Her lavender gaze traveled over him, indeed, her irises were lavender. A shade of blue so pure that that it was nearly purple. Surrounded by a hedge of dusky lashes that mirrored the titian color of her hair, Cantia du Bexley Penden was all shades of loveliness. A thousand degrees of beautiful, her husband called her. But eyes so lovely could go from passionate to furious faster that the human mind could track. Her husband both feared and revered that particularly gift.
“Why do you stare at me so?” Brac Penden held out his hands with mock confusion. “Have you never seen a man dressed for battle before?”
She lifted a well-shaped eyebrow and sauntered in his general direction. “I’ve seen you dressed for battle more times than I can count,” she replied.
“That would stand to reason since, as son of the Steward of Rochester, I have been in more battles than I can count.”
“Such was my misfortune for marrying into the heirs of Rochester. You’re a warring bunch.”
His grin broadened. “Such is the price of privileged servitude. We are stewards of the bishops of Rochester and, by this privilege, we go where we are told to go and fight whomever we are told to fight. Of course, in payment we are allowed to live in this fine castle….”
“A cold, howling mess of stone and mortar.”
He held up a finger to hush her so he could finish his sentence. “And we are granted the lordship of Gillingham, of which you enjoy the status. Now, have you any further complaints to voice before I quiet you?”
He said it lightly, as it was meant. She approached from his right, coming to rest just out of arm’s reach. “Nay,” she said softly. “I’ve become accustomed to the way of things though I must voice my concerns once in a while or I will surely go mad. More often than not I have the utmost confidence in your return from these skirmishes. But today seems… different.”
“Why? Because of a red dawn?”
“Perhaps.”
Brac was a tall man with an equally long reach, yet he did not grab for her. There was something in her expression that did not invite it. Well built, with a battle-conditioned body and shaggy blond hair that curled and poked in every direction, he was handsome in a way that men often are who have achieved wisdom and character. It was more than his appearance. It was his heart and soul beneath. There was a gentle humor about him, so easy to laugh, so easy to become emotional. It was a time when men seldom showed their emotion. But Brac wore his on his sleeve. And he obviously, insanely, doted on his lovely wife and small son as few men would allow themselves to.
“We more than likely will not see any action today,” he said to be of some reassurance. “Some of the king’s forces have taken control of the bridge at Dartford and we must retake it. They will not risk an assault on the bridge that Rochester protects along the Medway, so they go further west to attack the larger crossing that has no such local protection. But I am sure that I shall be home before nightfall.”
“Who has issued this call for aid?”
“Viscount Winterton,” Brac replied. “Tevin du Reims. You have heard his name.”
“Aye,” she said quietly, remembering the implication that name brought about. “You have fought for him before.”
“I have.”
“You said the man is more formidable than anyone on the field of battle and that his own men have been known to fear him. Is he so terrible, then?”
Brac fussed with a strap on his shoulder protection. “You have only to see the man to understand why such things are said about him. He looks like a barbarian and fights like Lucifer himself.” He leaned down and picked his gauntlet off the floor. He held it out to her with a gentle smile on his face. “Help me, please.”
After a brief hesitation, she took the gauntlet and held it firm as he shoved his big hand into it. Then she helped him with the other. A perusal of his body showed that he already wore his mail coat, the hood of his hauberk still draped down the back of his neck, and his greaves. His legs had taken a beating over the years as the scarred leather armor on his legs showed that clearly. She was disappointed that there was nothing else she could assist him with.
“Your squire has you well dressed,” she said, almost sadly. “There is nothing more I can do.”
Her husband read her expression. It wasn’t like her to be so melancholy at this time. While other women threw themselves into fits with weeping as their men departed for war, Cantia would smile and pretend that all would be well. He depended on that to see him through these struggles that were consuming their new nation. It was King Stephen against Empress Matilda, ripping the country to shreds with their demands for the throne. Everything the Duke of Normandy had fought for was in jeopardy and the new country that was England threatened to collapse on itself.
And the barons were caught in the maelstrom, Brac along with them. It was his duty as heir to Stewardship of Rochester. But no, he shook himself inwardly. His duty was to Cantia and their son, Hunt. His duty was to provide a safe country in which to raise his family.
He gazed down into that sweet face he knew so well. She was slender and strong, of average height that appeared short against his tall stature. To be with her, to touch her, balanced his entire world. He had known her since she had been a small child, when he knew that he would marry her someday. He’d never been without her.
“What is the matter with you?” he murmured. “You are usually far better company than this.”
She gazed up at him, unsure how to answer. His normal manner was to jest until she was nearly crazy with it. Today she had no patience for his levity.
“I cannot say,” she said. “All I know is that the sky is filled with blood. It gives me a feeling of doom.”
“Are you a prophet, then?” he lifted his eyebrows.
“Of course not.”
He grinned and kissed her forehead. “Nay, you are not. And I will hear no more of this foolishness. My men are waiting for me in the courtyard, growing fat and lazy as we speak.”
She reached out to grasp his hand even as he moved for the door. She could not explain why she did not want to let him go, only that she did not. As Brac lifted the latch, a small boy suddenly came rushing in. Robust and tow-headed, he held a small wooden sword in his hand and thrust it at his father.
“Die, fool!” the child cried. When the man didn’t react fast enough, he threw up his arms. “Fall down already. I’ve kilt you!”
Brac grabbed his gut as if mortally wounded and fell to one knee. “Mighty Sir Hunt,” he grunted. “Could you not have spared my life, O Great One? Must you kill me in front of my wife?”
The little boy pointed at him with his imperious sword. “Die and be done with it. I would bury you now with a grand funeral.”
“How grand?”
“The grandesth!”
Brac sprawled out on the floor, but not without a tremendously painful and overly-dramatic scene of death. Even his death throes had death throes. His son grinned triumphantly then pounced on his father’s stomach. Brac grunted loudly and put his arms around the leaping child. His booming laughter filled the room.
“You should not encourage his unhealthy preoccupation with funerals,” Cantia scolded softly. “He buries everything he comes across: mice, bugs, animals….”
Father and son continued to tussle. “I see nothing unhealthy with a grand funeral other than the fact that someone has to die in order to have one,” Brac said.
“That is not the least bit humorous.”
“Aye, it is.”
“Can I go into battle with you, Father?” Hunt ignored his mother completely. “I can fight. I have weaponths!”
Brac sat up. “Soon, little man,” he rose to his feet, gingerly rubbing his stomach where the boy had leapt on him. “When you are old enough, I should be proud to ride into battle with you.”
Huntington Penden had turned five years old last week and, with his latest birthday, was convinced he was man enough to do just about anything his father did. Brac’s answer did not
please him, but he did his best not to argue. Knights did not argue. They simply followed orders.
“Nexth time?” he asked.
Brac’s blue eyes twinkled at the boy. “I shall consider it. But until then, I will leave you here to take care of your mother. That is the most important task of all.”
Hunt nodded seriously. “Aye.”
“Do not let her come to harm. I am depending on you.”
“I won’t.”
Hunt had a thick tongue and a bit of a lisp. But it was part of his charm. Brac ruffled the child’s downy head. “Good lad.” Glancing at the boy’s mother once again, he could see right through her thin smile. She was still worried. He put his arm around her as he led her out the door. “I would have beef tonight for sup. And none of those turnips you and the cook harvested last week, they’re bitter and foul. But I will have some of those honey cakes with the nuts on them.”
Cantia nodded, memorizing his wishes. “It shall be done, my lord.”
They descended the narrow steps to the great central room below. It was bitterly cold outside and Brac did not want her out in the midst of it. So he faced her at the bottom of the steps while Hunt stood beside them, more interested in his sword than his parents’ farewell.
“Your weapon?” Cantia asked.
“My squire has it outside.”
She nodded, satisfied. But the longer she stared at him, the more anxious she became. “Oh, Brac,” she whispered. “Please… perhaps you could not go, just this once.”
He kissed her to silence her, drawing a snort of disgust from his son. “I shall see you again before the sun sets,” he whispered against her mouth. “Have you no faith in my abilities?”
“Of course I do. You’re a magnificent knight. But you cannot always control.…”
“You are damaging my confidence. Tell me you have faith in me.”
She could see that he would not take her seriously. Or, at least, he wanted her to think that. Looking deep into his blue eyes, she could see a flicker of longing and a shadow of fear.
“I have faith in you,” she whispered.
“Swear it.”
“I do.”
His easy grin was back. He blew a kiss at her as Hunt chased him out the door, slapping his wooden sword against his father’s mail coat. Cantia’s last vision of her husband was as he grinned at his son, descending the steps into the bailey and leaving her line of sight. She stood there for a moment staring at the empty doorway as if hoping he’d make a sudden reappearance. But the doorway remained open, yawning and empty. She could hear noise wafting up from the bailey below, the sounds of men and war horses mobilizing for battle. It was a smelly, frenzied, disorienting sound.
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. 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 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 in.
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 moaned, 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 gentle. “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.