Lords of Darkness and Shadow (26 page)

Brandt remained cool. “It is strange how I was your ally and comrade when I returned your men to Erith,” he said,  “but the minute I spoke to you of marriage to Ellowyn, I became your enemy.  I am as good if not better than any man in England for your daughter, and your weak argument of war tactics and brutal rumors are without merit. You insulted me without basis.”

Deston was furious. “Basis or not, she is my daughter to give,” he said. “I denied you yet you still took her. It is thievery!”

“It is marriage.”

“I shall take this to Edward!”

Brandt couldn’t help it; he smirked. “Do as you must,” he said. “I am sure Edward will tell you to shut your mouth and go home, but you are welcome to bother the King of England with something as petty as a man marrying your daughter without permission.  Don’t you think the king has greater things to worry about?”

Deston started to snap back at him but held his tongue; he knew, as everyone else did, that Brandt was much favored by Edward. It wouldn’t do him any good to go to the king and try to charge de Russe with thievery.  In fact, it might upset the king and work against him.  So he cooled, eyeing the man through the iron grate, and thought of his next move. He was exhausted, in pain, and furious beyond reason.  Because of it, his thought processes weren’t as clear as they should have been.

“You had no right to take her,” he said, sounding despondent now. The anger was fading. “Why did you do it? Why did you show me such disrespect? You call yourself an ally but an ally would not have shown such disregard for my position.”

Brandt wouldn’t admit that the man had a point. “Deston, you had no basis for denying us,” he said, with some emotion. “Would you hear me tell you that I love your daughter and she loves me? Would you hear me tell you that she means everything to me? I would have told you all of this but you did not allow me to.  We are not speaking of possession in this case; we are speaking of passion and adoration.  Your daughter is the most important thing in the world to me and I could not leave Erith without her. I
would
not. If you must condemn me for being a man in love, then so be it.  But I would hope the fact that I care for your daughter outweighs any shame you might feel.”

Deston stared at him without saying a word.  The blue-green eyes just stared at Brandt to the point where it made him uncomfortable.   When he finally spoke, it was low and deliberate.

“If a man came to you to ask permission to marry your daughter and you denied him, what would you do if he married her against your wishes?” he asked.

Brandt knew the question might come and he was prepared. At least, he thought he was until visions of a beautiful blond daughter with Ellowyn’s features flashed before his eyes. He already knew he would love her more than anything on earth.  If a man absconded with her, he knew exactly what he would do – he would kill him.  After a moment, he cleared his throat softly and averted his gaze.

“I would do what you are doing,” he said quietly. “I would want her back.”

“Would you want to kill him?”

“Of course.”

“Why?”

“Because she would be my daughter. I would kill any man who laid a hand on her.”

Deston sighed faintly; he suddenly looked very old, and extraordinarily weary.  The anger had eased but the fight was still there.

“I want her back,” he finally said.

“You cannot have her. She is my wife.”

“Then I demand satisfaction.”

“Name it.”

“You and I will battle to the death at dawn.  Just you and me, de Russe; the armies will stand down.  This is between you and me, and no other.”

Brandt looked at the man as if he was mad. “Deston, I cannot fight you.”

“Why not?”

“Because I will win. I cannot kill you.”

“Then I will kill
you
.”

Brandt shut his mouth, eyeing the man a moment. “Are you truly serious about this?”

“I am.”

“Ellowyn will not be happy about this. She will be the one ultimately affected by your death.”

“It could be your death.”

“Would you hurt her so?”

“She is worth fighting for and, if necessary, dying for. She is my daughter. I demand satisfaction for what you have taken from me. If I win, she will come back to Erith and if you win, well…  all I ask is that you return me home. I would be buried next to my father.”

Brandt understood him completely, mostly because if Ellowyn had been his daughter, he would do the same thing. He began to feel sick in the pit of his stomach, knowing how Ellowyn would react to all of this. This was going to tear her apart, a battle between the two men she loved best in the world.  He couldn’t even think of himself at the moment; all he could think of was her.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked hoarsely.

Deston’s jaw was set, his mouth a firm line. But his lips were trembling. “Aye.”

Brandt’s jaw ticked. There was nothing more he could say; the man had a right to his own sense of satisfaction.  He was already devastated for Ellowyn at what would surely be the outcome.

“Very well,” he murmured. “If that is your wish. I will meet you at dawn.”

Without another word, Deston turned and faded off into the darkness, his soldiers closing in around him as they headed off towards their encampment in the distance.  Brandt just stood there, watching them go, until they faded from sight.  Then, he turned to the men surrounding him.

Dylan, Brennan, Magnus and Stefan were all looking at him with varied degrees of seriousness. They had heard the challenge. Already, they knew the outcome.  Dylan locked eyes with Brandt.

“If you kill him, she will hate you,” Dylan muttered what they were all thinking. “If he kills you, she returns to Erith. Either way, you lose your wife. This is a battle you cannot win.”

Brandt’s jaw ticked as he pondered the scenario.  “I do not have a choice,” he said. “The man has a right to seek justice.”

“So you agree to a duel against him? If you die, he wins and if he dies, he wins. How is this justice?”

Brandt didn’t have an answer.  All he knew was that he had to see Ellowyn. Pushing past his knights, he made his way across the darkened bailey, heading for the keep at the top of the motte.  He gazed up at the structure, seeing weak light emitting from the windows.  It was like looking into his heart and seeing the light there; Ellowyn was in the keep, and she was also in his heart. Wherever she was, there was light.  He raced up the steps to be with her, to tell her what had happened.

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.