Page 73

He was snoring.

Tresta could hear him and it woke her irritably out of a deep sleep. Teague always snored when he lay flat on his back and she stuck out a hand to touch him, to force him to roll onto his side. It was a nightly dance they danced, with him snoring and her thumping him so he’d roll over. Sometimes he ignored her completely and told her to go sleep somewhere else.

That only made her angrier.

This time, Teague wasn’t behind her like he usually was and her fingers kept trying to grasp at him. Half-asleep, she tried to sit up but she quickly realized she wasn’t in her bed. She was laying against someone’s chest. It wasn’t Teague because this chest was bigger. So were the arms that were around her. It took Tresta a moment to remember what had happened.

It was Tarran snoring.

Slowly, she lifted her head, peering up at the knight who was snoring away, clearly in a deep sleep. His chest lifted and fell with regular rhythm. For a moment, she looked at the man she was now seeing through new eyes. The past several days had seen a change in her outlook towards him. He was no longer a man who had stopped her from following Teague to The Levant. Now, he was the man who was holding everything together when her world collapsed. She had told him once that she would never forgive him for not letting her go to with Teague so she could die in the man’s arms when that nasty cough finally overtook her. But that was no longer true.

After what he’d done for her, she’d forgive him anything.

But that would change if he wouldn’t let her go to Teague now, when it was more important to her than ever. It was her right to see her husband before he was sealed up in his coffin forever, a rite of passage when it came to grief. Until she saw Teague’s body, his death wouldn’t be real to her. None of it would be real to her. She might even wait for years and years for him to return home in the false hope that his death had been a mistake. That all of this had been a mistake. No matter how Tarran was trying to spare her, in this case, she didn’t want to be spared. The last time she’d seen her husband, his powerful arms had been around her and he’d told her how much he loved her. If those arms were forever stilled, she wanted to be witness to the fact.

She had to see him.

Tresta moved slightly, very carefully lifting Tarran’s arm off her. He stirred in his sleep, grabbing for whatever he happened to be holding, and she quickly put a pillow against him. He ended up holding that and going back to sleep without a fuss.

But she was up and moving.

The church , he’d said. Teague was at the church. She didn’t know where it was, but given the small size of the village, she couldn’t imagine it was too far away. She was still wearing the dark amber gown Teague had purchased for her, but hanging on the peg near the door was her dark red traveling cloak. Grabbing the cloak, she swung it over her shoulders and with as much silence as she could muster, opened the door. As she did so, however, she caught sight of the poppet sticking out of her satchel and, quickly, she grabbed it.

Slipping from the chamber, she shut the door softly behind her.

It was sometime before dawn. She could tell by the level of the banked fire in the common room and the fact that someone was moving around in the kitchen, undoubtedly preparing bread for the coming day. Since she wasn’t sure where the church was and she didn’t want to go running around a strange village in the dark hours of the morning, she slipped into the warm, dimly lit kitchen to find a woman making loaf after loaf of bread. When the woman caught sight of her and turned to her, startled, Tresta could see that it was Eilish, the tavernkeeper’s wife.

“M’lady!” she gasped.

Tresta put her fingers to her lips in a silencing gesture. “Shhh,” she whispered. “I wanted to ask you where the church is. St Josephs? Is it nearby?”

Eilish nodded, pointing out the kitchen door to a smaller road that led away from the main road. “At the end of that street,” she said. “You cannot miss it. Simply keep walking. Do you want me to show you?”

Tresta looked around the kitchen. “Can you spare the time? I know you are busy.”

Eilish wiped her hands off on her apron. She was a genuinely kind woman who had taken a shine to Tresta. “This can wait a moment,” she said. “I will show you to the church. Why do you want to go?”

Tresta wasn’t sure what to say to the woman because she could hardly bring herself to speak the words. But Eilish had been very sweet to her and perhaps if she understood why Tresta wanted to go, she would understand how important it was to her.

“Because I’m told my husband is there,” she said, a lump in her throat as she verbalized Teague’s passing for the first time. “He was… killed in the shipwreck. He was one of the bodies that washed up on the shore and I want to visit him. That is why I am here, you know. Because we heard of the shipwreck. Will you please show me where the church is?”

Eilish looked at her, her eyes immediately welling with tears that she quickly wiped away with her apron. The melancholy young woman had just clarified her behavior in that simple statement, tragic as it was.

“ Ma chéri ,” she sniffled. “Do not worry. I will take you right now and help you find him.”

With that, she took Tresta by the hand and led her out into the pre-dawn hours. It was cold and misting, with only a few points of light here and there, mostly coming from cottages as women rose early to bake bread for the day. The church was straight ahead and Tresta could see it, even in the darkness because there were men outside of the church wall with lanterns. She could see them moving about. Eilish took her right up to the gate where men were bringing bodies into the churchyard to bury them.

They’d been doing it all night.

“Where is the priest?” Eilish asked the first man she came to. “Father Alphius?”

The man pointed to the churchyard where dozens of lanterns were moving around in the misty darkness. Eilish had Tresta wait at the gate to the churchyard while she went on the hunt for Father Alphius. Tresta stood by the gate, peeking in, watching the dark shadows move about. She could see the men carefully dropping the bodies into the graves that had been dug and even with the mist falling, she could still smell the stench of death all around her.

She hadn’t noticed when she’d come up to the church, but now that she was closer, she could see the dead lined up against the church wall. Bodies wrapped up in canvas, soaking wet from the mist that was falling. Men that could have very well been her husband’s men, soldiers she’d known for years. The longer she looked at the pile of bodies, the more distressed she became. She’d been fairly calm when she’d come here, but now… now, the dead were all around her. She could feel everything about them, men with lives and loves just like her husband. They weren’t just faceless, nameless bodies. They were someone’s son or husband or brother.

It was difficult not to tear up at the thought of their sudden and brutal demise.

As Tresta stood there and fought off the phantoms that were clutching at her, she could see Eilish heading back in her direction with a tall man in tow. The man was wrapped in heavy woolen robes, carrying a lamp in his hand. His dark-ringed eyes were looking at Tresta curiously as he came to the gate.

“My lady?” he greeted. “May I be of help?”

Tresta swallowed hard as she faced the weary man. “I was told my husband is here,” she said. “I would like to see him. I am Tresta d’Mearc, Lady Dorstone.”

The priest’s brow furrowed for a brief moment as if he didn’t recognize the name, but the fact that her speech had a distinct English accent triggered a memory of him speaking to a knight who had come yesterday to identify the body of three Englishmen. His eyes widened when he realized who she was.

“Ah,” he said. “I was told that you were here by Sir Tarran. I spoke with him yesterday. He has made arrangements for your husband to be stored in a crypt until a coffin can be made for his journey back to England.”

“I know,” she said. “He told me. But I want to see my husband. Will you please take me to him?”

Father Alphius was clearly hesitant. “Where is Sir Tarran?” he asked. “Did he come with you?”

Tresta shook her head. “He told me not to come, yet I am here,” she said. “Father, please… won’t you please take me to see my husband? I am his wife. It is my right to see him.”

Tears were starting to pool in her eyes and Father Alphius gave in without a fight. It was her right, as the man’s wife, and he could not deny her that. It wasn’t within his power and, frankly, he agreed with her. So many men were to be buried without someone grieving for them.

Teague d’Mearc was a lucky one in that respect.

He had someone who loved him.

“Are you certain you wish to do this, Lady Dorstone?” he asked quietly.

Tresta nodded without hesitation. “Please,” she begged softly. “Please do not tell me to remember him as he was. I want to see him as he is. I must. How will I know he is truly dead if I do not?”

There was such pain in her plea, and also words of truth. Father Alphius sighed faintly. “If you are certain.”

“I am.”

“Then come with me.”

With his lamp held high, he lit the way as they headed into the church. The structure itself was surprisingly roomy once they entered, with hard-packed earth floors and eight enormous columns holding up the roof. There was an altar on one end and a nave behind it, but what Tresta hadn’t seen was a burial vault built on the south side. It was practically hidden, half-buried in the earth. Father Alphius walked up to the iron gate blocking off that section of the church and pulled it open. He went inside with Tresta not far behind him.

The burial vault was sunk deep into the ground. They went down eight stone steps and ended up in a low-ceilinged, barrel-vaulted chamber that was long, dark, and dank. Stone crypts were neatly lined up against the edges of the walls and Father Alphius took her to the far end of the chamber where two pristine crypts lay. They weren’t adorned yet and they were missing the lids, which would usually be carved with an effigy resembling the dead person inside. Only one of them had a wooden panel on top of it which, at closer glance, looked like an old door that had been removed from a frame somewhere. Father Alphius indicated the covered crypt.

“I put him here, my lady,” he said softly, as if speaking above a whisper in this sacred place was sacrilegious. “This was an empty crypt belonging to a man in the village who has been ill for years. He will not be needing it for a while, long enough for a coffin to be built for your husband.”

Tresta stared at the crypt, feeling her heart start to race. Tears were stinging her eyes as she looked at it, realizing that Teague was on the other side of that wooden lid.

“Thank you,” she whispered tightly. “For everything you have done for my husband and his men, I thank you. May I ask a favor?”

“Of course, my lady.”

“Will you remove the top of the crypt?”

Father Alphius hesitated a moment. “My lady, I will not tell you not to see him,” he said. “But you must understand that he will not look as you remember. A man who has been dead for several days, and in water, does not look like a man any longer. Do you understand this?”

Tresta wanted to see him so badly that she was trembling, but the priest was telling her the same thing that Tarran had. She had been quite brave coming to the church, but now that she was actually faced with Teague on the other side of that wooden door, she wasn’t sure her courage would hold out. She remembered her husband as a man of great male beauty and a bright smile. She loved that about him. Was she willing to ruin that memory with what death had done to him? Perhaps not. But she’d come this far.

She couldn’t leave now.

“Will… will you do something for me, Father?” she asked as the tears began to flow.

“If I can, my lady, I will.”

“Is he in a shroud?”

“He is, my lady.”

She sniffled and stepped back from the crypt. “Will you remove this cover and pull the shroud down so that I can see his hair?” she asked. “Sir Tarran also told me that I did not wish to see his face, so I will believe you. But if you can just pull the shroud down so that I may see his hair and nothing else, I will be satisfied. I know my husband’s hair, you see. I would like to see it.”

Father Alphius’ gaze lingered on her for a moment before he complied, moving to remove the old door that had been placed on the crypt. Tresta caught a glimpse of Teague in his shroud before she turned her head, moving several steps away from the crypt as Father Alphius set the door against the wall of the burial vault and then moved to pull back some of the shroud, as Tresta had asked. The crypt itself was not big at all, in fact– perhaps three feet in height or less because of the presumably enormous lid with the effigy it would one day have on it. Tresta kept her head turned away until Father Alphius spoke.

“He is ready, my lady,” he said quietly. “You may come to him now.”

You may come to him now .

This was it. The moment was upon her. Tresta knew this was the time for her to truly show her mettle, her bravery and devotion as a wife. For a brief moment, she second-guessed her determination to come here, but the indecision was mercifully short.

She knew she had to see him. Or, at least, what she could of him.

Taking a deep breath, she turned for the crypt.

Father Alphius had stepped away to allow her some privacy as she made her way over to the crypt. He’d left the lamp on the edge of the crypt so she had enough light to see by. Tresta kept her eyes on the body in the crypt, covered by the heavy canvas, and already she could see that it was the same size as her husband. When her gaze came to the top of the head where the canvas had been pulled back, those long, barbarian curls were spread out, matted and dark, but that was his hair. She’d know it anywhere.

It really was Teague.

“Oh… God,” she whispered as she sank to her knees. “Oh, God, it really is you.”

Her breath caught in her throat, tears coursing down her cheeks. But her momentary breathlessness gave way to soft, terrible sobs as she reached into the crypt to touch the dirty, matted hair she knew so well. She held a handful of it as she closed her eyes tightly, hanging her head.

“You promised me you would return,” she wept. “I begged you not to go, but you went anyway. When I followed you, you plied me with sweet words and gifts and thought that would ease me, but it did not. You left behind a devastated wife and a bitter knight who wanted nothing to do with me. How could you do this, Teague? See what your devotion to that absent king has cost us?”

There was no answer as there had been before when she’d argued with him. He wasn’t rising to the challenge now, a silent pile of bones and flesh with no heart, no soul. The heart was dead and the soul was gone.

Tresta was fighting with a corpse.

But she kept a grip on his hair, holding fast to the strands, so angry she could hardly stand it. But in the next breath, she was so devastated that she was certain her heart was in pieces, never to be mended. The only thing holding it together was gone.

Teague was gone.

She lay her cheek against the edge of the crypt.

“How am I supposed to go on?” she sobbed. “You told me to carry on in a way that would make you proud. You told me that you wanted me to be happy again, but I do not know how. I do not know how to do any of this without you. How am I to breathe again? How am I to laugh or feel joy again?”

She continued to sob, to expend her grief as she held his hair in her hand. Predictably, the coughing started again, especially with the damp and the mist, but she ignored the discomfort and the sputtering, at least as far as her comfort was concerned. But the coughing reminded her of why she had wanted to go with Teague in the first place. Now, she supposed she could tell him the truth.

As if it mattered anymore.

“Do you know why I did not wish to be separated from you?” she asked in between coughs. “Do you know why I tried so hard to go with you? I did not tell you this because I knew how much it would upset you, but the truth is that the physic says this cough is something more than a simple cough. He feels as if it will eventually kill me and I did not want to die alone, Teague. That is why I wanted to go with you to The Levant. But in hindsight, I suppose that I should have told you. Mayhap it would have prevented you from going. I did not want to use my illness as a weapon against you, but I should have. God forgive me, I should have. Mayhap if I had been honest with you, you would still be alive.”

The coughing overtook her at that point and she had to stop talking while she caught her breath. It took some time before she was finally able to breathe steadily again and she took several deep breaths, trying to calm herself. The more she wept, the more worked up she became, and she wasn’t accomplishing anything with her hysterics. She knew that. Lifting her head, she found herself looking at the covered corpse.

He was under there. It would have been so easy to lift the canvas and look at him, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She was focused on his hair, holding it, even stroking it, and she dared to touch his head. It was like stone, cold and hard. She pulled her hand back, unable to stomach the feel of her warm, healthy husband as stone cold. She returned to his hair.

“Father?” she asked softly.

Father Alphius was back in the shadows, watching. “Aye, my lady?”

“Would you please cut some of his hair for me? I would like to take it with me.”

She heard him walk away, going for a dagger perhaps. In any case, it left her alone with Teague and without an audience, she was a little braver. Timidly, she reached out and peeled the top of the canvas away from his hair, just a little, enough to see the flesh of his forehead. What she was faced with was something gray and peeling. Unable to look beyond the flesh of his forehead, she quickly covered it back up again.

Her hand went back to his hair.

“I am sorry I became angry with you,” she said, more calmly now that her initial burst of emotion was over. “You know I was always quick to temper. I cannot help it. But you never were quick to temper. Mayhap that is part of what I love about you. You were always so patient with the misfits you were responsible for– me, Sheen, Hallam– and we found Hallam, by the way. He survived. He said you saved his life and, for that, I am grateful. He said you tried to save Gilbert and William and Sheen. He said he saw you follow Sheen into the sinking ship and that you went down with it. Teague, you know I have no love for your brother and I should not curse a dead man, but I hope God has a special punishment for him. If it is true that he killed you…”

She trailed off, unable to continue as she realized that she was about to become irate about Sheen’s behavior. There was no point. She would be angry for something she couldn’t change. There was nothing about this entire situation she could change.

She sighed faintly.

“The truth is that you chose to go after him,” she said softly. “You were always taking care of him, Teague. Sheen knew that. He knew you would always take care of him and he abused that. But I know you loved him, as your only brother, and I also know there was never any question that you would try to save him if you knew he was in danger. You are strong and noble in everything you do. Even trying to save your foolish brother. I would not expect anything less from you, but now, here we are. You are gone and I am supposed to live a life that would make you proud.”

She heard footsteps as Father Alphius returned with a sharp knife. Tresta had a bunch of Teague’s hair in her hand and she held it up so that he could cut it away from the scalp. She came away with a big handful of his hair, knowing how proud he was of it and how angry he would have been with her for cutting it off. But the prize in her hand was worth his anger.

It would be the last thing she had of him.

Tresta sat for the longest time next to the crypt, the wad of hair in her lap, taking comfort from the fact that she was sitting with Teague, alone, perhaps for the very last time in this lifetime. There was pain, so very much pain, but there was also resignation. She wasn’t stupid and she wasn’t unreasonable. She was becoming more and more accustomed to the idea of a future without Teague, one where she would raise four sons by herself. Boys in their father’s image, children who would make their father proud.

God… all of it was just so unfair.

“Sebastian is now Lord Dorstone,” she said, lifting her head to look at the shroud-covered body again. “I will send word to Chepstow to send him and Gabriel home, at least for now. Bas is going to have to learn to be a great lord like his father was. Tarran has sworn to teach him well, by the way. I do not know if you are aware, but it was Tarran who found you. He heard about the wreck and came here to find you, and he did. He is to be commended, Teague. He has been very devoted to you and very tolerant of me. I do not know many men who would have been so tolerant given how determined I was to follow you to The Levant. Truth be told, he’s been a saint and I have realized that my dislike of him has been misplaced. I wanted to tell you that. I also wanted to tell you that I know why you left him behind.”

Over her head, Tresta caught a faint spot of light, realizing that dawn was breaking and the faint rays of sunlight were coming in through the narrow lancet windows to the east. Soon, Tarran would be awake, if he wasn’t already, and he more than likely would suspect where she had gone. Knowing this, she knew her time with Teague was growing short. She’d said what she wanted to say to him, but not everything.

There was still more he needed to hear.

“You left Tarran behind because you knew if anyone had a chance of keeping me under control, it was him,” she said softly. “You also knew that we had a strong dislike for each other, so I would not try to charm him. I understand that. But I think you did it because you knew that if something happened to you, you had left your most capable knight behind to help me. You are always thinking of me, Teague, and you know what is best for me even if I do not. I shall miss that about you.”

The tears started to come again, as they often did, so close to the surface. Tresta noticed that two fingers from Teague’s right hand were peeking out from beneath the canvas and, impulsively, she reached in and grasped them. They were stiff and cold, and she had to resist the urge to pull away. It would be the last time she touched the man and she wanted to make it count.

“I shall miss your kindness and your laughter. I shall miss the way you frown at me or tell me to shut my lips,” she murmured as tears dripped down onto the canvas. “I shall miss that arrogant knight I first married who became a father and husband of great patience and sweetness. Most of all, I shall miss that our boys will not know you as grown men. They would have seen for themselves how great their father is, but I promise that I will tell them how great you are, every day, for the rest of their lives. If that is how you meant that I should make you proud, then I will try.”

Her face crumpled again, the tears flowing freely, as she held those stone-cold fingers. But she suddenly remembered the poppet she’d brought with her and she pulled it from beneath her cloak, lifting those stiff fingers and putting the poppet beneath them.

“I found that on the beach,” she wept softly. “A woman had it and I took it from her. I was not very nice about it, I’m afraid, but I could not stand the thought of someone having a piece of me that had belonged to you. Do you recall what is says? Remember me . You can keep it with you as you sleep so that you will always remember me. I will see you again at the end of all things, my darling. Sleep well.”

There was nothing more to say after that. Truthfully, Tresta felt as if she had said everything she wanted and needed to say to him, knowing he was listening. Something told her that he was. She could feel him in the shadows, perhaps behind her, just out of her periphery. She kissed her index finger and put it against the canvas, just where his mouth might be. She let her fingers linger there, feeling what she thought was his nose. But that was as far as she went. Wiping her face, she stood up.

“Good night, Teague,” she whispered.

With that, she turned around, straight into Tarran, who was standing several feet behind her. Their eyes met and, for a moment, they simply stared at each other. He didn’t say a word to her at first. He just stood there, staring at her, looking pale and gray and exhausted.

Tresta gazed back at the man who had done everything he could to make sure she didn’t have to worry about her husband or his men. He’d taken charge in a situation that would have crushed a lesser man. Tarran du Reims had become part of this entire tragedy in a way that painted him as the hero, because when the world fell apart around them, he had never faltered. He had remained strong, carrying the hopes and dreams of Snow Hill with him like a great burden. The burden had never crushed him.

Tresta could appreciate his strength now. She walked up to him, looking at the man in the early morning light that was streaming in through the lancet windows.

“I know you told me not to come, but I had to say my farewells,” she said hoarsely. “If you are going to become angry with me, get on with it. But know I regret nothing.”

Tarran had just spent the past ten minutes in utter terror when he woke up and realized Tresta was nowhere to be found. He’d turned the sleeping chambers of the tavern upside down until Eilish, the owner’s wife, told him where Tresta had gone.

He knew why.

He’d raced down the street like a madman, finding his way into the church and, ultimately, into the burial vault only to hear most of what Tresta had said to Teague. He could see that Father Alphius had stayed with her and his mind was eased greatly to see that she hadn’t pulled the canvas off the corpse. She was simply talking to her husband in his shroud, but what she said… it occurred to him that every man should have such a fine send off. She had been thoughtful and sweet even if she had been deeply grieved.

And he’d heard what she had said about him.

Words of appreciation he never thought he’d hear. He knew he wasn’t supposed to hear them even now, but he had. Somehow, hearing her thoughts on his presence throughout the entire event strengthened him. He needed to hear that she thought he was doing right in the midst of her grief. That she could spare him a thought meant something.

He wasn’t going to spoil it.

“Are you well, my lady?” he asked.

“I am.”

“Is there anything more you would like done?”

She shook her head. “Nay,” she said. “I… I gave him back the poppet. Did you see?”

“I saw.”

“Please make sure that wherever he ends up permanently, that the poppet stays with him.”

“I will.”

She simply nodded in acknowledgement, her gaze moving to the stairs that led up to the church sanctuary.

“Du Reims?”

“Aye, my lady?”

“I think I am ready to go home now.”

“The coffins should be finished in a few days,” he said. “Once they are ready, we will depart.”

Tresta didn’t say anything. It seemed that she was all talked out. With a sigh, she headed out of the burial vault with Tarran following several paces behind her. He didn’t want to walk next to her because he thought that, at this moment, she needed to walk by herself. It was symbolic of her life at the moment.

Alone.

With Tarran following behind.

The day would come when he would walk beside her, but this wasn’t the day. He didn’t know when it would come, only that it would, at some point. But today, that place beside her was meant to be empty in tribute to a husband who was no longer there. Tarran loved and respected Teague too much to change that dynamic at the moment.

But someday, hopefully, that place would be filled.

By him.

Only time would tell.