Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Peter of Normandy was dead. He just wondered why it was taking his brain so long to catch on. No blood. No visible wounds. No rushing need to get up and try to do something—like survive. But life was over for him. The blow from Jeanette's unexpected death left him as broken as if he'd had an axe to the head. Truth be told, he couldn't possibly live without her. He rubbed the dirt from his hands and turned away from Jeanette's grave.

Jeanette. The frigid air made it hard to breathe. His gray warhorse, Roman, wandered a few feet away nibbling at the grass, its withers covered with mud from the trail. Although Jeanette was long dead, Peter had pushed the poor beast hard, almost believing if he could just get here fast enough, it wouldn't be true. She would still be alive.

He stretched the rough, black scarf up to cover his nose from the cold and dug his fingers back inside his coarse, fleece-lined cloak. Peter glanced up at the late autumn sky. Snow was in the air. The babe would have been three months old now. That's what her brother had told him. Rotten bastard. He probably hadn't given a thought to her well-being.

Remorse tightened his chest and grief welled up, threatening to suffocate him. He finally let loose and bellowed his pain at the cloud-thickened sky. And again. His throat raw from the deep sound he expelled, like cries from hell. If only he'd known she was with child. It would have changed everything. They'd have been wed.

Peter would never have been like his own father. Leaving her to fend for herself. To die alone in childbirth. But unlike Peter, his father's babe had survived. Survived to remind him every day of what he'd lost. With each pummel of the man's fist, Peter knew the price of his meaningless life and the happiness he had taken from his father.

The overwhelming desire to lay himself down right there, close his eyes, and never open them again pushed him hard. To just hold her small body safely in his arms again.

"Peter."

A man's voice reached him, breaking through the morbid thoughts. John. He'd found him. Damn. The Queen must have told him about Jeanette. What did he want? To see how he fared?

"Peter?" The voice was closer.

John's horse nudged Peter's arm and snorted.

"Peter. My heart breaks for your loss." John's voice was low, barely audible. He'd loved her, too. Not in the same way but they had cared for each other. They cared because they had one thing in common—their love for him.

Damn! The air pierced his lungs with each laborious breath. He bit back the rage he felt but his voice was surprisingly loud. "We've arrived a bit late."

The horse shifted behind him as its rider dismounted.

"Please, Peter," John's voice was loaded with pity and Peter wanted to punch him in the face. "You couldn't have known."

"I. Should. Have. Known."

John's hand was firm where he gripped Peter's arm. "Do not—"

Peter turned toward him with such impetus that John stepped back as if in surprise.

"We didn't have our farewells. I didn't get to tell her how I felt." Peter stepped toward John, forcing him farther back. "I wanted her to know I loved her."

Peter turned away. He walked quickly to the lone horse now at the edge of the forest. He hesitated when he saw Rowena, John's wife, a short distance away. His angry facade splintered, and pain threatened to erupt again, but he would not give in. He did not seek their comfort. He did not want their comfort. It was Peter's fault the love of his life was dead.

His face hurt as he fought for composure, his muscles twitching. He could not be here, not with these people who had tomorrow and the next day and the next day. Even now Rowena bore the evidence of John's child beneath her heavy cloak. They had their whole lives in front of them. They waited expectantly for something that had been ripped from Peter's grasp before he had sense enough to grab onto it.

"Peter."

Peter tensed at the commanding tone of voice.

"The King requires your presence," John said.

Peter closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The King was not to be disobeyed.

He tipped his head in acknowledgement without turning toward John. Peter was a soldier again. Any life he may have wanted to build for himself was set aside for the pleasure of his King. That was the life he knew. For now, he must say his last goodbye.

John moved toward Rowena with his destrier in tow. She gripped his arm, her forehead creased in concern. He understood his wife's anguish. He'd never seen Peter like this either. Well, maybe once when they were very young but never since William had put a stop to the boy's self-deprecating ways.

"Is he going to disobey the King?"

John shook his head. "We should give him more time."

Her eyes rounded and her lips parted. "How can you think you should leave him be? He is beyond devastated. Who was this woman?"

John sighed. How best to put it. "She was his…his mistress, I suppose would be the best word to describe her. But make no mistake. He loved her."

"That is quite apparent. He would not feel so lost if it were not true love. But…did she not love him back?"

Jeanette's bright red hair and smiling green eyes filled his mind. Always smiling that one. "She did. She did love him in her own way."

Rowena frowned. "But not truly?"

John did not mean to be obtuse. He'd always thought theirs was a strange relationship. Peter would stay celibate for months and then spend days locked up with her. She was always nearby when he returned from battle. Being one of the many ladies attending the Duchess Matilda, now Queen Matilda, Jeanette never lacked for male attention. John had wondered more than once if she indeed had abstained herself.

"I would say she loved him in her way but it was hard to know, truly know, what she was thinking."

"I suppose it matters not what she thought but what he felt is more to the point. What do we do to comfort him?"

John was moved by the concern his wife had for his closest friend. "I do not believe there is anything that can be done. He must heal from this pain on his own."

She did not seem convinced. Standing beside her, a short distance from where Peter stood stiffly beside the newly dug grave, John was unconvinced as well. Perhaps his friend never would get over this loss. The loss not only for one he loved most dearly but for the one he'd never know, his child. John felt the sting of tears at the memory of his sweet, little girl born early as a result of the abuse his wife had suffered. He pulled Rowena closer against him as if to ward off any more hurt. She had been through enough. He wished for nothing more than to be able to protect her from any more sadness. Even if the sadness came in the form of concern for a dear friend.

"I believe it will take time. But perhaps we will see him smile yet again at some far off time."

Peter returned to kneel on the cold ground beside his dead lover's grave.

"We need to leave him like this then?"

"I'm afraid we must. The King has called for him. William will know best how to assuage his pain."

Rowena made a face of disbelief. The King had shown a definite lack of consideration when it suited him, as was the case with her people, the Saxons. He could also have great compassion for his own.

"He will keep Peter busy which may help him bear up under the burden of this loss."

"I pray you are right."

John gently guided her to where her horse stood waiting.

"Should we not say anything to him?"

John shook his head. It seemed cruel to Rowena but Peter was a proud man. He would not want to be seen in this weakened state, not even by them. He was a warrior. Warriors did not break. Warriors did not falter. Warriors fought on. John sent a prayer to heaven that it would be so.