Lords of Darkness and Shadow (109 page)

“Brac will be buried before sunset,” Tevin tightened the last strap of his expensive gauntlet and headed out of 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 the fact 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 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 Penden,” 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…?”

She slapped a hand over Hunt’s mouth and quickly turned him in the direction of the chapel. Tevin watched her nearly pull the child’s arm out of his socket in her haste to remove him.

“My lady?” he called after her. “A word, please.”

Cantia paused. Practically shoving Hunt back inside the chapel, she retraced her steps back to Tevin. When she forced herself to look at him, she swore the black eyes were twinkling.

“We will bury your husband at dusk,” he said quietly. “Since I will take care of all of the arrangements, perhaps you will go and rest until the time comes. Will there be anything else I can do for you?”

She shook her head, perhaps a bit too hard. “Nay, milord, you have already shown us far too much grace and generosity.”

Tevin stood there a moment, gazing at her. He wanted to talk to her more. He didn’t know why, but he did. Yet the situation did not warrant it, and he felt a bit caddish for even entertaining the thought. No matter how lovely the lady was, or how much he respected her character, she was a newly made widow and his thoughts were in appropriate. Besides… her status as a widow was at his doing.

He silently excused himself from her presence and turned away. He hadn’t taken three steps when shouts from the kitchen yard off to his left suddenly caught his attention. The servants were in an uproar. He caught two words: fire and steward. Before he realized it, he was off and running in that direction with Lady Penden close on his heels.

She had heard the screaming, too.

CHAPTER THREE

Standing in the middle of the kitchen yards, Charles had covered himself with oil and was holding a torch at arm’s length. Several frightened servants hovered in the yard, unsure what to do. By the time Tevin and Cantia got there, the Steward of Rochester was in the full stages of dementia, falling apart before their eyes.

“My God, my God,” the man yelled to the heavens. “Can you not take me instead? I give myself to you freely. Can you not leave my son here to finish his life?”

Cantia was horrified. Some of the other knights had heard the yelling and soon, Tevin was joined by Val, John, and his two remaining knights, Dagan Sutton and Gavril de Reigate.  Tevin held out his arm to stop them as the men began to spread out behind him, fearful that their presence would cause Charles to light himself immediately. Myles was the last one to arrive, his strong face tinged with shock. He went to stand next to Cantia, hoping to take her away from this. Tevin saw what the knight was up to and encouraged him.

“Get her out of here, de Lohr,” he whispered loudly. “Her presence will only inflame him.”

Cantia thought to resist, but something in Tevin’s dark eyes told her that he would not tolerate disobedience. She allowed Myles to turn her for the yard gate just as Hunt raced through it. Neither one of them was fast enough to stop him as he broke through and headed straight for Charles. He grabbed the old man around the legs, holding him fast.

“Grandfather!” the little boy wailed. “What are you doing? I would come, too!”

“No!” Cantia screamed.

She broke away from Myles but made it only a few feet before Tevin caught her. He ensnared her in his massive arms and there was no way to break free.

“Stop,” his mouth was by her ear. “You may only provoke him with whatever you say. The emotions between the two of you are raw. Let me deal with this.”

“But…
Hunt
!”

“I know.” His lips were on her flesh, his hot breath permeating her brain. “Trust me, Lady Penden. Please.”

She was bordering on panic. Her hand was at her mouth, holding in the hysterics, but she finally nodded. She had little choice but to trust him. Slowly, very slowly, Tevin released her back to Myles, his mind focused on the next step in his life. The Steward of Rochester was ready to die, that much was certain. But his five-year-old grandson did not understand any of this, and the child was in peril.

He had to get the boy.

“Penden,” Tevin moved towards him, very cautiously. “Look at what has happened. The lad knows nothing of what is going on. He is innocent. If you torch yourself and take him with you, God will make sure you spend all of eternity far away from Brac. You will never see him again, tucked away in the depths of hell only reserved for those who take their own life. And what of the boy? You would take his life with your selfishness. Does he not deserve to live?”

Dripping with the oil that he poured all over his head, Charles put his hand on the boy clinging to him. He struggled to hang onto the madness, now in conflict with his common sense.

“Someone come and claim the boy,” he said loudly. “He does not belong here.”

Tevin moved closer. “I will claim him. Throw the torch away and I will come near.”

That apparently wasn’t good enough. Charles looked down at his grandson, now slimy with oil. “Go,” he whispered huskily. “Go to your mother, boy. Give me a grand funeral, as grand as your father’s.”

Hunt shook his head. “Nay, grandfather. Pleath let me come with you.”

“You cannot. I go to be with your father.”

“But my father ith dead. I do not want you to be dead, too. You are my only father left. Why do you want to leave me?”

Charles stared at him. The determination of his actions began to slip away, fading until he could no longer hold on to it. But he wanted badly to maintain his focus. Still, Hunt’s soft words drilled into him as harshly as those arrows that had killed his son. They weakened him until he could no longer stand it. With a sob, high-pitched and uncontrolled, the torch tumbled from his fingers. Tevin dove for it before it could hit the ground and ignite the oil surrounding them.

The flame blew out before Tevin caught it. He lay in the dirt and oil, looking up to see Charles throw his arms around Hunt and weep like a woman. It was a heart-wrenching scene, the grief for Brac finally pouring out through every vein. But it did not erase the terror he had just put them all through. It was a struggle for Tevin not to become infuriated. While Charles held his grandson and wept, Tevin picked himself up and dusted off the dirt.

Cantia could hardly hold back the sobs. She was livid at what Charles had just put them all through, yet she could see his naked anguish for the loss of Brac. He’d held it in as long as he could and called it strength of character. But the strength would not hold, and the grief demanded to be felt. As she walked towards them, she thought to snatch Hunt away to punish Charles for his uncontrolled lunacy. But she hadn’t the heart. Instead, she went to Tevin.

“My lord,” she said, her voice quivering with emotion. “I have not the words to adequately thank you for what you have done for us. I fear that you will leave Rochester believing we are a foolish bunch. Believe me when I say that we are not. We are simply… shattered at the moment. Please forgive us our weakness.”

His dark eyes were intense. “There is nothing to forgive, Lady Penden. You and your family have suffered a great tragedy. Your emotions are understandable.”

“You are far too kind, my lord.”

He lifted a dark eyebrow at her. “Nay, I am not.” He handed Myles the torch when the knight came up behind Lady Penden. “In fact, I must ask your forgiveness for what I am about to do.”

“What is that?”

Tevin’s gaze moved between Cantia and Myles. “I must rally the men of Rochester once again. We ride at dawn.”

“My lord?” Myles asked, somewhat surprised.

“Dartford Crossing has been captured once again by Stephen’s forces,” Tevin told him. “We must retake it.”

Cantia drew in a sharp breath and lowered her gaze, unwilling to let them see her fear. Tevin waited for more of a response, but she gave none. He focused on Myles.

“Rally your men, de Lohr,” he said. “Make them ready to ride before sun up. Tell them of our destination; I would have them understand that we must retake this bridge at all costs. Let Brac Penden’s death be the rally cry. I refuse to let that man die in vain.”

Myles bowed swiftly and was gone, but not before casting a long glance at Charles, still huddled on the ground with Hunt in his arms. Tevin would never forget the look of disgust on the man’s face; it was difficult to have such little respect for those you served. He watched de Lohr quit the yard before emitting a low, sharp whistle between his teeth. It was the signal for his knights, like one would whistle for a horse or a dog. The knights knew that sound and knew it well. The five of them were still in the yard, near the gate, and immediately looked over at Tevin when they heard the shrill sign. All he had to do was nod and they disappeared through the gate to carry out their liege’s wishes.

The servants had drifted away when the crisis was over, leaving the kitchen yard essentially empty. Tevin stood a few feet away from Cantia, watching her as she struggled with her emotions. He took a few steps and stood next to her.

“I will take the Steward with me,” he said quietly. “Perhaps taking him back to battle, to the same place where his son fell, will give him a sense of vengeance. Perhaps it will end this madness he displays.”

She looked up at him, those magnificent lavender eyes full of tears that she quickly blinked away. “I would be grateful, my lord.”

He almost reached out to pat her arm, an innocent gesture of reassurance, but he stopped himself. It was not appropriate, harmless as it was. But it did not prevent him from giving her a tight smile, one full of regret and pity, as he left her side. Charles was still on his knees and Tevin paused a few moments beside him, speaking low words that Cantia could not hear. Very soon, Charles stiffly stood up and released Hunt. Woodenly, he followed his liege from the yard.

Hunt’s sweet face watched his grandfather go. He was wracked with confusion, with grief, as only a youngster could understand it. He looked up at his mother when she walked up beside him and took his little hand.

“Isth Grandfather going to be all right?” he asked.

Cantia did the only thing she could do; she nodded. “Aye, he will.” She touched his face, so very grateful that he was unharmed. “You were very brave, Hunt. I am sorry if your grandfather frightened you.”

They stared to leave the yard. “I wathn’t scared,” he declared boldly. “But I wath afraid that Grandfather would hurt himself.”

“You saved your grandfather. I am proud of you.”

Hunt didn’t understand the all of that statement so he shrugged. He looked at the gate where his grandfather and the viscount had just disappeared. “Where are they going now?”

“To prepare for your father’s funeral.”

“Isth it going to be grand?”

“The grandest.”

Hunt fell silent as they crossed the threshold of the yard gate and continued out into the bailey.

“Mam?”

“Aye, my love?”

“Can we bury my father with my sword?”

The ever-present tears sprang to Cantia’s eyes but she held them back. She would not let Hunt see her devastation at the poignancy of his sweet question.

“Aye, my darling,” she said tightly. “I think he would like that.”

***

As Tevin had told her, the funeral commenced at dusk. Every man, woman and child at Rochester held a single taper that, when lit, created an unearthly glow that illuminated the entire ward. Shadows danced against the massive stone walls, undulating shades of grays and blacks. The knights were in full armor, their mail coats glistening wickedly in the candlelight, as the mood of the place lay heavy in the air. It was Brac Penden’s final time and all were appropriately somber.

The populace moved from the gates of the castle, heading down the road for the great cathedral of Rochester. It was a long, slow procession, full of bleak grief and the uncertainty of the times. Down the road went the ghostly wraiths, some on horseback, most walking, all of the carrying the light of hundreds of candles. The illumination gave the procession a surreal glow, as grand as Hunt could have ever hoped. Once inside the massive house of worship built by the bishop Gundulf in the year ten hundred eighty, the cavernous hall filled quickly to capacity.

Brac had been placed near the altar, dressed in his finest and draped with flowers from his wife’s garden. Stalks of foxgloves mingled with roses from the vine. Myles and the knights from the Viscount Winterton’s army had carefully cleaned and dressed Brac for his viewing. Lady Penden had been enormously thankful for their care of him. He looked peaceful and ready for eternal sleep.

The cathedral was lit with dozens of fat tapers as the soft wail of the monks droned in the background. The Archbishop of Rochester had been called to preside over the funeral, but the messenger had not been able to get through to London where the Bishop was in residence. Therefore, a local clergyman from Northaven was summoned to do the duty.

After the lament of the monks ceased, the priest began the funeral liturgy. Cantia stood in the front of the cathedral with Hunt to one side and Charles to the other. She knew that the Viscount Winterton and the other knights were standing directly behind her, as she had seen them upon entering the chapel. Myles de Lohr was as somber as she had ever seen him, nearly close to tears, she thought. He and Brac had known each other since they had been squires, a long friendship that had seen life and death together. Though his blue eyes were watery, his appearance was neat and his collar-length blond hair was combed. He had forced a smile when their eyes met, but there was no warmth to it. He was as miserable as she was.

The funeral mass was in Latin. Cantia’s father had taught her the language at a young age, when it was a rarity for a female to know how to read or speak it. It was a male language, reserved only for the educated. But she knew it, and she understood everything the priest said as he spoke his low, soothing words.

Hunt kept asking her if the funeral was grand enough. She finally had to hush him so that she could concentrate on her prayers. Over her shoulder, Myles finally motioned to the boy and Hunt left his mother to go stand with the knights. Myles was something of an uncle to him, sometimes to the point of conflict. In very rare times when his father would deny him something, perhaps a toy or an activity, Hunt would run straight to Myles, who would more often than not make him feel better with some manner of distraction. Now, with Brac gone, Myles felt more protective of the lad than ever. The situation earlier in the kitchen yard had strained every ounce of his self-control; had he possessed any less, he would have throttled Charles. But his was a peculiar position in life; a substitute father to Hunt, yet a servant to him as well. When the fidgeting child left his mother to come to him, Myles picked him up so that he could see where his father lay.

Too soon, the liturgy was over. Too soon did they want to put Brac in the crypt. Cantia realized that she wasn’t ready for that moment as the knights broke rank to collect the body of their liege and deposit it in the crypt next to his long-passed mother. The monks began their lament again and Cantia could hear the blood pulsing in her ears. Her control began to slip. Pushing her way through the knights bearing her husband’s body, she took one last look at Brac’s handsome face, fighting the torment and anguish that was roiling up inside her.