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.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Year of Our Lord 1191
February
Snow Hill Castle
“He hit me!” A boy of seven years of age was wildly outraged as he pointed to another boy with hair the color of copper. “He threw snow at me and there was a rock in it!”
He was taking his case to the highest court at Snow Hill, which happened to be Tarran. He wasn’t higher than their mother, however, but he was high enough. Often, he could persuade Tresta to go easy on boys that were becoming more rambunctious by the day. There were two sets of boys, in fact – the big pair, Sebastian and Gabriel, and the little pair, Jasper and Rhys. Everyone called them the “big pair” and the “little pair.
At the moment, trouble was brewing with the big pair.
Tarran assumed as much. He’d been watching Sebastian lob snowballs at his brother for the past half-hour, and then Gabriel’s attempts to lob them back. Gabriel had a fast arm, faster than his brother, but his aim was everywhere. He hit walls, dogs, horses, and soldiers as they went about their duties. One of those soldiers grabbed the boy and shoved snow down his back, much to the child’s displeasure.
But he had it coming.
The antics of the big pair and the little pair had been part of Tarran’s life since the return from France with Teague, Gilbert, and Sheen. William’s body was never recovered, at least not yet, but Father Alphius promised
he would send word if a man fitting William’s description ever washed onto shore, but that was more than likely not going to happen now if it hadn’t already. The sea may have given up some men, but it would keep others. William was one of them.
It was a bright February day after an entire week of a snowstorm that had dumped several feet of snow on the ground. It was the first day that Sebastian, Gabriel, Jasper, and Rhys had been allowed out of the keep and they were making the most of it. Jasper and Rhys were doing something constructive, building a castle out of snow, while Sebastian and Gabriel were firing snowballs at one another, some with rocks in them.
And Tarran had been watching it all.
That was his lot in life these days – to watch, plan, direct, and observe.
Since the return from France and the burial of Teague at the church of St. Mary’s in the village, Tarran had been in command of the castle. For outward appearances, it was Sebastian’s castle and command with his mother’s heavy influence, but everyone knew that it was Tarran. Snow Hill had become his because it had been Tarran’s hard work that had rebuilt most of the army lost when Somerset’s fleet met its end.
The rebuilding of Snow Hill hadn’t been too difficult, fortunately, but there had been some changes. One of the first things Tarran did was send Simon and Channing to another fortress with men who could take the time to educate them. With four out of the six knights at Snow Hill dead, Tarran feared that Simon and Channing’s education would be lacking and there would be no great opportunities for them, so it was with a heavy heart that he sent them to Kenilworth where they would receive the best training in England.
It was the best thing for them.
His second course of business had been to send missives to most warlords along the Marches, asking them each to spare ten men, more if they could. Between fifteen English warlords, he’d managed to pull together almost three hundred men. Because the closest warlords knew that Snow Hill was vulnerable to the Welsh more than ever, the Barringdons of Lioncross Abbey had sent an additional one hundred men for a few months, just to make sure Snow Hill wasn’t overrun by opportunistic Welsh.
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