Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
Author's Note
Reference:
The Du Lac
Princess
(Book 3 of The Du Lac Chronicles)
Mary Anne Yarde
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidence.
The Du Lac Princess has a recommended reading age of 16+
Copyright © 2017 Mary Anne Yarde
Cover Design by BespokeBookCovers.com
ISBN: 1544933649
ISBN 13: 9781544933641
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author.
All quotes from the scriptures can be found in the New International Version of
The Holy Bible.
THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.
The Du Lac Princess is a work of historical fantasy and is written in British English.
Also by Mary Anne Yarde
The Du Lac Chronicles series
The Du Lac Chronicles
The Pitchfork Rebellion (Novella)
The Du Lac Devil
Glossary of place name in the early 6th Century
The Kingdom of Cerniw — Cornwall, England
Trevena — Tintagel, Cornwall, England
Goon Brenn — Bodmin Moor, Cornwall, England
Penn an Wlas — Land’s End, Cornwall, England
The Kingdom of Dumnonia — Devon, England
The Kingdom of Wessex — Hampshire / Wiltshire / North Somerset, England
Londinium — London, England
The Foreigners Land — Wales
Tywi Forest — Tywi Forest, Ceredigion / Powys, Wales
The Kingdom of Dyfed — Pembrokeshire, Wales
Pen Cemaes — Cemaes Head, Pembrokeshire, Wales
“If the world hates you, keep in mind that it hated me first…”
John 15:18-19
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
Author's Note
Reference:
1
Summer AD 500, Benwick Castle, The Kingdom of Brittany.
Alan closed his blue eyes briefly as he heard the sound of a whip slice through the air. The victim groaned in agony as the whip cut through his skin. A lashing was almost unheard of at Benwick Castle and those forced to watch the day’s proceedings did so in a stunned silence. Alan feared that by the time Good King Philippe had finished with Merton du Lac, there would be nothing left of him.
Good King Philippe? Alan scoffed at such a thought. Philippe had only been a king for one day, having usurped his cousin, Budic, son of Lancelot du Lac and rightful heir to the throne. As far as he could tell, there was nothing good about Philippe’s reign thus far. It was a reign built on a foundation of greed and intimidation. Alan wondered how long such a reign could hope to last, and what such instability would mean for the kingdom that he had sworn to protect when he was only twelve-years-old. He was twenty-nine now, and the years had changed him, made him a warrior. A knight. And yet, he did not feel any wiser than that frightened boy who had crossed the South Sea to join the Breton army. He should have seen this coming. The signs were there. He should have warned them. The whip sliced the air yet again, but no noise came from the victim. Instead, a woman screamed. After that, there was silence.
There was a rumour that war was coming to Brittany. The Saxon High King, Cerdic of Wessex, had been terrorising mainland Briton for almost a decade. The more kingdoms that fell to Cerdic’s hand, the more powerful he became and, the more daring. Alan had thought that the threat would come from Wessex. He hadn’t expected war to come from within the fortress that was Benwick.
This time yesterday Alan had been sure of his position and where his life was going. But with the toss of a coin, everything had changed. Until now, Alan’s loyalty had never been up for question, and he had made quite the name for himself on the battlefield. Alan deserved to be the second-in-command of the Breton army. And yet, the lifetime he had given in service to the sons of Lancelot du Lac meant nothing and his bravery even less. The army was balancing on the edge of a sword. The soldiers now dared to question their superiors. They dared to challenge him. The respect was gone. Alan wondered how long it would be before he heard the word rebellion uttered in the barracks.
Alan gently adjusted the unconscious woman that he held in his arms and carried on walking towards his private quarters. To assault a woman, a Lady, went against everything he believed in. The Knights’ Code spoke of honour and chivalry, something that was lacking at this hour. The Code was what he lived by. If asked, he could recite every word of that code. But what use was The Knights’ Code when all the knights were dead…or soon would be?
This was supposed to have been a time for mourning. Budic’s Queen had passed away along with his newborn son and only heir. Many had travelled far for Anna’s funeral. Even Budic’s estranged brother, Alden, King of Cerniw, was here, having braved the South Sea so he could pay his respects. Merton, the youngest of the du Lac brothers, surprised many by daring to show his face, for what was, a sombre occasion. But Merton being here was a coincidence. Bad timing. Nothing m
ore. Now, Budic and Alden lounged in the dungeons awaiting their execution, while Merton was being flayed alive.
The army of Brittany, to which Alan was a part of, had sided with Philippe against the rightful King. Things hadn’t been easy under Budic — Alan would not dispute that, but times were hard for everyone. Alan had faith that when Budic had the money to pay his men, then he would. There was more to being a soldier of Budic’s army than how many coins got tossed your way. There was an honour, pride. It meant something to be a part of this army. For some, that had not been enough. Bastian, the General of the Army, had sold his honour, and that of his men, for a handful of silver. Money may buy bread, but it did not pay for a clear conscience. If Alan had known what his superior had been up to, he would have deserted.
Alan looked down at the woman he held in his arms. She had not opened her eyes once since she had collapsed onto the rough, wet ground, the breath kicked out of her. Her last words, before she succumbed to unconsciousness, had been Merton’s name. Despite her injuries, she had begged for mercy for the man they called The Devil. Alan breathed out unsteadily. It was sheer chance that he had found her in time before his men — the King’s Men — had done anything more horrific to her than a sound beating. The look on their faces, the lust in their eyes… Were honour and decency so fragile that it could be discarded at will? When did soldiers become murderers and rapists? That is what happened in other armies, not in the army of Brittany. If Lancelot, may God rest his soul, could see what had become of his men, he would have strung them all up and good riddance. The Knights’ Code, which High King Arthur and Lancelot had written all those years ago, had been tossed on the rubbish heap. All decency was gone. It was every man for himself.
He pushed open the door to his sparsely furnished private quarters. There was a narrow bed, with a straw mattress and a decent woollen blanket that had cost him three months wages. A woodworm ridden desk was pushed up against the far wall and tucked into the desk was a chair that had one leg slightly shorter than the others. On the desk was a half melted tallow candle and a ledger. Alan was a simple man. He had no time for homely comforts. A good fire and a warm blanket were all he desired. The army was his life. There was no woman that he called his own, and he doubted very much there ever would be. Soldiering was all he knew. It was what he was good at. The thought of being a husband and father terrified the life out of him, so he chose not to think of it.
With care, he laid the woman down on the bed. She didn’t stir, but her breath came in wheezing gasps. Her face had swollen from the beating she had endured, and there was blood on her hands and bare feet.
Alan shook his head as he covered her with the blanket. Now what? He sighed in despair. She needed a healer; that much was obvious. But how was he to find one, amidst the chaos? And if, if, the soldiers he had saved her from had spoken the truth, then her life was already forfeit. If the soldiers didn’t kill her, then the Church would. She stood accused of adultery and worshiping the darker realm as her lover, Merton, was. The Church, who everyone knew was without sin, would stone her. The soldiers, if they got their hands on her, would rape her until her heart gave out. And the King…he would mock her, lash her, cut off her ears and nose, burn her, torture her until she wished she were dead. He searched her swollen face. Yet, try as he might, he could not see any supernatural marks that would show she was a demon lover. All he saw was a woman who had naively given her heart to the wrong man. But nonetheless, she would be condemned; it was the way of things. The way they had always been, and there was nothing he could do to change it.
One thing was for certain; she couldn’t stay here. Alan undid his weapon belt and placed it on the table, he then reached for his chair and sat down upon it. As per normal the chair tilted to one side, thanks to the short leg, but he was used to balancing it. He breathed out unsteadily as he watched her. If they found her here, with him, the consequences didn’t bear thinking about.
He would have to get her out of here, out of Benwick, out of Brittany. He would have to get her away from it all, or else he would have to kill her. He would be damned if he gave her back to the men for them to do with her what they pleased.
Unless…
He rose to his feet, crossed to the bed and lay down next to it. He stretched his arm under the bed, checking each small gap between the floorboards with the tips of his fingers. He grinned when he felt one of the floorboards give. With determination, he pulled the floorboard up and pushed it to the side, out of the way. Carefully, he reached inside the dark cavity. After a bit of searching, he pulled out a sacred treasure wrapped in hessian. He sat up and brought the parcel onto his lap and began to unwrap it. When the last piece of fabric fell away to his insistent fingers, Alan sat back on his hands and looked down at the golden blade, complete with golden sheath. He was almost scared to touch it, but touch it he must. He ran his finger along the sheath, tracing the delicate engraving of a knight sat on top of a horse. When he finally found the courage to draw the knife, he discovered not a speck of rust marred the blade. Age had not wearied it, nor the promise that it stood for.
This blade, this knife, was part of a set. The sword, the most famous of all the weapons, and which was aptly named Caliburnus, had been thrown into the lake at Avalon. The blade was now in the safe hands of the mysterious, Lady of the Lake. Alan had never paid much attention to such a tall story. He didn’t believe in sorcery or magic. Why should he? He had never seen a sorcerer, and he had never witnessed magic. Not proper magic anyway, only commoners’ magic — tricks with pigs and such like.
Alan had, like everyone else, heard the stories of Arthur’s final moments. When he was a boy, he had once visited Avalon and the lake in which the sword was supposedly thrown in. The lake looked like any other, a means for fresh water and fish, nothing else. He remembered feeling disappointed. There was nothing magical about it at all. The bards were turning Arthur into a legend, a myth. And because in these desperate times everyone was so longing for a hero, they were believed.
It was rumoured there was a spear as well that went by the name of Lugh’s Spear, or The Spear of Victory as the bards now called it. And there was a shield, Ochain, which moaned a warning when its bearer was in danger. Alan shook his head at the irony, for the shield and the spear had not helped Arthur to deflect the fatal blow that cut short his life. Nor had the Dagda’s Cauldron and its promise of plenty. That cauldron could feed an army indefinitely, they said. What a joke. Arthur’s army had starved on the long journey back from Brittany to Wessex. There was a whisper that the cauldron had been taken back to Eire after Arthur’s death. If asked, Alan would have said it should never have left in the first place.
Superstitious nonsense — relics of the Old Religion. Arthur should have known better than to place his trust in such things. Alan scoffed softly, as he thought of the Lia Fáil, which had so-called roared with joy when Arthur placed his foot upon it. Some were now calling the Lia Fáil The Stone of Destiny, The Stone of Kings. Alan wondered if the Stone would roar if Good King Philippe were to place his foot upon it. Somehow, he very much doubted it.
There was a name engraved on the pommel of the blade — Draíocht. The blade caught the sunlight from the small gap in the door and shone a streak of bright light across the room, highlighting the dust that floated in the air. Alan turned the blade over and traced the inscription on the back of it.
Be loyal. Be brave.
Four simple words that had no right to be forever engraved in an ancient weapon. Alan smiled grimly as he sheathed the blade once more. It was said that the Knights of Camelot slumbered. But when the Sword, Blade, Spear, Shield, Cauldron and Stone were united, then the Knights would awaken. His father had believed the stories. And even though Alan was sceptical, he had willingly become The Keeper Of The Blade, when his father’s health deserted him. Alan’s father had told him, many moons ago, that when the kingdom of Briton was in her most dire time of need, then Draíocht would call to him and he would be unable to resist
its power. The pommel of the blade felt warm in his hand, and Alan realised that the time had come. The dragon that was prophesied in Lancelot’s time now ruled Brittany. Good King Philippe was nothing but a fire-breathing, arrogant, bastard son of a no-good brother, who had no claim to the throne he had taken by force and trickery. The blade, when reunited with the other sacred relics, would guarantee Philippe’s downfall and anyone else who dared to help this no good pretender.
Be loyal. Be brave.
The motto of Arthur’s Knights immortalised in steel, forever. Philippe had asked for a war, by God, he was going to get one.
Alan sat looking at the blade for a long time. If he took this journey, this ridiculous quest to unite the Knights, then he would be sacrificing everything he had ever known. His soul purpose in life would be to find them. Unite them. He would end his days, no doubt, as one of those mad hermits who inhabit caves on remote islands and only come out to shout at people if someone dared to interrupt their solitude. He had seen such men and had shared jokes at their expense. No. He would not be driven mad by this calling. He would complete it. He would find the Knights and bring them together for one final battle.
Time passed, and he continued to stare at the blade. As he did so, he forgot about the woman who was struggling to breathe. He forgot about the looming war and Good King Philippe. He forgot about everything.
A loud and persistent knocking on the door made Alan jump to his feet. For a moment he felt blinded by panic. It was bad enough that she was in his room, but if anyone caught him with this blade, then he would have some serious explaining to do.
Whoever was behind the door, was becoming impatient for he knocked on the door again. Without pausing to think, Alan pulled back the blanket and placed the knife to the left of the unconscious woman. He quickly pulled the blanket back over her body and after a quick inspection, to make sure the knife was not visible, he took a deep breath and opened the door.
“General?” Alan said his commander’s name with surprise.
The Du Lac Princess: (Book 3 of The Du Lac Chronicles) Page 1
