Page 9 of While Angels Slept
“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 asense 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 themback. 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 hadtold 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 inthe 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.”
