Tresta nodded, but the most obvious question was on her lips. “And Teague?” she asked softly. “Will you go to the priests and see… see if they have buried him?”
Tarran felt as if he were taking body blows as she spoke the words. Like Tresta, he felt like he was in the midst of a nightmare. He still couldn’t grasp what had happened, but it wasn’t his right to show any emotion, any weakness. He had a job to do and he would do it.
“I’ll go this morning,” he said quietly. Then, he paused as he looked at her. “And… and just so you know, you are not alone in your grief. Lord Teague was not only my liege, but he was my friend. William, Gilbert, Hallam… they were all my friends. I grieve the loss right along with you, my lady.”
As Tresta looked at him, her eyes filled with tears as she lost the battle against her composure. “I know,” she whispered tightly. “Teague was very fond of you, Tarran. He loved you like a brother. He loved you more than his own brother, in fact.”
Tarran wasn’t sure what to say to that. Hearing that made him feel worse, so he simply nodded his head and quit the chamber, leaving Tresta standing next to the weak fire.
She may have been grieving, but she wasn’t dull. She’d seen the anguish in Tarran’s eyes as he left the room and it brought back tears of her own. Tarran, who had been with Teague for so many years, who had fought and laughed and killed alongside Teague. He really had been as close as a brother and considering the terrible brother Teague had been cursed with, the relationship he shared with Tarran had been unique. Even though Tarran was trying to hide it, she knew that he was hurting.
She could see it in his face.
The tears in her eyes spilled over and she wiped them away, thinking about the coming day and the things she needed to accomplish. When she was alone like this, her grief seemed to weigh more heavily on her, so she turned to her satchel in an attempt to distract herself. She was weary, that was true, from a night of no sleep, but that didn’t matter. Teague was gone and she was simply going to have to accept it, as much as she didn’t want to. Everything they had spoken of, all of the fears she had relayed to him, had all come to pass. So much of her was still consumed with denial, but the larger part of her was forced to accept it.
A new life.
A new future.
She didn’t think she was brave enough to face it.
*
Tarran had sent Simon and Channing to find a vellum merchant and implements for writing while he sat with Tresta and broke his fast.
Somehow, he didn’t want to leave her alone.
The tavernkeeper’s wife had brought a meal of cooked grains with cream and honey, thick slices of bread that had been toasted over a flame and buttered, and stewed fruit, all of which was devoured by Tarran. Tresta tried but her stomach was in knots, so she ate as much as she could, which had only been a few bites at most. Tarran tried to coax her into finishing it, but no amount of coercion could force her to eat anything more.
She simply couldn’t do it.
Tarran ended up eating the rest of her food and when the empty bowls were taken away, he had the tavernkeeper’s wife bring some hot water for Tresta to wash in. At least the woman could wash her face, but she didn’t much feel like doing even that. The tavernkeeper’s wife, a woman named Eilish, sensed the melancholy but didn’t ask why. She simply offered to help Tresta dress and Tarran was grateful. He didn’t think he was doing her much good, trying to be kind to her without crossing any boundaries, which had been very difficult for him. He was still fighting off the urge to pull her into his arms and give her comfort, so when Eilish offered to help her, he was more than happy to vacate the chamber.
Maybe the comfort of another woman, even a stranger, might help her.
With Tarran gone, Tresta simply sat there as a very kind old woman helped her bathe and dress. The dark red traveling dress had seen days of wear and hadn’t been cleaned or even aired out, so the old woman pulled it off of Tresta, leaving her in her shift. The old woman then used a rag and soap that smelled of lavender and proceeded to wash Tresta’s arms and underarms, her neck and face, and any other piece of flesh she could find that the shift didn’t cover. She even washed Tresta’s hair, using the stale, watered ale from the morning meal to rinse it with in the basin she’d brought.
By the time the old woman was finished, Tresta had very nearly been scrubbed within an inch of her life and she’d never had to lift a finger. She’d simply sat there, dazed and depressed, as Eilish happily tended to her. The old woman used a bone comb to brush Tresta’s copper tresses, drying them in the heat of the fire, until her long hair was hardly damp at all. Then, she braided it into a thick, single braid and coiled that on the back of her head. Big, iron pins held it in place.
As Tresta sat and stared off into space, Eilish dug through the satchel that contained so many wonderful things that Teague had purchased for her, things she couldn’t even look at. When Eilish pulled forth a simply constructed but gorgeous gown the color of dark amber, Tresta had to look away. The last time she saw someone holding that dress had been Teague when he’d taken it from the hands of a seamstress who had been selling pre-basted gowns that were finished to the size and shape of the purchaser. He’d liked the color, so the woman had hemmed up the gown and fixed the sleeves while Teague put his arms around Tresta and told her how beautiful she would look in the color.
In fact, as Eilish pulled it over her head and fastened the ties, Tresta wanted to weep because the only reason Teague had purchased the garment for her was because she’d made him feel guilty. It was a guilt dress. Knowing that, she wanted to rip it off her body and burn it, but the joyful smile on Teague’s face when he’d purchased it was seared into her memory, so that brought her pause. Even if she had guilted him into buying it, it was the last thing he’d ever bought for her.
She wasn’t going to cast it aside.
But it was a burden to wear it. There was no denying that. Her hands moved over the bodice, seeing how it clung to her torso and then flared at her hips. The garment came with a woven belt that had several dark colors in it, including the dark amber, and Eilish tied it around her waist so that it hung low to her hips. It was a simple dress, but such a beautiful one.
Tresta felt beautiful wearing it.
If I do not return, then you will swear to me that you will live a life that honors me. You will not be weak.
As she looked at that wonderful dress, she was starting to see what he meant. Perhaps she’d known it all along, but fear and denial had caused her to feign ignorance. But she couldn’t pretend any longer. Teague deserved a wife he could be proud of, one who could show bravery.
She wondered if she was truly capable.
When Eilish was finished dressing Tresta, she stepped back to look at her handiwork, praising the lady’s beauty as Tresta smiled weakly. That was all she was capable of given the pain in her heart. Eilish collected her things, including the wash basin, and headed out of the chamber as Tresta followed behind. She was wandering, really, waiting for the vellum and quill to begin her list, but she didn’t see Tarran in the common room. She saw a few of Teague’s men-at-arms, but Tarran and Simon and Channing were nowhere to be found and she wondered where they had gone.
Someone opened the entry door to the tavern off to her right and bright sunlight streamed in. She could smell the sea and hear the birds. There were people out there, life going on in spite of the fact that for Tresta, her life was in limbo. Was it even possible there was a world that continued when hers had stopped? The sunlight and seagulls were like the call of the siren and without really thinking, she wandered out into the street beyond.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It hadn’t been the tanner or a merchant who had sold them vellum and ink and quill.
It had been a priest.
At least, that had been the plan when Simon and Channing went in search of a holy scribe. They had been unlucky in finding someone to sell them writing implements, which were very specialized
, so in a small village it wasn’t surprising to discover that no one had the items they were looking for. Then they’d gotten the bright idea to ask the priests at St. Joseph de la mer, or St. Joseph by the sea. It was the only church in the village that they were aware of and priests always had things to write with. As they approached the gray-stoned church with the sod roof, they could see a great deal of activity in the churchyard and outside of it.
There were men with shovels, men moving bodies wrapped in canvas, and priests directing the commotion. It took the boys a moment to realize that they were witnessing a mass burial. There were stacks of bodies, all carefully wrapped, and the stench of the dead lay in the air like a fog. They assumed the bodies were those who had drowned when the fleet scuttled, and they weren’t certain if Sir Tarran had realized the bodies were already being buried. They knew that they’d come to town to find Lord Teague and his men, so they made haste to the church where all of the activity was taking place.
There was a tall, gray-haired priest right at the mouth of the churchyard as they ran up. He was pointing to a body that had just been picked up by a couple of men, directing them to take him into the yard.
“Wait!” Simon called as they ran up. “Wait! Please!”
The priest turned to look at the boys curious. “Que se passe-t-il?”
What is the matter? Simon and Channing spoke the language fluently, as it was the language of the English court. It was all part of the education they were getting at Snow Hill Castle. Religious education was also part of that, so they were very respectful towards the priest, but they were also very concerned with what was going on.
“Father, these men,” Simon said, indicating the bodies wrapped in canvas. “Are they from the wreck at sea?”
The priest nodded, noting that both boys seemed a little flushed. “They are,” he said, looking at them curiously. “Why do you ask?”
As he spoke, two more men came to collect another body and take it into the churchyard. Simon pointed to it.
“Please tell them to stop,” he said. “My lord will want to see them.”
The priest frowned. “See them?” he asked, confused. “Why?”
“Because our liege might have been on that fleet!”
The priest’s eyebrows flew up. “Your liege?” he repeated. “Do you know this for certain?”
Both Simon and Channing nodded urgently. “Aye, Father,” Simon said. “We were in Calais when the storm struck and the fleet had already left and then Sir Tarran heard that there were ships that foundered in the storm, so we came to see if it was true.”
The priest was very concerned by now as he pieced together the story. “Then you may know some of these men?” he said. “Who are they?”
“The fleet was of the Earl of Somerset, Father,” Simon said, spilling information that Tarran had managed to keep from anyone he talked to, but neither boy knew that. They readily spoke of it. “The fleet of ships was going to The Levant to join King Richard in his Holy Crusade, so these men were going to do God’s work.”
The priest nodded his head as realization dawned. It was more information than he’d had in several days about the bodies he had been burying. Truthfully, they hadn’t known who the fleet belonged to even though it had been clear it had been an army. Actually, several. Most of the bodies were wearing tunics with standards upon them, and things like shields and other war implements had been washing up. Now, it was starting to make sense. Crusaders heading to The Levant to rid the land of the infidels.
God’s work, indeed.
He could see how distraught the boys were.
“We have been burying men for a few days now,” he said hesitantly. “It is possible that your liege had already been buried. What did he look like?”
Simon had been very fond of Teague, who had treated both him and Simon as well as he treated his own sons. There was great distress in his features as he spoke.
“He was a very big man,” Simon said.
“They were all big men,” Channing muttered.
The priest looked between the boys. “All of them?” he said. “Whom do you speak of?”
“The knights who served our liege,” Simon clarified. “They were all big men except for Sir Hallam. He was rather short and not very big. But Lord d’Mearc had three big knights with him – Sir William, Sir Gilbert, and Sir Sheen, who was his brother. They were all big and strong men.”
The priest nodded. “I see,” he said. “And you want to bring them back to England?”
“Aye,” Simon said, looking sad and pathetic as he spoke. “Can you help us?”
The priest looked at them seriously for a moment. He seemed quite remorseful, as if he wasn’t sure two boys could deal with what he knew. Or what he was about to show them. Because they had just described three men he had seen, all of them having washed up yesterday morning. They hadn’t buried them yet because there had been so many dead that they had to be careful about where they dug the graves, so the three big, heavy men were wrapped up in canvas against the churchyard wall.
“Come with me,” he said quietly.
Simon and Channing followed him along the row of dead bodies neatly lined up against the rock wall of the yard. Simon was trying hard to be brave and ignore the stench that was rising up from the decomposing bodies, but Channing wasn’t so brave. He turned his head away from the row, not wanting to see any blackening hands or feet poking through. They came to the end of the row and the priest came to a halt, facing them.
“Do you have courage for what I am about to show you?” he asked them seriously. “These men have been dead for a few days and the sea is not kind to the dead. They will not look as you remember them, but if you are truly looking for your men, I will show you. Mayhap you can recognize… something.”
Simon was looking at the priest as Channing turned his head away, unable to stomach what his imagination was painting for him based on the priest’s words. Simon glanced at Channing, seeing him weaken, and he knew he had to be brave.
He swallowed hard.
“Our liege is a big man with long, curly hair,” he said, using his hands to indicate hair length below the shoulder. “His hair is brown in color. One knight has bright red hair, another knight has dark hair and a beard, and still another knight has short curls the color of copper. The last knight is small, with short hair the color of sand. If these men look like anything I have told you, then I will see them. If not, then I do not need to.”
He was indicating the bodies in the canvas, perhaps verging on panic because he really didn’t want to see something that would give him nightmares for the rest of his life. But the priest bent down over one such man and peeked under the canvas before dropping it and moving on to the next man. He peered beneath the canvas on that man and continued to hold it up. He crooked a finger at Simon.
“Look and see if this is one of your men,” he said quietly.
Simon took a deep breath. Then, he took another, bracing himself as he went to stand next to the priest. He could hardly bring himself to look at the body beneath the canvas but he forced himself to.
He had to know.
Fortunately, he only caught a profile and the side of a white, bloated face. But the hair… he knew that hair. He’d seen it before, many times. He quickly shut his eyes, stumbling away from the body.
“That man,” he gasped. “Do not bury him. Do not bury any more men until we return with Sir Tarran. Please. He will want to see for himself.”
The priest was looking at him with surprising sympathy. “Is this one of the men you seek?”
Simon nodded. Then, tears popped to his eyes and he wiped them away as fast as they appeared. “Aye, Father,” he said tightly. “It… it is one of them.”
The priest could see how upset he was. Turning to the opposite end of the body, he flipped up the canvas to reveal bloated, peeling feet, but there was also a sack of some kind laying on the legs. He took that sack, something made of more canvas, and headed over to Simon an
d Channing.
“These were the possessions on him,” he said. “At least, the possessions that were not scavenged. You realize that the villagers took anything of value. Money, weapons… anything.”
Simon had mostly recovered his composure by then. He watched the priest pull forth the contents of the sack that were meager. There was really only one thing, a leather pouch, and the priest opened it up to show Simon the contents. There was a comb, an iron pin, like something that would hold a cloak at the neck, and a few other odds and ends that really weren’t of value.
He looked up at the priest.
“I must fetch Sir Tarran,” he said. “Please do not bury these men, not until I bring him back. I shall fetch him immediately.”
The priest nodded, putting the leather pouch and the contents back into the canvas sack. “I must get them into the ground quickly, you understand,” he said. “Their bodies are rotting as we speak.”
Simon nodded quickly. “I will return shortly, I swear,” he said. “Just… do not bury them yet.”
The priest simply shrugged and Simon grabbed Channing as he took off running, back to the tavern and back to Tarran. The man had to know.
And so did Lady Tresta.
*
She found herself on the beach again.
The sea had brought in a great deal of debris overnight and it had been the villagers picking over the driftwood that had caught Tresta’s attention. Since the tavern faced the sea, she could see them through the open door and curiosity had taken her from the common room and out onto the road beyond.
There was a seawall on the other side of the road and then the beach was below the wall, with dozens of people picking their way through the sand for anything valuable that the sea might have coughed up while they’d been sleeping.
Tresta made her way down onto the beach.
She was quite curious about what people were picking up, looking at what they were holding and how they were combing through the sand to dig up what might have been buried by the surf. She, too, began digging around with her foot to see what she could find, picking up pieces of wood, wandering around in the hunt for anything that might belong to her husband or brother.
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