While Angels Slept (3 page)

“What problem is
that?” he asked.

The knight
sighed. “Charles Penden. He refuses to let us bury his son. He wants to burn
him instead.”

“What does the
wife say?”

“She’s nearly
gone to blows with him.”

Tevin stared at
him a moment before slowly rising from the massive table that held the
well-worn map. His expression was pensive. “We have more of a problem than
that. I received word this morning that Dartford Crossing has been reclaimed by
the opposition.”

John’s eyebrows
lifted, perhaps in disbelief and some frustration. “Then we retake it, my
lord?”

Tevin shrugged
as if John had just made the most obvious statement in the world. “We’ve no
choice. That bridge is our link to London and regions beyond.” He thumped the
vellum beside him. “But what I cannot figure out is if the king’s forces,
specifically Worcester, is trying to separate me from my seat or if by taking
control of the crossing, they’re trying to separate the Empresses’ concentration
of forces. To separate Kent from London would be a great feat.”

“And to take Thunderbey
Castle would be a stroke of excellent fortune.” The second knight spoke,
although it was not in a tone that one would have expected from a warrior. This
knight was smaller, wearing heavy mail that seemed absurd on such a slight
frame.

At second
glance, one would notice that the knight was, in fact, a woman. Lady Valeria de
Reims had been fighting with her older brother since she had been a very young
woman. She was fierce in battle, though Tevin knew he should not allow it.
Still, he had never been able to deny her. Val did as she pleased and Tevin was
weak enough to let her. If he’d tried to stop her, she’d only go fight for
someone else. It was a pity as well; she was a lovely girl with pale red hair
and luminous dark eyes. She would have made an excellent match as Viscount Winterton’s
sister. But in her current state, she would only make some man an excellent
knight instead of a wife, and there was no market for that sort of thing.

No matter how
Tevin approved or disapproved of her behavior, one thing was for certain; her
advice was always sage and he valued it. He felt all the more guilty for his
selfishness.

“They’ll not
take my seat, no matter how they try,” he said. “Thunderbey is well fortified.
She’ll hold against any onslaught. But they could separate us from it.” He
picked up his gauntlets and began shoving them on his fingers. “All that aside,
we must bury Brac Penden before his body begins to rot. It’s been nearly three
days that he’s lain in that tiny chapel across the ward. I do not believe his
wife has left his side.”

“She hasn’t,”
Val said. “Nor has that little boy.”

Tevin knew that;
he’d been kept abreast of the behavior of the Penden family. Other than the
breakdown in the ward the night they had brought Brac home, Lady Penden had
shown remarkable control. She remained quiet and calm, praying for endless
hours over the body of her husband. Tevin respected that. What he did not
respect was Charles Penden’s mad ravings day and night about the fate of his
dynasty. He’d had them all on edge. Lady Penden had ignored him for the most
part. John’s report of the conflict between the two was the first he had heard
in three days. If Charles were incapable of making the decision to bury his
son, then as his liege, Tevin would be forced to do it.

“Brac will be
buried before sunset,” Tevin tightened the last strap of his expensive gauntlet
and headed out of the door. “Inform the men of our plans and tell them that we
move out before dawn. I will go speak with the family.”

“The Steward is
dangerously brittle,” Val said. “He does not think clearly.”

“Where is he?”

“The last I saw,
standing outside of the chapel.”

The solar was
off the great hall. Tevin, Val and John marched through the empty room,
listening to their boots echo off the plank floor. The hall was eerily still.
They moved through the front door, the same door that Brac had quit days before
when it had been his last day on earth. The wooden steps, made portable so they
could be raised in case the ward was breached, creaked under their combined
weight as they descended. Once on the solid dirt of the bailey, Tevin turned to
the right and headed to the chapel.

Had he not been
so focused on the task at hand, he would have noticed that it was a spectacular
fall day. The sun was shining and a soft breeze fluttered the banners that flew
high upon the parapets. Days like this were rare. But the weather remained
unnoticed as the chapel came within sight and Charles Penden with it. The man
was standing outside the door of the tiny, wooden structure built within
Rochester’s great walls. His appearance was unkempt, his graying hair long and
dirty as he worried his hands through it nervously. Tevin knew he was in for
trouble before he even reached him.

***

Cantia heard the
voices from the bailey. One was soft, deep and calm, while the other was
unsteady and tense. She recognized the second voice as that of Brac’s father,
but did not immediately identify the second. Whoever it was, he was not
succumbing to Charles’ psychosis. She could sense that the situation was
escalating.

Excusing herself
from her kneeling position next to her husband’s lifeless body, she went to the
door and opened it. Charles was pacing back and forth in front of the chapel,
kicking up clods of dirt with his emotional stomping. Several feet away, evenly
planted, stood Viscount Winterton.

Cantia took a
moment to study the man who had been in command when Brac had met his death.
She’d not given him another thought until this very moment. He was tall,
extremely broad shouldered, with enormous hands that rested comfortably at his
sides. She had remembered the size of his hands from the night of Brac’s death
when she had clutched one of them so very tightly. 

She looked
closely at his face; he wasn’t young, nor was he old. He had piercing dark
eyes, so dark that they were nearly black, and a decisively square jaw. He
wasn’t unattractive in the least; in fact, he was extremely handsome if she
thought about it. But the one thing that she noticed about him above all else
was the fact that he did not groom himself in the Norman fashion. While knights
of the realm shaved their faces clean and wore their hair in various lengths of
short, the Viscount Winterton’s hair was long well past his shoulders. It was
the color of tarnished copper, dark and glittery, tumbling in spiral tendrils
across his shoulders. He pulled the front of it back behind his head to keep it
out of his eyes, but the rest of it was wild and free. And upon his face he
wore a well-trimmed beard and mustache, evidence that he did indeed take some
stock in his appearance.

Aye, he was a
bit of a curiosity at first glance, like a beautiful untamed horse. Yet she did
not sense cruelty or unkindness from him. That had never been her first
impression. He may have looked like a barbarian, but he had the manners of a
gentle knight. When he caught her looking at him, he bowed his head in greeting
and acknowledgement. The action jolted her from her thoughts. Slightly
embarrassed that she had been caught staring at him, she spoke.

“What goes on
here?” she said to him, to Charles. “I could hear your voices inside.”

 Tevin’s dark
eyes appraised her for a moment before answering. He’d first seen the woman
that horrible night of her husband’s passing when she had not been at her best.
Now, in the sunlight and properly dressed, he was rather struck with the fact
that she was an exquisite creature. Her rich brown hair with flame-colored
highlights was caught in a simple braid, yet on her, it was like wearing a strand
of rubies. Her figure, slender in the middle yet round in all of the right
places, wore a simple broadcloth gown like a goddess. Aye, she was a unique
example of a woman. He’d never seen finer. But he realized he’d been staring at
her too long, so he answered.

“The Steward
seems to believe that cremating his son is in everyone’s best interests,” he
said. “I was simply telling him that civilized people do not burn their dead
like yesterday’s rubbish.”

Cantia’s lavender
eyes flew to her father-in-law. “Indeed they do not,” her voice was strong.
“Brac will be buried with his ancestors in the crypt at Rochester.”

Charles’ pacing
came to a stop. He glowered at her. “Cremation is an honorable burial,” he
growled. “I intend to go with him.”

Tevin had heard
that part earlier in their conversation, hoping that he would not restate it
for the lady. It was the madness speaking. He glanced at Cantia to gauge her
reaction; as he’d come to expect from the lady, she did not outwardly respond.
But her spectacular eyes did, in fact, narrow.

“Would that I
could let you,” she growled back at him. “But you have a position to upkeep and
a grandson who looks up to you. Do you think it would be easy on Hunt were he
to lose his grandfather and father at the same time? Did you stop to think of
that, you old fool?”

A bit ferocious,
but Tevin was impressed. The lady wasn’t about to let a madman march all over
her. A lesser woman would have simply succumbed, but not Lady Penden. In those
few short moments, his respect for her grew.

“Speak not to me
of sons, lady,” Charles snapped. “For I have lost mine. You still have yours.”

“But your son
was my husband,” she bit back. “I have lost all that is dear to me in this
world. Aye, I still have Hunt and for that I am deeply grateful, but never
again will I know the warmth that was my dear Brac. Stop acting as if you are
the only person at Rochester who is feeling pain with all of this. Cease this
madness and act like an honorable man.”

Charles puffed
out his chest as if preparing to come back at her, but he suddenly slumped. It
was as all of the wind had left him. He turned away from Cantia, his tired old
gaze moving over the lines of Rochester’s massive keep. His pale face grew even
more ashen.

“My son is
gone,” he half-whispered, half cried. “I would join him, I swear it.”

Cantia did not
know what more to say. She glanced at Tevin, still standing strong and silent
several feet away. His piercing eyes, focused on Charles as the old man
wandered away, turned to her.

“I fear that my
duties have taken me away from being of complete service to you, Lady Penden,”
he took a few steps towards her. “I’ve left you alone in all of this and for
that, I deeply apologize. Is there anything I can do for you?”

She gazed up at
him, her lavender eyes glistening with unshed tears. Tevin could see that the
strength she had exhibited against Charles was purely for appearance; inside,
she was dying.

“Aye, my lord,
there is,” she said softly. “You can help me bury my husband in a manner
befitting his distinction.”

“It would be my
honor, my lady. I will see to it personally.”

Her lovely face
seemed to relax. Before she could reply, a small boy exited the chapel, his
blue eyes blinking at the brightness of the sun. Seeing his mother, he scurried
over to her.

“Mama?” he
slipped his hand into hers. “I’ve given Da my sword. He isth holding it now.
Would you like to see? I think we should bury him with it. He would like that,
don’t you think?”

Cantia very nearly
lost her fragile control. Her other hand went to her chest, pressing against it
as if to hold in all of the emotion that was threatening to burst out. As she
struggled to form a reply, Tevin could see the turmoil in her face. He quickly
thought to give her time to compose herself.

“Little man,” he
addressed Hunt. “What is your name?”

Hunt’s enormous
blue eyes focused on him. “Huntington Penden. What isth yours?”

It was a bold
question. “Tevin de Reims,” he replied, fighting off a grin.

“Viscount Winterton,”
Cantia whispered hoarsely to her son. Tevin could see the tears were still very
much on the surface. “Show him all due respect, Hunt. He is your liege.”

Hunt’s
expression didn’t change. He continued to size the big man up. “You are a viscount?”

“Aye.”

“But I thought viscounts
were mean, gluttonous men?”

Tevin cracked a
smile while his mother nearly choked. “Hunt,” she snapped softly. “You will
apologize immediately.”

The child had no
idea what he had said wrong. “But you said that the nobility of England wasth
full of fat, gluttonous old men who live off the life and death of their
vassals. Didn’t you…?”

She slapped a
hand over Hunt’s mouth and quickly turned him in the direction of the chapel.
Tevin watched her nearly pull the child’s arm out of his socket in her haste to
remove him.

“My lady?” he
called after her. “A word, please.”

Cantia paused.
Practically shoving Hunt back inside the chapel, she retraced her steps back to
Tevin. When she forced herself to look at him, she swore the black eyes were
twinkling.

“We will bury
your husband at dusk,” he said quietly. “Since I will take care of all of the
arrangements, perhaps you will go and rest until the time comes. Will there be
anything else I can do for you?”

She shook her
head, perhaps a bit too hard. “Nay, milord, you have already shown us far too
much grace and generosity.”

Tevin stood
there a moment, gazing at her. He wanted to talk to her more. He didn’t know
why, but he did. Yet the situation did not warrant it, and he felt a bit
caddish for even entertaining the thought. No matter how lovely the lady was,
or how much he respected her character, she was a newly made widow and his
thoughts were in appropriate. Besides… her status as a widow was at his doing.

He silently
excused himself from her presence and turned away. He hadn’t taken three steps
when shouts from the kitchen yard off to his left suddenly caught his
attention. The servants were in an uproar. He caught two words: fire and
steward. Before he realized it, he was off and running in that direction with
Lady Penden close on his heels.