Page 3 of While Angels Slept
“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 things 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 muchof 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.”
