While Angels Slept (6 page)

 She remained in
her chamber as the day progressed. Hunt ran in and out with George on his
heels, hurting with his father’s passing but displaying the resilience only
children are capable of. Brac’s death would not set in for a long time yet,
when the days and months passed and Hunt realized his father was never coming
home. That was the finality of death. Right now, it was a concept and nothing
more.

Time seemed to
have little meaning as the sun moved across the sky. Cantia gaze was fixed
outside of the lancet window, her thoughts lingering on the past where Brac was
the center of her world. She was not yet ready to accept that her world was
forever changed. Perhaps it was still too soon. Perhaps she was not a good,
sensible wife in not accepting that change immediately. She didn’t know. All
she knew was that she was living in limbo, dulled by grief and uninterested in
what went on around her.

Hunt’s chamber
was across the hall. The doors to both bowers were open, allowing the child to
flow between the two. He was hungry at some point and Cantia left her chair to
take him down to the hall to request food. The servants moved around her
quietly, whispering in the shadows of their sorrowful lady. She knew that they
were speaking of her in hushed tones and it inflamed her, but there was naught
she could do about it. Most of the servants had been at Rochester since before
she had arrived and they had watched her and Brac’s life together. They knew
how badly this was affecting her.

One of the older
serving women finally took pity on her and took Hunt outside in the yard to
play. Between Hunt’s shouts and the dog barking, the hall was abruptly silent
as soon as the child left the keep. It was, in fact, dissonantly quiet. Cantia
sat at the table she had shared with Brac so many times, feeling his ghost all
around her. Instead of comforting her, it brought anxiety. She fled the hall
for the safety of her bower.

She had sought
peace. Instead, she found even greater ghosts. In the large chamber she had
once shared with her husband, the sensations were heady and cloying. The room
smelled of him and she couldn’t shake the sensation of desolation. She had
tried so hard to keep the agony at bay, but it was stronger than she was. It
began to overtake her. Small sobs turned into body wracking sobs, which
transformed into physical pain. Eventually there was so much pain that she couldn’t
stand it. Gasping for air, she caught sight of the small, lady-like dagger that
Brac had purchased for her when he had visited York. It sat with some of her
other valuables on her dressing table. She stumbled over to it, picking it up
to examine the delicately bejeweled handle, remembering how Brac had taught her
how to wield it.

Sobbing, she
dragged the razor-sharp tip across her wrist lightly. It was enough to create a
small red line across her flesh. She had hardly felt it. She wondered if a deeper
cut would hurt more. She wondered if Brac would be angry with her for being so
weak.

She pointed the
tip at her wrist again. At the precise moment she planned to thrust it deep, a
herald sounded from the parapet of Rochester’s walls and the small crew of
soldiers began to run about in a frenzy. The noise distracted her. Cantia
forgot about the dagger and went to the window, watching the returning army
approach from the west. The sight should have brought her joy, but it did not.
The last time the army returned, it was with Brac’s body.

She went back
and found the dagger.

***

The contingent
holding the bridge at Dartford had been considerably larger this time around.
Consequently, there were quite a few injured, some of them severely. The battle
had been brutal and close-quartered, hand-to-hand combat that had exhausted
everyone.

The returning
army made haste to get inside the ward of Rochester so that the gates could be
closed and fortified. A few hundred exhausted men functioning as archers were
sent to the walls. Rochester was under lockdown with the opposing army on the
approach. A battle was in the air, though the men in charge of Rochester’s
defenses were confident in her abilities to hold fast. No one had ever breached
her.

Myles had
command of the walls, while Simon Horley had charge of the ward and men on the
ground. Charles wandered between the two locales creating more trouble than
helping; the man still wasn’t right in the head and most everyone ignored him.
But the command of Rochester had to be divided because Tevin was else occupied;
Val had been knocked from her charger and had taken a serious blow to the ribs.
 Tevin had carried his sister, literally, the entire way back to Rochester.  He
was, at the moment, only concerned for her and little else.  He had to trust
the defense of the castle to his dependable men.

The great hall
was quickly transformed into a surgeon’s ward, though they had no surgeon.
Cantia had always performed most of the healing duties with the exception of
when she gave birth to Hunt and Brac had summoned a physic from Canterbury.
Even then, she thought to tell the man how to do his job because healing was a
skill she had worked to acquire. When Tevin burst into the hall supporting an
injured knight, the servants moved into action. It took some coaxing, but they
managed to take the wounded comrade from the viscount and lay him upon the
ground. The next step was to find Lady Penden.

When the
servants vacated in search of water, medicaments and the lady of the keep,
Tevin was left crouched next to his sister. He tried to remove her mail but
didn’t get very far. He had to lift it over her head but couldn’t manage to do
so without causing her excruciating pain. So he gave up for the moment, waiting
for Lady Penden to appear. Several long minutes passed until his anxiety was at
a splitting level. He could no longer wait. He turned to go and find the lady
himself but ran straight into Hunt.

The boy had been
standing silently next to him, a wooden cart in one hand and something that
looked like a toy ballista in the other. His blue eyes were wide on the knight
lying on the floor.

“Ith he hurt?”
he asked.

Tevin nodded.
“Aye,” he didn’t want to have a conversation with the boy. He wanted action.
“Where is your mother?”

“In her room,” the
lad replied. “How bad ith he hurt?”

“Bad enough,”
Tevin snapped before thinking. He saw Hunt’s expression at his tone but he
could not manage to calm himself. “I must go find your mother.”

“She hath locked
the door,” Hunt said, almost casually. Then his voice picked up. “Do not worry;
we shall give the knight a grand funeral if he dies.”

More wounded
were being brought in all around them. The more serious were placed near the
hearth, while those who were still conscious were moved to the walls to be out of
the way. Tevin left the boy standing there and made his way to the narrow
stairs that led to the third floor. Just as he mounted the bottom step, a
frail-looking servant came barreling down as if to knock him down. The old
woman’s face was taut.

“My lord,” she
said. “The lady… she does not answer. Her door is locked and I cannot get in.”

Tevin did not
understand why that was so urgent, but he moved around the woman and took the
stairs to the next level. There was a small landing and two doors; one was open,
with a small bed inside and toys strewn about. A big yellow dog lay sleeping on
the bed. Tevin tried to lift the latch of the second door, which was indeed
locked.

“She never locks
her door,” the worried servant was behind him. “She was weeping this morn… I am
afraid for her, my lord. She’s not been right since the lord passed.”

That was Tevin’s
first inkling as to why the servant seemed to be so worried. It also clarified
the boy’s statement of the mother’s door being locked. He rattled the door
latch.

“Lady Penden?”
he called softly. “Please open the door. We have a good deal of wounded that
require your attention.”

He received no
reply. Rattling the lock once more, he again spoke softly, asking her to come
forth. Still no answer. When the servant began to whine with fear, he took
action. There was no time for pensive ponderings or sweet pleas. Something was
wrong. Even if there was not, the lady was required in the hall and he would
not tolerate her stubbornness.

Tevin was a
broad man; though his may not have possessed the lanky height that Brac had, he
was nearly twice as wide. The width of his shoulders was the first thing anyone
noticed about him. Lowering a massive shoulder, he took a large lead before
ramming the left side of his body into the door. The panel creaked and shook,
but remained fast. Standing back, he lashed out an enormous booted foot and
kicked the latch. The iron twisted. With another kick, it bent further and
splintered the wood around it. Tevin gave one last kick, with a grunt this
time, and the door swung open.

The room was
large and cluttered, but comfortable. Tevin’s dark eyes darted around the room
in search of the lady, finally coming to rest on a titian-colored head on the
opposite side of the bed. He rounded the furniture, seeing that Lady Penden was
sitting upright on the floor, leaning against the bed. Her head was down,
staring at her lap. She was unmoving, like stone.

That was enough
for Tevin; with a growl, he chased the vexed servant from the room. He did not
want anyone else to view the scene.

When the damaged
door slammed shut and they were alone, he knelt beside her, trying to assess her
state. With all of his other worries, he could have easily become angry that
she had added to them. But all he could manage to feel at the moment was
extreme concern.

“My lady?” he
said quietly. “Can you hear me?”

Her luscious
reddish-brown head bobbed slightly. Her hair was askew, covering her features.
“Are you injured?” he asked gently.

After an eternal
pause, she shook her head sluggishly. “I could not do it.”

He barely heard
her. “Do what?”

Her head came up
then, the lavender eyes red from crying.  There was such pain in the cool
depths that it literally reached out to strike him. Then he noticed the dagger
in her hand. Tevin gazed back at her, realizing what she meant, feeling more
horror and guilt that he had ever imagined possible. He reached down and tossed
the dagger to the other side of the room. An examination of her wrists showed
that she had slightly cut herself across one of them, hardly enough to draw
blood. But the intent was obvious.

“No, no…,” he
murmured. His self-control, fed by his emotions, left him and he encircled her
in his massive arms. “No, my lady, not like this. You will not meet your end
like this.”

She was tense in
his embrace, stiff as he held her. But after a moment, it was as if all of the
sorrow and confusion she was feeling suddenly vanished when she realized that
warm, comforting arms held her. Her arms went around his neck and horrid, deep
sobs bubbled out of her chest. Tevin held her so tightly that he was sure he
was crushing her. He felt so horribly guilty that this woman felt she had no
hope, no comfort, and nothing left that death was her only escape. He shouldn’t
have felt responsible, but he did.

She wept like a
child as he held her. Though Val was downstairs and in need of help, Tevin felt
that he had to spare these few moments for Lady Penden. He’d spared her little
else.

“I am so sorry,”
Tevin whispered into her hair, not knowing what else to say. “I do not know
much, my lady, but I do know death. I have seen much of it. All I can tell you
is that this too shall pass, and these dark days will seem less so. You have
your son and a host of knights that serve only you. I know that we are a weak substitution
for your husband, but we nonetheless support you. The sun will shine again, my
lady. You must have faith.”

She couldn’t
answer. Everything from the past few days was coming out in torrents of grief.
Tevin let her cry, hoping he was at least bringing some comfort by simply being
there. He tried to ignore the growing sensation of the pleasant feel of her in
his arms. Since that moment when he’d seen her at the chapel yesterday, he’d
done nothing but think on her. He’d known other women. He’d even married one.
But he couldn’t ever remember a woman that stuck with him the way Lady Penden
did. She had a nameless charm that went beyond normal attraction. He was
starting to feel like a fiend.

He ended up
sitting on his buttocks with the lady clutched against him until the tears
would no longer come. It really hadn’t been that long, but to him, it had
seemed like an eternity of warmth and compassion.  Even when she was silent and
quivering, he continued to hold her. It began to occur to him that he wanted
nothing more at this moment than to hold her. But that was wrong, and his
conscience wreaked havoc within his mind.  Had his motives been pure, he would
not have been so torn; the fact that he felt guilty for holding her told him
that his motives went beyond normal comfort. He was finding some distorted
gratification in it.  He liked it.

“My lady,” his
lips were against the side of her head. “I realize that this is more than
likely not the most opportune time to speak on this subject, but we have many
wounded in the hall that require attention. Though we can hardly expect our
needs to supersede your own, I would consider it a personal favor if you could
find the strength to tend the men. They are in great need of you.”

Her arms were
still around his neck, her face in the crook between his neck and shoulder. 
When she lifted her head to look at him, Tevin felt a jolt run through him as
their eyes met.

“How selfish of
me.” Unhappily for him, she slowly unwound her arms from his neck. As he
watched her, she struggled for composure. “Your men are injured and all I can
do is think of myself. Forgive me.”