Chapter Twenty-Eight
Near the woods of Nouaillè
Ellowyn was on the edge of a meadow, looking at a massive castle in the distance, partially obscured by sheets of driving rain. In spite of the weather, smoke rose in ribbons over the damaged battlements.
Overhead, the sky was the color of pewter with fat, angry clouds, but upon earth, the field was flooded from the unforgiving rain that had been falling for days, perhaps weeks, mayhap even months. It was difficult to know. It seemed as if it had been raining forever.
A great battle had concluded the day before upon the field and there was a sea of bodies strewn about, like pieces of driftwood upon an endless muddy sea.
Ellowyn’s heart was in her throat as she observed the scene, her breathing coming in panicked little gasps.
Something was here for her, something she loved so desperately that she couldn’t think of anything else.
Even though she couldn’t see Brandt, she knew he was here.
“Sweet Jesus,” Rosalind breathed at the sight. “Is this possible?”
Ellowyn couldn’t even speak. Her eyes were drinking in the horror that she had seen in her mind’s eye before.
Everything was as it should be down to the color of the sky.
The castle towards the northeast was heavily damaged, the top of the walls nearly sheared off from the projectiles flung at it.
With the rain and the debris, it gave the illusion that it was melting.
Melting….
Ellowyn fought down the panic. She handed her reins over to the nearest soldier.
It didn’t matter that she was exhausted from over a week of travel in horrible weather and still recovering from birthing a child.
All that mattered was that she locate her husband.
She knew he was out here, somewhere. She had to find him.
“One of you stay with the horses,” she ordered in a trembling voice. “The rest of you fan out and look for the duke’s men. Find them!”
The soldier holding Ellowyn’s horse was designated to stay behind.
He collected everyone’s reins as the small group began to descend into the pit of Hell where men were dead or dying, and a sea of mud was slowly swallowing everything up.
Rain, buckets of it, was falling and no matter how tightly Ellowyn pulled close the oiled cloak around her shoulders, she was still wet.
She had been wet for days. But that did not deter her.
Brandt was here and she had to find him.
She thought back to that terrible dream.
She had found him lying beneath a tree. A tree.
She began to look around frantically for something that seemed recognizable to her, but the landscape was slightly out of place from what her dream had conveyed.
Rosalind was next to her, peering at the dead and dying to see if she recognized Brandt’s colors and, indeed, she came across several dead men bearing Brandt’s standard.
There seemed to be quite a lot of them. Rosalind eventually turned to Ellowyn in confusion and horror.
“So many of my father’s men are lying here,” she hissed. “What does it all mean?”
Ellowyn was struggling to remain calm. God help her, she was. “It means that they were the bravest,” she said hoarsely. “It means that they were the first into battle and fought the hardest.”
She trudged off with Rosalind hanging on to her and together the two of them slugged through the mud as Ellowyn tried to get her bearings, struggling to separate the dream from reality, looking for her husband with such desperation that her stomach was in horrific knots.
Twice they had to pause as she dry-heaved, riddled with nerves, but nothing would stop her. She had to find him.
“My lady!” Rosalind hissed, tugging at her and pointing off to the right. “Is that not one of the duke’s knights?”
Ellowyn was electrified with the possibility, straining to see through the rain at what Rosalind was indicating. She began to move in that direction even though she couldn’t clearly see, but soon enough a big man bearing the Duke of Exeter’s tunic appeared.
Ellowyn broke into a run, sliding over the slippery mud, getting stuck in it at times. It was like a nightmare, the ground as it tried to suck her down and prevent her from getting to her husband. As she drew closer to the knight, she could see who it was.
“Stefan!” she screamed. “Stefan!”
Le Bec had been tasked with assessing the duke’s dead.
He was looking down at a group of infantry that had been brutally slaughtered when he heard his name.
It was a woman’s voice and he thought that, quite possibly, he was going mad.
But his head came up, seeking the sources of the shout.
He could see two small peasants struggling towards him through the mud, but one peasant’s hood came free and he recognized Lady de Russe immediately. He went into a panic.
“My lady!” he called, struggling towards her just as she was struggling towards him. “Here, my lady, here!”
“Stefan!” Ellowyn called again.
They came together near a pile of dead French infantry. Stefan reached out to grab her.
“My lady!” he gasped. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“Stefan,” Ellowyn breathed, holding on to him for dear life. “Where is my husband?”
Stefan just looked at her, his pale and worn features tightening. “Oh… my lady,” he sighed. “Why have you come? Who was stupid enough to let you come to this place of death?”
Ellowyn was very aware that he had not answered her question. Struggling to keep her terror at a manageable level, she fixed him in the eye.
“I will ask you one more time,” she said, sounding stronger. “Where is my husband? You will tell me now and you will not delay.”
Stefan stared at her. Then, his eyes filled with tears. Both Ellowyn and Rosalind could see it.
“He is this way,” he said hoarsely. “I will take you.”
Ellowyn clung to him as he led her out of the mud, moving away from the castle and the horrific dead.
In fact, both Ellowyn and Rosalind were trying not to look down at the many dead at their feet, but it was difficult considering how bad the footing was.
They had to look down to make sure they didn’t step on anything.
There were men without heads, without limbs, without faces.
Ellowyn thought it was even worse than the dream.
“Tell me what has happened,” she begged softly.
Stefan had a good grip on her as he pulled her carefully with him.
“We met the armies of Jean yesterday,” he said quietly.
“I will omit most of the tactical details but in spite of being heavily outnumbered by the French, it was a decisive English victory. The Black Angel was once again victorious.”
Ellowyn listened carefully. “Why do I see so many de Russe men among the dead?”
Stefan sighed faintly. “Because we were charged with splitting the French forces in two,” he said. “We accomplished a great strategic victory that allowed the Prince of Wales to gain the upper hand. It was very, very costly, however. We lost Dylan in the fight and Magnus was badly injured.”
They had come to the end of the sea of mud and stood on more solid ground. Ellowyn gained her footing as she digested Stefan’s words. As they stood on firmer soil, she turned to the exhausted knight.
“Dylan is dead?” she asked.
Stefan nodded, his lower lip trembling. “Aye.”
Ellowyn was deeply and wholly saddened. She closed her eyes at the thought of the brave, efficient knight now counted among the dead.
“Dear God,” she breathed. “Poor Dylan. Poor Annabeth! How badly is Magnus injured?”
“He lost an eye but the physic believes he will recover.”
“Thank God for small mercies,” she whispered. “And my husband?”
Stefan wouldn’t look her in the eye. He began to pull her with him. “I am sorry to say that he was badly injured as well.”
Ellowyn’s knees buckled and it took both Stefan and Rosalind to steady her. Her calm demeanor shattered, Ellowyn began to gasp, struggling not to scream or weep. She had to keep her head.
“Take me to him now,” she gasped. “Now, Stefan.”
He was already on the move, half-carrying her, half-dragging her.
Even though Ellowyn had known what the answer would be, still, it was a shock to hear the truth.
Her dream had forewarned her of this moment but she found she was wholly unprepared.
He has been badly injured. The reality of it was too great.
There was a collection of hastily pitched tents off to the west and Stefan took her in that direction.
With the wind blowing and the rain pouring, they moved swiftly through the elements, making way to the large Exeter tent that Ellowyn had become so familiar with during her travels with Brandt. She recognized it immediately.
Breaking free from Stefan, she ran as fast as her shaking legs would carry her and plunged into the de Russe tent.
Once inside, she nearly crashed into one of several men standing inside the tent.
Recoiling from the strange man, she looked around in a blind panic through the sea of unfamiliar faces until she came to one she recognized.
It was Alex de Lara. As she rushed to him, she realized that he was kneeling on the floor next to a supine body. That body happened to be Brandt’s.
One look at her husband’s ashen face and Ellowyn collapsed beside him. She had no control any longer, only fear and panic.
“What has happened to my husband?” she demanded of anyone who would answer. “Tell me now!”
Gasps of shock went up throughout the room, including Alex. A woman was here! Alex grasped Ellowyn to keep her from pitching forward onto Brandt.
“Lady de Russe!” he exclaimed. “How did you get here?”