Page 6 of While Angels Slept (de Lohr Dynasty #1)

S tanding in the middle of the kitchen yards, Charles had covered himself with oil and was holding a torch at arm’s length.

Several frightened servants hovered in the yard, unsure what to do.

By the time Tevin and Cantia got there, the Steward of Rochester was in the full stages of dementia, falling apart before their eyes.

“My God, my God,” the man yelled to the heavens. “Can you not take me instead? I give myself to you freely. Can you not leave my son here to finish his life?”

Cantia was horrified. Some of the other knights had heard the yelling and soon, Tevin was joined by Val, John, and his two remaining knights, Dagan Sutton and Gavril de Reigate.

Tevin held out his arm to stop them as the men began to spread out behind him, fearful that their presence would cause Charles to light himself immediately.

Myles was the last one to arrive, his strong face tinged with shock.

He went to stand next to Cantia, hoping to take her away from this.

Tevin saw what the knight was up to and encouraged him.

“Get her out of here, de Lohr,” he whispered loudly. “Her presence will only inflame him.”

Cantia thought to resist, but something in Tevin’s dark eyes told her that he would not tolerate disobedience.

She allowed Myles to turn her for the yard gate just as Hunt raced through it.

Neither one of them was fast enough to stop him as he broke through and headed straight for Charles.

He grabbed the old man around the legs, holding him fast.

“Grandfather!” the little boy wailed. “What are you doing? I would come, too!”

“No!” Cantia screamed.

She broke away from Myles but made it only a few feet before Tevin caught her. He ensnared her in his massive arms and there was no way to break free.

“Stop,” his mouth was by her ear. “You may only provoke him with whatever you say. The emotions between the two of you are raw. Let me deal with this.”

“But… Hunt !”

“I know.” His lips were on her flesh, his hot breath permeating her brain. “Trust me, Lady Penden. Please.”

She was bordering on panic. Her hand was at her mouth, holding in the hysterics, but she finally nodded.

She had little choice but to trust him. Slowly, very slowly, Tevin released her back to Myles, his mind focused on the next step in his life.

The Steward of Rochester was ready to die, that much was certain.

But his five-year-old grandson did not understand any of this, and the child was in peril.

He had to get the boy.

“Penden,” Tevin moved towards him, very cautiously.

“Look at what has happened. The lad knows nothing of what is going on. He is innocent. If you torch yourself and take him with you, God will make sure you spend all of eternity far away from Brac. You will never see him again, tucked away in the depths of hell only reserved for those who take their own life. And what of the boy? You would take his life with your selfishness. Does he not deserve to live?”

Dripping with the oil that he poured all over his head, Charles put his hand on the boy clinging to him. He struggled to hang onto the madness, now in conflict with his common sense.

“Someone come and claim the boy,” he said loudly. “He does not belong here.”

Tevin moved closer. “I will claim him. Throw the torch away and I will come near.”

That apparently wasn’t good enough. Charles looked down at his grandson, now slimy with oil. “Go,” he whispered huskily. “Go to your mother, boy. Give me a grand funeral, as grand as your father’s.”

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.”

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