CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The morning after Bric had left with the army, Eiselle had awoken with a belly ache. Given that her belly was usually quite sensitive, she didn’t give it much thought. She tried to eat bread and cheese to soothe it, but that didn’t seem to help too much. The cook had made porridge, so she had a little of that with honey, and that seemed to settle her belly right down.
At least it did for a little while. When nightfall came around, she was nauseous again and ate a big bowl of porridge to ease it. She never mentioned her upset stomach to Keeva, or Zara for that matter, because she thought it was because she was worried for Bric. She didn’t want the women to think she was being foolish and not brave. If she was to be the wife of the High Warrior, then she was going to have to come to grips with the man going off to war.
It was easier said than done.
Two days after the army departed for Castle Acre, Eiselle awoke to more nausea. She wasn’t feeling well at all and began to think that she must have eaten something that made her ill. But she rose from bed, burping and uncomfortable, and proceeded to wash with warmed water and dress in a pretty blue garment that her mother had made for her. In the warmer weather, the fabric was light, so it was an excellent choice on this day. Even though there was some dew in the fields, she could tell that the day was to be a warm one simply because of the morning temperatures.
She had much to do on this day, and that was intentional. She found that as long as she was busy, she had less time to worry. She had started a new dress for Keeva using a gorgeous silk fabric that Keeva had purchased in Cambridge, and she was hoping to get a good deal finished on the dress. In fact, Eiselle was earning something of a reputation as a master seamstress around Narborough and in addition to the several dresses she’d made for Keeva, she’d also made two for Zara. She’d even instructed some of the servants on the techniques she knew for sewing, so now she had an army of seamstresses to help her.
In truth, Eiselle had never been happier. She was married to a man she loved dearly and life at Narborough was pleasant and lovely. She had a great friend in Keeva, and in Zara, and she would have been happy to include Angela in that group if the woman ever stopped being a hermit. Eiselle was hoping that someday the woman would realize that she wasn’t doing her son any favors by permitting him to be such a terror, and would understand that any criticism had been meant to help her. Not that Eiselle was an expert in children, but even she knew that children needed some discipline.
As the day progressed, she began to feel better, a condition that was spurred on when the old cook gave her fresh currant bread with honey. The bread made her belly full and very happy. Retreating to the ladies’ solar, which still reminded her very much of Bric since it had been his former chamber, she settled down with the crimson silk and stitched careful, tiny stitches into the bodice. It was exacting work, because silk was difficult to work with, so she was patient with it. It was a perfect project to pass the time and pretend she wasn’t thinking about Bric every moment of the day.
“Ah!” Manducor was suddenly standing in the solar door. “Here I find you, Lady MacRohan.”
Eiselle looked up from her stitching. “And I am sure you are surprised.”
Manducor grinned, his teeth yellowed with age. “Your movements are predictable,” he said. “If you are not in the hall or with Lady de Winter, then here you shall be.”
Eiselle couldn’t talk and stitch carefully at the same time. She set the garment in her lap. “So you have found me,” she said. “What can I do for you today?”
His old eyes twinkled at her. “Nothing,” he said innocently. “But I may be able to do something for you.”
“What?”
“It is possible I have seen a de Winter rider at the main gatehouse,” he said. “It is also possible that it is advance word that the army is returning.”
Eiselle wouldn’t let herself become too excited. “And it is equally possible that it is not,” she said. “The army only left three days ago.”
Manducor stepped into the chamber, eyeing the pitcher of wine on a table against the wall. He had a talent for finding the wine pitcher in any room he entered.
“Aye, they did,” he agreed. “But Lady de Winter has been called to the gatehouse. The odds are in our favor that the army is returning and she is being told.”
So much for Eiselle not becoming too excited. A smile flickered on her lips. “I suppose the battle wasn’t too far away, was it?”
Manducor shook his head. “It was not. Castle Acre is only sixteen miles away, so whatever happened must have happened quickly.”
Eiselle was encouraged by that. “Why did you not go with the army?” she asked. “Keeva said that Daveigh invited you to go. You are a former knight, after all. Why should you not go and fight?”
Manducor shook his head. “It was a very long time ago,” he said. “I no longer possess any mail or weapons. Besides, I would probably cut someone’s head off if I tried. Nay, lass, that is a past life for me.”
“Then mayhap you should ask Bric to practice with you. I am sure he would.”
Manducor poured himself some of the wine he’d been eyeing. Lifting the cup to his lips, he drank deeply.
“I am too old, Lady MacRohan,” he told her. “I would prefer to remain here, away from battle, and then help when I am needed. I am quite versatile, in fact – I can help Weetley with the sick or injured, and I can also perform a mass or a blessing. I think that makes me a rather indispensable figure here.”
He sounded full of himself and Eiselle grinned, turning back to her sewing. “Tell that to Daveigh, not me,” she said. “He has let you remain this long, so I do not see why he would not permit you to be a permanent resident.”
“That is my intention, madam.”
“You like Narborough that much?”
“Let’s just say that I feel useful here. I feel as if I belong.”
Eiselle chuckled, shaking her head at the priest who refused to leave a good thing when he saw it. But she didn’t mind; she liked Manducor and she’d come to appreciate his wisdom. She considered him a friend.
“Then if you feel as if you belong, sit down and tell me some stories,” she said. “You can keep me company whilst I sew on Lady de Winter’s gown.”
Manducor was more than happy to plant his fat backside onto the nearest chair, making sure to stay within arm’s length of the wine pitcher.
“It will be my pleasure, Lady MacRohan,” he said. “What kind of stories would you like to hear?”
“Something with humor. Or even adventure.”
“How about bloody adventures?”
She made a face. “Don’t you dare!”
Manducor snorted. “No blood?”
“No blood!”
He grunted. “You have no sense of fun,” he said. He took another long drink of wine. “Humor and adventure, eh? Then let me tell you about my early days when I fostered. I come from a fine family, you know. One of the best in England.”
“Who?”
He cast her a quirky expression. “I will not tell you. You will have to wonder about that the rest of your life.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Well, you brought it up.”
“So I did.
Eiselle had to laugh at the man who was being both petulant and evasive on a subject he had introduced. She turned back to her sewing again.
“Tell me,” she said. “Where did you foster?”
“Okehampton Castle,” he said. “Seat of the de Courtenay family. Have you heard of them?”
Eiselle shook her head. “I have not,” she confessed. “Are you sure you won’t tell me your family name?”
“Mayhap someday. My family controls much of the northern Welsh Marches.”
“Are you Welsh, then?”
“I am English to the bone, lass.”
Eiselle didn’t ask any more questions. It seemed that Manducor didn’t want to discuss his family, only his life experiences. He told of a mother who was reluctant to let him foster, so he wasn’t able to leave his family until he was much older than most boys. He felt that held him back, but he also met his wife whilst he was fostering, when he’d seen ten years and four, or so he told Eiselle, and he spoke mostly of his wife as a young girl, a ward of his liege. She was a lovely creature and he had been very much enamored with her.
It was a pleasant conversation on a pleasant day, hardly foreshadowing what was to come. Eiselle’s first hint of the darkness she was about to face came when Keeva entered the solar. She didn’t look at Eiselle; instead, her focus went to Manducor.
“Leave us,” she said quietly. “Go to the gatehouse and seek the sergeant in command, Roget. He will instruct you.”
Manducor immediately stood up, shuffling from the room as Eiselle looked at Keeva curiously. “What is the matter?” she asked. “Has he done something wrong?”
Keeva shook her head. She seemed subdued, unable to look Eiselle in the eye as she went to her and took her hand.
“Put the sewing aside,” she said quietly. “I must speak with you.”
Eiselle didn’t like the tone in her voice and her nervous stomach began to quiver. “You seem distressed. Has something…?” Her eyes suddenly widened and all of the color drained out of her face. “Dear God… Manducor told me of the rider at the gatehouse. Something has happened to Bric!”
Keeva grabbed hold of the woman before she could bolt from her chair. “Nay,” she said firmly. “Eiselle, Bric is not injured. But the rider has been sent ahead from the army, who is on its way back to Narborough. Bric is well, but something terrible has happened.”
Eiselle was so relieved that her husband was unharmed that she was starting to feel lightheaded. “What has happened, Keeva?” she begged softly. “What did the messenger say?”
Keeva’s eyes began to fill with tears but she fought them, struggling to maintain her composure. “My husband sent the messenger ahead of the returning army, so what I am to tell you has come from him,” she said. “There were many French rebels at Castle Acre and they tried to seize both the castle and the priory. The fighting was fierce, and they fought into the night. You remember last night, Eiselle. There was no moon.”
Eiselle nodded, now greatly concerned for what was to come. “It was as black as ink,” she said. “Only the stars were visible.”
Keeva swallowed the lump in her throat. “Imagine fighting in that darkness,” she said. “Imagine not being able to see ally or enemy. But our men had to fight in the darkness because the French would not surrender. It was very dark and dangerous, and in the course of the battle, Bric accidentally killed Mylo.”
Eiselle’s hands flew to her mouth in horror. “Nay!” she gasped. “It is not possible!”
Keeva nodded. “I am afraid it is,” she said. “According to the messenger, a French knight tried to kill Bric, but Mylo put himself in harm’s way in order to save Bric. Because it was so dark, Bric did not see that it was Mylo and killed him, thinking he was the enemy.”
Tears flooded Eiselle’s eyes and she blinked, sending them cascading down her face. As she started to weep, Keeva gave her firm shake.
“Nay,” she hissed. “You will not weep. It is not your right. I must still tell Angela that her husband is dead, and it is not your right to weep. Do you understand me?”
Eiselle did. She realized that everything Keeva said was correct and, very quickly, she stilled her tears. She wiped at her cheeks furiously, struggling to reclaim her composure.
“I am sorry,” she said. “It… it will not happen again. You are correct – it is not my right.”
Keeva could see the pain in her eyes and she felt for the woman. Mostly, she felt for her because of what she would soon be dealing with as her husband returned home.
“You must be strong, Eiselle,” she murmured. “Bric needs your strength. I did not tell you the rest of the message – Bric is carrying Mylo back to Narborough, but not on horseback. He is walking the entire way with Mylo in his arms and when he gets here, it will be up to us to separate him from Mylo’s body. I cannot pretend to know what is going through Bric’s mind right now, but surely he is suffering greatly. The army knows this and that is why they are walking with him. They are all walking back to Narborough because Bric is.”
Eiselle stared at her in shock and horror. It was true she had not spent her life around knights, and she didn’t entirely know the bond they shared, but she could only imagine how strong it must be. These were men who spent their lives defending each other, fighting with each other, and a bond like that must have been one of the strongest of all bonds.
The army is walking with him. Only men who had great love for Bric would do such a thing, supporting him in this horrible moment. It was such a touching thing to do, men united in tragedy. It was then that Eiselle realized, more than ever, that it wasn’t her right to grieve the situation. That right belonged solely to Bric, Angela, and the de Winter army.
All of them, united in grief.
“Poor Bric,” Eiselle finally breathed. “Tell me what to do, Keeva. Tell me what to do for him and I shall do it.”
Keeva was pleased to see that Eiselle was showing her strength. The woman had been forced to show a great deal of strength since her marriage to Bric, so she wasn’t surprise. In fact, she hadn’t really expected anything less. Keeva let go of her hands and stood up, touching her cheek affectionately.
“I must go to Angela,” she said softly. “She must know of Mylo’s passing. You will go to the gatehouse and wait for Bric. When he comes, you will tell him that he must give over Mylo’s body to be tended. Daveigh said that no one has been able to convince Bric to release Mylo, so it must be you. He must listen to you. Be firm, but be kind. Be understanding. But do what you must to force Bric to release Mylo. Once he does, you must bring Bric to your chamber and keep him there. Daveigh fears that Bric has suffered some kind of breakdown and we must make sure Bric is safe above all.”
It was a good deal to absorb but Eiselle forced herself to understand and to agree. It seemed to her that Bric had survived the battle, but only physically. The death of Mylo had cut him deep, but just how deep remained to be seen. Truth be told, Eiselle had seen Bric at his weak points. She knew the best way to handle him was with love and patience.
At least, she hoped that would work.
There was little choice.
As Keeva went to find Angela, Eiselle left the keep and headed for the gatehouse. It was mid-afternoon on a fine summer day, and she shielded her eyes from the sun as she crossed from the inner bailey and into the vast outer bailey, noting the group of men gathered by the main gatehouse.
There were soldiers everywhere and she normally stayed away from the outer bailey and, in particular, the gatehouse. So as she drew near the imposing two-storied structure, she naturally slowed her pace, seemingly uncertain about her place in the grand scheme of things. But Keeva had told her to come to the gatehouse, so here she was. As she drew near the collection of men, one man in particular approached her.
“Lady MacRohan,” the man addressed her formally. “My name is Roget. I am in command of the gatehouse when the army is away.”
Eiselle looked at the man; he was tall, rather thin, and walked with a limp. “My lord,” she said. “Lady de Winter told me to wait for my husband at the gatehouse.”
Roget nodded, the strain on his features apparent. “Aye, my lady,” he said. “Did… she tell you why?”
“She did.”
“Then you know that he is carrying a dead man.”
Eiselle had understood that, but it hadn’t been in the forefront of her mind. Now, Roget had put it rather bluntly and the mere thought made her queasy stomach feel even more queasy.
“I have been told,” she said. “Lady de Winter has told me that I must ask my husband to release Mylo. That is why I have come.”
Roget simply nodded, the distress on his features evident. He indicated for her to follow him and she did, beneath the enormous gatehouse until they were outside of it, gazing at the road beyond that was clear for a quarter of a mile before disappearing into the trees.
The lands surrounding Narborough were lush and green because of the river, and across the road, Eiselle could see fields of summer flowers blowing in the gentle breeze that came from the east. The gatehouse of Narborough was at an angle, so it faced northeast, while the road that led up to it came from the east, passed by, and then continued on to the west towards the river.
Like most of the men at Narborough, she now stood outside of the gatehouse, looking down the road the led off to the east because the soldiers were looking in that direction. Roget stood beside her, his gaze also on the road leading east.
It seemed to Eiselle that everyone around her was tense with apprehension, knowing what was approaching and fearful to see it. Truth be told, Eiselle was fearful, too, but she had taken to heart what Keeva had told her – it wasn’t her right to grieve. She had to do whatever necessary to help her husband, who was evidently in a terrible state. But much like the men around her, all she could do was wait for him to come.
It was like waiting for a hammer to drop.
“How far away is the army?” she asked Roget.
The old soldier’s focus was on the road. “Not too far away, according to the messenger,” he said. “We should start seeing them shortly.”
Eiselle didn’t know if she felt better or worse about that. The tension from the army was beginning to affect her, filtering into her veins no matter how hard she tried to shake it off. The wind was picking up a bit, lifting her hair, swirling around her and whistling. It only served to enhance the uneasy atmosphere they were all facing.
Waiting and watching for something they’d prefer not to see.
As they stood there, Eiselle heard some commotion off to her right, turning to see Manducor run through the gatehouse, a bundle of material in his arms. He headed straight for Roget.
“I found this,” he said to the man, holding up what appeared to be a horse blanket, dusty with straw. “Will this do?”
Roget nodded. “It will do fine,” he said quietly. “If MacRohan hasn’t covered up the body…”
His gaze trailed over to Eiselle, standing a few feet away. Manducor caught sight of her and immediately understood the implications.
“The women must be spared,” he muttered, handing the blanket over to Roget. “Lady de Chevington must not see her husband in that state.”
As Roget took the blanket, Manducor headed over to Eiselle. She watched him approach.
“They told you what happened?” she asked him.
Manducor nodded. “They did. It is very unfortunate.”
Eiselle’s gaze lingered on him a moment, to perhaps decipher what he truly thought about the situation, before returning her attention to the road.
“I am not sure what to think about any of this,” she said. “I have never been around armies or knights prior to my marriage and I cannot help but feel I have trespassed into a situation that I have no right to be part of.”
Manducor looked at her. “Why would you say that?”
Eiselle was struggling with emotions that were trying very hard to bubble up. “Bric had his life here at Narborough before I came. These men he fought with… they are part of the brotherhood that is Narborough. Then Bric married me and, although he loves me and I love him, I feel wholly unworthy to be part of this tragedy. He killed his knight and I understand that is terrible, indeed, but who am I to comfort him? I know nothing. I am stupid when it comes to what he must be feeling.”
Manducor understood. “By virtue of your marriage to MacRohan, you are involved more deeply than most,” he said quietly. “Eiselle, I know you are frightened and, God knows, you have faced a great deal of tribulation since you married Bric. It is too much to ask of any woman. But let me see if I can explain what has happened in words you can understand – men that fight and die together form a bond that goes beyond blood. Do you have a sister? A brother?”
Eiselle shook her head. “Nay.”
“But you have a mother and father that are still living?”
“Aye.”
“Then imagine if you accidentally killed your mother. Can you imagine the grief and guilt you would feel for such a thing?”
“I believe I can.”
“Then that is what your husband is feeling, only worse. All you need to know is he probably feels grief and guilt badly enough that it will eat him alive if he lets it.”
“Then what must I do to help him?”
Manducor sighed faintly. “All I can tell you is to be gentle with him, and to be understanding,” she said. “Do not tell him that he will feel better someday. Do not tell him that everything will be all right. Do not tell him stories to try and take his mind off of what has happened. Hold him when he weeps, feed him when he cannot eat, and simply be there to listen to him should he need to speak. That is the only advice I can give you.”
It didn’t sound as if she could do very much at all. “But I feel so… useless. I do not know if I can be any help to him.”
Manducor put a big hand on her shoulder. “Simply being with him, every second of every day, will be enough. He must know that you will never leave him, lass. Can you do that?”
“Of course I can,” she said. “But will you please do something for me?”
“If I can.”
Eiselle looked at him, tears glimmering in her eyes. “Pray for him,” she whispered. “Mayhap God will finally talk to you and He will tell you how we can help him.”
Manducor simply nodded, patting her on the shoulder gently before dropping his hand. As they stood there, one of the sentries on the wall shouted, and men began to take up the cry that the army was on the approach.
That cry was like a scream to Eiselle. It seemed to run right through her, making her entire body feel as if she’d been struck by lightning. Everything tingled. Her nervous stomach began doing flips as she labored to remain calm. You must be calm for Bric, she told herself. No matter what he looks like or how he behaves, you must be strong for him!
God, she didn’t want to fail him.
The activity on the walls grew as, far down the straight stretch of road, they could see men appear. They looked like little specks, dots with legs, all of them moving. In the distance, they could also see horses, but they had no riders. They were being led by their masters, all of them walking down the road towards Narborough, all of them feeling the summer heat as the temperatures on this day had remained elevated. It was enough to cause a man to sweat as he stood in the sun, watching and waiting, and Eiselle saw Roget as the man began to walk down the road, quickly, carrying the horse blanket with him that Manducor had brought him.
Somewhere down the road, Roget disappeared into the gang of men and horses that was approaching. Eiselle took a few steps away from Manducor, lifting her hand to her eyes to shield them from the sun, straining to catch a glimpse of her husband as he carried his dead comrade home.
And then, she saw him.
She saw a man walking down the center of the road at a distance, carrying a burden which, as the man drew closer, appeared to be a body. Hypnotized by the sight, Eiselle took a few more steps down the road and away from the gatehouse, struggling to make the figure out clearly. She saw the pale blond hair before she ever saw any features, knowing that it was her husband and that he was, indeed, carrying a body in his arms. Considering Mylo had been a well-built man, to carry his body those sixteen miles back from Castle Acre was enough to put a strain on even the strongest man.
But her heart was breaking at the sight. The closer he came, the bigger the lump in her throat. She blinked rapidly, chasing off the tears, thinking she’d never in her life seen anything so horrible and tragic. Her dear, poor husband was carrying his brother-in-arms all the way home.
It was the saddest thing she’d ever seen.
The group grew closer and she could make out the features on Bric’s face. He looked dazed to her, his entire face red with sweat and exhaustion. The warm temperatures weren’t helping. She could see Daveigh and Pearce walking beside Bric, and she saw clearly when Daveigh took the horse blanket from Roget and tried to cover Mylo with it. But Bric wouldn’t let him; for whatever reason, Bric didn’t want Mylo to be covered up.
And they drew closer. Eiselle caught a glimpse of Mylo’s pasty-white form and she could see the caked blood and gore all along the left side of the man’s neck, shoulder, and head. When she realized his head was flopping back and forth because it had been nearly cut loose, she stopped looking at him. Fighting down the vomit, her eyes fixed on Bric’s face and that was where they remained. When he came within about twenty feet of her, she walked out to meet him.
But Bric wasn’t looking at her; he really wasn’t looking at anyone. He was simply looking ahead. Eiselle looked quickly to the faces around him, to Daveigh and Pearce, and other soldiers who were walking with him in solidarity. They all appeared so stricken and shattered.
But rather than feel stricken and shattered herself, Eiselle realized she had to do something. Keeva had told her that it was up to her to separate Bric from Mylo, and that was exactly what she intended to do. An entire army was watching her husband crumble and, God willing, they weren’t going to see anymore. She would protect Bric from their pity and even judgment if it was the last thing she did.
It was time for her to show her worth.
“Bric?” she said, walking right up to him and cutting off his path. When he came to an unsteady halt and looked at her, she smiled timidly. “Bric? You are home now, my love. You made it home.”
Bric looked at her with an expression that could only be described as hollow. It was as if the man was completely hollow. But he recognized her; the silver eyes shifted when he looked at her as if realization dawned. Then his features tightened.
“I did this,” he said hoarsely. “I killed him.”
He sounded so very pathetic, his voice raspy and breathless, as if a thousand knives were scraping up his innards and coming out of his mouth. Eiselle felt his pain and it was an effort not to react.
Be strong!
“It was an accident,” she said softly, moving towards him slowly. “You did not mean to kill him. It was an accident.”
Bric watched her as she came closer and closer, finally putting her hands on his left one, the one that was holding Mylo around the shoulders. When she touched him, he inhaled sharply, drawing in an unsteady breath. It was like her touch awoke something in him, breaking him out of the daze he’d been in.
“He sacrificed himself for me,” he said, speaking to her as if they were the only two people in the entire world. “He told me to watch my back, but it was so dark… so dark… I felt a man next to me and believed it to be the enemy. But it was Mylo. I cut him down, Eiselle. I killed him.”
Eiselle could see that something wasn’t right with him. The man had reached the breaking point and all she could think of was getting him inside the keep and away from his men. Bric needed peace, quiet, and privacy to work through whatever was happening to him. Her sense of protectiveness towards the man came on strong.
“It was an accident,” she said again. “You must not blame yourself. Now, you must let the men take him away because he needs to see Angela. She is waiting for him and you must let him go. You have taken great care of him and I know he would be appreciative, but now you must let him go. Please, Bric… let him go.”
She began pulling at his fingers, trying to force him to release his grip. Swamped with temporary madness and indecision, Bric hesitated.
“Please, my love,” Eiselle said softly, reassuringly. “Please let him go. It is time.”
Bric resisted a moment longer before finally allowing her to move his hand. Swiftly, Pearce and several other men swooped in to remove Mylo from his arms as Daveigh threw the horse blanket over the corpse to shield it from the world. As this was happening, Eiselle put her arms around Bric and began pulling him towards the gatehouse.
“Come with me,” she said softly, steadily. “Come inside with me. You must rest now.”
He was walking stiffly, being separated from Mylo and not at all sure he wanted to be. “But… but Mylo…”
“Mylo will be well tended, I promise,” Eiselle assured him, looking to Manducor and silently pleading for his help. “Mylo will be taken care of and now we must take care of you. It was a long walk from Castle Acre and you must rest now. Come along, Bric.”
Manducor came up behind them, walking on Bric’s other side. He didn’t try to touch the man, but merely walked alongside him should he be needed. Right now, Lady MacRohan was doing an excellent job of tending her husband, but it was a sight that was shocking even for a seasoned man like Manducor.
Seeing MacRohan carry his dead colleague home was one of the most tragic sights Manducor had ever seen. He should have been shocked by it but, in truth, he wasn’t. MacRohan’s brush with death had changed him, as most were aware, and it was a fragile man who had returned to battle far sooner than he should have.
Bric MacRohan was strong, stronger than any man alive, but slaying his fellow knight, accidental though it might be, had pushed him beyond his endurance. The fragile man had cracked, and the results were before them.
It was devastating.
So, Manducor followed the pair as they headed into the keep. He thought they might lose MacRohan when Lady de Chevington and her terrible son came bolting from the keep, with Lady de Chevington screaming and Lady de Winter running after her. But Eiselle kept a tight grip on Bric and wouldn’t let him follow Angela even though he tried. He tried to call after her, to tell her that he was sorry, but Eiselle put her hands on his face and made him turn away. Then, she pleaded with Manducor to physically help her and he did, coming alongside MacRohan and taking one of the man’s arms to pull him into the keep.
But they all heard Angela screaming and weeping over the body of her husband.
It was a sound none of them would ever forget.