Age of Gods and Mortals

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  He turned to look at William and Gilbert still at the rudder, directing the ship right for the shore. They were doing their best to get everyone close, to at least give them a chance to live. He admired his men greatly for that, knowing that any depth over their heads would more than likely kill them because they couldn’t swim, but the horses could. It was a natural instinct. If he could get them to a horse, then the animal could swim them ashore. He was about to make his way back to them when the boat struck something under the water.

  One of those many jagged rocks the captain had warned them about.

  Down they all went, into the roiling sea.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Calais

  She felt as if she’d had the wind knocked out of her.

  Perhaps it had been the bone-rattling thunderclap, but perhaps not. All Tresta knew was that she had no more fight left. She had told him the truth, begged for his help, but he had resisted her. As she watched Tarran’s strong face, she simply could not believe he had denied her. True, she had expected it, but it was still difficult to believe. She repeated his answer as if to convince herself of what he had really said.

  “You cannot?”

  He shook his head slowly. “I cannot,” he replied again. But the pale eyes were not without compassion, a strange event indeed. “I will not take you to him.”

  She could not look into his eyes any longer. With all of the fire and fight gone out of her, finally drained out of her like the last dregs of wine from an empty bottle, she wandered aimlessly in the direction of the smoking fire. The hearth was poorly constructed and black smoke belched into the room. Tresta walked right through it, coughing as the black soot invaded her tender lungs. She was nearly to the window to inhale the cool air of the night when he spoke again.

  “I will, however, retrieve him for you,” he said quietly. “If you are truly ill, then he has every right to know. Do not believe for one moment he would have gone on this quest had you been honest with him.”

  Tresta whirled to him, her cheeks flushed with sudden rage. “You will not go to him,” she hissed. “You promised you would keep my secret. You cannot go to him!”

  He lifted an eyebrow at her. “I am not going to tell him. I will bring him back here so that you may tell him.”

  “Nay!” She was furious, storming back at him through the smoke of the hearth. “I told you why I have not told him. It would destroy him!”

  “Destroy him? I think not. You do not give your husband enough credit.”

  The more he spoke, the more he inflamed her. “How dare you presume to tell me how to deal with my husband,” she seethed. “I know him better than you, Tarran. You will not tell me how to behave in my marriage.”

  “How would you feel if Sir Teague kept something like this from you?”

  The spark of fury in her eye suddenly banked. She seemed stumped by his question. “W-What?”

  “You heard me. How would you feel if he were ill and did not tell you?”

  She blinked as the question caused her to falter. “He would not do such a thing,” she said. “He tells me everything.”

  “How do you know?”

  She didn’t, which saw her slipping further into confusion and despair. “Because… because we are married and he loves me,” she said. “We have been together for many years. There is nothing I do not know about him.”

  “You only know what he wants you to know.”

  Her fury was returning as she put her fists on her hips. “And you know more about him than I do?” she said. “You have been sworn to him for as long as we have been married, so do you mean to tell me that you know more about my husband than I do?”

  He shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “All I asked was how you would feel if he did not tell you that he was ill. And you’ve not answered my question.”

  He was clever. Tresta could see that. She wasn’t a truly belligerent woman by nature, but she was opinionated. And strong-willed. She was also one that had to be in control, which was something Teague was most willing to relinquish to her when they were at Snow Hill.

  But they were far from their home these days.

  She didn’t feel in control at all and perhaps that was her greatest problem.

  She had no control.

  “I would not like it, of course,” she finally said. “But if he had his reasons…”

  He cut her off. “If he had his reasons, you still wouldn’t like it,” he said as she averted her gaze. “Nor would he like that you’ve kept this from him. He knows you have been ill, my lady. It is well known how worried he is for you. Do you truly think he would crumble like a weak woman were he to know the truth?”

  The fight was out of her again. She was exhausted, sick, and hungry, which had her emotions all over the place. But she knew that Tarran was correct. She simply didn’t want to admit it. Outside the window with its closed shutters, she could hear the wind whistling against the building. Water was still dripping in. She went to the window and peeled back the oil cloth, just a little, to see if there was anything to see outside.

  All she could see was blackness.

  “Nay,” she finally said. “He would not crumble. But I was trying to spare him just the same.”

  Tarran eyed her. She sounded dull, calm, but as he’d come to see with her, the docile moments she experienced were an act, something he was trying not to fall for again as his sympathy forced him to soften.

  “That is a noble attitude, but as I am sure your husband himself would tell you, unnecessary,” he said. “Now, sit down and eat the food that Channing and Simon have brought you, although I am certain it is cold by now. I can send for hot food if you wish.”

  She was still peering from the window. “Where do you think they are by now?”

  “Who?”

  “My husband. The ships. Where do you think they are by now?”

  Tarran turned his head as if to see through the walls, out to the coast. “Far away, I hope,” he said. “At least to Guernsey, Jersey.”

  She pondered that. “Will the storm not have troubled them?”

  It had been a bad storm. Deep down, perhaps Tarran had considered that and may have even harbored some trepidation about it, but he couldn’t let himself think on it. All of those heavily laden cogs with men and horses would have been tossed around brutally on the stormy waves if the tempest had been as bad out to sea as it had been on land.

  He wondered.

  “That is difficult to say,” he said after a moment. “They may have escaped the storm as they traveled southwest. Or they may not have.”

  She looked at him, then. “It was a terrible storm.”

  “It was bad enough.”

  “And if I asked you to go after him for me?”

  Tarran froze for a brief second, turning to see if she was serious. He couldn’t tell by the expression on her face, so he let out a heavy sigh.

  “To bring him home because you selfishly want him home?” he asked, annoyed. “Or to tell him the truth of why you were so adamant about following him?”

  “To tell him the truth, of course.”

  He wasn’t entirely sure that was the reason. Or maybe it was. In either case, he could feel his irritation with her rise. The woman had her moments of being unrealistic.

  “Then I should go, of course,” he said. “But first, I would take you back to Snow Hill and lock you in the vault and give your father the only key so that you could not follow me. Then, I would proceed to The Levant and locate him. It would take me years, and his return would take years, but if that is what you wish, then I shall do it. If you are prepared to face his rage at having been dragged back to England from his Holy Quest, then I shall do it.”

  The way he said it gave her pause. He made it sound, truthfully, like the arduous task it would be. And Teague would, indeed, be enraged. So terribly enraged. She watched him closely, staring at him, perhaps digesting his frustration to see just how serious he was. But all he conveyed was sincerity.


  Irritated sincerity.

  It began to occur to Tresta that the situation really was out of her control. No matter how hard she had tried to hold on, to make it into what she wanted it to be, it had eluded her grasp. Teague was well on his way to The Levant and Tarran, who had been deprived of that chance, now had the unhappy task of taking her back to Snow Hill.

  God, was it really true?

  Had her quest to be with her husband really ended?

  Tresta wasn’t unreasonable. Contrary to her behavior since her husband’s departure from Snow Hill, she truly wasn’t irrational. But she was passionate in everything she did, her beliefs strong. That strength came across as stubbornness and belligerence sometimes and she knew that. But she was simply a strong woman who was used to having things her way and never being denied her wants. That was Teague’s fault.

  Nay… it was her fault.

  Everything was her fault, including the miserable knight sitting across the chamber.

  With a sigh, she sat heavily on the old chair next to the window, wet with dampness that she could feel through her clothes. A great many things were coming clear to her now.

  “That will not be necessary,” she said quietly. “It would all be quite futile, I think. I am sorry to have brought it up.”

  Tarran wasn’t sure she meant it. Everything about her had him dodgy and suspicious, so he simply nodded his head.

  “I hope that is true,” he said. “I hope you finally understand that this situation is set and we must return to Snow Hill until my lord and his armies return home. Do you truly comprehend this?”

  She had her head lowered, looking at her hands. “I do.”

  “And you will not try to escape me any longer? Please, my lady, agree to this. Agree to this so that we may both know some peace.”

  She shrugged. “I do not know where I would go,” she said, finally looking at him. “You have accomplished your task. You have kept me here long enough for Teague to put distance between us. He is at sea and I am here on land. Where would I ever go to find him now?”

  “That is not an answer.”

  She sighed sharply. “Nay, I will not try to escape you any longer. What is the use of it? But just know that I shall never forgive you for this, Tarran. Never.”

  His gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before moving over to the table where the cold food sat. He looked it over quickly before picking up the tray and heading to the door. He ignored her comment about forgiveness. Truthfully, he didn’t care if she forgave him or not. That was her problem; not his.

  “I will seek hot food for you,” he said. “I will leave you alone for a few moments. Know that if you try to climb out of the window, it is a significant drop to the cobbled road below. There is no easy way out and if you tried, you would fall to the hard earth below and break bones, so I would advise against trying. I selected this room for a particular purpose – that it is unescapable.”

  Tresta looked away from him, unwilling to comment. Tarran opened the door and stepped out onto the landing, closing the door softly behind him. He could see Channing and Simon sitting against the wall, the boys leaping to their feet when they saw him. He pointed to the door.

  “If Lady d’Mearc tries to open this door, you will hold it shut with all your might,” he said. “Do not let her out of this door, no matter what she says. Your orders come from me, not her. Is this clear?”

  The boys nodded seriously. “Is… is she still trying to leave, my lord?” Simon asked.

  Tarran looked at the young squire who would make a fine knight someday. “For the moment, she is calm, but do not let that fool you,” he said. “Stay by this door and do not move. I will return shortly.”

  He headed down the steps that led into the great common room of the inn. It was a large place, with a dug-out, hard-packed earthen floor where diners were enjoying their meal, but it also had a big counter where men could stand, side by side, and eat. Tarran could see the tavernkeeper over near the counter and he headed in that direction.

  Truth be told, he needed some air. He needed to put some space between him and Lady d’Mearc. He’d been cooped up with her for six solid days and he simply had to breathe. He was tired of the constant battle, the constant tension, and he was increasingly trying not to hate Teague for leaving him behind. That woman in the chamber over his head had prevented him from having an adventure of a lifetime and the more he thought about it, the more embittered he became.

  Truth be told, it was a good thing she had agreed not to run any longer because he honestly wasn’t sure if he would stop her the next time around. He was so disgusted with the whole thing that he might just let her go. If she bolted down the stairs at this very moment and ran outside, he wasn’t entirely certain he would go after her. Stubborn, foolish Tresta d’Mearc would get what she deserved in her attempts to follow her husband.

  But then he wondered what it would be like to have a woman so devoted to him.

  That kind of devotion was what every man hoped for but seldom received.

  So, he backed down just a little, handing the tray of cold food back to the tavernkeeper and asking for something hot. As the man disappeared into the kitchen, Tarran stood at the counter, which was about waist high, noting the men that were huddled over their meal. They seemed to be sailors from the way they were dressed. Looking over the common room itself, packed on this wet, stormy night, he could see a variety of merchants and seamen, a few soldiers, and at least two knights all the way over near the door.

  As he looked over the room, the entry door opened and two men came stumbling in as the wind and rain blew in after them. As a tavern wench struggled to close the door behind them, they staggered through the full common room and over to the counter where there was a little sliver of room for them, which happened to be next to Tarran. His attention was on the common room in general and not on the soaking-wet men who had just entered, although he took a step away from them to avoid getting water on his dry clothing. He wasn’t paying much attention to them as they ordered a meal and tried to dry out.

  “Nous reviendrons demain,” a man with a big, red nose spoke. “Il devrait y en avoir plus lorsque la tempête s’éteindra.”

  Tarran was fluent in French, so he comprehended the words. We’ll return tomorrow. There should be more when the storm dies down. However, he didn’t pay much attention to what they were saying. The men next to him continued to chat in their provincial French accent. He could tell that they weren’t from the bigger cities.

  “I saw some men find valuables,” his companion with a bald, wet head spoke. “There were so many people on the shore that it was difficult to see what everyone was collecting, but I saw several men fighting over a horse that managed to survive. A big stallion, very expensive.”

  The red-nosed man nodded as he tossed back a warmed cup of wine that a wench brought him. “I saw that, too,” he said. “Beautiful animal and worth a great deal. How many ships were there? Did you hear anyone speak on it?”

  That had Tarran’s attention immediately. He hadn’t been paying attention until that moment, but the mention of ships and horses had his attention. He turned his head slightly, still looking out over the common room, but his right ear was turned in the direction of the conversation so he could hear better.

  “An entire fleet someone said,” the bald man said. “An English fleet. There are a great many bodies on the sand, dressed as the English do. I saw men stealing shoes and weapons from the dead. There were some dead horses and goats, too, but there were also some that survived. Those seemed to be the most in demand.”

  The man with the red nose tossed back more warmed wine. “Those destriers will fetch a very fine price,” he said. “Such a large fleet with so many fighting men means they were going to The Levant with their king. A pity they will never make it.”

  The more Tarran listened, the more horrified he became. Apprehension swelled in his chest as he turned to the men and put down three silver pieces on the cou
nter.

  “Let me buy you a drink,” he said in his perfect French. “I heard you speaking of a fleet of ships. There was a wreck?”

  The men would have been suspicious had he not put down money, but somehow that money meant that the man engaging them in conversation was trustworthy. The wench picked up the coins with the promise of bringing a big pitcher of warmed wine as the men turned to Tarran.

  “And your name, friend?” the red-nosed man said.

  Tarran forced a smile, as if he were just trying to be friendly. “Du Bexley,” he said, giving his mother’s maiden name. “I came in for some shelter on this beastly night and heard you speak of a shipwreck. With a storm like this, I’m not surprised.”

  He sounded casual, enough so that it took the edge off of any suspicion the men might have. “Aye,” the red-nosed man said, deciding that he was willing to talk for the price of a drink or two. “A big fleet of English was sunk three days ago off of Le Touquet.”

  Tarran labored to keep calm, congenial. “How do you know it was English?”

  “From the way they were dressed, and other things. Money, mostly. Coins with the head of King Henry on them.”

  “How far is Le Touquet?”

  The red-nosed man pointed in a general southerly direction. “About a day’s ride along the coast,” he said. “What I want to know is what a fleet was doing out in weather so terrible. This storm has been raging for six days. Why did they not find safe harbor?”

  Tarran shrugged. “Mayhap they tried,” he said. “I would not know. But I heard you speak of dead men on shore?”

  The man nodded. “It was a big fleet,” he said. “There were many men, soldiers who had washed up with the waves. I even saw a knight, stripped of everything but the mail he wore because they couldn’t get it off him. He had an empty scabbard strapped to his leg and there was a man running through the rain, holding aloft a big and expensive broadsword he’d taken from him. The fleet must have been going to the Holy Land for that foolish quest that everyone speaks of.”