Age of Gods and Mortals

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  Throughout all of this, the fact that she’d lost a brother seemed to have faded in her mind as her focus had been on her husband. Tresta felt guilty over that. But as she walked on the sand, she began to feel that prowling around on the beach was much like raiding a graveyard and she resented the villagers who were scavenging quite seriously. Greedy vultures, all of them. The death of her loved ones was their gain.

  And then, she saw it.

  A cluster of people over near the lapping waves and she could see a body in the sand, face-down. People were picking at him, pulling the leather belt from his body, rolling him over to fleece his pockets. Tresta came to a halt, horrified by the sight. She couldn’t bring herself to look at who the man was, but she could see his hair. It was dark and short. It wasn’t Teague’s hair, thank God. She couldn’t have imagined how she would have reacted had it been.

  One of the men who had been picking the body over came away with a lovely bejeweled dagger, crowing with triumph and holding it aloft as the crowd cheered. They cheered for death. The more she watched it, the more sickened she became. More men were coming onto the beach, carrying a length of canvas between them, and they rolled the body onto the canvas and carried him away. Tresta watched him go, still holding a piece of driftwood, cut to the bone at the lack of dignity in death for the men of the Somerset fleet. If Teague really was dead, then she prayed he remained at the bottom of the sea. She didn’t want these bastards getting their hands on her precious, noble husband.

  As she turned back to the beach, she noticed a woman walking towards her with another woman at her side, both of them looking at something in the first woman’s hands. Tresta caught a glimpse of what it was – something small, in pale blue silk. As the women drew closer, she could see that it was a poppet just a few inches long with a tuft of matted hair on the top of it.

  Her hair.

  It took Tresta a moment to realize she was looking at the poppet that she’d given Teague.

  Remember me.

  Her heart leapt into her throat and at that point, all control left her. It was as if someone else took over her body, a madwoman she couldn’t control. Reaching out, she snatched the poppet away and when the women tried to get it back, she started swinging her right hand like a claw, using her nails to gash and cut. The poppet was clutched in her left hand, up against her chest, and she began to run as the women screamed. She’d cut one of them on the face with her nails, but she didn’t care. She ran up to the road, tearing the hem of her new gown on the sea wall, and rushed straight into the tavern.

  People were running after her.

  When she entered the common room, there were several d’Mearc soldiers breaking their fast and when they saw their lady being chased, they immediately rose from the table and unsheathed their swords. Given that the villagers that had followed Tresta weren’t armed, they backed off immediately, but there was a good deal of shouting going on between the villagers and the soldiers.

  That noise brought Tarran.

  He’d been in his chamber, dead asleep, something he hadn’t meant to do. But he had unfortunately succumbed to sheer exhaustion from having been up all night. He’d come to collect the money for the livery man so he could pay for the horses and had only meant to close his eyes for a moment, but that moment had stretched into several. The yelling in the common room brought him around, however, and he emerged from his chamber only to see Tresta bolting up the stairs in his direction as the d’Mearc soldiers tried to hold off an angry mob.

  He could hear Tresta sobbing and coughing. In fact, she was coughing so hard that she sounded as if she were choking.

  “What happened?” he demanded softly as he grabbed her by both arms. “Why are you running?”

  There were tears and mucus all over her face as she coughed and sobbed. She was as incoherent as Tarran had ever seen her as she thrust the poppet out, almost hitting him in the face with it.

  “They had this,” she wept. “Those women had this and I gave it to Teague. It belonged to him and they had it! I had to take it back!”

  Tarran tilted his head back so he could see what she was holding. A little poppet, just a few inches long, with a matting of hair on the top. It was wearing some kind of blue dress, torn and dirty from the sea, and he looked at it in bewilderment.

  “You gave this to Teague?” he clarified. “What is it?”

  She wiped her face with the back of her hand, but it only succeeded in smearing dirt on her cheek. “The fabric on the dress is from my wedding gown,” she said, holding up the hair. “And this is my hair. He put it next to his heart when I gave it to him. I saw him do it! This is me!”

  Tarran understood in that sputtered, sobbing explanation. A token. He hadn’t even known she’d given one to Teague, for he’d never seen it, but he could clearly see the angry mob down in the common room. Someone must have found it washed up on the beach and Tresta had caught sight of it. Unless they wanted a big fight on their hands, he was going to have to soothe them. He hadn’t wanted their presence in the village to be widely publicized for fear of inviting the suspicion of the villagers, but now he was going to have to and hope he could prevent a riot.

  He cupped Tresta’s wet face between his two big hands.

  “Listen to me,” he said quietly, firmly. “Go into your chamber and lock the door. Stay there. Do not come out until I tell you to. Do you understand me?”

  She nodded, with more coughing, and he turned her for her chamber, making sure the door was closed behind her and he heard her throw the bolt. Once she was safely tucked inside, he returned to his chamber, collected his enormous broadsword, and headed down into the common room.

  “Quiet!” he roared above the commotion. “Everyone stop talking!”

  He had such a booming voice that almost everyone shut their mouths at the sight of the very big knight with a very big sword coming down the stairs. But a few were still jabbering at the armed soldiers and he shouted again.

  “Enough!” he bellowed. “I want silence in this room and if I do not get it, heads are going to roll!”

  That was enough to shut every mouth in the room. As he came off the stairs, the crowd took a step back, away from him. For every step he took forward, they took a step back. Tarran positioned himself in the midst of his soldiers, looking at the angry crowd.

  “My lady has told me what has happened,” he said in an authoritative voice. “She took a poppet from someone.”

  “Me!” a woman cried, her hand to her bloodied cheek. “She stole it from me and hurt me!”

  Tarran fixed on the woman, who was surrounded by several angry men and women. “And you found it on the sand?” he asked.

  The woman nodded. “I did,” she said. “It’s mine!”

  “What were you planning on doing with it?”

  That seemed to stump her. “I… I would give it to my daughter, I suppose. I want it back!”

  That seemed to rile the crowd up again and Tarran held up a hand to silence them. “There has been a misunderstanding,” he said. “I shall give you a crown if you will let the lady keep the poppet in peace. It means a great deal to her. More than you will ever know. Did you see the hair on the poppet?”

  The woman was confused, unhappy. “Hair,” she said. “And a dress. It is a poppet for a princess and I want it back.”

  Tarran shook his head. “The hair on the poppet belonged to the lady,” he said. “It’s her hair. And the dress was made from a scrap of her wedding gown. You see, she made that poppet as a token for her husband when he left to join King Richard on his quest to the Holy Land. Her husband was aboard that fleet that was destroyed several days ago and she is understandably heartbroken. When she saw the poppet… her grief has made her mad at times and this was one of those times. She meant no disrespect to you, I assure you. Will you take a crown for your troubles now that you know the story behind it?”

  The woman didn’t look so angry anymore. She looked to the people surrounding her to see their reactions,
but they looked just as perplexed as she did. Perhaps even subdued. Now, all of the bodies that had washed up and all of the items that had been scavenging had a face. A living, breathing person who was clearly stricken with grief from the death of those men. Now, the dead and their possessions were humanized by a panicked woman.

  There was something in that realization that made them feel ashamed and uncertain, at least to a certain extent. There was also a good deal of understanding as to why the lady had behaved as she had. With no more reason to be enraged, or at least with the understanding of why the lady had stolen the poppet, there was no longer any reason to fight for it. People began to leave the common room without another word.

  With the crowd starting to filter out, Tarran lowered his sword and silently encouraged his soldiers to do the same. He dug into the coin purse at his waist and pulled forth a crown, extending it to the woman with the bloodied cheek. But she simply stared at his outstretched hand for a moment before shaking her head.

  “I will not take your money,” she said. “But I wish she had asked me for the poppet before she attacked me. If she had told me what you just did, I would have given it back to her.”

  Tarran didn’t lower his hand. “Please take it,” he said in that soft but gruff tone he was so capable of. “She did not mean to hurt you, I am certain. It was her grief that forced her to do that.”

  The woman’s gaze lingered on him for a moment before reaching out to accept the money. Then she turned around and left through the tavern entry, her friends filing out behind her. It was a peaceful ending to what could have been a nasty situation. With everyone gone and the mob soothed, Tarran sighed heavily and wiped his brow, looking to his men in relief. In fact, they were all relieved. He was about to head back upstairs to inform Tresta that the situation was calm once again when Simon and Channing came rushing in through the tavern door.

  Their young faces were flushed with excitement.

  “My lord,” Simon said breathlessly. “You must come now. We’ve found something.”

  Tarran frowned. “Where have you two been? You are supposed to be finding vellum.”

  “Please, Sir Tarran,” Channing said because Simon was trying to catch his breath. “We were at the church. They’re burying the bodies of the dead that have washed up on shore and you must come with us. We’ve found something!”

  They’re burying the bodies of the dead that have washed up on shore.

  That was all Tarran needed to hear.

  In the next moment, he was rushing out of the door after them.

  *

  The priest was waiting for them.

  He was standing with several men at the gate that led into the churchyard, all of them lingering because the priest had told them to stop burying the dead. When the priest saw an enormous knight and the two boys running in his direction, he went out to meet them.

  “Do not fret,” he said, holding up his hands in a soothing gesture. “We have not buried anymore bodies. We were waiting until you returned.”

  Tarran was out of breath from the rush down the street. “I am Sir Tarran du Reims,” he said. “I do not know what you have been told, but the bodies of the men that have washed up on shore were part of the Earl of Somerset’s fleet. My liege and all of my colleagues were on the ship and…”

  The priest cut him off. “I know,” he said. “Your young friends told me as much. This lad might have recognized one of the bodies and said he had to fetch you.”

  Tarran and Simon looked at one another. Simon looked positively ashen.

  “Who, Simon?” Tarran asked quietly. “Who is it?”

  Simon eyes started filling with tears and he blinked rapidly to chase them away. “I… I am not certain,” he said. “I wanted you to see it for yourself. But I think… he is over there. I think you should see him.”

  The priest led Tarran and the two pages back over to the body that had sent Simon reeling. Tarran had the boys stand back as the priest flipped up the canvas to show him the face of the corpse. Tarran took a good, long look before closing his eyes tightly, his jaw ticking furiously.

  His worst fears were confirmed.

  There was a lump in his throat as he crouched down beside the body, looking it over carefully. He had to make sure he could comprehend what he was seeing. He finally reached out to touch the hair, the forehead. The body was ice cold and stiff, but that didn’t stop Tarran from showing his affection and respect. This man had been alive last week. That was the last time he’d spoken to him. To see him like this… it wasn’t real. None of it was real. He pulled the canvas back a little more, looking at the body. It was the color of clay, the skin peeling from the salt water. He was without his tunic and clothing, but his breeches were still on. At least he had that much. A big arm with an equally big hand was laying at his side and Tarran gripped the stiff hand for a moment, trying very hard not to weep.

  God, this can’t be happening…

  But it was.

  “This is Lord Dorstone, Sir Teague d’Mearc,” he finally said, his voice hoarse with emotion. “He is my liege. He was a great man, certainly not meant for a pauper’s grave. I will pay handsomely to have a coffin built for him immediately and mayhap you can store his body in the vault until I can make arrangements to bring it back to England. Will you please do this for me, Father?”

  The priest was looking at him with concern. He could see how upset the knight was and he felt for him, having discovered a dear colleague. He watched Tarran as the man touched Teague’s hair one last time before covering him back up with the canvas.

  “You were fond of him,” he said softly.

  Tarran nodded, sighing heavily as he did so. “Very fond,” he said. “He was like a brother to me. I brought his wife here to seek answers about her husband’s fate, so this is not good news. It is the worst possible news she could face, so I would be grateful if her husband’s body is treated with the utmost respect.”

  The priest nodded. “Of course, my son,” he said. “There is an unused vault in the church, meant for the sick husband of a local noblewoman, but he has yet to die and he’s had the vault for about three years. I am sure they would not mind if we put Lord Dorstone’s body in it for safekeeping. At least until you can properly transport him home.”

  Tarran could only nod. He was trying very hard to keep his composure, but the sight of Teague’s pale form was overwhelming. He could hardly focus as his mind lingered on what he’d just seen. It was such a waste, such a damnable waste. Everything Teague was, all of the skills and wisdom and good character he possessed had been lost upon a stormy sea. It was more than a waste.

  It was a tragedy.

  A goddamned tragedy.

  It would have been easy to lose himself in the grief he felt, but he couldn’t. He had to focus, for things had to be done now. He was in command now. Everything that had been Teague’s responsibility was now his, and more than anything, he knew that Tresta couldn’t see Teague that way. The man had spent days in salt water and his appearance was ghastly. Tarran felt sorry for Simon and Channing, who had to see that ghoulish sight first.

  “There were more men with him,” he said, fighting down the lump in his throat. “I do not know if Simon and Channing told you, but there were four knights with him.”

  The priest nodded. “They told me,” he said. “The man next to your lord may be one of his knights.”

  Taking a deep breath for courage, Tarran moved to the next corpse and pulled back the canvas. One look and he closed his eyes, covering it back up. He glanced at the priest.

  “Aye, that’s another,” he said. “Sir Sheen d’Mearc, Dorstone’s brother. We must have a coffin fashioned for him, too.”

  The priest nodded, turning to motion to a few men who were lingering over by the churchyard wall. When they rushed over, he whispered instructions about the two identified bodies before returning his attention to Tarran, who was simply standing there looking stunned. The priest headed down the line of corpses, motio
ning Tarran to follow. He did, along with Simon and Channing, and he was able to locate Gilbert, who had been the next to be buried until Simon had asked them to temporarily halt the burials.

  But there were two missing.

  “There are two men left,” Tarran said. “I realize we have been extremely fortunate to find those three men, but one of the missing knights is Lady d’Mearc’s brother. The other one is a big, burly man with dark hair and a beard.”

  The priest scratched his head, looking to the churchyard. “We have already buried several,” he said. “It is possible they have already been buried.”

  Tarran nodded with resignation. “I am willing to accept that,” he said. “Lady d’Mearc’s brother was a smaller man with hair the color of sand. He had a crooked nose. Mayhap you could remember burying such a man?”

  The priest thought back to all of the men they had buried over the past few days, but ultimately, he had to shake his head. “I do not recall burying such men,” he said. “But truthfully, some men were difficult to recognize.”

  “I understand,” Tarran said. “’Tis only that I hate to leave men behind, not knowing their fate. Mayhap they have yet to wash ashore. There were thousands of men on that fleet and what you have here is only a very small portion of that. They will be washing up for weeks and months to come.”

  The priest agreed, looking over the sea of canvas-covered bodies. “There are other villages up and down the coast,” he said. “You can ask them if they have seen such men.”

  Tarran nodded, his manner dull. “Mayhap,” he said. “Or mayhap it is futile. It is difficult to believe the great fleet that left London last week has come to such an end.”

  The priest turned to look at him, seeing his clear distress. He tried to be of some comfort. “These are dark times,” he said. “Darker still for the families of the men in that fleet. We question why things like this happen, but I can only tell you that there is a reason for everything. This is an age of gods and mortals, Sir Tarran, and that means we must all have faith in the order of heaven and earth. Death is part of that order. It is difficult to fathom the reason for something such as this, but mayhap we will know in time.”