Chapter Five
Ellowyn was fairly certain she had been miserable for quite some time, but by the time she fully awoke and became lucid, she was coughing her head off and dealing with generally uncomfortable symptoms. Her nose was running, her chest hurt, and her head was killing her.
She could only surmise that the dousing of both cold water and mud had somehow weakened her and she was back to a thoroughly grumpy mood as a result.
Misery claimed her with swift and unjust claws.
The fire in the small room had gone out some time ago.
All that remained was ash. Coughing, she struggled up from the bed and called for warm water and firewood from a serving wench lingering in the corridor outside her room.
By the time the woman returned with a big, burly man who smelled like a privy, Ellowyn was sitting on the bed, wrapped in the coverlet and shivering uncontrollably.
The smelly man in torn breeches had brought wood with him and started the fire, waiting until it sparked up before fleeing the room with the serving wench.
When the door slammed, Ellowyn shuffled over to the leaning table, now with a big bowl of steaming water that was leaking over the side due to the angle of the table, and inhaled the steam deeply.
Then she coughed some more, trying to clear her lungs.
At some point towards the end of her meal with the Duke of Exeter, her escort had brought her satchel.
Ellowyn wondered where they had been the entire time she had been unconscious, and subsequently alone with de Russe, but no one seemed to offer an explanation and, by that point, she didn’t much care.
De Russe had ceased to become a horrible beast and had somehow morphed into a man capable of amiable behavior.
Sniffling, Ellowyn turned away from the steaming water and heaved her bag upon the mattress.
Digging through her belongings, her thoughts drifted to de Russe.
He’d not spoken a great deal through their meal.
In fact, he’d only really answered her questions.
He’d never offered anything of his own volition.
Ellowyn had asked him a dozen questions about her father, what de Russe knew of him, of the adventures they’d had together.
De Russe had answered thoroughly, speaking of a man of great power and cunning before the ravages of swollen joints had forced him to retire.
Now, Deston could scarcely walk, a true tragedy for so great a knight from a long line of great knights.
As de Russe had recalled a story involving saving several knights from captivity in a well-guarded castle, Ellowyn had been enthralled at the prowess and daring.
She could picture her father, young and strong, and his much younger and much stronger companion, de Russe, as they charged out to save the world.
But the stories or answers to her questions had been dotted with stretches of silence.
Although not uncomfortable, Ellowyn had found herself thinking on what more to say to him just so they wouldn’t have to sit in silence and as she pondered her next question, she stole glances at the man sitting across from her.
De Russe was enormous, as she’d noted from the start, and he had the biggest hands she had ever seen.
She’d noticed his male comeliness before but at close range she noticed his thick dark lashes and the surprisingly smooth skin of his face.
And his eyes… she had thought they were the color of smoke but upon closer inspection, she could see they were a very dark hazel.
They were quite attractive, as was the rest of him.
When she stopped viewing de Russe as her mortal enemy and started seeing him as a man, she realized that he was an extraordinarily handsome one.
But that was where those thoughts ended.
She knew nothing about the man other than what her father had told her and she suspected she didn’t want to know any more.
Men weren’t something, as a group, that particularly interested her, although she’d had more than her share of suitors.
She was far too pretty a lass not to, but she had no patience for pretty words or wretchedly sweet wooing.
Men of bravery and skill on the battlefield interested her most, but those men were usually so wrapped up in their own glorious ego that she could not, and would not, compete with such a thing.
After her conversation with de Russe the previous night, as great as the man was, she suspected he fell into that category.
Digging into her satchel, she removed a clean shift and the only other surcoat she brought with her.
She also brought forth a carefully wrapped bar of white soap that smelled of lavender.
Whereas most people bathed infrequently, Ellowyn was not that sort.
She washed, and washed often, mostly because it kept her skin clear because she was prone to ugly blemishes on her chin.
She had found that washing daily kept her skin clean and unfettered, so it was something of a daily routine.
Using the same linen cloth that the soap had been wrapped in, she quickly lathered up the soap in the steaming water and proceeded to wash herself down.
Thoughts of de Russe would not go away as she washed her body before the snapping fire, rinsing off as best she could and drying herself with her worn shift.
Dressing in the clean lamb’s wool shift and heavy dark blue woolen surcoat, she put on the rest of her warm things before wrapping the soap back up and re-packing her satchel.
Her last act of dressing was to run a bone comb through her long red hair and braided it, draping the single braid elegantly over her right shoulder.
And with that, her bags were secured and she was prepared to move out.
Her health had other ideas, however. Her nose was running terribly and the cough, having briefly died down, was now enjoying a triumphant resurgence.
She hacked like an old woman dying of the damp.
As she pulled out a linen kerchief from the depths of her satchel to wipe her nose, there was a soft knock at the door.
Holding her kerchief to her nose, she went to the door and unlatched it only to find de Russe standing in the doorway dressed for battle.
It was the de Russe she remembered from the wharf, the massive warrior in mail and steel so wrapped up in his knighthood that it was difficult to ascertain where the armor ended and the man began.
His helm wasn’t on, but his broadsword was, strapped to his hips and right thigh with heavy leather binds to keep the scabbard stable.
His smoky eyes were oddly soft as he looked at her.
“I could hear you coughing downstairs,” he said. “Are you ill?”
She blew her nose into the rag in her hand. “I am,” she said, her nose stuffy. “I fear that I have somehow caught a chill.”
He wriggled his eyebrows in agreement. “An understatement, my lady,” he said. “I came to see if you were ready to move out but I see that perhaps we must wait until you are feeling better.”
She shook her head firmly before the words even left his mouth. “I will return today,” she said. “I will feel poorly here or on the road so it does not matter… hold a moment, my lord. What did you say?”
She was cocking her head at him curiously. He had no idea what she meant. “What do you mean?” he asked. “What did I say?”
She blinked as if surprised. “We?” she said. “You said we would move out?”
“I am not staying here.”
“Ah… I see,” she seemed to understand. “Then you are going home as well.”
“I am going to Erith.”
She was back to being surprised. “To Erith?” she repeated. “Why?”
He cleared his throat as if suddenly uneasy.
Why was he going to Erith? He’d spent all night wondering the same thing after he’d decided, at the conclusion of his meal with Ellowyn, that he would be accompanying her home.
He wasn’t sure why he had made the decision, much less possess the ability to explain it to her.
But she was looking for an answer and he looked her in the eye whilst giving one, mostly because he didn’t want her to sense anything but sheer, unadulterated decisiveness from him.
He didn’t want her to see his uncertainty.
“Because,” he gestured with a big, gloved hand towards the avenue outside.
“You have nearly six hundred men to take back to Erith and not one knight to take charge. I am concerned that Deston sent you to retrieve troops without anyone to control them, so I will therefore escort you, and them, back to Erith Castle.”
By this time, she was looking at him with greater surprise than ever. “They will take orders from me, although I thank you for your concern. Truly, it is not necessary.”
Refuted. Brandt found himself in a very odd position as she rejected his offer of escort.
He still wasn’t sure why he felt compelled to escort her back to Erith, but as he gazed down at the woman with the red nose and exquisite face, he knew it had nothing to do with the nearly six hundred men outside in the rain.
It had everything to do with that damnable conversation last night when he had conversed with her as he’d never conversed with anyone in his life.
She listened intently to him and made him feel as if he had something worth saying.
Certainly, in his position, everyone had respect for his word but it was because of his title.
The Duke of Exeter was not a man to be ignored.
But last night, he felt as if Ellowyn de Nerra listened to him not because of his title, but because of who he was as a warrior.
As a man. He was feeling foolish and unbalanced by it but he also knew that it made him feel as he’d never felt in his life.
“Perhaps,” he said after a lengthy, and contemplative, pause, “but it would seem I have business with your father as well, so we may as well travel together. Are you opposed to this?”