Chapter Twenty #2
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 armor, 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 his 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 it 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 outweighed 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.
“I am not going to fight you,” he finally said.
Deston’s helmed head cocked. “What do you mean?”
“Just what I said, I am not going to fight you. Deston, this is foolish. You know I am going to kill you. I cannot and will not fight my wife’s father because of what it will do to her. Did you know she woke up weeping last night because she’d had a dream that you were dead?”
Deston faltered somewhat. “She has many dreams. That is not unusual with her.”
“So you would have me kill you in front of her and give her nightmares the rest of her life? She is watching right now, you know.”
Deston’s head turned upward, towards the wall behind Brandt. “Where is she?”
Brandt turned around, scanning the wall until he caught a glimpse of a red-head with a scarf on it. She was near the seam where the curtain wall met the gatehouse. He pointed a massive finger in that direction.
“There,” he said. Then, he lifted his voice. “Ellowyn? Show yourself to your father.”
The men on the wall shifted and Ellowyn’s pale face came into view. She was wrapped in a deep blue surcoat and scarf, all wrapped up against the chill morning air. Brandt’s gaze lingered on her, drawing strength from the sight, before returning his focus to Deston.
“Please do not make me kill you in front of her,” he muttered. “Go home, de Nerra. Go home and forget this foolishness.”
Deston flipped up his visor, his gaze fixed on his child. His expression was wrought with longing.
“Wynny?” he called. “Come down from there. I have come to take you home.”
Ellowyn boosted herself up so she could see him better. “I am not going home,” she called down to him. “I demand you stop this foolishness right now. You are making a spectacle of yourself and I am ashamed.”
The wistful expression on Deston’s face changed to one of irritation. “You shame me by running off with a man not worthy of you,” he bellowed, pointing his sword at her. “It was stupid!”
Ellowyn’s face disappeared. Brandt kept searching for her on the battlements but she was nowhere to be seen until she suddenly appeared in the gatehouse, skirts gathered as she ran beneath the portcullis. Dylan tried to grab her but she slapped him as she pulled free.
“I will not embarrass myself further with a shouting match for all to hear,” she barked at her father, pointing a finger at him. “How dare you come here with an army to take me home. If I’d wanted to stay home, I would have never gone with Brandt.”
She appeared as if she were headed for her father to punch him, so Brandt grabbed her before she could get near him. He held on to her, fearful of what would happen if he let her go.
“How could you do this to me, Wynny?” Deston said, his control slipping now that he was faced with his daughter. “I cannot believe you would disobey me so.”
“And I cannot believe you would deny me the man I love!” Ellowyn shot back.
“Think about what you are doing. Even if you kill Brandt today and take me home, I am still his wife. I am still the Duchess of Exeter, and this entire empire would be mine. You cannot take me back to the days when I was only your daughter. Those days are gone forever. I am Brandt’s wife now and I love him, and it would make the situation so much better if you were simply to accept that and give us your blessing. I do not understand your reservation.”
Deston’s face was dark but his sword was still lifted, still in-hand. “He has done terrible things, Wynny. How could you love such a man?”
“I love you and you have done terrible things,” she countered swiftly.
“You were a young man when Roger Mortimer and Isabella stole the throne from young King Edward. Mama said you served Isabella and Mortimer, and when young Edward attacked Nottingham Castle and took Mortimer a prisoner, you turned on Mortimer and killed several of his personal guards so the king could be victorious. That makes you a traitor, Da. That makes you terrible.”
Deston tried not to look too contrite. “Times were different then, lass,” he said, lowering his sword. “It was a much harsher time.”
Ellowyn shook her head. “It was not,” she said. “It was war and you did what you had to in order to survive. That is what Brandt did, too. He does what he has to in order to survive.”
Deston shook his head. “He is not defending a king,” he pointed out. “He is simply furthering the claim of a greedy man.”
“If that is the case, then you are supplying him men for the cause. That makes you just as guilty as he is.”