It summed up everything they had ever meant to one another, the heart of their very existence, in this life or in any other.
My quest is you.
* THE END *
Author’s Notes
I hope you enjoyed THE QUESTING. Truly, I don’t think any other novel I’ve written encompasses such a journey – this entire book was more about the journey than the actual destination, although the destination surely played a big part in this. The term “quest” had many different meanings for many different people in this tale. So let me highlight some things:
The execution method for the mother and her children in Gloucester was actually from Medieval law. It was very specific. Horrific, but specific. And Sophie’s illness? Dysentery. She survived it because her physic was smart enough to know that the alcohol kills whatever germs caused it, so she was lucky. Alcohol was actually the only remedy they had for it in Medieval times. Finally, the names that the knights read off at the church: All of the names they recognized in that room that were stacked with English regalia were actual names from men who fought at Falkirk.
Also, lots of Le Veque novels converge in this book – every one of Cortez’s knights was a son or grandson of another Le Veque hero – Christopher de Lohr (RISE OF THE DEFENDER), Davyss de Winter (LESPADA), and Christian St. John (THE WARRIOR POET). Plus, Diamantha had the same condition of the eye that Jax de Velt (The Dark Lord), her ancestor, had – two-tone eyes, otherwise known as heterochromia, although her case was less severe than his. Plus, her father, Michael de Bocage, was one of William de Wolfe’s knights from THE WOLFE. Lots and lots of tie-ins!
I really hope you enjoyed this touching journey. Thank you for reading!
Enjoy an excerpt from a coming novel, Age of Gods and Mortals.
PROLOGUE
July, 1190 A.D.
Endale Castle, Welsh Marches
July was a warm month along the marches. The humidity from the Endale marsh had been in full bloom since early June, bringing heavy moisture into the air and making movement uncomfortable and life in general sticky. Dawn was nearly the only time of day that was agreeable, and even that momentary pleasantry faded quickly as the sun rose. Today was little exception. The birds finished their business quickly and hunkered down in their nests, and the flora and fauna of the borderlands quieted drastically as the day progressed. The rising heat of the day would not be fit for man nor beast.
Nestled like a jewel at the base of Corndon Hill, Endale Castle lay like a lazy dog in the idleness of the tepid summer day. As reward for exemplary service, Henry II granted Sir Addison du Mearc the title Lord Leominster and gave him charter to build his castle in the nucleus of the disputed borderlands. Importing a host of Savoy artisans, Endale’s strong, lovely lines and impressive keep were fully erected within two years.
Strangely, the castle had seen only one small siege since its construction was completed. Though the marches were often violent, Endale seemed to be an odd exception. On a normal day in a normal year, the gates to the bailey remained open and a multitude of commerce transpired within her gray stoned walls. A full-fledged village had cropped up on the outskirts of her walls that supported the castle and her community, an amalgam of Welsh and Anglo-Norman cultures.
Endale wasn’t a large lordship, but it was a strategic one. The warring Welsh princes left it alone and the ever-embattled English crown was usually more focused on bigger problems. For twelve years, that had been the norm. Today, however, the peace and pleasantry of Endale was about to change forever.
The entire fourth floor of Endale’s keep was the lord’s great chamber. Addison had built it for his wife, Meira, but she had only been able to enjoy it the two years before her death. He followed her shortly thereafter. Now it was the chamber for the second Lord of Leominster, Addison’s eldest son, and for his wife. It was a room often filled with love and laughter, and therein lay the problem. Emotions that should have never been part of the matrimony contract made today’s circumstance cut to the bone.
Like a bizarre standoff, Teague d’ Mearc stood near the door of the chamber while his wife stood on the opposite side of the room. Tresta d’Mearc’s lovely face was drawn and pale as she clutched the sling-back chair for support. She was having difficulty facing her husband. There was silence, and there was palpable pain.
Teague broke the stillness. “Beloved, I know how you feel, but I have already delayed long enough as it is. Will you see me off or must my last memory of you be here, weeping and ill?”
Tresta didn’t know how to answer her husband. It would have been far easier to collapse at his feet and beg him not to go, but she knew in her heart that it would be to no avail. Besides, she had already tried it. Teague was set on going, as was his brother, and as was Tresta’s own brother. Men with valiant dreams of victory and no concept of the heartache they would leave behind. She knew it would be the last time she saw any of them and the grief was too much for her to bear.
“Damn Richard,” she avoided his question, going off on yet another rant. “The man spends all of his time in France and when he issues the call to arms he expects the whole of England to rush to his aid. What is he but an in absentia ruler, hated by the known world and reviled by his own brother? His own father tried to kill him and you yourself fought against the very king who now calls you to arms. Do you no see the irony in this? Why do you all rally to this man as if he is a god to be worshipped and blindly served?”
They had given this conversation its due course, too many times. Teague calmly gazed at his wife, studying the features that he had fallen in love with those many years ago. She had such a beautiful face, with wide hazel eyes and round cheeks and a delicious mouth that could unfold into the most radiant smile. Brief flashes filled his brain of a shapely girl with long copper-colored hair, working in the marketplace with her father. He remembered the first time their eyes met. He remembered everything, a powerful, bittersweet recollection that threatened to weaken his stance.
But no. He could not weaken. He sighed heavily and moved towards her.
“He is our king,” he had lost count of the times he had explained this. “Jerusalem has fallen to the infidels. Richard has issued a call for every noble of faith to tend him in his quest to regain the city of Christ. Though he has spent a good deal of time in France, he is nonetheless England’s king and we are bound by oath to do his bidding. If he is questing to the Holy Land, then I must go. You know this.”
She shook her head, so hard that the hair gathered at the nape of her neck shook free and lashed at her cheeks. Her emotions were in turmoil and her health, so fragile, was unavoidably affected. She began to cough the deep, heavy cough that had plagued her ever since contracting a vicious chest cold the previous year. Sometimes it was so bad that she couldn’t breathe. The surgeon couldn’t explain it away and the lady couldn’t shake it. Teague was, and had ever been, deeply concerned for her health. This emotional upheaval wasn’t helping her.
“Calm yourself, love. Slow your breathing.”
She ignored his advice, struggling with the spasms. “I do not want you to go, Teague. Though in my mind I know that you must, my heart cannot let you leave. When you go… surely, I will die.”
He reached her then and his arms went around her. “Nay, you will not,” he murmured into her hair. “You will administer Endale in my absence and give me every reason to be proud of you. I will return to you, Tresta, I swear it. Not even death can keep me from your side.”
She had promised herself last night, after they’d said their farewells, that she would be brave this day. Her oath dissolved as his powerful arms pulled her against him and she collapsed against his warm strength.
“Teague, please,” she clung to him. “Please stay with me. I cannot bear to be without you. I cannot recall when I have ever been without you.”
He forced her to look up at him, his big hands cupping her sweet face. He was trying very hard to be courageous, uncertain what the future held for the both
of them. He smiled at her, knowing he could not waiver in his resolve to do as he must.
“Do you remember the day we first met?”
Tresta’s mind drifted to the days when she had first lain eyes upon Sir Teague d’Mearc. She had been a child of sixteen years while he had been a man of twenty three. Though she had lived in the village of Endale most of her life, she did not remember the eldest son of Addison d’Mearc. Teague had gone to foster at Kenilworth Castle at a very young age. When he finally returned to the castle his father had built, it was with the airs of a conquering hero.
Addison and Teague, and eventually the younger brother, Sheen, had fought for Henry II against the rebellion of his sons Richard, Geoffrey and John. Sheen had been a mediocre knight while Teague, a tall and powerful man, had shown Homeric potential. Tresta recollected when she first saw him; he had been in full armor, expensive and well-worn stuff, and she had seen little of his physical features other than his piercing brown eyes beneath his open face plate. She had been helping her father, a wealthy local merchant, set up his wares for the day. Teague had come up behind her on his massive warhorse and never left her side. She had tried to shake him, fearful of his size and attention, but he would not be moved. The man was like a rock. Nothing she could say would sway him, not even when her poor brave brother Hallam took to throwing stones at him.
It had taken a full day before she had ever seen the man behind the armor. When he finally revealed his true self, she had been in for a surprise. Never in her life had she seen a more ruggedly handsome creature. Teague did not cut his hair in the Norman fashion; it fell in exquisite light brown curls past his shoulders. It was the first thing she noticed, fascinated that a civilized man should wear his hair as a barbarian. Then she had observed the intense brown eyes and jaw of granite. Though he was a man of very few words, it took little time for her see past the striking physical appearance to the man of quick humor and wisdom beyond.
They had married a scant month later. She was right when she said she had never been without him; ten years and four sons later, they were a part of each other as surely as the moon was a part of the night sky.
“I remember,” she murmured after a moment’s reflection. “I remember how arrogant you were, newly returned from Henry’s wars. I remember that you would not leave me alone.”
He ran his fingers through her silken hair, feeling the same thrill as the very first time he had done so. There was nothing about this woman that did not thrill him to the core.
“I swore the moment I saw you that you would never be out of my sight,” he said softly. “I am more sorry than you can imagine that I must break that vow.”
Her hands moved over his face, his neck, imploringly, hating that she sounded so weak. “Take me with you.”
“I cannot.”
“But…”
“We have been down this path too many times. You know that I cannot take you. I will not take you. The boys need….”
“Kieron and William are fostering at Chepstow Castle,” she said quickly. “They are well looked after.”
He grasped her chin gently. “But Thomas and Henry are not. They are four and five years of age and require their mother, especially in their father’s absence. You would deprive them of both parents?”
Guilt flickered in her expression. “I love my boys more than my own life. How can you question my devotion to them? Do you think it is easy or simply to suggest my separation from them?”
He kissed her deeply, quelling any storm that may be rising as result of their foray into this delicate subject. “I have never seen a more devoted nor loving mother. I know how careful you are with them, how concerned, and how utterly dedicated you are to their welfare. Your abilities as a parent are not in question. But you are speaking out of desperation now. Even if I could take you with me, how do you think the little ones will react to both of their parents leaving?”
Tears came anew as she thought of her youngest children, tow-heads with their father’s piercing brown eyes. If Teague was her heart, then surely her children were her soul. She could not do without either.
“They will have my mother and father to look after them,” she said, hating herself as she did so. It sounded so self-serving. “They will be safe here at Endale, well cared for and looked after. They do not need me. But you do.”
“I do?”
“You’ve not done without me for ten years. I do not think it wise to upset the balance.”
He smiled at her. “I am forced to agree that I certainly cannot do without you given the choice. But in this matter, I do not have a choice. I must go, and you must stay. The children need you more than I do and I do not want to worry about you on the long journey to the Levant. Distraction, in my vocation, can be deadly.”
The Levant. The Latin Orient. How many times had Tresta heard that term, having come to despise it. She began to feel defeat creeping into her veins, unable to shake the sensation.
“Is there nothing I can say?” she whispered. “Must I let you leave this place knowing that I may never see you again?”
He stroked her hair, kissing her again, remembering their long night of passion when neither one of the slept, afraid to relinquish one moment for fear it might never come again.
“I love you more than life,” he murmured against her lips. He tasted her tears and felt her muffled sobs against him. “No, you must be strong. Please be strong. I do not want the boys to see you so upset. And I do not want my last memory of you to be with tears streaming down your face. Leave me with your beautiful smile to remember, always.”
She couldn’t stop weeping, though she was desperately trying. She feared the coughing would return and she would not be able to recover.
“This moment will never come again,” she whispered. “This time, where we stand in this chamber with wonderful memories of our life together, will never come again. These days of bliss are gone.”
He felt her desperation but could not succumb to it. Grasping her firmly by the arms, he forced her to look at him. “I cannot know what the future holds for us,” he said with quiet firmness. “But I do know that I will do everything in my power to return whole and victorious to you. I swear to God, my thoughts from this day until the moment I return will be only of you and the children. Memories of you will give me the strength I need to succeed.”
She wiped her face, struggling to quiet. Gazing into those eyes she knew so well one last time, she brought forth a weak smile. “I know you will. And I am sorry to be such a fool.”
He kissed her forehead. “You’re not a fool. Had I any less self control, I would be blubbering like an idiot myself.”
She grinned, continuing to wipe her cheeks dry as she gently pulled herself from his grasp. She went to the wardrobe and opened the massive doors, digging about inside. Teague watched her pull out a small satin pouch, embroidered with layers of precise stitching. Tresta opened the purse, looking at her husband shyly.
“I have been saving this,” she said. “Though I’ve never been through this personally, I know that it is customary for a lady to give her knight a favor by which to remember her. Therefore, I wanted you to take something of me with you, something that would remind you of me every time you held it.”
He walked over to her. “What is it?”
She pulled out a small figure from the pouch, a stuffed doll no more than five inches in length. Teague immediately recognized the fabric the doll was made from; it had been his wife’s yellow wedding gown. Long, silky tufts of copper-colored hair were stitched to the top of the doll’s head. When it dawned on him that he was looking at his wife’s cut hair on the head of the doll, he reached out and released the pin that held back her hair. He ran his fingers through the length of it, almost in panic, looking for the section she had cut.
“Tresta,” he murmured. “You cut some of your hair. Where…?”
She flipped her head over, showing him the nape of her neck. “Here,” she showed him. “’Twas no mor
e than five or six inches from underneath my head. No one will ever see it.”
He could see where she had cut it and she was correct; he’d never noticed. She handed him the doll, like an offering, and he inspected it with a measure of uncertainty. He wasn’t sure he could, as a man, carry around a doll, no matter what the sentimental value. But his uncertainty was dissolved as he smelled the faint scent of violets. He inhaled of the doll deeply; it smelt as his wife did.
“My thanks,” he said. “I shall keep it against my heart, always.”
“Promise?”
“I swear on my oath.”
There was little left to say. Tresta took the doll back, put it in the pouch, and handed him the sealed purse. He took it in one hand and pulled her to him with the other. They gazed into each other’s eyes for an eternity of wordless moments. Tresta could feel his heartbeat against her chest and she absorbed the sensation, praying it would not be her last.
“The men are waiting in the bailey,” she murmured.
He kissed her several times over, delicately, with more emotion than passion. He was tasting her one last time, allowing himself to feel the pain of separation that he had been putting off until now. At this moment, he could no longer deny it.
“Let us say our good byes, then,” his voice was hoarse with emotion. “The children will be waiting to see me off. They believe this is some grand adventure I am going on and I wish to keep it that way. They do not understand the pain of separation yet.”
A final heated kiss passed between them. Teague led his wife down the narrow stairs of the keep and out in to the bailey, the violet-scented doll clutched against his breaking heart.
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