Age of Gods and Mortals Read online

  AGE OF GODS AND MORTALS

  Earls of East Anglia

  A Medieval Romance

  By Kathryn Le Veque

  © Copyright 2021 by Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.

  Kindle Edition

  Text by Kathryn Le Veque

  Cover by Kim Killion

  Edited by Scott Moreland

  Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited.

  All Rights Reserved.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  License Notes:

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook, once purchased, may not be re-sold. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or borrow it, or it was not purchased for you and given as a gift for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. If this book was purchased on an unauthorized platform, then it is a pirated and/or unauthorized copy and violators will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Do not purchase or accept pirated copies. Thank you for respecting the author’s hard work.

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  Author’s Note

  This is one of those books that has seen many iterations before the final product. MANY. It started out as one thing and ended up another. Sometimes, that happens, but I’m really excited to finally finish it and thrilled with the way it turned out.

  This is an unusual tale, too, but I won’t give it away, so you’ll have to discover that for yourself. I’ll just say it’s not a traditional boy-meets-girl, but that doesn’t make it any less romantic or poignant in the end. In fact, it’s got some real highs and lows to it. It really lays bare the truth about some of the ugly underbelly of the Crusades. One out of every two men died from either disease, starvation, or warfare. The conditions were brutal. Thousands of English nobles answered the call and really had no idea what they were getting into until they arrived.

  The Crusades, specifically the Third Crusade – King Richard’s Crusade – has always held some fascination for me, so I’ve done quite a bit of research on it. A lot of what I’ve researched are the battles themselves. You know me, a lover of military tactics. What I found, largely, wasn’t very flattering to King Richard. While his main adversary, Saladin, seemed to be a man of honor by all accounts, Richard behaved poorly in several battles. Ambushes, dirty tactics, things like that. It really makes for some interesting and fascinating reading.

  But I digress.

  This is also one of those books that required a lot of forensic writing, having lost pieces of it in that infamous hard drive crash from about 1998. It’s been sitting on my computer for years, waiting to be finished, but it had to get out of the way of the de Wolfe Pack and Executioner Knights, and a whole list of de Lohr, de Russe, etc., before I could get to it. You know those de Wolfes howl loudly and I answer the call!

  I will say this for those of you who might not recognize the hero right away – he’s the son of Tevin du Reims and Cantia du Bexley from “While Angels Slept” and a cousin to Christopher de Lohr, so he’s part of that dynasty. He’s an uncle of Dashiell du Reims from “Godspeed”. Tarran makes a brief appearance at the end of “While Angels Slept” with his other brothers, so he’s the second son of Tevin and Cantia.

  The purpose of this book had always been to show the Crusades from the point of view of those left behind. It’s kind of a snapshot of a moment in time, of people dealing with grief and loss. Many of my books are intricate political dramas, great adventures or military sagas, but this one isn’t one of those. It’s more of an intimate tale.

  Our main hero is Tarran, but Teague d’Mearc, the heroine’s first husband, still deserves some recognition. He’s a good guy, dedicated to his duty for Richard the Lionheart. He’s answering Richard’s summons because he feels that it’s his duty, as so many other knights felt, but what he left behind is what this story focuses on – his wife and the knight he left behind to protect her, Tarran. We get to meet Teague and get to know him a little before everything goes south, so just be prepared that this is a bittersweet tale. Medieval romance wasn’t all grand tournaments and roses, and although this is a romance, it’s not the usual one. But I have to tell you – I really fell in love with it.

  Onward to our usual pronunciation guide:

  Teague – like “league” except with a “T” instead of an “L”

  d’Mearc – duh MARE-k

  Eilish – EYE-lish

  I think that’s it. Welcome to Age of Gods and Mortals – keep an open mind and enjoy this very different story.

  Hugs,

  FOREWORD

  At the beginning of the Third Crusade, the French and English crusading armies assembled in July 1190 at Vézelay. They traveled together as far as Lyon, but there the French went to Genoa while the English went to Marseilles. Both kings arrived at Messina, Sicily, in September 1190. Then, the Crusades began in earnest.

  Thousands of men went for thousands of reasons – piety, glory, or for the thrill of killing. Only one of every two men survived to return home. Conditions were horrific and dangerous at best. But still, men flocked to The Levant, or the Latin Orient as it was called, for their glory or for God’s, leaving behind a country struggling to deal with the loss of so many. A million stories of anguish for every man that left the country.

  This is one story of those left behind.

  House of du Reims

  Motto: Mors in victoria

  Victory over death

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Author’s Note

  Foreword

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Epilogue

  Kathryn Le Veque Novels

  About Kathryn Le Veque

  PROLOGUE

  The Tale of the Poppet

  The Metropolitan Museum of New York – The Cloisters

  The Treasury Room

  Present Day

  It was a steamy day along the Hudson River, that lush and green valley that carved through New York state like a snake, meandering through the thickets and fields. The massive river that had provided the life’s blood of the state for so many years was a backdrop to the museum known as The Cloisters.

  From its perch on the hill overlooking that wide, greenish river, the stone building rose like a beacon over the land. It was all things Gothic, Medieval, and cool, and the historical fiction author from Los Angeles was making her yearly pilgrimage to the place. As a novelist of the Angevin period of English history, she drew strength and inspiration from the many features of The Cloisters, so m
uch so that she made that cross-country trip on a yearly basis. All she wanted to do was visit the museum and all her husband wanted to do was go to the theaters.

  It was a trade-off.

  The day was particularly warm as they’d made their way up the shaded, woodsy hill from the subway. They didn’t have this kind of humidity in Los Angeles, so the novelist had to stop every so often and wipe off her face. Her cheeks were a delightful shade of fever-pink by the time they finally made it to the top of the stairs and The Cloisters spread out before them. She took in the sight with satisfaction as her husband was already bored with it, thinking ahead to the dinner reservations they had before the show that night.

  “You’ve got two hours,” he said. “We have to head back at three if we’re going to make the reservations in time, so let’s do our annual walk-through and get out of here.”

  The novelist glanced at her husband, an impatient man even in the best of times. “Now I’m going to take my sweet time just because you said that.”

  “Do it and I’ll leave you here.”

  “Go ahead. I’ll call the airlines and cancel your ticket home.”

  “I have a credit card, too, you know.”

  “And who pays for that? What’s that you said? Not you because you’re retired? You’d be right, you mooch.”

  He wasn’t pleased with that crack, mostly because he was sensitive to the fact that his wife made all the money these days. He’d been laid off from a job four years earlier and, at his age, it had been difficult for him to find another job. Retirement had been forced, but they’d enjoyed it for the most part. It afforded them a lot of time to travel, something they both liked. But what he didn’t like was coming to this museum every year even though he knew he didn’t have to come. He came because, being a gentleman, he didn’t want her going alone. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to try to hurry things along.

  “What is so special about this time?” he asked, changing the subject. “They usually have the same old stuff.”

  “But not always,” she said. “They’ve got a new collection on display and I want to check it out.”

  “What is it?”

  “Private collection stuff,” she said. “It’s a collection of stuff from the Third Crusade, but it’s actually possessions from crusading knights. It’s got the whole Richard the Lionheart twist to it.”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said as they approached the entrance. “I think I heard you talking to someone about this on the phone.”

  “My agent. She wanted to come, too.”

  They had reached the entry to The Cloisters, entering the cool confines of the stone building and being faced with a staircase that led up to the lobby area.

  “Ugh,” the novelist groaned. “More stairs. New York has so many stairs!”

  The husband blew past her, taking the stairs quickly because he worked out on a regular basis. She struggled up behind him. By the time she reached the ticketing counter, he’d already purchased the tickets and in they went.

  The novelist loved the feel and smell of The Cloisters because, in America, it was the closet she would ever get to an authentic Medieval castle or church. The smell of time, the texture of the stone, all mingled to create that ancient ambiance. She took her time through rooms she’d visited a dozen times before but, each time, it was as if she’d come home. She felt a kinship to the place she couldn’t describe and her husband couldn’t understand, so while he went outside to sit in the garden, she continued through the rooms until she came to the Treasury Room.

  This was the room that interested her the most because it was where they had set up the Crusade exhibition. It was on loan from the British Museum and they’d come early enough in the day that it wasn’t hugely crowded. The novelist went right up to the display case housing multiple artifacts that had either been owned by, or brought back, by crusading Christian knights.

  Instantly, she was entranced.

  There were gold crosses, enameled daggers, and a pair of gold spoons that had the apostles Peter and Paul carved into the handles. There was a very old, very beat-up prayer book as well as a leather cylinder, or what was left of one, and a broken piece of glass that was thought to be a very early telescope. Most of the items, however, seemed to be gilded and fine, things that cost a good deal of money, until she came to a small case with an item all its own.

  A small, very ancient doll.

  Because the collection was new, they were running tours about every hour with a docent. There were a pair of them in the room, looking over the collection, and the novelist could hear them speaking. The doll had her attention, mostly because it was so out of place among the gilded crosses and jeweled knives. The plate on the display read:

  Late 12th century

  “Reme”

  Demarc Family Collection

  Thought to be in the image of a wife of a crusader

  The novelist studied the plate and the doll for a few more moments before turning to the women who were clearly educating themselves on the collection they would be speaking of.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering if you could answer a question for me.”

  One of the docents, an older woman with a neatly coiffed helmet of red hair, smiled politely. “If I can,” she said. “I’m just learning about this collection myself.”

  The novelist grinned. “I know,” she said. “I overheard you. I was just wondering about this doll in the case by itself. Do you know the story behind it?”

  The woman and her companion flipped through some papers they had been going over. They went over to the case, standing there alongside the novelist, as they looked for the answer to her question.

  “Here it is,” the woman said. “It’s called ‘Reme’.”

  “How is this related to a crusader?”

  The woman pointed at the paragraph she was reading. “The ‘Reme’ doll was discovered in 1880 when the tomb of a 12th century crusader was exposed in the expansion of the Church of St. Mary’s in Dorstone, England outside of Hereford. They found him under the nave, but part of his tomb was crushed accidentally, so they had to rebury him. When they took him out of his crypt, the doll was buried with him.” She looked up at the novelist. “There were no pictures in those days, no cell phones or video, so it was quite common for the crusaders to carry a token from their wife or sweetheart.”

  The novelist looked back at the little doll. “So Reme was her name?”

  “It could be. Or it could be part of another word or phrase, like a motto.”

  The novelist leaned closer, inspecting the doll through the glass. “You can still see some kind of dress on it. And is that hair?”

  The docents leaned down to get a closer look. “Probably,” the red-haired docent said. “The Victorians would do that to dolls, you know. Stitch real hair on it. That’s not an uncommon thing and especially not in Medieval times.”

  The novelist shook her head in wonder. “But for it to have survived for so long,” she said. “That’s really amazing.”

  “Definitely.”

  The novelist looked up from the doll. “Thank you so much for telling me about this,” she said. “I mean, it’s really sweet when you think about it. Reme giving her crusader a little doll of herself to take with him. It really must have meant something to him to have been buried with him.”

  “Absolutely,” the docent said. “If you want to hang around here, I’ll be back in about a half-hour with a group and you can hear the whole thing.”

  She was indicating the entire collection and the novelist nodded her head. “I’d love it,” she said. “Thanks again.”

  As the docents wandered off, the novelist remained by the display, thinking on the woman who’d made it and the man who had carried it into battle. A little doll that had survived over eight hundred years, now seeing the light of day in a museum in the new world. There was some irony to that. She leaned down again, getting as close as she could without touching th
e glass. The sight had her genuinely fascinated.

  “Wow,” she said softly. “What a story you must have, Reme.”

  Little did she know.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Year of Our Lord 1190

  July

  Welsh Marches, near Gloucester

  Snow Hill Castle

  July was a warm month along the Marches.

  The humidity from the River Dore 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 no exception. The birds finished their business quickly and hunkered down in their nests, and the flora and fauna of the borderlands quieted as the day progressed.

  Nestled like a jewel on the rise of Snow Hill, the aptly named castle lay like a lazy dog in the idleness of the tepid summer day. As reward for exemplary service, Henry II granted Sir Addison d’Mearc the title Lord Dorstone and gave him charter to build his castle in the nucleus of the disputed borderlands. Importing a host of Savoy artisans, Snow Hill’s strong, lovely lines and impressive keep were fully erected within two years.

  Strangely, the castle had seen only a few small sieges since its construction was completed. Though the Marches were often violent, Snow Hill 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.

  Dorstone 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 focused on bigger problems. For twelve years, that had been the norm even though they had endured a skirmish now and then. Today, however, the peace and pleasantry of Snow Hill was about to change forever.