Page 4 of While Angels Slept
“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 theknowledge, 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’ssecond 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.
