Lords of Darkness and Shadow (9 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

The rain was back.

She was in the field of bodies again, avoiding the pleading hands of the dying, staring at her left hand and the gold and garnet ring upon it. She was married and somehow, somewhere in this mess, was her husband. That must be why she had come; to find him. She wasn’t sure how she knew, only that she did. In this sea of death and destruction, littered with the dead like flotsam upon the sea, she had to find him. She would do it or die trying.

She was knee deep in unfathomable mud, now a dark brick red in color because of the blood mixed into it. Rivers of it coagulating, creating dark veins in the mud. She struggled to walk through it, panic in her throat.

She looked up at the sky, that great steel-colored mess, thankful for the lack of sun; it would dry up the mud and would trap the dead within it. She had to find her husband before that happened, heightening her sense of urgency.  God, please help me, she prayed. Please help me find my love.

My love, she thought. Aye, he is my love, my life.  As she moved towards a grove of stripped trees, the mud became shallower and less binding, and she struggled to get up onto firmer ground. But she slipped and fell to her knees, bracing herself with one arm to keep from falling completely while the other arm went around her belly.  A big, swollen belly.

Shocked, she looked at her midsection to realize she was pregnant.

***

“I am with child!”

Ellowyn started herself awake with those words, disoriented for a moment until she realized she was on the back of her mare, riding in the midst of de Russe’s column of battle hardened warriors. She glanced around, sheepishly, realizing she had fallen asleep and praying no one had seen her.

“My lady?”

She heard the soft, deep voice over her left shoulder and she closed her eyes briefly, tightly, for a moment. She just knew she’d been caught. Slowly, she turned.

“Aye?” she asked.

It was the very young and very blond knight.  The lad was absolutely enormous, with a fair face, white eyelashes and brows, and intense blue-green eyes. They almost looked too bright within his pale face as he focused on her with polite concern.

“Did you say something, my lady?” he asked.

She shook her head and faced forward. “Nay,” she said, demurred. “Nothing of import. Thank you for your concern.”

“The Duke has ordered us to stop at the next town,” he said. “We will make camp there for the night.”

Ellowyn merely nodded.  There wasn’t much excitement in the fact that they were stopping for the night.  It was the sixth day of their journey to Erith, which would take another ten days at the very least.  De Russe was driving a fairly swift but steady pace, something that thoroughly exhausted Ellowyn but she wouldn’t let on.  She had gone to great length to convince the man that she was strong and hearty, even with her sniffles and coughing, but that really wasn’t the case. She was putting on a big show when the truth was that she was sick, weary, and verging on tears nearly every second of the day. Traveling with all of these strange men unnerved her and she didn’t feel well, a bad combination.  De Russe, as kind as he had been, was her only solace.

Fortunately, it was no longer raining and hadn’t been for two days as they had made their way north. Still, it was cold and the winds from the west had been brisk. From what she had heard that morning, if all went well enough, they would be at Coventry by evening’s fall. As the army plodded north through a series of small hills, she gazed off towards the west, towards Wales, and could see flat and green lands below with a very small and dark ridge on the horizon. It was a very faint crest, but she could see it because of the angle of the sunset and the clearness of the air.  She pointed.

“Knight,” she said, addressing the young knight with the pale hair. “What is that over there?”

The knight turned his helmed head in the direction she was indicating. He flipped up his visor so he could see more clearly. “Wales, my lady,” he replied. “The Welsh mountains that define the Marches.”

She watched them a moment. “They look rather peaceful now.”

The knight cocked an eyebrow. “They look dark and jagged to me, like teeth preparing to bite. They are a testament to the darkness in the soul of every Welshman and their desire to tear the English apart like wolves to the feast.”

Ellowyn glanced back at the man, studying him a moment. “You are a poet.”

He looked at her, fighting off a grin. “Alas, I am not,” he replied. “Merely an observation.”

“What is your name?”

“Sir Brennan St. Hèver, my lady.”

“Do you know much about the Welsh?”

He nodded. “I grew up at Kirk Castle,” he replied. “It is very close to the Welsh border.  My father is the Earl of Wrexham and we have seen much of what the Welsh can do.”

She cocked her head. “Yet you serve de Russe.  His seat is in Exeter, far from the Marches.”

Brennan nodded. “That was my father’s decision,” he replied. “He and the duke have known each other for years. It was his wish that I serve the duke for a time before returning to assume my station.”

“How old are you?”

“I have seen twenty years, my lady.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “And you are already a knight?”

“Fully sworn, my lady.”

“Then you are exceptionally talented to be knighted so young.”

He shrugged modestly, not having an answer for her. Sensing their conversation was at an end, Ellowyn’s gaze moved back to the horizon, how illuminated with the fading sunset. There were clusters of small forests around them the closer they drew to Coventry and the hilly road leveled out. She could no longer see the sunset or the western horizon.

Bored,  weary, she began picking at her cloak, thinking on what they would have for sup that night. She was hoping for beef or fowl as she was growing weary of mutton. It always tasted old, to her at least.  But those were her last coherent thoughts before something nicked her chin, slammed into her right shoulder, and sent her hurling to the ground.

Horses were screaming around her as men began shouting.  Everyone was in a panic.  Conscious but stunned, Ellowyn’s only thought was to pull herself out of the mud but there was so much pain in her right shoulder that she was having difficulty sitting up.  An enormous armored body was suddenly beside her, scooping her up.  With her clutched against him, he ran towards a tightly packed grove of trees. As they bounced along, she could see the forest looming as a dark and protective embrace.

There was more shouting going on around her followed by the distinct sounds of fighting. They entered the grove of trees and knight surrendered his burden to a few waiting soldiers, waiting to help, and Ellowyn was lowered to the ground by several pairs of hands. As they settled her on the ground, the knight knelt beside her and flipped up his visor. She could see it was St. Hèver .

His young face was flushed but he was in control.  Their eyes met and he nodded his head at her, firmly, in a move that was both encouraging and business-like.

“So sorry, my lady,” he said, and she could feel more hands holding her still. “I must remove this.”

She had no idea what he was talking about until he yanked something from her right shoulder, an evil projectile that had embedded itself near the joint. Now the shoulder pain was starting to make sense. It had been painful going in but it was excruciating coming out and she screamed as he removed it and tossed it aside, accepting a wad of boiled linen from someone and pressing it hard against the wound to stop the bleeding. But Ellowyn wanted no part of his battlefield medicine; she cried and squirmed, eventually kicked and beat at his hands as they held that damnable wad over her wounded shoulder.  She didn’t want anything to do with it.  She wanted out.

“Bren!” Someone shouted from the direction of the road. “Leave her! You are needed, man!”

He held pressure on the wound a moment longer before passing the duty to one of the soldiers.  The man took the position occupied by St. Hèver , pressing firmly, as the knight ran off towards the fight.

At that point, Ellowyn was nearly hysterical. She was injured, bleeding, exhausted and ill, and truly wanted out. She began fighting the soldiers so badly that they eventually had to let her go or she would have probably hurt herself more. But they didn’t move far enough away from her, fast enough, so she screamed and kicked at them until they did. 

The majority of the fighting was out on the road but there were dozens of men in the shelter of the trees as they had moved the wagons off of the road.  There were many men protecting what they were carrying while the bulk of the army did the fighting.  Trembling, on her knees, her right shoulder and arm virtually useless, Ellowyn watched the madness go on.

“What… what has happened?” she demanded, her voice cracking.

“We were attacked,” said one of the soldiers left to tend her. “M’lady, we need to wrap your shoulder. I promise….”

“Nay!” she snapped, struggling to her feet.  Her right shoulder felt as if it weighed more than her entire body, dragging her down. “I am getting out of here. I am leaving.”

The soldiers followed her for a few feet as she backed away from them, eventually stumbling and falling onto her bum.  Then she turned around and, on her hands and knees, tried to crawl away but her right arm wouldn’t support any weight so she ended up tumbling. A charger suddenly roared up and kicked dirt and rocks on her. As she tried to brush off the cloak that was covered with mud and blood, someone grasped her by the arms.

“My lady?” It was Brandt. St. Hèver had shouted to him of the lady’s wound and even though there was a fairly nasty fight going on around him, all he could seem to think of was her.  He’d fought his way through a passel of determined Welshmen to get this far. Now all he could see was blood and her pale face. “Wynny, what happened? What are you doing?”

Ellowyn gazed up at him and, seeing his handsome and familiar face, burst into frightened tears.  Deeply concerned, Brandt moved to pick her up but their safe haven of trees was suddenly overrun by the enemy, and Brandt stood up, fending off an onslaught of angry men with blades. There were at least three of them intent on harming him as he practically stood on top of Ellowyn in order to protect her, his heavy broadsword wreaking havoc against the enemy.  But he knew, very quickly, that they were in a bad way.

He couldn’t maneuver with her on the ground at his feet and he very badly needed to.  He’d managed to kill one man but there were two more, and perhaps even more.  He wasn’t quite sure because it seemed as if they were everywhere. Slugging the nearest enemy soldier in the face and sending the man to the ground, he ducked low when someone slashed a sword over his head and tried to decapitate him.  He turned to Ellowyn.

“Wynny!” he snapped. “Get up! I need you to get
up
!”

Ellowyn had been stepped on twice. She was overwhelmed by the chaos and fighting over her head but she heard Brandt’s voice, like a beacon in the darkness luring her towards it, and she grabbed on to Brandt’s leg with her good arm, using him to help her get to her feet.  Once, he took a big step back and knocked her down, but she continued to struggle to her feet.  Left hand pressed to the wound on her right shoulder, she tucked in behind Brandt and prayed they would survive.

She wasn’t the only one praying. Brandt was, too. He was using every part of his body to fight off the onslaught but trying to protect a wounded woman had him in a bad position. Fists met with jaws and feet met with bellies and groins.  He’d already killed two men with blades through their chests. When he managed to disable the last man involved against him, he whirled to Ellowyn and put a big arm around her, battling his way out of the fight. He couldn’t pick her up because if he did, he wouldn’t have a free hand to defend them both. She had to walk on her own.

Men were ripping at his supply wagons and beating down his soldiers but Brandt didn’t care about that. All he cared about was removing Ellowyn from the chaos, an unprotected woman in a sea of razor-sharp blades. As he headed towards a break in the trees, a man rushed at him and he had to push Ellowyn away so he would be free to fight. 

Ellowyn stumbled, watching Brandt engage a man in heavy armor but, strangely, without a helm.  Still, he seemed to be a fairly accomplished warrior because he was able to withstand Brandt’s powerful thrusts. The duke was impressive to watch, in both strength and skill, and like a god, his skills were innate and flawless, his instincts without question.  Ellowyn began to see what all men saw in de Russe; she saw the black angel of legend. She saw Death.

When the battling pair came close and Ellowyn was forced to move away lest she become swept up in the maelstrom, she ended up tripping and falling to her knee.  Her left hand, bracing against the fall, fell upon a heavy piece of wood. Ellowyn grasped it. As Brandt gored his opponent in the groin and the man fell on his back, Ellowyn picked up the wood and smashed it across his face several times, beating in his features until they were a bloody pulp. There was panic to her movements, and there was fear. But there was also unmitigated bravery.

Brandt was somewhat surprised to see her rather brutal move, but in hindsight, he should not have been.  Ellowyn de Nerra had thus far proven herself a strong and fearless woman, and she never failed to impress him.  He looked at her, and she looked at him, and for a moment, they just stared at each other. Something was in the air between them, something inviting and curious no less, very misplaced in the middle of a battle, but they could both feel it.  At that moment something ignited, at least for Brandt. Sword in his left hand, he went to Ellowyn and very carefully tossed her up on his broad and armored shoulder.  Without a word, he carried her off to safety.