Because of the terrible storm, the road was in bad shape and more than once they had to pass through great puddles of water or sections of road that had been completely washed away. They could see where farmers pulling their wagons had tried to get around the more difficult areas of the road, so they followed the wheel ruts. It was cold, muddy, and dirty work.
But through it all, Tresta never said a word of complaint. Traveling with her had been quite a different experience this time than it had been during the journey over the channel. Simon and Channing stayed close to her as she plodded along on a small gray palfrey that Tarran had managed to procure from a livery on the edge of Calais. It was a sturdy little animal with a smooth gait, and Tresta rode silently. She didn’t speak a word, not the entire time they traveled. She never asked for water or stopped to rest.
As she had promised, she kept her mouth shut.
That made it easier for Tarran, to be sure, not having to deal with her hysterics. He kept thinking how strange it was that she had been so incredibly belligerent and demanding when she believed her husband was alive and now that there was a possibility he may be dead, she was quite well behaved. Perhaps she was simply dazed. Or perhaps she was simply calm until she knew exactly what had happened.
Whatever the case, Tarran was grateful.
And the day pushed on.
The birds overhead continued to cry and the wind continued to whip, and the smell of salt was heavy in the air along with the inherent dampness that the sea brought. Tarran rode at the head of the party, his focus on the road and the landscape around them, wondering if there would be a village to stop at for the night. If not, they’d spend the night wrapped up on their cloaks, sleeping on the wet sea grass and praying another storm didn’t blow through. He was hoping there might at least be a bed for him tonight, and a meal he didn’t have to hunt, but he was prepared to do it if needed. With his thoughts turning towards the coming night, it was his last peaceful musing as a projectile whizzed past his head.
His horse started, immediately sensing a battle, and Tarran barely had time to unsheathe his broadsword as a group of men came charging out of the heavy foliage that lined the road. Tarran could see immediately that they weren’t wearing any protection that one would expect from soldiers, but they were heavily armed. They were also on foot, which was to his advantage.
He turned to Channing and Simon, directly behind him.
“Get Lady d’Mearc away from here,” he snapped. “Ride back towards Calais as hard as you can. Get clear!”
The boys moved swiftly, circling the lady and turning her around quickly as the men-at-arms moved forward and began to fight off the onslaught. Along with Tarran, they began swinging swords and kicking men in the face, beating back their attackers and giving the lady and the two squires time to get away.
But the outlaws weren’t going easily. They managed to pull one of the soldiers off his horse and steal it, heading after the lady but being stopped by two more soldiers who quickly dispatched the rider. As he fell to the ground, the soldiers collected the horse and managed to get their comrade back on it, but he was wounded in the fight and struggling.
There were at least equal numbers of bandits than there were of Tarran and his men, but they were better armed and on horseback, so defeating the attackers was only a matter of time. Tarran cut down three men in quick order and quickly went to dispatch a man who had partially pulled one of his soldiers off his horse. As he sliced the outlaw through the back, someone caught him on the joint in his armor between his right arm and shoulder. It was a cut right along the back of his arm and continued to his back, one that began to bleed profusely, but it didn’t stop him. He whirled around with a flash of his wicked sword and cut the man’s head off.
It went rolling into the mud.
Seeing that at least half their number were dead and that one man was missing a head, the outlaws thought better of their ambush. They began to fall back, running back into the bramble without gaining any coin or valuables. They left with far less than what they’d come with, but at least some left with their lives. But not for long. Tarran sent half his men to chase them down and do away with them while one soldier rode off after the lady and her escorts.
Tarran simply sat on his horse in the middle of the road and bled.
But he waited there for good reason. Mostly, he was feeling somewhat woozy with the big, bloody wound to his back and arm, so he thought it best to wait for the lady to return. He wasn’t sure how much further they’d have to go before they found shelter for the night and feeling as he did at the moment, he didn’t want to fall off his horse and embarrass himself. He was going to need his strength for the rest of their journey, anxious to get to the nearest village and bed down for the night.
The men who chased the outlaws into the bramble returned before Tresta and the squires did. It was nearly an hour before they returned because they’d been riding so hard. It had taken the soldier some time to catch up to them. In fact, Tarran was becoming concerned with the wait and thought he might have to go after them himself, but they returned safely. The first thing Tresta did when she drew close was notice the blood staining Tarran’s arm and back.
She pointed.
“You are injured,” she gasped.
He brushed her off. “We must find shelter for the night, my lady.”
“But I–!”
He cut her off, though not harshly. “Let us find shelter and safety first and then you can poke me to your heart’s content,” he said. “But now, we must move.”
Tresta didn’t argue, but she was appalled by the blood all over his right side. He also looked rather pale. Riding behind him, she could see it very clearly, but he didn’t seem to care too much, and if he did, he wasn’t giving in to it.
That was typical for the man.
A man she’d known for many years.
A man she now found herself connected to, more than they’d ever been. She wasn’t sure how it had happened, but the relationship between them had changed, even before news of the scuttled fleet. Everything had been so troubled and violent between them since Teague ordered Tarran to remain behind with her, but that situation had calmed drastically.
In fact, it had been a most interesting day, in general.
It had started untroubled enough until he’d told her of what he’d heard about a ruined fleet off the coast. Truth be told, she was still overwhelmed with the news. She had been from the start. She had no idea why she hadn’t screamed or fainted dead away, but only that she hadn’t because there had been something in Tarran’s eyes that had held her fast.
Something strong and reassuring.
It was so strange, coming from the man she’d spent most of her adult life with a strong dislike for. True, he’d been hard and aloof to her, as she’d told him, but perhaps that was a good thing. She hadn’t admitted that to him and never would, but deep down Tresta had some secrets of her own to tell.
Long ago, she’d thought Tarran du Reims quite handsome.
There had been other men she’d thought handsome so, truthfully, it didn’t mean much. She appreciated male beauty. She’d met and married Teague at such a young age, just when she was coming into full bloom, and as much as she loved the man, sometimes she wondered if she hadn’t been too young to marry. It had created a dependency on Teague that she was only now starting to admit. All of that determination to follow him to The Levant… that was part of that dependency. She was terrified of being without him, terrified she couldn’t truly function without him. He was the air she breathed. She had learned that when they’d first married. Teague had become everything to her.
Maybe that was really why she’d wanted to follow him. Not because she was ill or dying, not because she was angry he was leaving her.
Simply because she wasn’t sure she could get along without him.
She’d never had to face life alone.
It had taken time and reflection to realize that. But the reality was that she’d
known it all along but had resisted accepting it. Yet, now… now, there was acceptance. They were going to a village along the coast that had seen an English fleet founder on the rocks. So much of her was in denial. Perhaps that’s why she was able to be so calm. She was denying that it was Somerset’s fleet, denying that her strong, handsome husband was actually a man of mortal flesh and blood and not completely invincible. Men like him, like Tarran du Reims, weren’t meant to die. They lived on and on, immortals with swords of steel and hearts of fire. In truth, Teague and Tarran were very similar in so many ways, so when Tarran had told her of the destruction of the fleet, she’d seen the same strength in his eyes that she had seen often times in Teague’s.
That gave her comfort.
False comfort, but comfort nonetheless.
Comfort that she was clinging to.
And their party moved on, heading down the road as the sun began to set and the wind from the sea grew stronger. The temperatures were dropping and the breeze was biting now. Tresta had her hood up, her cloak pulled tightly to protect her from the weather. There was a half-moon on the horizon, not quite enough to see by, as the land around them grew darker and darker.
The topography also changed. Gone were the flat lands. Now, they were surrounded by dunes covered with grass and thick bunches of trees that stood strong against the wind. Because the land hadn’t fully dried from the storm, water droplets were blowing off the leaves, pelting everyone in the face. Tarran had them pick up the pace and the horses moved faster, hoping that a village might be over the next rise.
In fact, there was a village, but it was just a collection of small cottages and no taverns or places to bed down for the night. Tarran spoke to a man who was putting his animals in for the night and the man pointed down the road, telling Tarran that there was indeed a village just a few miles away. Tarran thanked the man and the group pushed on, heading down the road as the sun set completely and their only light, weak as it was, came from a half-moon rising. But still, they pushed on, finally reaching a large seaside village about two hours after the sun set.
The town was as waterlogged as the rest of the land after the storm that has passed through, and the smell of sewage and rancid puddles was heavy in the air. Tresta put her fingers to her nose, pinching it shut because the stench was so strong, but she knew better than to complain. She’d made it this far without a word and she was determined to continue that. She didn’t want to give Tarran any cause for regret that she had come.
The village was so small that it seemed there wasn’t a place for them to stay the night until they came to the other end of the main road and found a small place called L’Opale de mer. The Sea Opal. The sign was battered from the most recent gale and Tarran called a halt to their party, having the men wait outside while he pulled Tresta from her palfrey. She was so stiff from riding all day that her gait was stiff and halted as she followed Tarran into the small, low-ceilinged establishment. In fact, she ended up tripping over the threshold, ramming into Tarran’s bloodied back.
But he didn’t seem to notice.
He was looking for the tavernkeeper.
The man wasn’t difficult to find. The place was mostly full and he was sitting with some of his customers, rising to his feet when he saw Tarran and Tresta enter. Drunk, he stumbled his way over to them.
“What do you want?” he asked in his thick-tongued French.
“A room for the lady,” Tarran said. “One for me if you have it. I am prepared to pay well.”
The man looked Tresta up and down in a way she didn’t like. There was something lascivious in the way he eyed her. If Tarran noticed, he didn’t say anything. The drunkard finally nodded his head.
“I only have one chamber and you can share it,” he said. “Everything else is full.”
He was dismissive the way he said it and Tarran’s jaw ticked faintly. “I have twelve men with me outside,” he said. “Can they sleep in your livery?”
The drunkard nodded, waving his hand towards the rear of the building. “They can sleep with the horses.”
“And I want a meal for them.”
“You pay me and I’ll feed them.”
“Show us to the chamber now so the lady can rest.”
The man eyed Tresta again before pushing past them both to a door that opened right into the common room. Because of the recent storm and the moisture in the air, the wood had swelled and the panel was stuck, so he had to shove it twice to get it open. Inside was a small chamber with a dirt floor, a sooty hearth, and two small beds shoved against the wall. There was nothing on the beds but the rope web that held the mattress. It was essentially a hammock made from old wood and frayed rope.
It smelled of mold, cold and damp, and was a miserable excuse for a chamber, but it was better than nothing. Even Tarran knew that. He didn’t dare look at Tresta as he turned to the drunk tavernkeeper and snarled out some orders to the man. Food. Clean bedding. A fire. And hurry up or you’ll not like my reaction. That seemed to light a flame under the man because there was nothing more threatening than a big, muscular, and heavily armed knight with blood all over his right side. The man didn’t seem so drunk anymore as he began shouting at the two wenches hovering back by the kitchen.
Everyone began to move.
Tarran was at the end of his patience. The day had been long and he had a painful injury on his back and arm, and the drunk tavernkeeper was pushing his luck by being sluggish. The man seemed to sense that and he began to move quickly, hovering over the servants as they brought two coverlets that didn’t seem to be very clean along with kindling for the hearth.
Tarran pulled Tresta out of the way as the frenzied servants went about their work. He watched them lay the coverlets on the beds, but he grabbed the tavernkeeper and told the man he wanted mattresses. That brought a whole new level of rush as servants ran out to the stables behind the tavern to bring out the fabric mattresses that had been left out there to dry. Tarran caught bits of conversation about the mattresses, having evidently been boiled, but he didn’t know why until he saw them brought in. There were big rust-colored stains on one of them.
Blood, he thought.
He only hoped Tresta didn’t notice.
In the end, it didn’t matter because he got what he wanted – clean bedding, a fire, and food brought into the chamber and placed upon a small table that had one chair and one stool next to it. Channing brought in Tresta’s satchel and placed it on one of the beds as Tarran explained that the men would be sleeping in the stables out back. Channing, ever the obedient lad, simply nodded his head wearily, but Tarran knew the boy was about at his limit. He was young, still a child, but he’d held up admirably with everything that had happened. Situations like this tended to make boys grow up quickly. But the truth was that it had been a busy day for him, too.
Tarran looked at Tresta.
“Would you be opposed to Simon and Channing sleeping in the chamber with you?” he asked after Channing had vacated. “They’re tough lads, but I have a feeling they might like sleeping in front of the fire tonight.”
Tresta was nodding before he even finished. “Of course,” she said. “And you, too. There is a second bed in the chamber. Surely you will sleep there.”
He frowned. “That would not be proper, my lady.”
She waved an irritated hand at him. “God’s Bones, du Reims,” she said. “Surely you cannot be serious. If it bothers you so much, then Simon and Channing will be in the chamber with us as chaperones. Now is it proper?”
He looked at her, dubious. “Probably not.”
She glared at him. “I must sew up your wound,” she said. “It is probably caked with blood and dirt even now and will take a good deal of effort to clean it up, so you must sleep on a bed and not on a pile of straw in a cold livery. I insist, du Reims. You will not argue with me on this.”
He sighed heavily, unwilling to enter into yet another battle with her. He was coming to realize that he had to choose his fights wisely wi
th her. Otherwise, they’d be arguing over every little thing. So, he nodded in resignation and headed out of the chamber to find Simon and Channing with the excellent news that they would have a fire that night.
Meanwhile, Tresta put her satchel on the bed nearest the fire and began hunting for her sewing kit. Every proper woman had a sewing kit, one she traveled with, and she found it at the bottom of the satchel. A serving wench brought in a steaming earthenware pitcher of wine that, when Tresta stuck her finger in it to taste it, was heavily watered and heavily spiced. But it was hot and the food plentiful, both things very much needed after a day like today. As Tresta turned back to her satchel, the drunk tavernkeeper lingered by the door.
“Do you require anything else, my lady?”
Tresta glanced at him. “Nay,” she said. “Thank you.”
The man didn’t leave. He was intently looking her over. “Is the big knight your husband?”
Something in the way he said it put her on her guard. She looked at the man squarely in the eyes. “He is,” she said. “And if you do not leave me in peace, I will tell him that you are harassing me.”
That was enough for the tavernkeeper. He quickly turned away, heading back into the common room as Tresta pulled the door shut and threw the bolt. She didn’t want the man coming back in and cornering her.
She didn’t trust him.
Tarran returned a short while later after having settled the men in the livery with Channing and Simon in tow. Tresta unbolted the door for him and the small chamber became far more crowded with four bodies in it when it was barely adequate for two. But the boys settled down in front of the hearth, laying out the bedrolls they’d brought all the way from Snow Hill, the same bedrolls they’d slept against on their journey to London.
Age of Gods and Mortals Page 10