Chapter Twenty-Eight #2
Ellowyn only had eyes for Brandt. His eyes were closed and he was stripped from the waist up.
A massive bandage wound around his muscular torso as his surgeon, squatting on the other side of him, tugged at the wrappings.
Ignoring Alex’s question, she put her arms around Brandt’s head with exquisite gentleness, feeling pain in her heart that was too deep for words.
Her tears, warm and soft, pelted his pallid face.
The raw ache, the horror, was indescribable.
“Brandt?” she whispered. “I am here, my love. I am here.”
“He is badly injured, my lady,” Alex said, his voice faint and hoarse.
“He was fighting on horseback yesterday when we broke the French lines. You should have seen him, my lady. He was magnificent. He felled man after man with no signs of slowing. He was fighting near Gascon knights that were supposed to be allied with Edward but they turned on him. One knight gored him in the back while a second knight gored him in the gut. My brother saw this occur and went to save him. He managed to kill two of the assassins but he was killed by a third. As my brother fell away, Lord de Russe, severely injured, then killed my brother’s assassin before he himself fell to the ground. Magnus saw it all and told us.”
“Assassins?” she breathed, horrified.
“Aye, my lady. That was the only way anyone could get close enough to kill him, for he is too great to be felled by any ordinary enemy.”
Ellowyn closed her eyes at the information, never more appalled or proud. Tears rained on Brandt’s face as she knelt low, kissing him tenderly.
“He is a hero,” she murmured.
“He is a legend.”
Ellowyn couldn’t help it. The sobs came and she wept pitifully over Brandt as the man lay dying.
Alex, too, gave up the battle against his tears and wept with her.
He had lost his brother and his tears were for himself.
He didn’t know how he was supposed to go on without his other self. It was tragic on so many levels.
Rosalind came up behind Ellowyn, laying gentle hands on her shoulders as she, too, wept.
In fact, there wasn’t a dry eye in the tent, listening to Lady de Russe weep in sorrow over her dying husband.
As Ellowyn lay there with her forehead against Brandt’s as if forcibly willing her life into him, she felt a timid hand on her arm.
She happened to look up into a face she didn’t recognize.
“My lady,” the young man said hesitantly. “I am Edward. I want you to know how much I love your husband and how grateful I am to him. No finer warrior has walked this earth and I am greatly diminished without him.”
Through her grief, Ellowyn realized that she was looking at the Prince of Wales. Her head came up, her gaze drinking in the sight of the handsome young man with the fair hair. Finally, they were face-to-face. There was something Ellowyn had to say to him.
“Your Grace,” she greeted hoarsely. “I am greatly diminished without him as well, but not for the same reasons. He is my life, my love, and my heart. I hate you for doing this to him, do you hear? I will hate you forever.”
Edward wasn’t offended. At this moment, he hated himself also. So much death and waste because of him. Before he could reply, however, a weak, deep voice interrupted.
“Wynny,” Brandt mumbled. “You will apologize to Edward. It is not his fault.”
Hearing Brandt’s voice sent Ellowyn into loud and agonizing sobs. He held his head against hers, weeping, as his very weak hand came up to very gently touch her. It was all he could manage.
“Shhhh,” he soothed her, so faintly that she could barely hear him. “Do not despair. I will be well again. Have I come home?”
Ellowyn was a mess, wiping at her face and kissing his mouth with her salty lips. “You are not home,” she replied. “I have come to you. I will make you well again, I swear it.”
Brandt grunted, that disapproving grunt that he was so capable of making. “Where are we?”
“Still at Poitiers.”
“What fool would bring you here? Tell me now so that I may thrash him for allowing you to travel into the midst of Hell.”
She glanced at Edward, at Alex, before replying.
“It does not matter who brought me here,” she told him, stroking his face tenderly.
“All that matters is that you will get well again. We will return home to Guildford. Perhaps we will even travel to Erith to visit my mother and grandmother. We will live our life, do you hear me? We will live and have a dozen children to surround ourselves with.”
Brandt tried to open an eye to look at her but it was extremely difficult. “My son,” he murmured. “Where is my son?”
Ellowyn froze, looking at him with shock.
She could hear Rosalind behind her, still weeping softly.
Strangely, her courage seemed to make a return and she wiped at her face, thinking on his question.
She already knew that she would not tell him the truth, at least not now.
Perhaps if he thought he had something more to live for, it would help him.
She had to give him all the ammunition she could to help him.
Later, when the storm had passed, she would tell him the truth and pray he would forgive her.
“He is at Melesse,” she replied steadily, kissing his cheek with painful tenderness.
“His name is Gaston. Brandt, you have always been a warrior but now you are in for the most difficult fight of your life. You must fight your way back from the brink of death so that your son may come to know you. You must live for your wife and child who adore you more than words can express. Please, Brandt, you must do this for us.”
Brandt sighed faintly, unconsciousness clutching at him. He was so very, very weak, but Ellowyn’s words rang about in his hazed mind.
“My son,” he whispered. “Does he look… like me?”
Ellowyn smiled, tears pooling in her eyes. “He looks just like me.”
It was a tease. Even in his current state, Brandt knew that.
But Ellowyn had been correct. The knowledge of his son, of his loving wife, gave him the will to fight.
He couldn’t even think of the fact that she had made a dangerous journey to be with him.
The fact that she would risk herself so was not surprising.
She was a brave and astonishing woman, and he loved her more with every beat of his heart.
“I love you, my sweet husband,” Ellowyn whispered in his ear. “You are my sweet angel. Sleep, now. I will be here when you awaken.”
His big fingers found hers and he held her hand tightly as he drifted away.
Thoughts of the day they met in London flashed through his mind, thinking on the first time he ever laid eyes on her.
She had been so very beautiful and so very angry.
The thought of it brought a smile to his lips.
He wondered if their children would have the same hair-trigger temper.
He hoped he would find out many times over.
The Black Angel had done his duty for king and country. Now, he had his own life to live.