While Angels Slept (4 page)

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.