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 onto 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 at 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 started 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 them 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 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 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 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. As 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.
She picked a rose from the vine that was draped across him, pricking her finger and sending a drop of blood onto the blue and gold colors of Rochester he wore across his chest. Unnerved by the sight of her blood on his clean tunic, she tried to wipe it off, but it absorbed into the fabric. The harder she wiped, the more it would not come out. Big hands suddenly grabbed her wrists and pulled her gently but firmly away from Brac’s body.
“If I had a wife who loved me very much, I should be greatly comforted to have a spot of her blood on my tunic that would soon be laid to rest with me in my grave,” Tevin’s low voice was in her ear. “It would be as if I took a part of her to my grave with me. A greater honor I could not imagine.”
The tears welling in Cantia’s eyes because she had mussed Brac’s tunic now welled for another reason. She looked at Tevin, the lavender eyes glowing with humble gratitude. “I did not think on it that way,” she whispered. “What a beautiful thing to say.”
He allowed himself to smile at her, a reassuring gesture. “I think Brac would say the same thing, don’t you?”
She was greatly comforted by his words. “He would.”
“May I stand with you?”
“I would be honored, my lord.”
They put Brac in the great stone crypt and closed the lid as she stood there. His effigy would be added later after the stonemasons finished it. For now, it was a plain crypt, strong and solid as Brac had been. Cantia stood there as Charles paid his final respects and as the cathedral cleared out of all those in attendance. Myles took Hunt with him and she could hear the little boy proclaim his approval at the grand funeral as the knight escorted him from the room. At some point, the Viscount Winterton left her, too, until she was the only person left in the warm, candle-lit chapel. It was peculiar sensation, empty and wrought with finality.
It was the same cathedral she and Brac had been married in, the same place where Hunt had been christened. Now it was the place where her husband was buried. Standing there, gazing down at the sealed crypt, Cantia felt as if her life was over. She put her hand against the icy stone sepulcher.
“I first saw you when I was eleven years old,” she murmured. “But from the time I was old enough to understand, I knew that I would be your wife. When I met you, I was not sorry. You were tall and skinny and you teased me about my missing front teeth, but deep down, I knew I loved you. I have always loved you. And now that you are gone, I do not know what shall become of me. I never imagined that I would be without you.”
Her hands were rubbing the stone, the calm she had been able to achieve now suddenly overtaken with grief again. The tears came and she laid her cheek against the cold stone, wishing with all of her heart that it was Brac she was laying against.
“Oh… God,” she sobbed. “Please do not leave me, Brac. Please do not go.”
Her soft sobs filled the church, an empty room now as empty as her broken heart.
*
Tevin stood just outside the doors of the noble cathedral, waiting for Lady Penden to come out. Val and John waited with him, though they stood several feet away and huddled in quiet conversation. Since Myles had charge of the Steward and the young boy, Tevin appointed himself the lady’s escort. The entire Penden family needed tending this night and it was their duty, as knights and vassals, to see to it.
In hindsight, it probably hadn’t been the best idea to leave her alone with her husband in the cavernous cathedral, so cold and devoid of hope. It wasn’t long before he could hear weeping. He glanced over at Val, who merely shrugged her shoulders. Val felt more emotion than she let on at times, and he knew that she was intuitively sympathetic to Lady Penden. It was difficult not to be.
“You should not let her weep overlong,” Val said. “She has had three days of constant grieving. At some point, she must come to terms with it.”
“Three days for a lifetime of marriage hardly seems an outrageous price,” Tevin replied. “We have all known Brac Penden for many years, though we were not particularly close to him. He was a good man. Allow him his due, especially from his wife.”
“She will make herself ill,” Val said, more strongly. “You must remove her from the cathedral without further delay.”
The weeping was not easing. He thought it was getting worse. His sister had a point in not allowing Lady Penden to make herself ill. He didn’t need that on his conscience, too. In the distance, the funeral party was moving back down the road to the castle, anticipating the feast that was sure to follow. It would last all night. With some regret at having to force Lady Penden back to the event that would, in essence, be a celebration her husband’s death, Tevin pushed himself off the wall he was leaning against and turned for the cathedral entrance. He was surprised to see Lady Penden already standing there waiting for him, completely composed.
“My lady,” he greeted. “My knights and I have waited to escort you home.”
“My thanks,” she said, her tone slightly stuffed from all of the crying. “Where is my son?”
“De Lohr took him back to Rochester.”
She took a deep breath, looking up into the new night sky. A million stars winked back at her.
“Such a lovely night,” she murmured. “’Tis hard to believe the night could be so lovely during a time like this.”
Tevin motioned to his men, one of whom brought around the lady’s small gray palfrey. Cantia continued to stare up into the night as if oblivious to all else. She was struggling to put the tears aside, struggling to conduct herself as the wife of Brac Penden would. She finally glanced down, noticing the horse.
“If you do not mind, my lord, I would rather walk,” she said.
His eyebrows lifted. “Walk?” he repeated. “If it would not be too taxing on you.”
“Not at all. I love to walk.”
“My lord,” came a stern voice from one of the
knights. “’Tis not safe to walk these roads. We must make haste back to…”
Another flick of the wrist from Tevin not only silenced the knight, but had the horse disappear. It was blatantly clear who was in command. Without another word, his knights spread out around them, staying to the edges of the road, in front and behind, well out of earshot of the viscount and Lady Penden. They were silent protection for the apprehensive walk back to the castle. During uncertain times like this, the night could harbor all manner of threats and there wasn’t one man who did not take this lightly. To walk out in the open, with enemy conflicts all around them, bordered on the foolhardy.
But Tevin said nothing to that effect. The lady had been through enough and if walking brought her comfort, so be it. One of his men brought up his charger, a red beast with flaming eyes, but he waved the horse away. He would walk, too.
“Thank you for your kindness in arranging my husband’s funeral,” she said as their steps fell in unison along the dirt road. “I am most grateful.”
“It was the very least I could do, my lady,” he said. “Warring times are hard on us all, but not too hard that we should forget our civility and manners.”
She was silent as they continued to walk. The three-quarters moon overhead cast an eerie glow over the landscape, ghostly beams shimmering off the River Medway in the distance. It was, in fact, a lovely night.
“May I ask a question, my lord?” she asked.
“Of course.”
She started to speak but caught herself. He looked down at her to see what was causing her such difficulty.
“What is it?”
She shrugged. “I want to phrase this correctly so that you will not take offense.”
“My lady, nothing you can say would offend me. What is it?”
She looked at him, then, her lavender eyes haunting in the moonlight. “If I ask you this question, will you promise me a completely truthful answer, my lord?”
“I am always truthful.”
Masters of Medieval Romance: Series Starters Volume 1 Page 45
