Chapter Thirteen
It was that dream again.
As Ellowyn 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.
She put a hand to her gut, feeling the life kicking within.
It brought a rush of joy and euphoria, feeling the tender life she carried.
But it did not take away from her sense of urgency as she scratched and clawed her way up onto firmer ground, out of the mud that was sucking her down.
Finally free of the cold, gray mud, she stood for a moment, gaining her bearings.
The dream was oddly fluid. Everything rippled, like movement upon a lake.
She turned to look at the castle again, seeing the fingers of smoke spiraling upwards even in the rain, and as she gazed steadily at the broken walls and gray-stoned keep, she could see that every window in the keep was glowing red.
They looked like eyes, pulsating a red and liquid reflection of the evil that surrounded it.
As she watched, the red turned to blood and began dripping down the side of the keep.
All of those windows, now dripping blood.
Horrified, frightened, Ellowyn tore her gaze away from the hellish castle, arms around her swollen belly as she began to walk.
Tears filled her eyes, spilling over onto her cheeks, as she began to call for her love, her life, the man she was looking for.
In dreams past, she had only come this far before the dream ended.
So many times it had ended and so many times she had awoken upset and frustrated.
But this time, the dream didn’t end. She was able to keep going, searching with panic that swelled her heart so that she thought it might burst. Bodies were at her feet but she didn’t recognize any of them.
She kept going, feeling the cold rain against her face, feeling the cold, howling winds that grabbed at her.
And then she saw someone she knew. Her grandfather was standing by the edge of a grove of trees. His armor was clean, untouched, and dry. Rain was pouring down upon her, but her grandfather was completely dry. He looked at her with some sorrow. Ellowyn ran to him.
“Papa!” she cried. “Help me! I cannot find him!”
Braxton simply stood there, looking at her. When she tried to touch him, her hands went right through him. Then, he pointed.
Ellowyn’s gaze moved in the direction he was indicating.
She had no idea what he meant or what he was pointing at.
All she could see was a sea of corpses that were beginning to turn into liquid, being absorbed into the ground.
But as they drained away, into the mud and earth, she saw a figure propped up against a tree in the distance.
As she focused on the distant figure, Braxton began to howl in her ear. It was a mournful and terrifying sound, enough to make her scream as everything else faded to black.
*
“They have not followed us yet but our scouts report that de Nerra is amassing his army,” Dylan told Brandt. “He knows we have her and it is evident he intends to pursue.”
Brandt gazed up at the man, his expression without emotion.
It was towards midnight as he sat at a heavy, damaged table before a smoking fire in a public house in the village of Garstang.
Twenty-six miles south of Erith, it had been the logical place to stop for the night so Ellowyn could gain a few hours of sleep.
Garstang was a larger berg, with several public houses, that were well used and littered with all kinds of people.
Brandt had his army park themselves south of the town in an open field that had a clear field of vision in all directions, while he took his senior knights to an inn on the edge of town called the Punchbowl.
It was unusual comfort for the usually hard-core men, but in Brandt’s opinion, they deserved it.
Besides, it was his wedding night and he was feeling particularly generous.
“Of course he knows I have her,” Brandt grunted as he rubbed his weary eyes.
“Deston can pursue me to the ends of the earth but it does not change the fact that I married his daughter earlier today and that she is now my wife. He cannot destroy the bonds of matrimony. Whether or not he likes it, Ellowyn belongs to me.”
Dylan shrugged as he claimed a seat next to St. Hèver.
“I am sure he will be happy to discuss that with you when he catches up to us, my lord,” he said, rather sarcastically and wearily.
“Our scouts did not seem to think his army would be departing this night which leads me to believe he will be departing at dawn and, just as we have scouts, I am sure he has his own who are reporting back to him that we are holed up in Garstang.”
Brandt took a long drink of his wine, watching Dylan rip into a warm and succulent piece of beef.
In fact, all of his senior knights were seated around the table in various stages of a food-and-drink stupor.
Le Bec and de Reyne, overstuffed and bordering on drunk, were arm wrestling at the end of the table while St. Hèver, the ever-proper and pious young knight, was trying not to look at a young and rather pretty serving wench who was trying very hard to catch his eye.
Alex de Lara was aware of this and kept calling the girl over to the table to refill their cups while Dylan, newly returned from settling the men and debriefing the scouts, ignored everything else and tucked into his food.
Brandt watched it all with some amusement and, surprisingly, a great deal of relaxation.
He was more at ease than he had been in quite a while knowing that Ellowyn was safely asleep over his head.
He really didn’t care about de Nerra in the least. Alcohol and a rush of emotions had seen to that.
At the moment, he simply wanted to enjoy the situation and his new marriage. He’d never felt such contentment.
“We will not be here long enough for them to catch up to us,” he finally said.
“We leave this berg before dawn. If all goes well and the weather holds, we should be home in less than two weeks. If de Nerra wants to attack Guildford after a battle march across the whole of England, then I invite him to try.”
Dylan wriggled his eyebrows, his mouth full. He was starving and had spent a good deal of time securing the men while the other knights ate their supper. He didn’t want to talk anymore but he couldn’t help stating the obvious.
“We are traveling with weary men and a woman, my lord,” he pointed out. “If we make it back to Guildford in two weeks, we will be fortunate. Much can happen in two weeks, now with an angry father on our tail.”
Brandt cocked an eyebrow at him. “Much can happen indeed,” he agreed, not particularly pleased with Dylan’s attitude.
“In fact, I would suggest we send your brother to solicit support from your father and St. Hèver to the Marches to solicit support from his father. I have enough to deal with now with de Nerra nipping at my heels and preparations to return to France. I will not be able to attend the Duke of Carlisle and the Earl of Wrexham personally.”
Dylan simply nodded his head, his mouth too full and his mind too weary to think on anything more that evening. As a tense silence settled, le Bec entered the conversation.
“My lord?” he said. “Is your lady wife well? She seemed rather fatigued when we arrived earlier. I am sorry she was not able to join us for sup.”
Brandt set his cup down, exhaling wearily. “She is well, simply exhausted,” he replied, his thoughts turning to his wife. “She went upstairs, fell on the bed, and went straight to sleep. I should go and check on her. Perhaps she is awake and will join us now.”
He stood up, feeling every inch of his exhaustion, as Dylan muttered. “Or perhaps you should simply stay in the room with her,” he said, mouth full. “You are a bridegroom, after all. Why would you wish to share your wife with us on this night?”
As the knights snickered, Brandt actually grinned. He slapped Dylan on the shoulder as he walked past him and lumbered up the uneven stairs.
The corridor was dim, the only light from the common room down below seeping up through the floorboards.
Brandt headed for the room at the far end of the hall, the one farthest from the inn’s main chamber.
He had tried to find a quiet spot for Ellowyn, something rather difficult in a packed inn, but as he inserted the crude key into the equally crude iron lock, he opened the door to a darkened and quiet chamber.
It seemed worlds away from the quagmire downstairs.
It was a long and skinny chamber that stretched all down the side of the structure with a big window that overlooked the stable yard below.
He could smell the animals wafting through the oilcloth.
The bed, barely big enough for two, was shoved against the far wall with the foot of it close to the small fireplace, now laying low and glowing with a mixture of peat and wood.
As he made his way quietly over to the bed, he realized there was noise coming from the darkened corner. He could hear sniffles and sobbing. It took him a moment to realize that Ellowyn was weeping.
Brandt sank down on to the mattress, full of concern. “Wynny?” he asked softly. “Why do you weep, sweetheart?”
Ellowyn wiped furiously at her face. “It… it is of no worry” she whispered. “I suppose… it has been a long day. I am simply fatigued.”
Brandt’s brow furrowed as he stroked her red hair. “But you were fine when I left you earlier,” he insisted quietly. “You were dead asleep. Why are you crying now?”
The fact that he was pressing her on the reasons behind her tears made her weep more. “I… I will not see my father or mother again,” she sobbed. “I miss them already.”