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 thi
ngs 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.
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 fatherles
s. “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.”
Masters of Medieval Romance: Series Starters Volume 1 Page 43