While Angels Slept (2 page)

A bulky figure
hastily blew down the stairs from the upper floor, nearly knocking her over.
She stepped aside as Brac’s father adjusted his too-tight armor against his
lumpy body.

“Damn pieces,”
he growled. “I must speak with the armorer. Someone has switched mail with me.”

Cantia didn’t
say what she was thinking; that perhaps Charles Penden had simply grown too fat
with his enormous appetite. The man could eat half a sheep at one sitting.

“We’ll make sure
to right it when you return,” she said patiently. “Brac awaits you in the
bailey, my lord.”

Charles response
was to grunt as he tightened the strap on his gauntlet. He was a big man, his
graying hair long and unkempt past his shoulders. He was gruff and rarely
smiled, and most of that was done in the presence of his beloved grandson. He
loved the boy almost more than he loved his own son. When Hunt turned away from
watching the activity in the ward and saw his grandfather, he attacked the man
with his wooden sword.

“See here!”
Charles said as Hunt smacked him with the weapon. “I am not the enemy, boy.”

Hunt whacked him
again on the thigh. “Fight me!”

Charles fought
off a smile. “When I return, perhaps I will,” he said. “For now, I must save my
skill and my strength for those I face today.”

“If you die, can
we have a grand funeral?”

“The largest the
land has ever seen.”

Hunt barred his
teeth menacingly and his grandfather broke down into soft laughter. “You’ll
make a fine knight someday.” Mussing the boy’s blond hair just as his father
had done, he disappeared through the open door that led to the ward.

As Hunt raced to
the archway to watch his father and grandfather depart for the conflict that
await them today, Cantia continued to stand where Brac had left her. She wasn’t
like the boy, eager to watch the men drain from the bailey in search of blood
and glory. She certainly wasn’t eager for any grand funerals. It was difficult
to stomach the departure of Rochester’s army from the safe confines of the
castle. War was never a simple thing and they had seen more than their fair
share over the past few years. Every time Brac returned to her safe, she
thanked God profusely for his grace. But she couldn’t help but wonder how long
His grace would hold. Brac and Charles tempted it almost daily.

She had things
to attend to do for the day. It was best that she focus on her tasks and not
her husband’s mortal situation. Herding Hunt away from the door and closing the
massive panel behind him, she diverted her warring son by tempting him with the
morning meal. Hunt had a good appetite like his father and grandfather. From
the shadows, a lanky yellow dog appeared and joined the lad as he raced into
the great hall with his wooden sword held high. George the dog was the
recipient of a wooden sword to the neck as Hunt sparred with his constant
companion. But the dog was used to the abuse. He settled at the foot of the
table while Hunt took a seat on the long, well-worn bench to await his food.
His mother brought bread and last night’s meat and Hunt fed the dog scraps
before he fed himself. George was a glutton like the rest of the Penden men.

Cantia took a
seat opposite her son, her morose thoughts on the army as it marched westward
towards the Dartford Crossing bridge.

CHAPTER
TWO

She didn’t
remember much of that night other than it was dark and there were many torches
illuminating the rectangular-shaped bailey of Rochester Castle. The army had
returned long after Brac had promised. There were many wounded. There were also
several dead. One look at her husband lying upon the cold, hard ground with two
arrows in his chest and one in his abdomen, and Cantia ceased to see anything
else. At that moment, she passed into a world that she had never hoped to be.

It was a
ghastly, dark place where she existed between denial and hope. She could hear
the noise of the ward around her but it sounded strange and muffled. Her heart
was pounding so hard that soon she could only hear the blood coursing through
her head. She stared at her husband’s supine form, wondering why he was simply
lying there with no one to help him. It took several long moments for her to
realize that he was beyond help.

She took a step
closer to him. Brac looked as if he was sleeping except for the ugly
projectiles sticking out of his body. She didn’t even notice the host of
knights now standing around, like vultures on a death vigil, watching her react
to life’s greatest tragedy. They had all seen this before; it never grew
easier. But what Cantia felt was far beyond pain. Slowly, her knees gave way as
she attempted to kneel beside her husband. Someone grabbed her elbow to help
her to the ground.

“Nay,” she
murmured, reaching out to touch the spiny arrows but recoiling as she drew too
close. “This cannot be.”

“We were
ambushed, my lady.” A voice beside her spoke. “Brac was at the front of the
column and took the worst of it.”

She absorbed the
words. Strangely, she felt no anguish at the knowledge, only peculiar numbness.
She reached out and touched his neck, feeling for the blood that should be
pumping through his body. There was none. His skin was strangely cold and
moist. She took hold of one of the arrows.

“I shall heal
him,” she said decisively. “We must remove the arrows. Come; someone help me.”

The men
surrounding her glanced at each other. “There will be no healing, Lady Penden.”
Another disembodied voice spoke. “Your husband is dead.”

She had begun to
pull at the arrow, stopping when she heard the word.
Dead
. It was the
spoken confirmation of what she already knew, but still, it was excruciating to
hear. Her arms suddenly went weak, as if her blood had just drained from her
body.  She could feel the cries bubbling in her throat as she gazed down at her
husband’s peaceful face.

There was a body
kneeling next to her; she could see his armored knees. She reached out,
grasping the hand that happened to be there. She didn’t even know who it belonged
to. She squeezed the hand as if to break it.

“He’s dead?” she
whispered tightly.

“Aye, my lady.”

She swallowed
hard, forcing down the ferocious sobs. “He felt no pain?”

The man next to
her, whose hand she clutched, spoke softly. “He was at peace with his passing.
His last thoughts were of you.”

She was too
stunned to know if she felt better or worse by that statement. “Did you comfort
him?”

“We held him, my
lady,” the man’s voice was low and soft. “We called him brother and told him of
our love.”

A sob escaped
her lips no matter how hard she tried to control it. She slapped a hand over
her mouth, the back of her fingers shoved into her teeth.

“But… he was at
peace, was he not?” she was starting to lose control. “He was soothed in those
last moments?”

“Aye,” the man
repeated himself quietly. “He asked that we look after you. He asked that we
tell you that he was honored to have been your husband.”

The horrid sobs
broke through again, one after another. Soon she could not control them and she
pitched forward onto Brac’s lifeless body. He was so cold and stiff. His arms
did not go around her as they usually did. But she could smell his scent, the
comforting musk that told her without sight or sound that he was her husband.
She pushed her face into his linen shirt, now exposed as the armor had been
removed. She inhaled deeply, smelling of him. She thought it would bring her
consolation but it did not. It only added to her pain. She held on fast and
wept deeply into his battered, cooling flesh.

Someone tried to
raise her but the hands were abruptly removed. She could hear voices behind
her; one of them was the voice that had so gently told her of Brac’s last
minutes.

“Give her a
moment to grieve.” The soft, deep voice was now laced with threat. “’Twill be
the last time she will see her husband in this life. At least give her that
courtesy.”

Another voice
could be heard in response; it was Charles. “Not out here in the ward for all
to see.” His tone was dangerously unstable. “I will not have my family show
weakness for the world to know.”

More arguing
voices. Someone was pulling Charles away; the man was crazed with grief over
his son’s death. Seeing Cantia sobbing over Brac’s body only inflamed the madness.
Cantia wept deeply, alternately cursing God and begging for a miracle. She had
no idea how long she lay there, spread over her husband’s body. All she knew
was that the torture she felt consumed every fiber of her being. It hurt simply
to live, to be left behind like a forgotten memory. In the midst of her torment,
calming hands touched her and there were lips by her ear.

“My lady,” a
gentle male voice spoke. “Let me get you inside. ‘Tis far too cold out here and
you must rest.”

She opened a
wet, swollen eye and glanced up, seeing her husband’s second in command. Myles
de Lohr’s familiar features were lined with grief. She put up a hand and
grabbed him as if afraid she would fall if she did not cling.

“He must be
taken care of,” her voice was a hoarse whisper.

“He shall,” he
reassured her, ever so gently pulling her away from the body. “I will tend him
myself, I swear it.”

“God was not
listening to my prayers this night, Myles. He and his angels must be sleeping,
for surely, they would have protected my husband had they been at their posts.”

“This I cannot
know, my lady. I am sorry that we failed to protect him since God could not.”

She continued to
stare into his face, the scruffy man with the haunting beauty whose skills were
so capable. ”Tell me again that he did not suffer,” she begged softly.

“He did not,”
Myles lied. Brac had lived for several long, agonizing minutes as he bled to
death. “He was at peace.”

As Myles helped
her stand, Cantia realized that she was still holding on to the hand that she
had gripped so tightly whilst kneeling. She had held it the entire time she had
wept over her husband’s body. She looked up at the man who had spoken so
soothingly in his soft, deep voice.

She did not
recognize him but that did not matter. Brac’s death was a bonding experience.
Everyone in that worried, tight circle of men was participating with her and
she felt akin to them.

“Did he speak of
Hunt?” she asked him.

The man patted
her hand as she clutched him. “He spoke of his family, my lady, of a little boy
who would one day bear his father’s weapon.”

Tears anew
sprang to her eyes as she was reminded of a son who was now fatherless. “I do
not know you.”

“Tevin du Reims,
my lady.”

Her eyes widened
slightly, the tears momentarily halted. “You…,” she breathed. “You are Viscount
Winterton.”

“I am.”

“You issued the
call to take the bridge.”

His piercing
dark eyes gazed steadily at her. “I did, my lady.”

Her first
reaction was to become irate and curse him, but she could not muster the
strength. Somewhere in the logical part of her mind that still remained, she knew
he was not at fault.

Her gazed turned
back to Brac, lying white and bloody on the ground. She tried to pull away from
Myles to return to her husband, but the knight held her fast. He would not let
her return to Death. They tried to help her walk back to the donjon, but her
legs would not function. Myles lifted her into his arms and carried her back to
the massive four-story keep that dominated Rochester Castle. 

It was very
late, well after midnight as the knights supporting the return of Empress Matilda
watched de Lohr return the lady to the keep. They were saddened by the waste of
Brac Penden, an unnecessary death in this dark and evil time. They were equally
saddened for the anguish brought upon Lady Penden.

Some of Penden’s
men led Charles away. The Steward of Rochester was still muttering to himself
madly, refusing to leave his son until his men forcibly removed him. Those
still crowded around Brac’s body gradually left, filtering away into the night
to take care of their horse or console themselves with drink. Aye, they had
retaken the bridge on this day, but the cost had been too high.

Viscount Winterton
and his knights were the only men remaining with Brac’s corpse when the others
had faded into oblivion. They knew that Myles would be back once he settled
Lady Penden and did not want to leave Brac’s body unattended. De Reims and his
men stood around, soft murmurs of conversation between them, waiting for this
hellish night to be over.

“He was a good
man,” a burly, red-haired knight approached the viscount. “He was well-liked.
This will be hard on his men.”

Tevin glanced at
one of his four most trusted knights. Sir Simon Horley was a ferocious fighter,
not given to fits of sentiment he was currently displaying.

“I fear this
will be harder on his father and wife,” Tevin’s dark eyes glanced up at
Rochester’s keep. “We’ve lost a fine knight, but they’ve lost considerably
more.”

Simon wandered
away, pacing around Brac’s body like a guard dog. Tevin’s gaze moved to the
three other knights who served him personally. Each man was worth his weight in
gold, skilled and powerful fighters. They all stood around Brac’s body,
protecting it, showing respect for Brac and his family. Soon enough, they would
put him in the ground and move beyond the grieving. But not tonight.

Tonight belonged
to Brac.

***

“We have a
problem.”

Settled in
Rochester’s warm, smoky solar with a cartograph of England spread out before
him, Tevin glanced up at the two knights standing in the doorway. Sir John
Swantey had uttered the ominous words and Tevin focused his attention on the
lanky, slender man.