She seemed to perk up. “A plan? What plan?”
He took a big bite of his bread, chewing. “It seems to me that anything that has washed up on the beach that might tell us about the fleet has already been taken away,” he said. “As you saw, there are just pieces of wood along the shore. Nothing of value, nothing that would show identification.”
She nodded. “That is true.”
He swallowed the bite in his mouth. “I was thinking of finding the physic in town,” he said. “He would know how many bodies had washed up. He may even know where any carnage has been taken so we can see it. That is, carnage that hasn’t already been taken away by the scavengers. Anything identifiable. We must start somewhere and I believe the physic is a good place to start.”
He sounded matter-of-fact, which helped her depression immensely. He had a plan, a plan to discover what they’d come to discover. But ever since she had seen the beach, with the murky green waters and rocky shore, she’d had a feeling of doom she couldn’t seem to shake.
She wanted answers.
“I will come with you,” she said after a moment. “I would like to search with you.”
Tarran opened his mouth to ask her to remain at the tavern and let him do the legwork, but he knew it was futile. She wouldn’t want to remain idle and, without the heart to force her, he simply nodded his head. They’d come so far. He didn’t want to start butting heads with her again.
Not now.
“If that is true, then eat something before we depart,” he said, pointing to her meal. “As I said, you will need your strength.”
Forcing herself, Tresta ate half the stew and a goodly chunk of bread and butter, but that was all she could hold. While she was eating, Tarran went to his rented chamber and stripped off the mail coat and damp, dirty tunics he’d been wearing, exchanging them for a clean tunic and a leather coat that draped down to his knees. His shoulder was bothering him, but not too badly. He knew he was fortunate for that.
Dressed in less warfare-like clothing, he left his broadsword behind, as well as his protection, instructing Simon and Channing to clean all of it by the time he returned from his business. He left the boys sitting on the floor of the chamber, rubbing out rust and repairing the tear in his padded tunic that had occurred when he had been injured. The men-at-arms had returned from the livery and were eating by now, left with the instructions to wait for Tarran’s return and not leave the tavern. With everyone settled, he and Tresta headed out into the breezy, bright day.
Since the tavern sat near the edge of the village, they headed into the town proper and into a busy business district. There was even a small baker’s street in an alleyway off the main road and although they could smell the bread, the baking had stopped for the day and now the bakers were selling what hadn’t already been snapped up that morning when it was fresh.
Straight ahead along the main avenue were a few merchant stalls. Given that Le Touquet was along the coast, and with a small inlet for shipping, they had ample goods to sell. Tresta caught sight of fabric and pre-cut dresses, scarves and the like, things that would have normally interested her, but she didn’t give them a second glance. She was looking straight ahead, for anything that would indicate a physic or a surgeon. She was focused on Tarran’s suggestion and, at the moment, that was all she had the mind for.
But Tarran was being far more observant than she was. He was looking for anything that might suggest the cargo from a fleet of foundering ships had made it into town. He thought he saw evidence of that when they passed the tanner and he saw several pairs of boots and shoes that looked as if they might have spent time in saltwater. They were faded and a little warped, but the tanner had used his oils and other ingredients to treat the leather so it looked somewhat new. Still, looking at those shoes gave him a feeling of foreboding. One pair of boots seemed particularly nice. Maybe even the boots of an English warlord.
They pushed on.
They were through the business district rather quickly, heading into the area where fishmongers were trying to sell the last of their fish for the day. They were nearly through that particular area when Tarran caught sight of something that brought him pause. The man was a woodworker and he had a stall that had chairs and stools in front of it. But that wasn’t what caught Tarran’s eye – leaning on the edge of the stall was a wooden box about the length of a man, narrow at one end and wider at the other.
It was a coffin.
Curious, Tarran headed over to the stall.
The woodworker was trying to sell a stool to a woman who didn’t want to pay too much for it, lamenting that her husband could make just as fine a stool had he not lost the use of his hands. The woodworker wasn’t too keen to sell her the stool for less than he was asking but, in the end, he got his money and she got her stool. As the woman walked away, the woodworker turned to Tarran.
“Good day, my lord,” he said pleasantly. “What are you looking for?”
Tarran pulled out his coin purse and produced a shiny, silver coin. “Information,” he said. “Will you help me?”
He held up the coin to the man, who shrugged before taking it. “I will tell you what I can,” he said. “What information do you want?”
Tarran glanced around the bustling village. “Have you lived here your entire life?”
The man nodded. “My entire life,” he said. “My father’s father came here from Rouen. Why?”
“Then you know what happens in this village.”
The man nodded. “I know enough.”
“Do you know about the fleet of ships that foundered here a few days ago?”
The man nodded firmly. “Aye,” he said. “It was quite tragic.”
“What can you tell me about it?”
The man lifted his shoulders. “I am not sure there is much to tell,” he said. “There was a great storm that drove them against the rocks off shore, rocks that ships cannot see. We started seeing pieces of ship and bodies washing up on the sand when the sun rose. A tempest was still raging, but we all went to the shore and gathered what we could.”
Tarran couldn’t help but notice that the man seemed more than willing to talk about it. The men that he’d met back in Calais had seemed suspicious of his motives when he’d asked them questions. They had warned him against scavenging, stating that the villagers wouldn’t like it, so he was trying to keep the conversation light. He didn’t want the man becoming suspicious of his motives and shutting up. A silver coin would only go so far.
“It sounds as if it was a big fleet,” he said carefully. “English?”
The woodworker nodded. “It was English,” he said. “It was a big fleet. There is still wreckage washing onto the shore. Every morning, there are more things. More bodies, more destruction.”
“There are bodies?”
The man nodded firmly. “There have been many.”
“Where were they taken?”
“To the church,” the woodworker said. “The priests have been burying them. But some of the animals survived. Some of the horses have been taken.”
“Oh?” Tarran said casually. “Nice horses?”
“Expensive destriers.”
“Are they for sale?”
“Possibly,” the woodworker said, pointing down the street. “Some are with the livery owner. He might sell them.”
“Good,” Tarran said, looking down the avenue to where the man was pointing. “I could use a good horse or two if he’ll sell them. Do you have anything to sell from the wreck?”
The woodworker shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “I found vessels that I took home to my wife. She wants to keep them.”
Tarran thanked the man and took Tresta politely by the elbow, leading her down the street.
She had remained completely silent throughout the exchange, but she’d been hanging on every word. She may have been an aggressive, bold woman at times, but even she knew when to keep her mouth shut. Tarran didn’t need her help in questioning a man who had seemed mor
e than willing to speak on what he knew. They’d gotten lucky with him.
And they had a trail to follow.
“Will we go to the church?” she asked quietly.
Tarran was focused on the small stone building up ahead with a corral next to it. He could see horses in that corral, but there were a few of them, gathered in a herd. He didn’t see any he recognized.
“After we visit the livery,” he said. “I’m grateful the woodworker was willing to answer my questions, but I did not want to press my luck and ask so many questions that he chased us away. Mayhap the livery owner and the priests will tell us more.”
Tresta simply nodded. She, too, was looking at the stone structure up ahead, the one next to the corral. Her stomach was in knots, to be truthful. She felt as if she were on the path to something horrible, the fingers of doom clutching at her with every step she took. She’d done an admirable job of keeping her composure during the journey, but now that they were actually in Le Touquet, she couldn’t shake the feeling of death and disaster. It had all started when she saw that green, murky water upon that rocky shore and the broken pieces of ships littering the ground.
With every step, it was more and more difficult to be brave.
“Du Reims,” she said after a moment. “This may sound foolish considering I demanded to accompany you on this quest, but I… I am not sure I can go inside that livery where the horses are. I know Teague’s horse. I’ve known him for as long as Teague and I have been married. If I walk in there and see that horse… I am not entirely sure I can remain calm.”
Tarran eyed her. “Then you wait for me,” he said. “I’ll go inside and look.”
“Will you come and tell me what you see?”
“I will.”
They came to within a few dozen feet of the livery and Tresta came to a halt. She simply wouldn’t go any further. Tarran released her elbow and continued forward, heading into the cold, damp building that smelled heavily of straw and animals.
It was a long building, built with several stalls and there were a few horses tethered up in the dim light. There was an open door that led out to the corral and Tarran headed for that door, looking around for the man in charge. He found him behind the stable, standing next to a magnificent silver horse that was big and muscular and well-formed. He was holding the horse with a rope around its neck while another man bent over a front leg, evidently tending to an injury.
Tarran came to a halt as he found himself looking at Teague’s horse.
All of his breath left him.
For a moment, he simply stood there, looking at the fat rear end of the horse that Teague had treated like a member of the family more than an animal. When his breath finally returned, it was in swift pants as he realized all of their fears had just become a reality. He couldn’t even speak. All he could do was look at that big horse and realize he’d just lost all of his friends, his liege, and the life he once knew. From this point forward, his life would never be the same again.
It took him a moment to realize that he was blinking back tears.
“You, there,” the man holding the horse was trying to get his attention. “What is it that you want?”
Tarran had to force himself to move, walking up behind the horse, inspecting the beast to make sure he was in one piece. Uninjured and whole, or at least not terribly injured. He pointed to the animal.
“I was told you had a magnificent horse here,” he said, his voice sounding hoarse. “I… I am looking for one to purchase. Is he for sale?”
Not only was his voice hoarse, but it was trembling. He could hear it and he wondered if the man holding the horse did, too. But the man didn’t give any indication if he did, slapping the big horse affectionately on the neck.
“He’s a beauty, is he not?” he said. “I’ve never seen finer.”
“What is wrong with his leg?”
The man bent over, looking at the other man who was wrapping up a fetlock. “A gash,” he said. “We have been putting moss and mustard on it. It should heal. So you want to buy a horse, do you?”
Tarran nodded, coming around to the front of the horse to get a good look at him. His name was Arion, named for the horse that belonged to Hercules. He wondered if the livery man could hear his heart thumping against his ribs as he beheld the big, beautiful beast.
“I am heading back to England, but I was told of this beast,” he said. “He is a horse for a knight.”
“Indeed,” the livery man said, turning his attention to Tarran and looking him over. “Are you English?”
“I am,” he said. “And I am prepared to pay you handsomely for this fine animal.”
The livery man was still eyeing him. “I do not know if I wish to sell him,” he said. “I was thinking on using him as part of the dowry for my daughter. She’s not a pretty woman, but a horse like this would make her a beauty in any man’s eyes.”
Tarran looked at him. “I will give you eighty pounds for him,” he said. “That will make your daughter a queen.”
The livery man looked at him in shock. “Eighty pounds?” he repeated. “Are you serious?”
Tarran nodded. He put himself in the horse’s line of sight, just to see if the animal recognized him, and the beast threw his head at the sight of him. A big neck stretched out and horse lips grazed his shoulder.
Tarran grinned.
“Eighty pounds and your daughter will have the best dowry in this entire village,” he said. “A prospective husband can only ride the horse, or mayhap sell him, but he cannot sell him for more than I’m offering you. Will you accept?”
The livery man blinked, still shocked by the offer, but he quickly overcame it. “I will,” he declared. “Bring me the money and you shall have the horse.”
Tarran reached out, petting the animal on his big head, feeling the pain of loss as he did so. The moment he touched the horse, it bolted through him. Painful, grief-filled bolts. He knew how much Teague had loved the beast so purchasing him, saving him from the French scavengers, was the least he could do for an animal that had survived such a horrific catastrophe. He was both pleased and devastated at the same time.
“Take good care of him,” he said, grief filling his eyes for a brief moment before he forced it away. “Do… do you have any other horses I might look at?”
The livery man was very helpful. For a cash-paying customer like Tarran, he would go out of his way to show him his stock. Teague followed him back into the livery and took him into a dim corner, pointing out two big horses in the corner, munching on grain.
“Those,” he said. “I bought them off a man who found them on the beach. They have survived the wreck like the other one did.”
“Are they healthy?”
“Surprisingly so.”
Tarran got into the stall with them. He didn’t recognize the brown, stocky warmblood, but he did recognize the second horse. It was a speckled roan that had belonged to Gilbert. He put his hand on the horse’s neck, closing his eyes tightly for a moment, yet another confirmation that it had been Somerset’s fleet that had foundered. He and Gilbert had been good friends.
A friend now lost.
“How much do you want for these two?” he asked.
The livery man stroked his chin. “They’re not as magnificent as the silver,” he said. “But they’re good horses.”
“I’ll give you one hundred pounds for all three horses.”
“Sold.”
Tarran came out of the stall. “I’ll return in the morning with the money,” he said. “I’m lodged over at the tavern on the end of town should you need your money sooner. I have more tasks to complete this afternoon, but I swear to you I will return for the horses on the morrow and I will bring the full amount at that time.”
The livery man nodded. “I trust you,” he said. Then, he grinned a gap-toothed grin. “Besides, there is no one in this village or anywhere nearby that can pay me that price for these animals, so I will happily wait for you to return.”
“Make sure you carefully tend the wound on the silver animal,” he said. “And if you hear of anyone willing to sell any expensive items they scavenged off the sand, tell them I would be willing to pay a good price.”
The livery man nodded. “I will,” he said. “And don’t worry about the horse. He’ll be as good as new by tomorrow.”
Tarran wasn’t so certain, but he didn’t contradict him. He thanked the man and headed out of the livery, seeing Tresta in her dark red traveling ensemble standing over near the corral, watching the horses.
He took a deep breath.
Clearly, she hadn’t seen her husband’s charger in the yard behind the livery. As Tarran approached her, he didn’t even know what he was going to tell her. He had to tell her the truth, but he was frantically trying to think of a way to couch it so it wouldn’t be so painful. So blunt and horrific. She’d held out so admirably since learning of the wrecked fleet and he didn’t want to spoil that fragile calm, but he had little choice.
She had to know.
But, God, he was loath to tell her.
Tresta saw him coming and turned to him, shielding her eyes from the sun. “Well?” she said. “Did you speak to him?”
Tarran nodded. “I did.”
“And?”
He cleared his throat softly, struggling to tell her what he must. “And it is not good news, I’m afraid.”
Her features tightened. “What is it?”
He sighed faintly. “The man has three horses that survived the shipwreck,” he said. “Gilbert’s is one of them.”
Tresta’s eyes widened. “My God,” she breathed. “Then it is true. It was Somerset’s fleet.”
A pained expression crossed Tarran’s features. “Aye,” he said. “It was. I would like to say that it wasn’t, but the evidence is conclusive. I know Gilbert’s horse. We must face facts that Somerset’s fleet has been destroyed.”
She was trying very hard to stay calm. “But… but the horse survived,” she said. “That means that others could have survived.”
“Others did. He also has Arion, my lady.”
Age of Gods and Mortals Page 12