“It is possible.”
“But… but you said that Teague was well away from the storm.”
He held up a hand. “I said probably,” he emphasized. “I had hoped so, but it was more than likely that he did not outrun the storm. The fleet was hugging the coast, so I knew they were traveling southwest along the coastline and the storm raged for six days. Six days of not being able to escape the tempest.”
Her breathing grew more rapid and he watched the color drain from her face. “Tell me what you know, du Reims,” she said, her voice strangely hoarse. “You are not telling me everything.”
She was intuitive and he found that he couldn’t look at her. “Nay, I am not,” he said, but forced himself to look her in the eyes again. “There are… indications that it was Somerset’s fleet. One of the men I spoke with said he saw shields washed up on the beach with Somerset’s standard on them.”
She drew in her breath as if she’d been physically struck. “W-What else?”
He shook his head helplessly. “There were horses that made it alive to shore,” he said. “There were men that did not. From what I was told, the shore was littered with a good deal of debris and it is my intention to send you back to Snow Hill today and go myself to see if this was indeed Somerset’s fleet.”
He waited for the explosion. Surely there was to be one, greater than any explosion yet. He wouldn’t have blamed her. But she stared at him without any discernable reaction, at least for several long and terrible moments, until her eyes filled with tears. Tears that spilled over and coursed down her cheeks. But still, she didn’t say a word. She didn’t even move. She just looked at him as the tears ran down her face like a river and dripped off her chin.
“It is not true,” she finally said, her voice barely a whisper. “It cannot be true.”
“That is what I intend to find out, my lady, I swear it.”
Tresta didn’t bother to wipe the tears that continued to fall. In fact, she looked rather dazed, as if she couldn’t quite comprehend what he’d told her. Truthfully, it was a better reaction than he’d anticipated. The woman had never been one to hold back her feelings, but at the moment, she was doing so quite ably. He admired the way she held herself together.
But what came next surprised him.
“Teague can swim,” she said, her lips trembling as she spoke matter-of-factly. “He can swim very well. He taught our sons to swim, in fact, so it is not possible that he should not swim to shore. More than likely, he is lying in a bed right now near a warm fire as some kindly old woman takes care of him. He is waiting for us to come to him. Surely he knows we have not left France yet. He knows we will come for him.”
Tarran hadn’t expected that positive, if not misguided, attitude. “If that is true, I will find him and bring him home,” he said, seeing a spark of madness in her eyes that concerned him. “It would be safer for you to return home and wait for my return.”
But she shook her head, finally wiping the tears from her chin and moving towards her half-packed satchel in a most determined manner. “I will finish packing my things and we can leave right away,” she said. “I do not have a horse, but I am sure we can secure a palfrey in a local livery. Will you please see to that for me?”
Tarran stood up because she was, looking at her with increasing concern. “My lady, it would be best if you let me do this alone,” he said, hoping to persuade her without a fight. “Teague would want you safe, not traipsing about on a dangerous road. It is at least a day’s ride from here and the land to the southwest is wild.”
She began shoving things into the satchel. “I am going,” she said steadily. “Will you please find a horse for me to ride?”
She wasn’t budging. Tarran didn’t want a battle on his hands, but he also didn’t want her going. He watched her as she continued to pack her satchel, noting how badly she was trembling. Somehow, in her twitching and anxious condition, she started coughing. It was just a sputter at first, but it quickly grew to something so severe that she had to sit down, only she missed the chair and ended up on her knees.
Tarran was beside her in an instant.
“Come, my lady,” he said quietly. “Sit down and rest. You needn’t exert yourself so.”
She shook her head, trying to stop coughing, her nails digging into his arms as she gripped him.
“You have denied me everything, du Reims,” she said as she sputtered. “It is because of you I have not been able to follow my husband. It is because of you I have not died beside him, if he is truly dead. The evidence of his fate is a day’s ride from here, and still, you would deny me the ability to discover if I have lost the man I love? What on earth have I ever done to you that you would be so cruel to me?”
Tarran could feel himself wavering almost instantly. It was a truly tragic situation that was different from a stubborn woman attempting to follow her husband to the ends of the earth. Now, he had a woman who simply wanted to know if her husband was dead. It wasn’t an unreasonable desire. The problem was that he understood it completely.
But he still didn’t think it was a good idea.
“I am not trying to be cruel, my lady,” he said, looking into her eyes. “Do you not understand that I am trying to protect you?”
“And do you not understand that I do not wish to be protected?” she fired back softly. “I understand why you took a stance against my not following Teague to The Levant. I understand the reasons behind it even if I do not agree. But this… for pity’s sake, du Reims, you must let me go to this village where my husband may have met his end. It is my right.”
She was begging from the very depths of her soul. The tears were starting to come again even as she choked and coughed, poking holes in Tarran’s reasons for not letting her come with him. He was deeply torn but also knew that if he continued to deny her, she wouldn’t go peacefully. She probably wouldn’t go to the cog at all, never mind returning to England. He’d seen the battle they’d gone through for six long and exhaustive days, so he knew she could keep up a fight. Frankly, he didn’t have any fight left in him. He was tired of it.
If she wanted to go, he was going to let her.
And he couldn’t think up a good enough reason to deny her.
“If you are so determined, I will not stand in your way,” he said after a moment. “But I will also bring Channing and Simon and the men-at-arms. If we are to travel with a lady, then I would have her protected. That I will not compromise on.”
Tresta looked at him as if surprised he had given in so easily. After the battle of wills between them, there was no reason to believe he was going to permit her to go to Le Touquet that easily.
But he was.
Fighting with the man for six long days hadn’t had any effect, but a calm, heartfelt plea had.
So the man had mercy, after all.
“I will be ready to depart within the hour,” she said, resuming stuffing her satchel quickly in case he decided to change his mind. “I will not be any trouble, du Reims, I promise.”
He didn’t say what he was thinking – you’ve already been that. He didn’t want to start something with her that would make their travel miserable. Either he was becoming soft or he was simply resigned; he couldn’t figure out what it was. In either case, Lady d’Mearc would have her wish this time.
He was going to let her go to her husband.
If her husband was in Le Touquet.
“I will see about securing a palfrey,” he muttered. “I will return.”
“Du Reims.” She stopped him before he could get to the door. When he paused to look at her, she lifted a hand in a gesture that looked as if she was reaching out to him. But quickly, her hand dropped. “Thank you… for letting me come. I know you do not want me to, but your decision was the merciful one and I am more grateful than you will ever know. I will not forget it.”
He didn’t say anything. Truthfully, he didn’t know what to say so it was best not to try and find words that wouldn’t mean anything
or, worse, may have sounded bitter.
“I will return,” he said.
Quitting the small chamber, he headed out of the tavern, preparing to find his lady a mount for the journey to Le Touquet.
What they would find at the end of that journey wasn’t something he was looking forward to.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was cold.
He was so wet and cold.
There was sand everywhere. In his mouth, on his face, in his ears and eyes. It was everywhere. He wasn’t aware of how long he had been laying there, his face half-buried in the sand, but when someone rolled him over and started fleecing him, he lashed out arms and legs, trying to chase people away. He could hear them all speaking in French, a very provincial dialect and difficult to understand, but he understood what they were saying. At least, a few words now and again.
Leave him!
Do not touch him!
Someone was calling off those who were grabbing at him. He genuinely had no idea what was happening and trying to open his eyes to see where he was turned out to be an excruciating venture, so we simply kept his crusty eyes closed.
God, what happened?
What happened, indeed. He could hear voices all around him as well as the crash of waves and the screech of the gulls overhead. His mind was muddled and he struggled to remember how he got there. And then there was someone tugging at him again, only far more gently. They weren’t trying to steal things off of his body, but rather help him. At least, he sensed they were trying to help him. They were brushing sand off of his face and rolling him onto his back. Someone poured water on his face to wash away the sand and he sputtered and choked, spitting out sand and whatever else he’d managed to capture in his mouth.
“Quel est ton nom?”
What is your name?
For a moment, he didn’t know. He didn’t know anything. They continued to gently ask him his name and ask him where he had come from, but he couldn’t answer them. The drag of unconsciousness was calling to him again and it was a struggle not to answer. He didn’t want to answer. He wanted to know where he was and what had happened.
What is going on?
Someone moved his left arm, which was holding on to something. As they pried his fingers loose, he realized that he had been clutching something. He didn’t even know what it was. But then, it hit him.
The ship.
He had been on a ship. He and a hundred other men had been on a ship heading for The Levant. They were answering King Richard’s call to arms, to chase the infidels from the Holy Land, on a ship heading for Vézelay. They had barely been out of Calais when a massive storm had swept in and as he lay there, he could still feel the waves tossing the ship around and crashing over the bow. He could still feel the fear of that terrible storm, tearing at the cogs that weren’t made to withstand that kind of power. Days and nights of being aboard those ships as they were thrown around violently by the wind and the rain.
And then, they had hit something under the water.
The ship sank in a few short minutes.
In fact, it probably hadn’t even been that long. It seemed to him that it had been instantaneous. One moment he was standing on the deck and in the next, he was underwater. His head managed to make it onto the surface and he remembered hearing the screams of those who were drowning. He remembered hearing the awful sound of the ship as it was smashed to pieces against the rocks that no one could see. He knew how to swim, although he’d never been very good at it, and he tried desperately to keep his head above water and swim in that dark, inky sea. The only time the water would lighten was when the lightning would flash and he could see all around him.
It had been pure devastation.
But it also gave him his bearings and he could see the white chalk cliffs in the distance. He knew that had to be his destination if he was going to survive. So, he swam as much as he was able even though the swells were gigantic and there were waves crashing all around him. At one point, the waves pushed him up against some of those underwater rocks and the force of it tore his boots off him. It also chewed up his legs because, even now, he could feel the sting of the salt on open wounds.
But still, he swam just as hard as he could.
When the lightning flashed next, he saw his salvation. Half of a broken barrel was floating in the water not far from him and he swam towards it, grabbing hold of it and using it for flotation. He gripped that barrel as tightly as he could and kicked his legs, kicking desperately through that churning water as he tried to head towards the shore. As he kicked, he saw one of his comrades, a good friend of his, and he tried to wave the man over to share his barrel, but the man was either too injured or he didn’t hear him.
He watched Gilbert’s head go underwater and never come back up again.
But somehow, he made it to shore.
He didn’t even know how, because he didn’t remember anything after seeing Gilbert’s head go underwater. His memory was muddled and the next thing he remembered was waking up to the sounds of Frenchmen all around him. As he lay there, the lull of unconsciousness pulled even stronger and it was becoming increasingly difficult to resist. But he also realized that, although he remembered Gilbert’s name, he couldn’t quite remember his own. He couldn’t remember his life before that disaster. It was almost as if he never had a life before that. That sinking ship had been his whole life.
He couldn’t recall anything else.
As he began to drift off into blissful darkness again, he could feel people brushing the sand off his injured legs. He could hear them debating what to do for him. Truth be told, he didn’t care if anyone did anything for him because he remembered nothing and he was nothing. He had no past, no present, and no future.
Darkness claimed him once again and he wasn’t sorry in the least.
CHAPTER NINE
The wind was brutal.
By midday, Tarran and his party were heading south out of Calais along the coastal route that essentially skirted the coastline. Even though the storm had cleared, there was a steady and fierce wind blowing off the sea. The land they were traveling through was flat for the most part, with silvery-green seagrass almost as far as the eye could see. To the right were great sand berms that were covered with growth and foliage, and on other side of those was the sea itself.
The beaches were sandy and shallow, except for some areas that were quite rocky. There were miles of flat beaches and then, suddenly, great chalk cliffs would rise up. There were dozens of unseen obstacles under the water, which was why cogs would not anchor along these shores. The best they could hope for was the inlet at Calais where a cog captain now stood frustrated at losing half of his human cargo. The man had been quite angry when Tarran had canceled the reservations, but Tarran let the captain keep the money he had already paid him simply for his troubles.
After that, they headed for Le Touquet.
Strangely, Tresta had been the model of decorum ever since Tarran agreed to let her go with him. The normally belligerent and stubborn woman had become pliable and polite, which had both confused and annoyed Tarran. Somehow, she was much easier to be around when she was being disagreeable because it helped him keep any lingering feelings he might have for her at bay. If she was being sweet and cooperative, he wasn’t quite sure he could keep up his self-defense.
He could already feel it slipping.
He started entertaining thoughts about her that he hadn’t entertained in years.
Many years ago, when he’d first met Tresta, he had been struck by the same things that Teague had been struck by. A woman of unearthly beauty and fierce intelligence had been something to attract noble men of brilliance and accomplishments. Teague had met her first and had married her, but Tarran knew that had he seen her first, Teague would not have had a chance.
Tarran would have staked his claim immediately.
But that hadn’t been the case. Fate had not been kind to Tarran because, in this case, he had come in second in the contest for T
resta’s heart. Probably not even second. There was no guarantee there was even a contest to begin with because Teague had so completely overwhelmed Tresta with his charm. Tarran had come into Teague’s service about a year after he married Tresta, so in that sense, Tarran had watched a beautiful but immature young woman grow into a refined lady that made her husband proud.
A lady he’d pushed out of his mind long ago.
But he found, with horror, that those memories were coming back again.
It was worse when Tarran’s mind went to places it should not have gone. He was devastated at the prospect of the loss of his friends and his lord, and that should have been the most important thing on his mind, but like a cad, he let his thoughts drift to the aftermath of Teague’s death. If the man truly was dead, there would be an aftermath. Tresta would be without a husband. And Tarran was without a wife. He felt like the lowest form of life even thinking such thoughts, but he couldn’t help himself. He had resigned himself to forgetting about Tresta many years ago when he realized that his infatuation with her was going to destroy him.
But now…
Now, he wasn’t sure he could fight it off and he hated himself for it.
It was a terrible time to be thinking of such things, but over the past day, the dynamics of the situation had changed drastically. No longer was she fighting and struggling to break free and follow her husband. Now, she simply wanted to see if the man had survived. Tarran didn’t regret letting her come with him because, as she’d said, it was her right. He remembered thinking how wonderful it would be to have a woman like Tresta, who was so devoted and loyal to him that she would go to any lengths to be with him. In a sense, perhaps he was honoring that loyalty and devotion by letting her come along.
Perhaps that’s what Teague deserved.
So, they traveled in a southerly direction, staying to the road that hugged the coast as the sea breeze swept them around. The coast eventually began heading in a southwesterly direction and they continued to pass the sandy berms that were covered with grass, protecting them from the sea winds. To their left in the distance were green hills that signaled the start of the farmlands that were so prevalent in the area.
Age of Gods and Mortals Page 9