The Du Lac Princess: (Book 3 of The Du Lac Chronicles)

by Mary Anne Yarde

  5

  “…They imprisoned the princess in the tower, away from those she loved. She spent long hours staring out of the window, waiting for someone to rescue her. But they never did, and she began to wonder if anyone remembered her at all.”

  “That is the saddest story I have ever heard, Father,” Amandine said as a big fat tear rolled down her round childhood cheek. “Do you think if no one remembers you then you are dead?”

  “What a thing to say,” Amandine’s father laughed. “Why would you say that?”

  “I never saw my grandfather, and you never saw yours. I can’t remember their names, so they are forgotten. They are dead. Just like the princess, she has been forgotten…so she must be dead.”

  “Oh my sweet thing, you really do think too much, don’t you? Your mother was like that, may God rest her soul.”

  “I can’t remember what Mother looked like, or the sound of her voice,” Amandine said solemnly. “I am forgetting her too. That is what happens when you die. You are forgotten.”

  “No, sweet thing, you are wrong. We hold those we love within our hearts. And where there is love there is no true death. Do you understand me, my sweet girl?”

  Amandine shook her head.

  “How can I explain this?” Amandine’s father sighed. “We may forget what they looked like, or how their voice sounded, but we can never forget how they made us feel. How did your mother make you feel?”

  “I don’t know, but I remember how she would cuddle me. It was like being wrapped up in a warm, cosy, blanket,” Amandine stated. A little frown marred her brow as she tried to remember. “Sometimes, I wrap myself up in a blanket, close my eyes and pretend it is her cuddling me.”

  Amandine was fascinated as her father’s eyes took on a watery shine. “She liked to hug you, didn’t she?” He smiled as he spoke, although there was a terrible pain in his words, which even though Amandine was a child, she picked up on. She reached up and touched her father’s face, the stubble on his chin felt rough to her soft fingers. She had not meant to make him sad.

  “She was very good at them,” Amandine stated seriously. “I think she must have practised a lot because you always say, practice makes perfect.”

  “Oh my sweet girl,” He bent down and hugged her. “She would be so proud of you.” He sniffed back the tears and forced a smile. “Now tell me, what day is it tomorrow?”

  “My birthday,” Amandine said with a grin.

  “And how old are you going to be?”

  “Seven,” Amandine stated with pride

  “Seven? Are you sure? I think you are going to be five.”

  “I am going to be seven, silly,” Amandine giggled as he bent over her and tickled her.

  “So old? Too old for that dolly I bought you then?”

  Amandine’s mouth dropped open in surprised pleasure, and she threw her arms around her father’s neck. “Can I see? Can I see?”

  “If you promise to go to sleep now, I will see what I can do in the morning.”

  Amandine lay down and allowed her father to tuck her back in. “I love you,” she mumbled as she closed her eyes.

  “I love you too, sweet thing. Now go to sleep and tomorrow will come all the quicker.”

  Amandine awoke. She opened her eyes, felt the now familiar sense of despair tug her heart, and then closed them again. For the last two sennights, she had dreamt the same dream over and over again. She could see her father so clearly in her dreams, but when she awoke, she could not recall what he had looked like. She had lost him the same time she lost Garren, for they had been travelling together when their boat wrecked.

  With her eyes closed, she could hear the sea, it was calling her, it never stopped. Before King Philippe’s reign, when Brittany was in the hands of Budic du Lac, Amandine had often ventured down to the coast. She would kick off her shoes, stand in the surf and watch the horizon. Amandine knew what was said about her. They said she went to the coast to look for a ship that was never coming in, and she had never corrected them. The truth, the real reason why she spent so much time looking at the horizon, wasn’t because she was waiting for Garren’s ship, it was because this was the last place she had seen him alive. She didn’t want to forget him, ever. Amandine realised as she lay with her eyes closed, listening to the sea, that it wasn’t the living that forgot. It was the dead.

  Amandine rolled over onto her side and pulled the furs over her head like a child afraid of an imaginary monster. She felt a wave of hopelessness wash over her. Amandine touched the scar on her neck, “a reminder of your great sin,” the Abbot had said once, but she didn’t regard it that way. The scar was a reminder not of a sin, but of all that they had taken from her.

  Her days were now filled with loneliness. Her nights were filled with dreams of those long departed. How she longed for a continuous night, so she would not be alone anymore. In dreams, she lived, she loved, but during the waking hours, she existed, nothing more and nothing less. She ate because she had to, although there was no enjoyment in eating alone. She dressed, because it was a routine, not because someone was coming to pay her a visit. Her heart kept beating, even though it was thoroughly and hopelessly broken, because if it didn’t, she would die.

  The only person she ever saw on a regular basis was Alan, and that was only when he knocked on her door to give her food. He did not offer her conversation, a fleeting smile maybe, but nothing more. And as for Brother Daniel, he had not come back to visit her. Not once. His flock kept him away. He had more important things to do. She guessed he didn’t have the time to waste on a damned, black sheep who was not worthy of forgiveness.

  She sighed and pulled the covers back and stared up at the rafters. If only she had something to do. Something worth getting up for, then maybe she could endure this terrible isolation.

  She forced herself to rise. The floor was cold on her bare feet, and the rushes scratched her toes. She made her way across the room and added another log to the fire. At least her chamber was warm, and her feet were healing, as she knew they would.

  She watched the flames for a long while, trying to see if she could spot any signs of the mysterious will-o’-the-wisp, who it was said, haunted bogs and misty terrains, looking for his next victim. He preyed on the weak, with his promised torch of sanctuary. She had not heard that he lived in a hearth, but it didn’t stop her from looking for him. Sometimes she thought she could make out strange faces and shapes in the flames. She would scare herself with such nonsense, and hide back under the covers again until the rational part of her mind would take back over and scold her for being so silly and remind her who she was. Merton had sacrificed his life so that she would live. She would not allow her nerves to control her. She had to keep her wits, but with each day that passed, she felt herself losing her grip on reality. She had started to mumble to herself. Initially, it had not been for long, and she would hear herself talking and stop. Recently, however, she had started to have long conversations with Merton. They would talk about everything and anything. He would make her laugh, and for a time she would feel content. But then sanity would return. She would look around her chamber and remember that he was gone and she was alone.

  She watched the flames for a moment longer and seeing no shapes or faces, she rose back to her feet and changed into a dress that had seen better days. She reached for her hairbrush. Her hair was growing back slowly, and as she gazed at herself in a small piece of polished metal, she contemplated her appearance. She looked like a peasant child who had her head shaved because of the lice. She giggled at the thought. She had never had lice in her life. She reached up and touched the short strands. How long would it take for her hair to grow back to how it was? Months? Years? Merton had liked to brush her hair. She caught herself smiling at the memory. She tilted her head and looked at herself more critically. Her face was thin, pale, her blue eyes no longer sparkled with life, and she looked old. She felt old even though she was only in her mid-twenties.

  Amandine jumpe
d when someone knocked, and she whipped around with wide eyes in the direction of the door. No one knocked…ever. Alan just let himself in, and no one else came to visit. She turned back around. Perhaps she had imagined it.

  Someone knocked again, and she closed her eyes. She was going mad. First, she was having conversations with the dead, and now she was hearing things.

  There was another knock, this time louder and with force. She opened her eyes, her face filled with panic as she glanced once again at the door. There was someone outside. She hadn’t imagined it. She crossed nervously towards the door, holding her breath as she did so.

  “Who is it?” she dared to ask. She didn’t understand why anyone would knock; it wasn’t as if she had a key to let them in. Her chamber was locked from the outside.

  “Philippe. The King. I need to speak with you. May I come in?”

  Amandine backed away from the door — she almost walked into the bed, so great was her fear. The King had not once bothered with her since he had come back, why would he do so now? She looked about her and reached for a sheet. He had come to kill her, as he had done to Merton, why else would he be here? But she would not let him take her life. If she were to die, then it would be by her own hand — not his. She glanced upwards and wondered if she could make a noose with the sheet. This time, she would be successful. Merton was in Hell — that is what they all said — it made sense for her to be there as well.

  The door to her chamber opened, and the King walked in, he had obviously lost his patience waiting for an invitation to enter. He frowned at her when he looked at her, although he did not comprehend what he was seeing, he merely thought she was making her bed.

  Amandine knew she should curtsey, but she was shaking so much she feared she would fall if she tried to move and besides, Philippe wasn’t her King, she had never pledged her fealty to him, and she had no plans to in the immediate future.

  “I thought I told you to feed her,” Philippe said, looking Amandine up and down critically. He glared at Alan who had also stepped into the room.

  “I can only feed her what the kitchen provides.”

  “She is nothing but bones,” Philippe chastised. “I left her in your care. I did not expect to see her like this. She looks like a mad woman.”

  Was it so obvious? Her madness. Could he see it in her face…in her eyes?

  “What did you expect?” Alan challenged, not at all intimidated at talking to his ruler in such a way. “She’s been abused, starved, beaten and then kept a prisoner in this room, with no one to talk to. What did you think that would do to her? What did you think she would look like?”

  “I thought you would take care of her,” Philippe shot back.

  “Like the Church did, you mean?” Alan scoffed. “How can I take care of her when you give me not the resources to do so? I cannot be in two places at once. You asked me to guard her, that is what I have done,” Alan lowered his voice, “and you know as well as I what a challenge that is. Many would rejoice at her death.”

  Philippe didn’t reply. Instead, he continued to look at Amandine. “Sit,” he finally said, indicating the chair. Amandine stared back at him with wide eyes and did not move.

  “I want you to sit down, Amandine. Do you understand what I am saying? I want to talk to you.”

  ‘W…Why?” Amandine stuttered. “W…w…w…what…? Have I done something more to displease you? …I…I,”

  “Just sit down,” Philippe encouraged with a strained patience. He took a step towards her.

  Without taking her eyes off him, she reached for the chair and sat down; the sheet still gripped firmly in her hand.

  Philippe perched on the edge of her unmade bed, clearly uncomfortable being in her presence.

  “Do you know who you are?” Philippe asked, his tone was soft and was that a hint of compassion in the way he looked at her?

  “My name is…” she paused, was this a trick? “Lady…A…Amandine…” not Bretagne anymore, the Pope had made sure of that, “…d…du Lac.”

  “Du Lac?” Philippe raised one eyebrow in query, and he glanced briefly at Alan. “You haven’t been a du Lac for a long time. Garren has been gone these many years. Don’t you remember? Do you not know why you are here?”

  “I…I r…really don’t,” she looked at Alan for help. “I…”

  Philippe clicked his fingers to draw her frightened gaze back to him. “Do you know who I am?”

  “Yes,” Amandine answered. How could she possibly forget?

  “What is my name?” Philippe asked.

  “You are King…” her words trailed off, and her eyes took on the characteristics of someone in a daydream.

  “Amandine, look at me when I am speaking to you,” Philippe stated. She drew her gaze back to his, and he tried an awkward smile. “What’s my name?”

  “P…Philippe.” Amandine swallowed.

  “Be brave. And if you cannot be brave…pretend.”

  She tilted her head, listening to a voice that no one else could hear and yet that voice gave her courage.

  She straightened her back and her resolve. Her eyes cleared, her face became focused. “You are King Philippe, formally Lord de Manfrey, nephew of Lancelot, cousin to Budic and his brothers. You took the throne from Budic, imprisoned Alden, killed Merton and destroyed…me.”

  For a moment Philippe said nothing, he just looked at her, startled by her sudden outburst. “I saved you,” he finally countered. “Do you not feel any gratitude? I spared your life.”

  “You…you want me to praise you?” Amandine asked weakly. “You killed him,” she glanced down at her hands, and her grip on the sheet tightened considerably. “You killed him,” she said again, softer this time.

  “I had no choice,” Philippe answered. “Merton didn’t leave me with a choice.”

  6

  Amandine couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “There are always choices, Philippe,” she dared to raise her eyes back to his. “That is what Lancelot used to say. If you wanted Merton to die so desperately, then why didn’t you just hang him? Like you did to Wann. Why did you have to…” her voice trailed off. She didn’t need to tell Philippe what he already knew.

  “Who is Wann?” Philippe asked with a frown.

  “Wann was the Saxon you strung up in the Great Hall. He was my protector. My guardian.”

  “We found him in the castle grounds. He was a mercenary, one of Merton’s savages. I was protecting my kingdom.”

  “Of course he was in the castle grounds if he was protecting me, you fool, and it wasn’t your kingdom at the time, it was Budic’s. And who are you to sit there and call Wann a savage, after everything you did,” she paused to take in a breath. “Merton’s savages will seek vengeance for the murder of their leader and their comrade. I hope you remember to sleep with one eye open.”

  “Believe me, a small band of wayward Saxon mercenaries are the least of my worries. I know you probably don’t want to hear this, but your precious Merton had many enemies. He courted death. He was a butcher. He once rounded up an entire village, locked them in a barn and then set fire to it.” Philippe looked at her as if he was expecting her to express her disgust or shock.

  She said nothing and continued to stare at him.

  “He stood and watched as that building burnt.”

  Amandine sighed and shook her head ever so slightly.

  “You have made Merton into a saint because of what he did for you. But he wasn’t a saint, my dear. He was a cruel, callous, demon.”

  “You have absolutely no idea what you are talking about,” Amandine answered. “You didn’t know him, at all. You only knew him through rumours.”

  “You are right. I didn’t know him. But others did, and no one spoke well of him. Merton was filled with greed, lust, and he had a thirst for blood.”

  Amandine shook her head again. Merton wanted peace. He longed for it. And as for that barn…there was more to it than that. But Amandine did not say these words. She kept them to
herself because it suited Philippe to believe the lie. And besides, she knew that there was nothing that she could say that would alter his opinion.

  “He did surprise me,” Philippe continued. “I thought that he would have chosen Alden over you. I would have let him live if he had. I am a man of my word—”

  “Is that what you tell yourself?” Amandine interrupted. Her face showing her total disbelief at his words. “Is that how you sleep at night? You lie to yourself. You never had any intention of letting any of them go. You wanted Budic, Alden, and Merton to die. And they would all be dead if Budic and Alden had not somehow escaped from your dungeons. Did you ever find out who helped them?”

  “It clearly wasn’t you, was it?” Philippe snapped back. “Strange that they left you behind,” he taunted. “Do you ever wonder why they did?”

  “No,” Amandine shook her head. “I never think of it. But I am glad they escaped, I will not pretend that I am not.”

  “Your loyalty to them is commendable considering… Merton sacrificed his life for you, but his brothers…” he laughed, “…thoughts of you didn’t even cross their minds. They left you to shoulder the consequences and ran away. I was the one that cared. I was the one that protected you from the masses when they were calling for your blood. I was the one who sheltered you from the Church after they had condemned you. I am what is keeping you alive, Amandine. Me. Not them. Not the du Lacs. Me.”

  “Why?” Amandine looked at Philippe for an answer. “Why do you keep me alive? Is it because you consider me the spoils of war?”

  “Spoils of war?” Philippe sighed with annoyance. “Do you want me to execute you? Is that it? If you think your death would make you a martyr, then you are very much mistaken. I will not be the one who orders your execution.”

  “Instead you would rather lock me in a room. Out of sight, out of mind. I don’t want to be a martyr, Philippe, and I am under no illusions that I ever will be. I just want it to end.”

  “What would you have me do? Let the bastards outside take you, rape you, gut you, burn you — is that what you want? Because that can be arranged.”