wouldn’t have a free hand to defend them both. She had to walk on her own.
Men were ripping at his supply wagons and beating down his soldiers but Brandt didn’t care about that. All he cared about was removing Ellowyn from the chaos, an unprotected woman in a sea of razor-sharp blades. As he headed towards a break in the trees, a man rushed at him and he had to push Ellowyn away so he would be free to fight.
Ellowyn stumbled, watching Brandt engage a man in heavy armor but, strangely, without a helm. Still, he seemed to be a fairly accomplished warrior because he was able to withstand Brandt’s powerful thrusts. The duke was impressive to watch, in both strength and skill, and like a god, his skills were innate and flawless, his instincts without question. Ellowyn began to see what all men saw in de Russe; she saw the black angel of legend. She saw Death.
When the battling pair came close and Ellowyn was forced to move away lest she become swept up in the maelstrom, she ended up tripping and falling to her knee. Her left hand, bracing against the fall, fell upon a heavy piece of wood. Ellowyn grasped it. As Brandt gored his opponent in the groin and the man fell on his back, Ellowyn picked up the wood and smashed it across his face several times, beating in his features until they were a bloody pulp. There was panic to her movements, and there was fear. But there was also unmitigated bravery.
Brandt was somewhat surprised to see her rather brutal move, but in hindsight, he should not have been. Ellowyn de Nerra had thus far proven herself a strong and fearless woman, and she never failed to impress him. He looked at her, and she looked at him, and for a moment, they just stared at each other. Something was in the air between them, something inviting and curious no less, very misplaced in the middle of a battle, but they could both feel it. At that moment something ignited, at least for Brandt. Sword in his left hand, he went to Ellowyn and very carefully tossed her up on his broad and armored shoulder. Without a word, he carried her off to safety.
CHAPTER NINE
“Welsh,” Dylan said grimly. “Our scouts said that they raided Kenilworth Castle to the south earlier today. Then they saw us and apparently saw something worth taking.”
It was just after sunset as Brandt stood outside of his tent, a massive structure that bore the black and white of the Duke of Exeter. The shelter, like all of the others pitched up around the edge of a small and dense forest to the south of Coventry, had seen more than its share of bad weather and use during Brandt’s campaign with the Black Prince in France. Everyone knew Exeter’s colors, announcing the onslaught of Edward’s war machine.
“They were furious and they were determined,” Brandt finally mumbled, scratching at his forehead. “To attack Kenilworth is foolish enough, but to attack a fully functional army smacks of madness. What is our final casualty count?”
“Eighteen dead and twenty seven wounded,” Dylan replied. “Most of the dead are de Nerra men. When the Welsh hit us, they slammed into their column first.”
Brandt grunted softly. “And they almost took the lady down with them,” he grumbled, shaking his head. “’Tis a miracle she was spared.”
“How is she?”
Brandt glanced around his senior Corp, standing in a semi-circle before him. They were still in full armor, battle-hardened men that were perhaps more comfortable in a fight than most. Alex and Magnus were sporting various cuts about the face but, for the most part, everyone had come through unscathed. His gaze came to rest on Brennan.
“Thanks to St. Hèver, she survived,” he said, his gaze fixed on the blond young knight. “His quick thinking is all that stood between her and certain death. Brennan, you are to be commended. Your father shall know of your valor.”
Brennan, standing between Stefan and Magnus, bowed his head modestly but
Men were ripping at his supply wagons and beating down his soldiers but Brandt didn’t care about that. All he cared about was removing Ellowyn from the chaos, an unprotected woman in a sea of razor-sharp blades. As he headed towards a break in the trees, a man rushed at him and he had to push Ellowyn away so he would be free to fight.
Ellowyn stumbled, watching Brandt engage a man in heavy armor but, strangely, without a helm. Still, he seemed to be a fairly accomplished warrior because he was able to withstand Brandt’s powerful thrusts. The duke was impressive to watch, in both strength and skill, and like a god, his skills were innate and flawless, his instincts without question. Ellowyn began to see what all men saw in de Russe; she saw the black angel of legend. She saw Death.
When the battling pair came close and Ellowyn was forced to move away lest she become swept up in the maelstrom, she ended up tripping and falling to her knee. Her left hand, bracing against the fall, fell upon a heavy piece of wood. Ellowyn grasped it. As Brandt gored his opponent in the groin and the man fell on his back, Ellowyn picked up the wood and smashed it across his face several times, beating in his features until they were a bloody pulp. There was panic to her movements, and there was fear. But there was also unmitigated bravery.
Brandt was somewhat surprised to see her rather brutal move, but in hindsight, he should not have been. Ellowyn de Nerra had thus far proven herself a strong and fearless woman, and she never failed to impress him. He looked at her, and she looked at him, and for a moment, they just stared at each other. Something was in the air between them, something inviting and curious no less, very misplaced in the middle of a battle, but they could both feel it. At that moment something ignited, at least for Brandt. Sword in his left hand, he went to Ellowyn and very carefully tossed her up on his broad and armored shoulder. Without a word, he carried her off to safety.
CHAPTER NINE
“Welsh,” Dylan said grimly. “Our scouts said that they raided Kenilworth Castle to the south earlier today. Then they saw us and apparently saw something worth taking.”
It was just after sunset as Brandt stood outside of his tent, a massive structure that bore the black and white of the Duke of Exeter. The shelter, like all of the others pitched up around the edge of a small and dense forest to the south of Coventry, had seen more than its share of bad weather and use during Brandt’s campaign with the Black Prince in France. Everyone knew Exeter’s colors, announcing the onslaught of Edward’s war machine.
“They were furious and they were determined,” Brandt finally mumbled, scratching at his forehead. “To attack Kenilworth is foolish enough, but to attack a fully functional army smacks of madness. What is our final casualty count?”
“Eighteen dead and twenty seven wounded,” Dylan replied. “Most of the dead are de Nerra men. When the Welsh hit us, they slammed into their column first.”
Brandt grunted softly. “And they almost took the lady down with them,” he grumbled, shaking his head. “’Tis a miracle she was spared.”
“How is she?”
Brandt glanced around his senior Corp, standing in a semi-circle before him. They were still in full armor, battle-hardened men that were perhaps more comfortable in a fight than most. Alex and Magnus were sporting various cuts about the face but, for the most part, everyone had come through unscathed. His gaze came to rest on Brennan.
“Thanks to St. Hèver, she survived,” he said, his gaze fixed on the blond young knight. “His quick thinking is all that stood between her and certain death. Brennan, you are to be commended. Your father shall know of your valor.”
Brennan, standing between Stefan and Magnus, bowed his head modestly but
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