Page 1 of While Angels Slept (de Lohr Dynasty #1)

Rochester Castle

Kent, England

T he sunrise is bloody.

It was her first thought as she looked to the east with its hazy splashes of red and orange across the horizon.

As dawn approached, black turned to dark blue and dark blue to azure.

She could hear her husband behind her, rattling about their smoky bower, dropping a gauntlet here or a piece of armor there.

But there was more to the clumsiness than met the eye or the ear.

The wife slowly began to realize that he was dropping things purely to annoy her.

She did not want him to believe that he had rattled her, though he had.

It was a game they played sometimes to see who could hold out the longest. He would annoy her until she took a swipe at him, though it was all in good fun.

Such was the playful banter that they so often had.

She finally turned away from the lancet window only to find him grinning at her.

“I was wondering when you were going to put your attention back on me where it belongs,” he said. “Or is the sunrise too lovely to tear yourself away?”

Her lavender gaze traveled over him, indeed, her irises were lavender.

A shade of blue so pure that it was nearly purple.

Surrounded by a hedge of dusky lashes that mirrored the titian color of her hair, Cantia du Bexley Penden was all shades of loveliness.

A thousand degrees of beautiful , her husband called her.

But eyes so lovely could go from passionate to furious faster that the human mind could track.

Her husband both feared and revered that particularly gift .

“Why do you stare at me so?” Brac Penden held out his hands with mock confusion. “Have you never seen a man dressed for battle before?”

She lifted a well-shaped eyebrow and sauntered in his general direction. “I’ve seen you dressed for battle more times than I can count,” she replied.

“That would stand to reason since, as son of the Steward of Rochester, I have been in more battles than I can count.”

“Such was my misfortune for marrying into the heirs of Rochester. You’re a warring bunch.”

His grin broadened. “Such is the price of privileged servitude. We are stewards of the bishops of Rochester and, by this privilege, we go where we are told to go and fight whomever we are told to fight. Of course, in payment we are allowed to live in this fine castle….”

“A cold, howling mess of stone and mortar.”

He held up a finger to hush her so he could finish his sentence. “And we are granted the lordship of Gillingham, of which you enjoy the status. Now, have you any further complaints to voice before I quiet you?”

He said it lightly, as it was meant. She approached from his right, coming to rest just out of arm’s reach.

“Nay,” she said softly. “I’ve become accustomed to the way of things though I must voice my concerns once in a while or I will surely go mad.

More often than not I have the utmost confidence in your return from these skirmishes. But today seems… different.”

“Why? Because of a red dawn?”

“Perhaps.”

Brac was a tall man with an equally long reach, yet he did not grab for her.

There was something in her expression that did not invite it.

Well built, with a battle-conditioned body and shaggy blond hair that curled and poked in every direction, he was handsome in a way that men often are who have achieved wisdom and character.

It was more than his appearance. It was his heart and soul beneath.

There was a gentle humor about him, so easy to laugh, so easy to become emotional.

It was a time when men seldom showed their emotion.

But Brac wore his on his sleeve. And he obviously, insanely, doted on his lovely wife and small son as few men would allow themselves to.

“We more than likely will not see any action today,” he said to be of some reassurance.

“Some of the king’s forces have taken control of the bridge at Dartford and we must retake it.

They will not risk an assault on the bridge that Rochester protects along the Medway, so they go further west to attack the larger crossing that has no such local protection.

But I am sure that I shall be home before nightfall. ”

“Who has issued this call for aid?”

“Viscount Winterton,” Brac replied. “Tevin du Reims. You have heard his name.”

“Aye,” she said quietly, remembering the implication that name brought about. “You have fought for him before.”

“I have.”

“You said the man is more formidable than anyone on the field of battle and that his own men have been known to fear him. Is he so terrible, then?”

Brac fussed with a strap on his shoulder protection.

“You have only to see the man to understand why such things are said about him. He looks like a barbarian and fights like Lucifer himself.” He leaned down and picked his gauntlet off the floor.

He held it out to her with a gentle smile on his face. “Help me, please.”

After a brief hesitation, she took the gauntlet and held it firm as he shoved his big hand into it.

Then she helped him with the other. A perusal of his body showed that he already wore his mail coat, the hood of his hauberk still draped down the back of his neck, and his greaves.

His legs had taken a beating over the years as the scarred leather armor on his legs showed that clearly.

She was disappointed that there was nothing else she could assist him with.

“Your squire has you well dressed,” she said, almost sadly. “There is nothing more I can do. ”

Her husband read her expression. It wasn’t like her to be so melancholy at this time.

While other women threw themselves into fits with weeping as their men departed for war, Cantia would smile and pretend that all would be well.

He depended on that to see him through these struggles that were consuming their new nation.

It was King Stephen against Empress Matilda, ripping the country to shreds with their demands for the throne.

Everything the Duke of Normandy had fought for was in jeopardy and the new country that was England threatened to collapse on itself.

And the barons were caught in the maelstrom, Brac along with them. It was his duty as heir to Stewardship of Rochester. But no , he shook himself inwardly. His duty was to Cantia and their son, Hunt. His duty was to provide a safe country in which to raise his family.

He gazed down into that sweet face he knew so well.

She was slender and strong, of average height that appeared short against his tall stature.

To be with her, to touch her, balanced his entire world.

He had known her since she had been a small child, when he knew that he would marry her someday. He’d never been without her.

“What is the matter with you?” he murmured. “You are usually far better company than this.”

She gazed up at him, unsure how to answer. His normal manner was to jest until she was nearly crazy with it. Today she had no patience for his levity.

“I cannot say,” she said. “All I know is that the sky is filled with blood. It gives me a feeling of doom.”

“Are you a prophet, then?” he lifted his eyebrows.

“Of course not.”

He grinned and kissed her forehead. “Nay, you are not. And I will hear no more of this foolishness. My men are waiting for me in the courtyard, growing fat and lazy as we speak.”

She reached out to grasp his hand even as he moved for the door.

She could not explain why she did not want to let him go, only that she did not.

As Brac lifted the latch, a small boy suddenly came rushing in.

Robust and tow-headed, he held a small wooden sword in his hand and thrust it at his father.

“Die, fool!” the child cried. When the man didn’t react fast enough, he threw up his arms. “Fall down already. I’ve kilt you!”

Brac grabbed his gut as if mortally wounded and fell to one knee. “Mighty Sir Hunt,” he grunted. “Could you not have spared my life, O Great One? Must you kill me in front of my wife?”

The little boy pointed at him with his imperious sword. “Die and be done with it. I would bury you now with a grand funeral.”

“How grand?”

“The grandesth!”

Brac sprawled out on the floor, but not without a tremendously painful and overly-dramatic scene of death.

Even his death throes had death throes. His son grinned triumphantly then pounced on his father’s stomach.

Brac grunted loudly and put his arms around the leaping child. His booming laughter filled the room.

“You should not encourage his unhealthy preoccupation with funerals,” Cantia scolded softly. “He buries everything he comes across: mice, bugs, animals….”

Father and son continued to tussle. “I see nothing unhealthy with a grand funeral other than the fact that someone has to die in order to have one,” Brac said.

“That is not the least bit humorous.”

“Aye, it is.”

“Can I go into battle with you, Father?” Hunt ignored his mother completely. “I can fight. I have weaponths!”

Brac sat up. “Soon, little man,” he rose to his feet, gingerly rubbing his stomach where the boy had leapt on him. “When you are old enough, I should be proud to ride into battle with you.”

Huntington Penden had turned five years old last week and, with his latest birthday, was convinced he was man enough to do just about anything his father did. Brac’s answer did not please him, but he did his best not to argue. Knights did not argue. They simply followed orders .

“Nexth time?” he asked.

Brac’s blue eyes twinkled at the boy. “I shall consider it. But until then, I will leave you here to take care of your mother. That is the most important task of all.”

Hunt nodded seriously. “Aye.”

“Do not let her come to harm. I am depending on you.”

“I won’t.”