to tell you that if he does not return before Christmas, then you must take the remainder of the army he has stationed here at Melesse for your protection and return to England. He begs that you do this for your own safety.”
Ellowyn stared at the young messenger, stunned. Her legs suddenly felt weak and she grasped at the nearest chair, lowering herself onto it. Her mind was so much mush at the moment, making it difficult to grasp a single thought.
“Leave?” she repeated, shocked and incredulous. “Leave without him?”
“Aye, my lady.”
Ellowyn stared at the messenger before tearing her gaze away, her mind whirling with what she had been told. The more she thought on it, the more despondent she grew.
“He speaks as if…,” she began, but quickly recovered. She looked at the messenger. “You said there were thousands of men. How big is the king’s army?”
“Several thousand, my lady,” he replied quietly.
“And the Prince of Wales’ army?”
“Not as many.”
Ellowyn thought on that a moment, sickening realization flooding her. “Dear God,” she whispered, pressing a hand to her forehead in a weary and disillusioned gesture. “They are outnumbered.”
Standing beside her, Annabeth and Bridget could only think of their respective loves, Dylan and Brennan. Just like their mistress, they were fighting off a horrid sense of dread. As Ellowyn hung her head in sorrow, Annabeth addressed the messenger.
“Had the battle started when you left?” she asked. “How long ago was that?”
The messenger looked to the lovely brunette. “The battle had not yet started but the lines were drawn, my lady,” he replied. “I left six days ago. I am sure much has happened since then.”
Ellowyn couldn’t shake the anxiety. The more she tried, the more it clung to her. All she could think about was her husband and his fate. That dream! That horrible, horrible dream came crashing down on her and her apprehension exploded. She had no idea why she should suddenly think of that dream she hadn’t had in weeks, but it loomed heavy in her mind nonetheless. She couldn’t stop herself.
“Tell me,” she said, her voice quivering. “Is the weather poor?”
The messenger nodded. “Raining, my lady, the likes of which I have never seen. It has turned everything into a sea of mud.”
Mud! As in her dream, everything had turned to mud, mud so deep and thick that it was nearly impossible to penetrate.
“And… and the field?” she forced herself to ask. “Where is the field where they are fighting?”
The messenger shrugged. “All around Poitiers and Chavigny,” he said. “The lines move as one side overwhelms another.”
“Is there a castle nearby?”
The messenger thought a moment. “Jaudres Castle is near the lines, my lady,” he said. “It is a big beast of a castle, impenetrable. There was already fighting around it when I left.”
A castle. Mud. Rain. It was her dream come to life. Something inside was screaming at her, telling her that she had to go there. Already, she was feeling the same panic and anxiety that she felt whenever she had the dream, telling her that she had to find Brandt. It was an overwhelming sensation, something she could not control. She’d had the dream for months, a premonition of things to come, and she would not ignore it. She had to go to him, like a moth to a flame, the lure was just too great. She couldn’t sit back and ignore the dream, the messages she had been given. She had to go!
“I am going to Poitiers,” she said, bolting to her feet. As those around her gasped in shock and horror, she pointed to the messenger. “What is your name?”
The messenger was taken aback. “Sully, my lady.”
“You will take me there, Sully,” she commanded. Already, she was on the move. “Annabeth, Bridget, you will remain here. I must go to my husband.”
They were all following her out of the room, protests seeping from their lips. “My lady!” Annabeth gasped. “You cannot go! You are putting yourself in terrible danger!”
Ellowyn turned to her. “I understand,” she said patiently, “but Brandt is in danger. Mayhap he is even dying. Please do not ask me how I know this, but I do. I swear that I do. You must let me go to him.”
Annabeth’s mouth popped open in horror and she turned to Bridget for support. Bridget was deeply concerned.
“My lady, please,” she begged. “It is pure madness to want to go to Poitiers now. There is death and battle everywhere. You will be killed!”
Ellowyn shook her head. “I will not be killed,” she assured her. “Please understand me. I must go to my husband and I will risk my life to do it. If anyone gets in my way, I will run them down and if anyone tries to stop me, I will kill them. I must go to my husband now.”
Annabeth was in tears at this point. They were all following Ellowyn out into the entry hall, voices of reason pleading with a very determined lady. It was chaotic as the servants took up the call and shouts of the duke’s death began to fly. No one understood why Lady de Russe was so agitated but there could only be one explanation.
There was one voice, however, that was not pleading with Ellowyn to reconsider. Rosalind had followed her out into the entry along with the group, listening to the protests.
“My lady,” she said. “I know that area well. My mother had relatives near Chavigny and we would travel there often. I will go with you and help you find my father.”
Above the objections, E
llowyn gazed into Rosalind’s face, seeing that she was indeed sincere. She was also showing her father’s strength, something that impressed Ellowyn. She knew she should deny her but it was difficult.
“I appreciate your offer, but Sully will escort me,” she said. “You cannot put yourself in such danger.”
Rosalind cocked her head and Ellowyn could see Brandt in that gesture. “I know the area better than he does,” she said. “If you are looking for my father, I will be able to help you find him better than a messenger. I know every possible place to look, and I will know where to hide. You must take me.”
Ellowyn gazed steadily at the young woman. There was truth in what she said, but still, she shook her head.
“I cannot be responsible for your life,” she said softly. “I can only be responsible for mine.”
“You will not be responsible for me,” Rosalind insisted. “I alone am responsible for my life and for my actions, and everyone in this room is witness. You will not be blamed if something happens to me because I am going with or without your permission.”
Margarethe tried to talk to her sister but Rosalind gently pushed her away. Her focus was on Ellowyn as the woman locked gazes with her. It was evident that Ellowyn was very reluctant but she did not want to argue with Rosalind. Much like Brandt, the woman was evidently resolute and stubborn. They could all see that trait. Finally, Ellowyn nodded her head.
“Very well,” she said. “But we travel light and fast. In this weather, there is no telling how long it will take us to get there. Days if not weeks.”
Rosalind nodded firmly. “I will be ready.”
As Ellowyn continued to look at the young woman, she began to feel a bond with her, a common goal. Moreover, the woman was of Brandt’s blood. Ellowyn would love anything born from Brandt. Rosalind was brave and determined much as her father was.
“Foolishness!” Mme. Simpelace cried. “Stupidity! You must not go!”
Masters of Medieval Romance: Series Starters Volume 1 Page 106
