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.
“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 gaze 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 horses or console each other 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. Du Reims and his men stood around, quiet moments 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 that 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 cartographer’s drawing 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.
“What problem is that?” he asked.
The knight sighed. “Charles Penden. He refuses to let us bury his son. He wants to burn him instead.”
“What does the wife say?”
“She’s nearly gone to blows with him.”
Tevin stared at him a moment before slowly rising from the massive table that held the well-worn map. His expression was pensive. “We have more of a problem than that. I received word this morning that Dartford Crossing has been reclaimed by the opposition.”
John’s eyebrows lifted, perhaps in disbelief and some frustration. “Then we retake it, my lord?”
Tevin shrugged as if John had just made the most obvious statement in the world. “We’ve no choice. That bridge is our link to London and regions beyond.” He thumped the vellum beside him. “But what I cannot figure out is if the king’s forces, specifically Worcester, is trying to separate me from my seat or if by taking control of the crossing, they’re trying to separate the Empress’ concentration of forces. To separate Kent from London would be a great feat.”
“And to take Thunderbey Castle would be a stroke of excellent fortune.” The second knight spoke, although it was not in a tone that one would have expected from a warrior. This knight was smaller, wearing heavy mail that seemed absurd on such a slight frame.
At second glance, one would notice that the knight was, in fact, a woman. Lady Valeria du Reims had been fighting with her older brother since she had been a very young woman. She was fierce in battle, though Tevin knew he should not allow it. Still, he had never been able to deny her. Val did as she pleased and Tevin was weak enough to let her. If he’d tried to stop her, she’d only go fight for someone else. It was a pity as well. She was a lovely girl with pale red hair and luminous dark eyes. She would have made an excellent match as Viscount Winterton’s sister. But in her current state, she would only make some man an excellent knight instead of a wife, and there was no market for that sort of
thing.
No matter how Tevin approved or disapproved of her behavior, one thing was for certain; her advice was always sage and he valued it. He felt all the more guilty for his selfishness.
“They’ll not take my seat, no matter how they try,” he said. “Thunderbey is well fortified. She’ll hold against any onslaught. But they could separate us from it.” He picked up his gauntlets and shoved them on his fingers. “All that aside, we must bury Brac Penden before his body begins to rot. It’s been nearly three days that he’s lain in that tiny chapel across the ward. I do not believe his wife has left his side.”
“She hasn’t,” Val said. “Nor has that little boy.”
Tevin knew that. He’d been kept abreast of the behavior of the Penden family. Other than the breakdown in the ward the night they had brought Brac home, Lady Penden had shown remarkable control. She remained quiet and calm, praying for endless hours over the body of her husband. Tevin respected that. What he did not respect was Charles Penden’s mad ravings day and night about the fate of his dynasty. He’d had them all on edge. Lady Penden had ignored him for the most part. John’s report of the conflict between the two was the first he had heard in three days. If Charles were incapable of making the decision to bury his son, then as his liege, Tevin would be forced to do it.
“Brac will be buried before sunset,” Tevin tightened the last strap of his expensive gauntlet and headed out the door. “Inform the men of our plans and tell them that we move out before dawn. I will go speak with the family.”
“The Steward is dangerously brittle,” Val said. “He does not think clearly.”
“Where is he?”
“The last I saw, standing outside of the chapel.”
The solar was off the great hall. Tevin, Val and John marched through the empty room, listening to their boots echo off the plank floor. The hall was eerily still. They moved through the front door, the same door that Brac had quit days before when it had been his last day on earth. The wooden steps, made portable so they could be raised in case the ward was breached, creaked under their combined weight as they descended. Once on the solid dirt of the bailey, Tevin turned to the right and headed to the chapel.
Had he not been so focused on the task at hand, he would have noticed that it was a spectacular fall day. The sun was shining and a soft breeze fluttered the banners that flew high upon the parapets. Days like this were rare. But the weather remained unnoticed as the chapel came within sight and Charles Penden with it. The man was standing outside the door of the tiny, wooden structure built within Rochester’s great walls. His appearance was unkempt, his graying hair long and dirty as he worried his hands through it nervously. Tevin knew he was in for trouble before he even reached him.
*
Cantia heard the voices from the bailey. One was soft, deep and calm, while the other was unsteady and tense. She recognized the second voice as that of Brac’s father, but did not immediately identify the second. Whoever it was, he was not succumbing to Charles’ psychosis. She could sense that the situation was escalating.
Excusing herself from her kneeling position next to her husband’s lifeless body, she went to the door and opened it. Charles was pacing back and forth in front of the chapel, kicking up clods of dirt with his emotional stomping. Several feet away, evenly planted, stood Viscount Winterton.
Cantia took a moment to study the man who had been in command when Brac had met his death. She’d not given him another thought until this very moment. He was tall, extremely broad shouldered, with enormous hands that rested comfortably at his sides. She had remembered the size of his hands from the night of Brac’s death when she had clutched one of them so very tightly.
She looked closely at his face. He wasn’t young, nor was he old. He had piercing dark eyes, so dark that they were nearly black, and a decisively square jaw. He wasn’t unattractive in the least. In fact, he was extremely handsome if she thought about it. But the one thing that she noticed about him above all else was that he did not groom himself in the Norman fashion. While knights of the realm shaved their faces clean and wore their hair in various lengths of short, the Viscount Winterton’s hair was long, well past his shoulders. It was the color of tarnished copper, dark and glittery, tumbling in spiral tendrils across his shoulders. He pulled the front of it back behind his head to keep it out of his eyes, but the rest of it was wild and free. And upon his face he wore a well-trimmed beard and mustache, evidence that he did indeed take some stock in his appearance.
Aye, he was a bit of a curiosity at first glance, like a beautiful untamed horse. Yet she did not sense cruelty or unkindness from him. That had never been her first impression. He may have looked like a barbarian, but he had the manners of a gentle knight. When he caught her looking at him, he bowed his head in greeting and acknowledgement. The action jolted her from her thoughts. Slightly embarrassed that she had been caught staring at him, she spoke.
“What goes on here?” she said to him, to Charles. “I could hear your voices inside.”
Tevin’s dark eyes appraised her for a moment before answering. He’d first seen the woman that horrible night of her husband’s passing when she had not been at her best. Now, in the sunlight and properly dressed, he was rather struck with the fact that she was an exquisite creature. Her rich brown hair with flame-colored highlights was caught in a simple braid, yet on her, it was like wearing a strand of rubies. Her figure, slender in the middle yet round in all of the right places, wore a simple broadcloth gown like a goddess. Aye, she was a unique example of a woman. He’d never seen finer. But he realized he’d been staring at her too long, so he answered.
“The Steward seems to believe that cremating his son is in everyone’s best interests,” he said. “I was simply telling him that civilized people do not burn their dead like yesterday’s rubbish.”
Cantia’s lavender eyes flew to her father-in-law. “Indeed they do not,” her voice was strong. “Brac will be buried with his ancestors in the crypt at Rochester.”
Charles’ pacing came to a stop. He glowered at her. “Cremation is an honorable burial,” he growled. “I intend to go with him.”
Tevin had heard that part earlier in their conversation, hoping that he would not restate it for the lady. It was the madness speaking. He glanced at Cantia to gauge her reaction. As he’d come to expect from the lady, she did not outwardly respond. But her spectacular eyes did, in fact, narrow.
“Would that I could let you,” she growled back at him. “But you have a position to upkeep and a grandson who looks up to you. Do you think it would be easy on Hunt were he to lose his grandfather and father at the same time? Did you stop to think of that, you old fool?”
A bit ferocious, but Tevin was impressed. The lady wasn’t about to let a madman march all over her. A lesser woman would have simply succumbed, but not Lady Penden. In those few short moments, his respect for her grew.
“Speak not to me of sons, lady,” Charles snapped, “for I have lost mine. You still have yours.”
“But your son was my husband,” she bit back. “I have lost all that is dear to me in this world. Aye, I still have Hunt and for that I am deeply grateful, but never again will I know the warmth that was my dear Brac. Stop acting as if you are the only person at Rochester who is feeling pain with all of this. Cease this madness and act like an honorable man.”
Charles puffed out his chest as if preparing to come back at her, but he suddenly slumped. It was as if all of the wind had left him. He turned away from Cantia, his tired old gaze moving over the lines of Rochester’s massive keep. His pale face grew even more ashen.
“My son is gone,” he half-whispered, half cried. “I would join him, I swear it.”
Cantia did not know what more to say. She glanced at Tevin, still standing strong and silent several feet away. His piercing eyes, focused on Charles as the old man wandered away, turned to her.
“I fear that my duties have taken me away from being of complete service to you, Lady Pe
nden,” he took a few steps towards her. “I’ve left you alone in all of this and for that, I deeply apologize. Is there anything I can do for you?”
She gazed up at him, her lavender eyes glistening with unshed tears. Tevin could see that the strength she had exhibited against Charles was purely for appearance. Inside, she was dying.
“Aye, my lord, there is,” she said softly. “You can help me bury my husband in a manner befitting his distinction.”
“It would be my honor, my lady. I will see to it personally.”
Her lovely face seemed to relax. Before she could reply, a small boy exited the chapel, his blue eyes blinking at the brightness of the sun. Seeing his mother, he scurried over to her.
“Mama?” he slipped his hand into hers. “I’ve given Da my sword. He isth holding it now. Would you like to see? I think we should bury him with it. He would like that, don’t you think?”
Cantia very nearly lost her fragile control. Her other hand went to her chest, pressing against it as if to hold in all of the emotion that was threatening to burst out. As she struggled to form a reply, Tevin could see the turmoil in her face. He quickly thought to give her time to compose herself.
“Little man,” he addressed Hunt. “What is your name?”
Hunt’s enormous blue eyes focused on him. “Huntington Penden. What isth yours?”
It was a bold question. “Tevin du Reims,” he replied, fighting off a grin.
“Viscount Winterton,” Cantia whispered hoarsely to her son. Tevin could see the tears were still very much on the surface. “Show him all due respect, Hunt. He is your liege.”
Hunt’s expression didn’t change. He continued to size the big man up. “You are a viscount?”
“Aye.”
“But I thought viscounts were mean, gluttonous men?”
Tevin cracked a smile while his mother nearly choked. “Hunt,” she snapped softly. “You will apologize immediately.”
The child had no idea what he had said wrong. “But you said that the nobility of England wasth full of fat, gluttonous old men who live off the life and death of their vassals. Didn’t you…?”