While Angels Slept

Copyright
2012 by Kathryn Le Veque
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any
manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Printed by Dragonblade Publishing in the United States of America

Text
copyright 2012 by Kathryn Le Veque
Cover copyright 2012 by Kathryn Le Veque

“And so it
lasted for nineteen years while Stephen was King, till the land was all undone
and darkened with such deeds, and men said openly that Christ and his angels
slept."

~ Anglo-Saxon
Chronicle

CHAPTER ONE

Rochester
Castle

Kent, England

September, 1139
A.D.

The 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 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,

“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 tall 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 it 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 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’th.”

Hunt had a thick
tongue and a bad lisp. But it was part of his charm. Brac ruffled the child’s
downy head. “Good lad.” Glancing at the boy’s mother once again, he could see
right through her thin smile. She was still worried. He put his arm around her
as he led her out of the door. “I would have beef tonight for sup. And none of
those turnips you and the cook harvested last week; they’re bitter and foul.
But I will have some of those honey cakes with the nuts on them.”

Cantia nodded,
memorizing his wishes. “It shall be done, my lord.”

They descended
the narrow steps to the great central room below. It was bitterly cold outside
and Brac did not want her out in the midst of it.  So he faced her at the
bottom of the steps while Hunt stood beside them, more interested in his sword
than his parents’ farewell.

“Your weapon?”
Cantia asked.

“My squire has
it outside.”

She nodded,
satisfied. But the longer she stared at him, the more anxious she became. “Oh,
Brac,” she whispered. “Please… perhaps you could not go, just this once.”

He kissed her to
silence her, drawing a snort of disgust from his son. “I shall see you again
before the sun sets,” he whispered against her mouth. “Have you no faith in my
abilities?”

“Of course I do.
You’re a magnificent knight. But you cannot always control.…”

“You are
damaging my confidence. Tell me you have faith in me.”

She could see
that he would not take her seriously. Or, at least, he wanted her to think
that. Looking deep into his blue eyes, she could see a flicker of longing and a
shadow of fear.

“I have faith in
you,” she whispered.

“Swear it.”

“I do.”

His easy grin
was back. He blew a kiss at her as Hunt chased him out the door, slapping his
wooden sword against his father’s mail coat. Cantia’s last vision of her
husband was as he grinned at his son, descending the steps into the bailey and
leaving her line of sight. She stood there for a moment staring at the empty
doorway as if hoping he’d make a sudden reappearance. But the doorway remained
open, yawning and empty. She could hear noise wafting up from the bailey below,
the sounds of men and war horses mobilizing for battle. It was a smelly,
frenzied, disorienting sound.