Lords of Darkness and Shadow (108 page)

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. Du 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.

“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 Empresses’ 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 began shoving 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.