Page 71

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“W here are we going, Sir Tarran?” Channing asked.

Tarran was dazed as he walked and trying very hard not to be. He was laboring to focus, knowing that so much depended on him. “We have two tasks right now,” he said, coming away from the avenue of the church and onto the main road. He pointed towards the west. “See that livery down there? I have purchased three horses from the owner, including Lord d’Mearc and Sir Gilbert’s warhorses. The first task is collecting those animals and bringing them over to the stable behind the tavern where we can keep a close watch on them.”

The boys followed along as Tarran headed down the street, his strides long and full of purpose. He headed towards the livery, feeling himself harden with every step. It was either harden to what he’d just seen or get drunk and lament, and he didn’t have the time or inclination to get drunk. He wanted to get those horses before the livery owner heard what happened with the poppet. Somehow, he didn’t think it would bode well for the sale even though he’d agreed to it. He just wanted to get those horses back.

Clouds were blowing in overhead and the smell of rain was once again in the air as he reached the livery. Entering the cool, horse-smelling depths, he went to the stalls to check on Arion and the other two horses and found them tucked at the far end of the building. Arion was dozing, but he lifted his head when he heard the movement. Tarran was careful about approaching the beast and did so with a slow and steady tone to ease the animal, who sniffed at him and seemed to approve.

Knowing the horses were safe, he sought out the livery owner.

The man was in the rear watching the smithy shoe a big, fat rouncey, a horse that was the preferred method of travel for many noblemen and merchants because of the smooth gait. When the livery owner saw him, he came away from the smithy, a smile on his round face because he knew that Tarran was there to make him a wealthy man.

With little fanfare or conversation, Tarran paid the man the agreed upon one hundred pounds for all three horses. It occurred to him that he had no saddle or bridles for the three, but the livery owner was more than happy to sell him a few for another couple of pounds. Now, at least the horses could be ridden if necessary. With a good bridle, a good halter and a rope lead, Tarran led Arion out of the stable followed by Simon with Gilbert’s horse and Channing with the remaining stallion, a deep brown animal with a calm temperament.

There was a good deal of relief in taking the horses back over to the livery behind the tavern, where Tarran paid both stable servants well to take very good care of the three new additions. Channing asked if he could remain with them and Tarran gave him permission, so the last Tarran saw of the lad, he was brushing out the dark brown stallion. But Simon was still with Tarran, following him like a shadow, as they emerged out onto the street again.

“And now on to the second task, my lord?” Simon asked.

Tarran looked again towards the west. “I am not holding out any great hope, which is why I do not want to mention this to Lady d’Mearc,” he said. “I have yet to tell her the worst news of all, so I do not want to get her hopes up with a tale of a survivor.”

Simon understood. As young as he was, he’d grown up quite a bit over the past several weeks, ever since leaving Snow Hill with Lady d’Mearc in her quest to follow her husband to The Levant.

It seemed like a million years ago.

He followed Tarran down the street again, this time passing the livery and continuing on until they came to the largest house they could find. The priest told them that Lord le Motte’s house was the biggest one in town, and this house was certainly large with its stone walls and gabled roof. A flowering vine grew up over half the house and onto the roof, giving it a rather charming and bucolic appearance. Tarran and Simon paused at the big, iron gate, looking up at the house, before Tarran finally pushed the gate open.

In the yard, they were greeted with dogs. So many dogs. They seemed to mostly go after Simon, jumping and barking and licking, so he kept the dogs busy as Tarran waded through the sea of canines and made his way to the enormous front door with an equally enormous iron knocker. Lifting the knocker, he let it clang against the door a few times and waited.

And waited.

He knocked again. By the third time, he finally heard someone throw a bolt and a tiny door within the door opened to reveal a face.

“What’s wanting?” an old woman asked.

Tarran eyed the woman with the big, red cheeks. “Father Alphius has sent me,” he said. “I understand you have a survivor here from the sinking of the fleet. I am looking for one of my men and I would like to see the survivor.”

The woman scowled at him and shut the tiny door. Tarran was waiting for her to open the larger door, but minutes passed and the door didn’t open. He turned to look at Simon, who was still being mobbed by the dogs, wondering if he should knock again or simply be patient. A big dog caught him from behind, hitting him behind the knees and he pitched forward as the dog wagged his tail happily and jumped on him. Tarran petted the dog who was as tall as he was, finally pushing the beast down, as the tiny door lurched open again.

“Who are you?”

There was a young woman there now, looking at him with curiosity and suspicion. Tarran leaned down so she could see his face more clearly.

“My name is Sir Tarran du Reims,” he said. “My father is the Earl of East Anglia. I serve Lord Dorstone and he was on the fleet that scuttled a few days ago. Father Alphius told me that you have a survivor here and I would like to see if he is one of my men. Will you please let me see him?”

The young woman’s gaze lingered on him for a moment. “Go around back,” she said. “Come in through the servant’s hall.”

She slammed the tiny door and Tarran dutifully went around the side of the house and into the kitchen yard. There were goats and chickens, and a line holding up laundry to dry. He passed by everything and as he reached the kitchen door, the panel opened up and the young woman stood there again.

She was small and pretty in a pale sort of way, with dark hair slicked back against her head and gathered in a braid down her back. She looked him over, as one does when appraising the opposite sex. But she also noticed that he was armed.

“Leave your weapons outside the door,” she said.

Tarran whistled loudly between his teeth and Simon suddenly appeared, being followed by a pack of dogs. Tarran crooked a finger at the boy as he unfastened his sheath and handed over the broadsword. Simon took it, and two daggers Tarran had hiding on his body, before Tarran returned his attention to the young woman.

“I am unarmed,” he said, lifting up his arms so she could see for herself.

The young woman beckoned him in. As Tarran stepped through the doorway, the woman disappeared down a darkened corridor.

Tarran followed.

“What did Father Alphius tell you?” she asked.

“Only that there was a survivor here,” he said, ducking his head because the ceilings of the corridor were so low. “He said there was also a boy, but I am only interested in the man.”

“You said you lost men in the wreck?”

“Many.”

“You’re English?”

“Aye.”

“Why were you not going to The Levant with the rest of them?”

Tarran glanced at the back of the woman’s head, thinking that was a rather rude question. “It’s a long story,” he said. “Suffice it to say that I was on those ships from England to Calais. But I remained in Calais when they continued on.”

That seemed to satisfy her curiosity. For now. She came to an abrupt halt in front of a closed door and turned to face him.

“The man survived the wreck, but something is wrong with his legs,” she said quietly. “The physic says there are bones broken in his feet, so he cannot walk.”

Tarran nodded in understanding. The young woman opened the door and stepped in, lighting a candle on the table next to the door. Even though it was daylight outside, the chamber was still a little dark because of the small, ground-level windows. She stepped out and Tarran stepped in.

There were three beds crowded into the chamber. Two were empty but there was someone in the third one. Tarran stepped towards the bed as the figure in it rolled over and tried to sit up.

He found himself looking at a familiar face.

“Hallam!” he gasped. “God’s bones… Hallam !”

Hallam pushed himself up, his features filled with shock. “Tarran!” he cried. “How did you find me? How did you know I was here?”

Tarran went over to the bed and pulled Hallam up to sit, grasping the man’s hand and holding it tightly. But that wasn’t enough for Hallam. He threw his arms around Tarran and wept unashamedly. The fear, the terror, the grief, all of it came spilling out.

“I think they’re all dead,” Hallam wept. “I saw it all, Tarran. I saw everything. I think they’re all dead!”

He released Tarran, wiping at his face, as Tarran looked at him with great sympathy and concern. He put a hand on the man’s thin shoulder.

“I found Teague, Sheen, and Gilbert,” he said quietly. “They… came ashore.”

Hallam was wiping his eyes. “Dead?”

Tarran nodded faintly. “I did not find William, nor did I see you, and it was the priest who told me of a survivor. He sent me here.”

Hallam was using the nightshirt sleeves to dry his face. “God,” he said, his lower lip trembling. “I knew Teague was dead. I saw it all.”

“ What happened?”

Hallam struggled with his composure, thinking back to that fateful night. “How long have you been in this village?”

“A couple of days,” he said. “We were in Calais when the storm hit and I heard about a fleet scuttling near Le Touquet a few days later. We came as soon as the weather cleared.”

“We?”

“Lady d’Mearc is with me.”

That set Hallam off again. “My sweet sister,” he wept softly. “Does she know about Teague?”

“Not yet. I only just saw him myself a little while ago.”

“No one else survived?”

Tarran shook his head. “No one,” he said. “How did you survive?”

That question didn’t help Hallam’s tears. In fact, it seemed to make him more emotional. “The weather was terrible when we left Calais,” he said. “It only became worse after a few days. When it was clear the ships were going to sink, Teague had us all go to the deck. He brought the horses out of the hold so they would not drown. He was so strong, Tarran. You have never seen a man in such control in the face of danger.”

Tarran’s heart was just about breaking as he heard of such strength when, more than likely, Teague already knew they were all dead. “I can imagine,” he said. “Teague was a man of astounding bravery.”

Hallam nodded. “He was,” he said. “He was so brave. He had us all on deck and he demanded the captain turn the ship for the shore, but the captain would not listen. William and Gilbert took over the rudder and steered the ship towards the shore so we could at least have a chance to save ourselves, but the ship hit something under the water and broke in half. Men and animals went into the ocean. It was terrible, Tarran. You’ve never seen anything like it. The sounds of men drowning is something I will never forget.”

Tarran could almost hear the wreckage and the storm overhead, whipping everything into a frenzy, and the screams of the dying. “But how did you save yourself?”

“Teague,” he said simply. “When we all went into the water, he pushed me upon a barrel so I had something to cling to. He tried to do the same thing for William and Gilbert, but they were already gone. They could not swim, you know. Then he tried to help Sheen, but Sheen turned into a madman. He panicked, Tarran. He went back into the broken stern of the ship and Teague went after him, begging him to come out. As I watched, a wave washed over the stern and it sank with them inside. Teague died trying to save his brother.”

Tarran closed his eyes and hung his head, visions of his strong liege using his last breaths to save a brother who wasn’t worth saving. Sheen d’Mearc wasn’t worthy to be Teague’s brother, but Teague had never made him feel inferior. He’d done everything he could to help his brother succeed. In the end, he died trying to help that worthless excuse for a knight.

A man who now lay beside his brother in death at the little church.

Tarran thought he might actually become sick.

Taking a deep breath, he stood up, trying to fight down the nausea of how Teague had perished. “So you floated to the beach and Teague drowned as the ship sank,” he muttered. “My God… I’m not sure I can ever come to terms with this. Such a waste.”

Hallam was watching Tarran as the man struggled to accept what he had been told. “I know,” he said. “And Tresta… she will want to know all of this, Tarran. How can I look my sister in the eyes and tell her that her husband drowned trying to save his foolish brother? I am convinced Teague would have made it to shore had he not gone after him.”

Tarran shook his head. “Do not tell her that,” he said, looking at him. “Whatever you do, don’t tell her that. It will not do any good. She does not need to know the ‘what ifs’. Only the facts of what has happened.”

Hallam nodded. He had calmed down by now, but there was anxiety in his expression. “What now?” he asked. “What will we do now?”

Tarran turned to look at him. “I will take you over to the tavern where we are staying,” he said. “It is imperative that your sister have some good news and seeing you will lift her spirits. But I must tell her about Teague. You will be there when I do.”

Hallam nodded sadly. “My poor dearest sister,” he said. “How… how has she been since the ships departed Calais? Has she tried to follow?”

Tarran shook his head. “Surprisingly not,” he said. “She has been quite obedient and calm. Given the situation, it has not only been unexpected, but a blessing.”

“And after you tell her of Teague?” Hallam asked. “Do we go home then?”

Tarran shrugged. “There is no reason to remain here, but I must make arrangements to bring Teague and Sheen and Gilbert back with us. I am having coffins made for them, so we must at least wait for that. I will not return to England without them.”

Hallam was watching him as he spoke. There was resignation and pain, but there was also resolution and bravery. In the midst of a shocking situation, Tarran was taking control, which was not unexpected. Hallam knew that he was a man of such character.

Teague had known it, too.

“You are in command now,” he said quietly. “Snow Hill belongs to you.”

Tarran looked at him sharply. “It does not belong to me,” he said. “It belongs to Sebastian d’Mearc, as the new Lord Dorstone, and I serve the young lord and his mother. That is the extent of my involvement, Hallam.”

He was defensive about it, which told Hallam that Tarran was far more shaken up by the situation than he let on. And then there was the matter of his sister, who was now a widow, a woman that Tarran had held feelings for a very long time ago. Perhaps being in close proximity to Tresta, and now the loss of Teague, had stirred something in Tarran that he didn’t want to face.

Hallam wondered.

“That’s only what I meant,” he said. “I meant no offense, Tarran. I simply meant that Snow Hill and the House of d’Mearc will need you now, more than ever. Without you, everything will fall to pieces.”

“I seriously doubt that.”

“Don’t you think Teague left you behind for a reason?”

That brought Tarran pause. “What do you mean by that?”

Hallam leaned back against the bed, feeling weary and hollow now that his emotional outburst was over and they were looking towards an uncertain future.

“I mean that he left you behind in case something happened to him,” he said quietly. “Don’t you realize that? Certainly, he forced you to stay behind with my sister to keep her under control, but I think he knew that something like this could happen. Surely you must know that he died with the comfort of knowing you would be there to take care of Snow Hill and his family. When he left you behind, he left the best part of all of us behind in you. You must not fail Teague.”

The statement shook Tarran up. He never looked at himself as the savior of Snow Hill, merely the embittered knight who would never know adventure in The Levant because he’d been saddled with a man’s spoiled wife. Odd how Hallam changed his perspective on that. There was much truth in what he said, but Tarran wasn’t ready to face it yet.

“Well,” he said after a moment. “Be that as it may, let us focus on preparing Teague and Sheen and Gilbert for the trip home. I can only think to the immediate future, Hallam, and no further than that. Once we get back to Snow Hill, I shall discuss with Lady d’Mearc what my future shall be.”

Hallam didn’t push him. They were both unsteady and dealing with loss. Perhaps it was best to try and focus on what needed to be done and not what was to come.

“It will be good to see home again,” he said. “But I have some broken bones in my feet, Tarran. I cannot walk.”

“Can you ride?”

Hallam shrugged. “I have not tried, but more than likely.”

“Good,” Tarran said. “I will speak with the lady of the house and pay her for the trouble she has already taken with you. Then, I will bring a horse and we will ride over to the tavern where you can reunite with your sister.”

“I will be ready.”

Tarran’s gaze lingered on him for a moment. In the midst of a terrible situation, the gentle knight’s appearance was a bright spot. “It is good to see you, Hallam,” he said quietly. “I know your sister will be very happy to see you, too.”

Hallam forced a smile. He was eager to see her but not eager to suffer through the grief she would surely know when Tarran told her about Teague’s body. Truth be told, he was just so incredibly grateful that Tarran had found him that he was willing to face whatever was necessary. When Tarran left the chamber, Hallam thanked God for the turn of events. The Lord was merciful in some ways, but not in others. In this case, it had been a small mercy that had meant the world to Hallam.

He was going home.