Page 9 of While Angels Slept (de Lohr Dynasty #1)

T he viscount’s army rode out before sunrise.

Cantia knew this because she had been awake all night, staring into the hearth of her bower and wondering how she was going to survive the rest of her life.

It wasn’t simply grief she felt. It was loneliness for her husband’s presence.

His clothes were still strewn around the room where he had last left them.

An old pair of boots lay haphazardly at the side of the bed.

She missed his teasing, his joy of life, and his tenderness when he touched her. She missed everything.

Hunt had slept in her bed, placed there by Myles an hour or two before dawn.

The boy had fallen asleep in the knight’s arms, sitting in the great hall with him and the other warriors and listening to them tell great stories of battle.

It had been the perfect diversion for him and a chance for Cantia to collect her thoughts.

But instead of bringing comfort, her thoughts turned dark and miserable.

Life was an ugly thing now. If only for Hunt, she would have to do her best to struggle through it.

It was still dark outside when she watched the army depart from the bailey.

There were a few soldiers left behind to man the gates and the watchtowers, but for the most part, the castle was empty.

It was less than ten miles to the Dartford Crossing, an area once controlled by her father before his passing two years prior.

Now the fiefdoms of Dartford and Gravesham had passed to the baronetcy of Gillingham and, consequently, Charles Penden.

Someday they would belong to Hunt. She hoped he would be as fine a baron as his father would have been.

She remained in her chamber as the day progressed.

Hunt ran in and out with George on his heels, hurting with his father’s passing but displaying the resilience only children are capable of.

Brac’s death would not set in for a long time yet, when the days and months passed and Hunt realized his father was never coming home.

That was the finality of death. Right now, it was a concept and nothing more.

Time seemed to have little meaning as the sun moved across the sky.

Cantia’s gaze was fixed outside of the lancet window, her thoughts lingering on the past where Brac was the center of her world.

She was not yet ready to accept that her world was forever changed.

Perhaps it was still too soon. Perhaps she was not a good, sensible wife in not accepting that change immediately.

She didn’t know. All she knew was that she was living in limbo, dulled by grief and uninterested in what went on around her.

Hunt’s chamber was across the hall. The doors to both bowers were open, allowing the child to flow between the two.

He was hungry at some point and Cantia left her chair to take him down to the hall to request food.

The servants moved around her quietly, whispering in the shadows of their sorrowful lady.

She knew that they were speaking of her in hushed tones and it inflamed her, but there was naught she could do about it.

Most of the servants had been at Rochester since before she had arrived and they had watched her and Brac’s life together.

They knew how badly this was affecting her.

One of the older serving women finally took pity on her and took Hunt outside in the yard to play.

Between Hunt’s shouts and the dog barking, the hall was abruptly silent as soon as the child left the keep.

It was, in fact, dissonantly quiet. Cantia sat at the table she had shared with Brac so many times, feeling his ghost all around her.

Instead of comforting her, it brought anxiety.

She fled the hall for the safety of her bower.

She had sought peace. Instead, she found even greater ghosts.

In the large chamber she had once shared with her husband, the sensations were heady and cloying.

The room smelled of him and she couldn’t shake the sensation of desolation.

She had tried so hard to keep the agony at bay, but it was stronger than she was.

It began to overtake her. Small sobs turned into body wracking sobs, which transformed into physical pain.

Eventually there was so much pain that she couldn’t stand it.

Gasping for air, she caught sight of the small, lady-like dagger that Brac had purchased for her when he had visited York.

It sat with some of her other valuables on her dressing table.

She stumbled over to it, picking it up to examine the delicately bejeweled handle, remembering how Brac had taught her how to wield it.

Sobbing, she dragged the razor-sharp tip across her wrist lightly. It was enough to create a small red line across her flesh. She had hardly felt it. She wondered if a deeper cut would hurt more. She wondered if Brac would be angry with her for being so weak.

She pointed the tip at her wrist again. At the precise moment she planned to thrust it deep, a herald sounded from the parapet of Rochester’s walls and the small crew of soldiers began to run about in a frenzy.

The noise distracted her. Cantia forgot about the dagger and went to the window, watching the returning army approach from the west. The sight should have brought her joy, but it did not.

The last time the army returned, it was with Brac’s body.

She went back and found the dagger.

*

The contingent holding the bridge at Dartford had been considerably larger this time around. Consequently, there were quite a few injured, some of them severely. The battle had been brutal and close-quartered, hand-to-hand combat that had exhausted everyone.

The returning army made haste to get inside the ward of Rochester so that the gates could be closed and fortified.

A few hundred exhausted men functioning as archers were sent to the walls.

Rochester was under lockdown with the opposing army on the approach.

A battle was in the air, though the men in charge of Rochester’s defenses were confident in her abilities to hold fast. No one had ever breached her.

Myles had command of the walls, while Simon Horley had charge of the ward and men on the ground.

Charles wandered between the two locales creating more trouble than helping.

The man still wasn’t right in the head and most everyone ignored him.

But the command of Rochester had to be divided because Tevin was else occupied.

Val had been knocked from her charger and had taken a serious blow to the ribs.

Tevin had carried his sister, literally, the entire way back to Rochester.

He was, at the moment, only concerned for her and little else.

He had to trust the defense of the castle to his dependable men.

The great hall was quickly transformed into a surgeon’s ward, though they had no surgeon.

Cantia had always performed most of the healing duties with the exception of when she gave birth to Hunt and Brac had summoned a physic from Canterbury.

Even then, she thought to tell the man how to do his job because healing was a skill she had worked to acquire.

When Tevin burst into the hall supporting an injured knight, the servants moved into action.

It took some coaxing, but they managed to take the wounded comrade from the viscount and lay him upon the ground. The next step was to find Lady Penden.

When the servants vacated in search of water, medicaments and the lady of the keep, Tevin was left crouched next to his sister.

He tried to remove her mail but didn’t get very far.

He had to lift it over her head but couldn’t manage to do so without causing her excruciating pain.

So he gave up for the moment, waiting for Lady Penden to appear.

Several long minutes passed until his anxiety was at a splitting level.

He could no longer wait. He turned to go and find the lady himself but ran straight into Hunt.

The boy had been standing silently next to him, a wooden cart in one hand and something that looked like a toy ballista in the other. His blue eyes were wide on the knight lying on the floor.

“Ith he hurt?” he asked.

Tevin nodded. “Aye,” he didn’t want to have a conversation with the boy. He wanted action. “Where is your mother?”

“In her room,” the lad replied. “How bad ith he hurt?”

“Bad enough,” Tevin snapped before thinking. He saw Hunt’s expression at his tone but he could not manage to calm himself. “I must go find your mother. ”

“She hath locked the door,” Hunt said, almost casually. Then his voice picked up. “Do not worry. We shall give the knight a grand funeral if he dies.”

More wounded were being brought in all around them.

The more serious were placed near the hearth, while those who were still conscious were moved to the walls to be out of the way.

Tevin left the boy standing there and made his way to the narrow stairs that led to the third floor.

Just as he mounted the bottom step, a frail-looking servant came barreling down as if to knock him down. The old woman’s face was taut.

“My lord,” she said. “The lady… she does not answer. Her door is locked and I cannot get in.”

Tevin did not understand why that was so urgent, but he moved around the woman and took the stairs to the next level.

There was a small landing and two doors.

One was open, with a small bed inside and toys strewn about.

A big yellow dog lay sleeping on the bed.

Tevin tried to lift the latch of the second door, which was indeed locked.

“She never locks her door,” the worried servant was behind him. “She was weeping this morn… I am afraid for her, my lord. She’s not been right since the lord passed.”