Lord of War: Black Angel (29 page)

Ellowyn wept when Brandt told her of Deston’s challenge.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The dream had come again, like shadows and mist, and she struggled to see through the fog until that scene of death and mud came clear again.

She was moving for the trees where the armored figure sat, slogging through mud that was as thick as honey on a frozen winter morning. It made moving almost impossible, but she couldn’t stop. Her heart was pounding in her ears, louder and louder.  Her breathing was coming in short gasps.  She had to get to the man beneath the trees, the man she loved with all her heart.

She glanced behind her to see if her grandfather was still there; he was gone, evaporated like a puff of smoke.  The castle in the distance was still burning deep, although somehow it had changed.  The walls were no longer black with soot but now red, like blood. The entire structure looked as if it was melting, a blobbish mass that was slowly collapsing.  Blood gushed from the lancet windows, now twisted in macabre fashion.

The sight panicked her.  She had to get away from the collapsing castle, terrified that she was going to be caught up in the collapse although she was a good distance away from it.  The castle was sinking into the mud, just like everything else, and she was frightened.  She clawed and struggled, trying to get away from it and towards the man in armor lying beneath the trees.

Somehow, she found her footing.  She was on firm ground again, straining with exertion as she made her way onto solid ground once more.  She could move more quickly now and she began to run as fast as her swollen body would allow.  Closer and closer she loomed, finally catching a glimpse of the man beneath the tree.  The first thing her gaze fell on was the man’s chest; there was an arrow embedded in it. 

She slowed. The man didn’t move. She inched towards him, terrified, feeling overwhelmed with sorrow.  The man’s breastplate had an insignia on it and she peered closer; there was a massive bird of prey on the metal.  It looked a good deal like the de Nerra falcon.

Ellowyn awoke with a scream.

***

It was an hour or so before dawn. Brandt knew this because the moon had gone down; he could see the black sky from the chamber window. The birds were starting to come alive, soaring across the still-dark sky in search of their morning meal. 

He didn’t think he had slept at all. He had spent the night with Ellowyn wrapped up in his arms, listening to her mutter in her sleep.  He was just drifting off when she suddenly screamed and pitched herself up into a seated position. He sat up alongside her, wrapping his arms around her to comfort her.

“Everything is all right,” he told her softly. “You are safe. All is well.”

Ellowyn began weeping hysterically. “My father,” she sobbed. “He is dead!”

Brandt had his mouth against the side of her head. “He is not dead,” he assured her softly. “It was a dream, Wynny.”

She was still half-asleep, burying her face in his chest. “He will be dead at dawn,” she wept.

Brandt sighed heavily, snuggling her into his warm embrace and laying back down on the bed.  “Go back to sleep,” he murmured.

Ellowyn was becoming more lucid, struggling to shake off the effects of the bad dream. “I cannot,” she sniffed. “Brandt, I cannot sleep knowing that my father will be dead in a few hours. Please let me go and speak with him; let me end this madness.”

Brandt caressed her as he stared off into the darkness. “It will not do any good,” he told her. “His honor is damaged. He must reclaim it at any cost.”

Ellowyn closed her eyes, hot tears finding their way down her temple and on to Brandt’s chest. “What do I do?” she whispered. “I do not want to see my father die.”

He pulled her closer. “Are you so sure he will? I could die, you know.  He could just as easily kill me.”

She pulled her head off his chest and looked up at him. “If you were to die, I would not want to live,” she told him seriously. “Although I love my father, I will survive his death. But I could not survive yours, Brandt.  There would be nothing left to live for.”

He gazed down at her, only the weak light from the glowing embers in the hearth illuminating her face.  He stroked her cheek, kissing the end of her nose.

“You have married a lord of war,” he murmured. “There is always the possibility that I will perish in battle. You
know
this, Wynny. If I die, it would make me very happy if you would live your life with the dignity and grace befitting the Duchess of Exeter.  You could do me no greater honor and every man would envy me my strong and virtuous wife. But to take your own life… that is shameful.  Would you shame me so?”

She shook her head, reaching up to run a gentle finger over his lips. “Nay,” she whispered. “But living without you would be a hollow, dreadful thing.”

“I understand completely,” he muttered, “because living without you would be the same.” He paused, thinking of Dylan’s prophetic word before continuing. “I must say something, Wynny.”

“What is it?”

He hesitated again, a moment rife with uncertainty. “This challenge between me and your father,” he ventured, forming his thoughts as he went. “I do not want you to hate me for killing your father. Just as I could not live with your death, I could not live with your hatred, either. I feel as if I am in a situation where I cannot win, and that grieves me deeply.”

Ellowyn gazed up at him, thinking seriously on what he was saying. It was evident that he meant what he said; she could read the emotion in his face.  She was careful, and thoughtful, with her reply.

“I told you when we were at Erith that I had ceased to view my father through the eyes of an adoring young girl because of the way he treated you when you asked for my hand,” she said softly. “That man was rash and rude and cruel. He would not even listen to me when I attempted to speak with him about it; he turned me away completely. Then, that same man rouses an army to come to Guildford to challenge you.  I have never known my father to be so reckless. Of course I do not wish his death, but he is the one who started all of this. He challenged you and I support your right to answer the challenge and defend yourself.”

“You say that now, but when it comes time to cut your father down, I will wonder if you will ever look at me the same way again.”

She sighed heavily and laid her head on his chest again, hearing his heartbeat strong and steady in her left ear.  Her thoughts lingered on her father, his rash behavior and uncharacteristic anger.  A thought suddenly occurred to her.

“I saw him turn on my brother the same way he turned on you,” she murmured, thinking back to that dark and turbulent time. “He was very angry and abusive to my brother, eventually disowning him.  My brother was devastated; all he wanted to do was serve God in his own way, but my father acted as if he had betrayed him.”

“As you have betrayed him by going against his wishes and marrying me,” Brandt said softly.

“He will disown me as well.”

“If he was intent to disown you, he would not be here. He wants you back.”

“I am not going back.”

“Then I must fight him for the privilege of keeping you.”

Ellowyn fell silent, listening to his beating heart, feeling it reassure her like nothing else ever had.  He was her husband, a part of her in more ways than she could express.  In the short time they had been together, she had never known such happiness or fulfillment. Brandt had become her entire world and everything about him caused her to live and breathe.  She could not lose that. As much as she loved her family, her father, Brandt had become what was most precious to her.  Still, the thought of losing her father, however rash and foolish he was, tore at her.

“When the time comes with my father,” she whispered. “I will not ask you not to kill him because he has challenged you for your life and, as I said, you have every right to defend yourself.  However… if you do not have to kill him, I would be grateful. But if you do… then I trust your judgment. I am sorry it had to come to this.”

“As am I.”

“Whatever happens, you must stay alive. Do you understand me?”

“Aye, madam.”

“Promise me?”

“With all that I am, I do.”

She lifted her mouth to his and they lost themselves in a powerful, passionate kiss. In little time, Brandt’s hands were roving her body, a form he was now so intimately familiar with, and when he finally thrust into her, it was with the sweetest of movements.  Ellowyn clung to him, his scent filling her nostrils, his body filling hers,  feeling pain and fear and longing such as she had never experienced. 

All she wanted was her husband and the ability to live a normal life with him, without the constant threat of her father hanging over their heads. If Brandt had to subdue the man to give them such peace… aye, even kill him… as much as it pained her to think such thoughts, so be it.  If she had to choose between her father and her husband, she was not ashamed to choose her husband.  The love she felt for him, the bond, ran too deep for words.

When the pink light of early morning began to fill the eastern sky and she found herself on the wall watching the mortal battle between her father and Brandt unfold below, the first glimpse of her father in weeks had her weeping at the sight.

***

The presence of Brandt’s army was heavy on the wall facing southwest where the gatehouse was located because outside of the gatehouse a great event was taking place.  The foot soldiers were crowded on the parapet and an entire squadron of archers was poised with weapons cocked to keep de Nerra’s army from charging.  Even though terms of the challenge had been laid out, Brandt wasn’t taking any chances. He wanted insurance that de Nerra wouldn’t try to trick him once the portcullis was lifted.  A fleet of obvious archers would keep anyone from getting too cocky.

Aware of the archers lining Guildford’s walls, de Nerra’s army was held back from the gatehouse by a line of sergeants, far enough so that they were out of the archers’ range but close enough so that they could see what was happening.  They had been told the previous night that there may not be a battle after all, as their liege had called out the Duke of Exeter to settle the matter between them.  A challenge was not an unusual spectacle, but in this case, it was sure to be very one-sided.

The Duke of Exeter appeared at dawn in the gatehouse, behind the great fanged portcullis.  He was dressed from head to toe for combat, the type of combat he had seen in France where men would fight brutally and with every part of their body to attain victory.  Loaded down with mail, plate army, and a variety of weapons, the duke was deadly. He was also far stronger, more skilled and more experienced than Deston de Nerra, who had not seen a battlefield in over twelve years.

The portcullis lifted, spilling de Russe and his five frightening-looking knights forth across the drawbridge and into the clearing that fanned out from gatehouse.   As the heavily armed knights stood back by the portcullis, Brandt came forth into the clearing and faced de Nerra’s enormous army.  He just stood there, waiting, while the tension mounted.  They all knew what he was waiting for.

De Nerra wasn’t long in showing himself.  A big man who had been muscular back in his prime, most of that muscle had gone to fat with age and inactivity.  It caused his armor not to fit very well and he struggled with it even as he made his way towards Brandt. He kept pulling at the mail.  Not a man watching the spectacle didn’t feel a sense of what was about to happen; the once-great knight was about to face a man who inarguably was the most formidable warrior on any battlefield, ever.  It was like watching a lamb to slaughter.  The drums of doom beat silently, growing louder with each footstep Deston took as he approached his executioner.

Brandt felt it, too. As Deston advanced, he knew the moment he drew is sword it would only be a matter of time before he was the victor, and probably a short time at that. Deston was not in any sort of battle condition.  He was out of practice and weak. What he was doing was pride and honor driven alone, which made him foolish and careless. 

“You may as well throw yourself on your own sword, de Nerra,” Brandt said as the man drew close. “What you are doing is suicide.”

Deston slowed as he came near. “Mayhap,” he said. “But is something I must do.”

“Is there no other way?”

“Unless you want to hand my daughter over, there is no other way.”

“I will not hand her over. She is my wife. Why is it so hard to accept that?”

Deston didn’t say anything.  After a moment, he unsheathed the broadsword that had once belonged to his father.  It was a wicked-looking thing, exquisitely crafted, and with the blood of thousands of men on it.  It was an instrument meant to kill, and far out-weighed the capabilities of its master.

“Lift your sword, de Russe,” he said after a moment. “Let us get on with it.”

Brandt looked at him.
Really
looked at him. He knew that Ellowyn was on the wall, watching.  He still had fear that she would grow to hate him for killing her father no matter what reassurance he had from her.  Emotions had a way of changing people’s minds, so he deduced at that moment he had two options – he could either draw out the fight and make it look like Deston had a chance before goring him, or he could refuse to fight at all and see how Deston reacted.  He couldn’t imagine the man would kill him in cold blood. Perhaps if he refused to fight, Deston might consider it a stroke of good fortune and back off.  It would be a way for the man to save his pride in a sense if the great Brandt de Russe refused to fight him.   For Ellowyn’s sake, he was willing to take the chance.

“I am not going to fight you,” he finally said.

Deston’s helmed head cocked. “What do you mean?”

“Just what I said; I am not going to fight you. Deston, this is foolish. You know I am going to kill you. I cannot and
will
not fight my wife’s father because of what it will do to her. Did you know she woke up weeping last night because she’d had a dream that you were dead?”