Chapter Three
“I do not have any preference where you bed them down,” de Russe was dismounting his big charger, pulling off his helm and propping it on his saddle.
He was weary, and his weariness was translating into snappish behavior.
“Bed them down in the street for all I care. These are de Nerra’s men and no longer my problem. Let his daughter worry about them.”
Dylan de Lara cocked a droll eyebrow at the man as he headed towards the front door of Grey’s Inn. “I thought we decided that it was not fair to the men.”
“I changed my mind.”
Dylan merely shrugged. The entry to the inn was crowded with those waiting for room to enter, now scattering as de Russe approached.
Even if they didn’t know who de Russe was, it didn’t matter, for there was no man in England with de Russe’s size and implied temperament.
With two words, he could make one feel as if Hell itself were approaching.
With two words, he could strike fear into the heart of anyone within earshot.
Most people within a reasonable radius of Grey’s Inn heard him snap at de Lara, a rumbling baritone that pierced the air like thunder.
Brandt was fumbling with his heavy mail gauntlets as he reached the door to the inn, shoving it open with an armored elbow.
He was looking for a particularly young woman, determined to dump five hundred and sixty-two worn and weary men on her doorstep.
He couldn’t be bothered by them anymore but, more than that, he couldn’t be bothered with her.
In hindsight, he hadn’t liked the way she had ordered him around earlier.
She had offended him and he wanted to be done with the whole messy business.
The warm, stale air of the inn hit him like a slap in the face as he entered.
It smelled like burnt meat and unwashed bodies.
He had a perfect view of the entire room from where he stood, his hawk-like gaze scanning the area for either the barkeep or the woman in question.
It didn’t matter who he saw first, for the message would be the same – all five hundred and sixty-two men delivered as ordered.
It was a crowded place and badly lit. He hadn’t taken five steps into the tavern when someone grabbed his wrist. With an intolerant expression that only Brandt de Russe could adequately deliver, he looked to his left and was surprised to see the very woman he sought clutching his arm.
It was Ellowyn de Nerra in the flesh and, for a split-second, Brandt allowed himself to appreciate the sight of a truly beautiful woman.
He just couldn’t help himself, realizing she was far more beautiful with the second encounter.
But his momentary appreciation vanished and before he could open his mouth, Ellowyn spoke.
“Sweetheart, I am so glad you have arrived,” she said, through clenched teeth he was sure. “This… this knight has been harassing me and will not leave me alone. Perhaps your mere presence will cause him to flee in fear.”
She said it rather dramatically and, for a moment, Brandt was both puzzled and stumped. But then he tore his quizzical gaze from the lady’s somewhat desperate features and noticed a heavily armored man standing a few feet away with a bloodied hand. The knight pointed an accusing finger at Ellowyn.
“Is this your wife?” he demanded. “She stabbed me, the little cow. She has injured me.”
“I told you to go away,” Ellowyn shot back. “Had you not grabbed me, I would not have had to defend myself.”
“I did not hurt you!”
“But you grabbed me!” Ellowyn accused. “I never, at any time, gave you permission to touch me. Now that my husband is here, you had better run for your life. Go, now, before he becomes enraged.”
There was a huge amount of conversation going on involving Brandt that he was not directly a part of.
He simply stood there as Lady Ellowyn and some foolish knight shouted at each other.
More than that, Lady Ellowyn was sucking him into something he had nothing to do with.
Just as she had threatened him earlier, now she was in another confrontation with some other warrior.
Perhaps it was habit with her, being aggressive with men she did not know.
Brandt thought it all rather odd and rather ridiculous.
The knight, perhaps rightfully fearful of the lady’s sincerely enormous husband, took a few steps back but did not leave. He held up his bloodied hand for all to see.
“Your wife has injured my hand,” he nearly shouted at Brandt. “I demand compensation.”
That seemed to snap Brandt out of his stunned silence. “Compensation?” he repeated, distain in his tone. “Compensation for what?”
The knight jabbed a finger at Ellowyn. “Because of… of her, I may not ever be able to hold a sword again. This is my sword hand.”
Brandt cocked a dark eyebrow. “I see,” he said, feeling Ellowyn as she clutched his wrist. “What did you have in mind?”
The knight seemed to lose some of his aggression, looking between Ellowyn and Brandt. “Well,” he said after a moment. “One hundred crowns ought to do nicely, I think. That would keep me comfortable while I recover.”
Brandt’s eyebrows shot up. “One hundred crowns?” he echoed.
Then he removed Ellowyn’s hands from his wrist and extended them towards the knight.
“Take her instead. You can sell her to the highest bidder and regain your compensation. Or you can simply have her work it off, for I am not paying you one hundred gold crowns.”
Both the knight and Ellowyn looked at him, shocked. Before the knight could reply, Ellowyn yanked her hands out of Brandt’s grasp.
“He cannot sell me,” she raged. “How dare you suggest such a thing.”
Brandt realized he was fighting off a grin as he faced off against a, yet again, very angry Ellowyn de Nerra. He’d never seen her any other way and wasn’t hard pressed to admit he found it entertaining.
“I can do anything I wish,” he told her. “I am your husband, am I not? I am not paying that man one hundred gold crowns, so he can take you instead. Perhaps next time you will think twice before assaulting a man.”
Ellowyn’s beautiful face turned shades of red. “You…,” she seethed, backing away from both Brandt and the knight. “You… you barbarian. You beast! I will not let you do this, do you hear? You have no right.”
Brandt bit his lip to keep from grinning, for he’d never in his life seen anyone so angry. “I have every right. If I want to sell you, I will. You have been far too much trouble since the moment I met you so perhaps this will teach you a lesson. You will be his problem now, not mine.”
Ellowyn had backed into the table that contained the remains of her meal.
Infuriated beyond reason, she grabbed the first thing she could reach and hurled it at Brandt’s head.
The wooden wine cup went sailing through the air, barely missing him.
As he bobbed out of the way, Ellowyn picked up the nearly empty pitcher of wine and slung it at the knight, hitting him squarely in the chest. Wine sprayed everywhere, but there was no time to wipe it away, because now the fork was flying at him and the remains of the bread.
Whatever Ellowyn could get her hands on went flying at Brandt and, if she thought about it, the bloodied knight.
But mostly at Brandt, she was singling him out for a particular brand of hatred at the moment and he was going to feel her wrath.
Brandt couldn’t help the grin on his lips now.
Lady Ellowyn was having a full-fledged tantrum and he ducked a platter as he made his way over to her.
The closer he got, the more furious she became.
By the time he reached her, she was trying to throw a stool but he yanked it out of her hands.
Bending at the waist, he tossed her up onto his shoulder and headed for the door.
“Call my wife a cow again and you forfeit your life,” he made a point of making eye contact with the foolish knight. “Consider the fact that you retain your life this night the only compensation you shall receive from me.”
The knight didn’t say a word, watching rather wide-eyed as Brandt carted the snarling lady out of the inn. The last he saw, the big man had planted a trencher-sized hand on her bottom, causing her to howl. He could hear her howling once or twice more outside.
Ellowyn was howling because his swat bloody well hurt.
She was not only in tantrum mode, she was also in panic mode.
Brandt had her out in the street, marching across the muddy avenue as he spanked her soundly, not once but at least four times.
She could hear men cheering and laughing, and it only served to fuel her agitation.
Finally, Brandt moved to set her on her feet. Realizing that he was releasing her, Ellowyn started smacking at him as he set her down, hitting him on his vulnerable ear and neck. But Brandt didn’t react. He simply set her to her feet as she took a few more angry swings at him.
“You brute!” she hissed. “You… you uncivilized fiend! I will never forgive you for this, do you hear me? Never!”
Brandt drew in a long breath, still fighting off the grin that he had struggled with for the past few minutes. He crossed his massive arms calmly.
“Is it not exhausting being so aggressive all of the time?” he asked.
The comment only seemed to inflame her. “Beast! Monster! Son of a…!”
He cut her off, casually, losing the battle against the grin. “Are you finished?”
Ellowyn scowled. “Not by any stretch of the imagination,” she jabbed a finger at him. “I have met my share of infuriating and callous men, but you are the worst of the lot. What possessed you to do what you just did?”
“Do what?”
She threw up her hands. “Throw me over your shoulder like a… a….”
“Common wench?”
Now her eyebrows flew up in outrage. “Common?” she was turning red in the face. He could see it even in the moonlight. “Now I am common?”