“Two sennights, give or take a few days.”
“Where would he go?”
“It is not the where he has gone that I am worried about.” Alden raised his head and looked at his wife, the fear shining brightly in his eyes. “I am worried about what he is going to do when he gets there.”
8
Trevena, The Kingdom of Cerniw. One week later.
Merton du Lac reined his horse to a stop by the edge of a sheer cliff. The tide was in, crashing into the cliff face as if in anger. The air was bitterly cold, and it hurt the scars that lined his face. He adjusted the hood of his cloak, trying to cover up as much skin as he could, but little good that did.
The last month had been one of the longest and loneliest of his life. This journey should have taken him days, but instead, it had taken weeks, and he had feared that he would never reach Cerniw. Finally, after three weeks of travelling, he had reached the River Tamar — the natural border that marked where the Kingdom of Dumnonia ended, and the Kingdom of Cerniw began. Above him in the sky, a haunting call of a curlew had echoed loud and clear on the incoming tide. Merton had closed his eyes and listened with a sense of relief. He was almost home — the end was in sight. Home? His eyes snapped open at the thought and the relief he had felt, vanished. He had no home. There was no place where he belonged. He was dead and now he was living in Purgatory.
The crossing of The Tamar was the part of Merton’s journey that he had dreaded the most. For as staggeringly beautiful as the river was, it was also broad and in places, wild, making it impossible to cross on foot, or by horse. Merton had to use the old road and bridge just like everyone else did. He had kept his head down and not made eye contact with anyone — although he could feel their curious gazes rest upon him, as they would do to anyone who was riding a horse and avoiding eye contact. He acted suspiciously, so he was looked upon with suspicion. When his horse had tripped on a loose bit of paving, the hood of Merton’s cloak had fallen away from his head. A woman with a brood of children gasped in horror and grabbed her offspring, clutching them to her tightly, while staring at him in disgust. Merton had gritted his teeth, let go of the reins and readjusted his hood.
“Stay away from us, Demon,” the woman had called, her voice trembling with terror and rage.
The woman’s curses followed him. Other voices soon joined hers, mocking and taunting, jeering and hating. It was so much easier to hate, Merton had discovered that a long time ago. Once he had revelled in it, he had wanted to be hated. He had wanted to be feared. But now… He wanted to be left alone. A clod of mud hit him in the back, but he did not turn around, he ignored it, for he had suffered far worse. Those he met were so quick to judge him because of his scars. If only they could see the blackness of his heart, then they really would have a reason to fear him. Merton kicked his horse into a trot and hoped no one would be foolish enough to pick a fight.
He should have waited. He had silently cursed himself for his stupidity. He should have waited until night had fallen when there were fewer travellers on the road. But waiting hadn’t been an option. He had to accept the limitations that his body now presented him with, and he had to learn, very quickly, how to work around them.
He didn’t know what was worse — the pain or the fatigue. They accompanied each other like demon twins. Some days he had not ventured far at all, for he could hardly keep his eyes open and his body felt as weak as a newborn and just as vulnerable. A stranger would think that it was the many scars that were visible that caused him so much discomfort. But the scars, as bad as they were, as painful as they were, were nothing compared to his back. They didn’t cripple him the way his back did. The right side of his back was a constant tight ache — it was as if his muscles had somehow woven together and would not relax. The pain on the left was different — it felt like someone was pulling at his skin trying to stretch it. Without warning, pain as sharp as the deadliest of blades would stab him between the ribs. It was like being tortured on the inside — and there was nothing he could do to stop it. There was a dull constant ache in his hips, knees and ankles. And he couldn’t always rely on his legs to support him — for the love of God — sometimes he couldn’t even feel them properly. It scared him. Getting on and off a horse — something that he never needed to think about before — now had to be planned in advance. He could not mount from the ground but would have to find a fallen log or a tree stump to aid him. When he dismounted, it felt like someone had grabbed hold of his tunic and shook him so viciously that his bones rattled. Which of course brought on more blinding pain. There was no escape from the pain, even in sleep. Despite being physically and mentally exhausted, sleep rarely came. No matter what position he tried, he simply could not get comfortable. If by some miracle, he did manage to doze, then the same stabbing knife would awaken him. He was beginning to fear sleep. He had known that if he had waited until dusk had fallen to cross the bridge, then he might well have been too weak to make the crossing.
Sampson had thought him cursed and — being so much in God’s favour — Sampson had promised that he would break the curse and restore Merton’s health. But, no matter how hard Sampson prayed or how firmly he commanded the evil spirit to leave Merton’s body, the pain and the fatigue did not lesson. Sampson was confounded. He was good at expelling demons from bodies and breaking curses — he spoke with God’s authority after all. But these cursed twins continued to jostle inside him for dominance. And there was nothing Sampson could do to pacify them.
Merton had concluded that God had abandoned him, which was why Sampson could not break the curse or command the evil to leave his body. Sampson had shaken his head in disagreement. But what other explanation was there? Merton had witnessed the power that this monk had. He had seen first hand the miracles that Sampson could bring about with a simple word or a gentle touch. It was just him that was immune to Sampson’s spiritual charms. Typical.
What was the use in thinking of it? He still had a long way to go until he reached his destination. This was not the time to dwell on the workings of the Almighty or the inabilities of a monk to perform miracles.
Merton glanced up at the sky — there would be another hard frost tonight. Fantastic. His life could not get any better. He stared moodily out to sea and watched, with disinterest, a colony of Herring Gulls, who were perched precariously on the cliff face, arguing with each other over nothing. He was surprised to see them there; usually, they headed inward for the winter, where they became yet another pest for the peasants to contend with, but this winter had, for the most part, been considerably mild. Merton took another cautious look up at the sky. There was not a cloud to be seen, and if tonight was going to be anything like the previous one, then snow was only a matter of days away. He needed to reach his destination before then.
He would have welcomed the warmth of a tavern on a night like this, and a hot meal would not have gone amiss as well. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the coins. The monks, as he found out, took poverty all too seriously. And besides, he would not be welcomed in a tavern — his face did him discredit. He had only caught his reflection in a river the once, and he had been shocked at the image staring back at him. The scars on his face were red and raised and angry. The outline of where a red-hot blade had burnt his skin was clearly visible. The raised scars continued down his neck and across his chest. He tried not to look at them when he washed and dressed. But he couldn’t help but see his sword arm, or what was left of it. It was a mangled mess of scar tissue, and he hated it. It was a physical reminder that he had failed the only woman that he had ever loved. He had taken this punishment for her and yet, she was still dead. Raped and murdered, all because of him. If only… He sighed. It was no wonder those he did encounter turned away from him. He truly did look like something evil. God must be laughing up there in Heaven. Merton had once been called The Devil, and now, at last, he had a body that complemented the name.
The Devil, the name he had once gone by, had been a mercenary without a
heart or a soul and his band of demons were an unstoppable force who would murder, rape and pillage, simply for the hell of it. That was what was said of them anyway. The truth, of course, was not so condemning. Merton had never raped a woman in his life, and neither had his men. It was the one thing that was strictly forbidden, and if a warrior wanted to ride with him, then he obeyed that rule. Merton was guilty of taking lives and of pillaging, but in his defence, he was a mercenary, and he had needed the money for Alden. But every death, every face, every last word, remained etched in his mind for all eternity. Merton had more than his share of ghosts, and he lived with them, for that was the price when you sold your soul. The unwelcomed memory of a barn on fire whispered at the edge of his consciousness, but he forced the memory away. What good would it do to dwell on it? He couldn’t change it, just like he could not alter the fact that the authority that God had given Sampson was of little use when it came to him. And neither could he change the fact that Amandine was dead.
“Amandine,” he whispered her name and watched as the whiteness of his breath was swallowed by the air until there was no evidence that he had spoken her name at all. He blinked back tears and briefly closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he had his emotions back under control. He had cried a river over her, and it hadn’t changed a bloody thing. She was still dead. She was still dead because of him.
Merton gazed out to sea for a long time. His horse impatiently pulled at the reins, until Merton loosened the reins and let the horse have his head. The horse instantly began to graze on the coarse grass that grew on the top of the cliff face. Merton’s stomach grumbled — an unwelcomed reminder that he had not eaten since the day before yesterday. But his stomach could wait. He would eat again, maybe not today, but at some point soon. Food was the least of his concerns.
He was in the heart of Cerniw now, the kingdom of his beloved brother, although he could never admit to that either. He was dead. Merton du Lac was dead, and there was a man who went by the name of Galahad who now stood in his place. Galahad was a stranger who Merton had not yet come to recognise or understand, let alone be.
Merton continued to study the view in front of him and tried his hardest not to think. The staggering beauty of Cerniw still managed to take Merton’s breath away. If there was a Heaven, then this was it for him. But, he was in Purgatory, he could only glimpse at Heaven while the demons in his body took pleasure in his pain and his heartache. Merton wasn’t convinced there was a Heaven. However, he had more than enough evidence to show that Hell did exist. And despite Brother Sampson’s desperate bid to get him inside a church, Merton had, like a disobeying child, dug in his heels and resisted. It was obvious that God had abandoned him. There was no way he was going to get down on his knees and beg for forgiveness to a phantom that cared for nothing but his own self-importance.
Sampson had argued with him so elegantly, his knowledge of the scriptures was commendable. For every situation, Sampson had a quote from the Bible. But at the end of the day, they were just words. They didn’t solve anything. They would not bring Amandine back to him. Nothing would. And words would not absolve him of his great sin either. He had once dared to point out to Sampson that God had done far worse to humanity than he ever could, and God never asked for forgiveness, so why should he? The look on Sampson’s face had been priceless — for once the young monk had been rendered speechless — a first, it seemed. That was the beginning of the end of their relationship. Sampson had done his best to try to understand, but he couldn’t, because his whole life, from a very young child until now, had been in the service of God. Merton’s upbringing was completely different. His life had been one battle after another. His life had been about death. It was kill or be killed, not pray and be delivered. Finally, he had had enough. Granted, he could have handled things better. Snatching Brother Aiden was probably not the way to go, but he needed someone with two hands to row the boat back to the mainland. Of course, Brother Aiden had not come quietly. He had, while he rowed, recited the Psalms of David, paying particular attention to Psalm 13. Merton understood why Brother Aiden chose that particular Psalm, but he had never once professed to be David — Merton was no poet, no king. Brother Aiden failed in his attempt to show similarities between David’s life and Merton’s because his argument was as transparent as a shadow. There was nothing substantial to it. Merton had, in return, argued that David had feared that God had forsaken him, but that David had faith in the Almighty. He, on the other hand, did not.
Once they had made it to the mainland, Merton had let the monk go and had stolen a stocky, black, draft horse. The horse was probably very virtuous when he pulled carts, but he had the manner of an ass when he was ridden.
Escaping the clutches of Sampson and his small army of apostles had been the easy part. The hard part was crossing the many kingdoms undetected. To be on the safe side he had avoided the roads, which lengthened his journey considerably, but it was for the best. When he lived as Merton, he was a wanted man. High King Wessex would pay dearly to have his head, and that would never do. Merton had a debt to settle with Philippe de Manfrey and Mordred Pendragon first. After he had dealt with them, he would deal with Wessex. But today was not the day for thinking of Wessex.
His heart blackened as he thought of all the things he would do to Philippe and Mordred when he got his hands…his hand, on them. He would make them suffer the same way they had made her suffer. He would destroy them completely and then he would kill them. It was only that thought and that desire for revenge that was keeping him from taking his life. The guilt was consuming him, he had promised to protect her, and she had trusted him to keep her safe. Yet, when push came to shove his words were meaningless, his oath worthless. If he had left her alone…if he had just left her alone, then she would still be alive. He had to avenge her — his heart demanded it, and his soul craved it. Once he had settled his debts, he would join her — life was meaningless without her. And no God, and certainly no monk, was going to stand in his way.
Merton shifted in the saddle, trying to make himself comfortable. Before his injuries, he had spent long hours in the saddle, but he had lost weight since then, and his body ached from all the riding and as for his back…
Once he was reunited with Yrre, things would get better, he told himself. He could train again and regain his strength. He wasn’t as good fighting left-handed, he had always favoured the right, but these things could be learned. And maybe he would never have the endurance that he had once possessed, but that didn’t matter. There were only three people, in a world of many thousands that he wanted to face. He wanted to see the look in their eyes when they realised who he was — when they realised that he was back from the dead. It was that thought that drove him forwards. He would have his vengeance, but he would prepare himself first. This was a fight that he had no intention of losing.
Merton watched as the sun began to dip, staining the sky a blood-red. Soon it would be dark, and he would have to make camp somewhere. There was a trading port not too far away from here, but he would avoid the place if he could. He did not seek company. He was better off alone. There was bound to be a wood or a hedge he could sleep under.
He took one last look at the view, and then he gathered up the reins and kicked the horse on. The animal was a cantankerous old bastard, and Merton prepared himself for yet another fight as the animal’s ears went back. How he missed Caleb, his old warhorse. Caleb would not have flattened back his ears and bucked. Caleb had been dependable. Unlike this horse. Merton sat up taller in the saddle and kicked the horse on again. The horse took several steps back, and Merton felt a sudden wave of panic as the horse stepped precariously close to the cliff face edge. Merton glanced behind him…it was a long way down.
“Get a move on you stubborn ass,” he raised his voice and kicked the horse hard in the stomach; at the same time he slapped the horse across the neck with the reins. The horse did a half-hearted rear and then decided to plod forward.
“When we get
to where we are going, I am going to cook you and eat you,” Merton promised.
The horse’s ears flickered backwards and forwards as he listened to Merton’s voice. He tossed his head up into the air and gave a shrill whinny.
“Yeah, you’re right,” Merton mused, kicking the horse on again. “You would be as tough as old leather, and no doubt give me indigestion. Get a move on you old bastard. We haven’t got all day.”
Groon Brenn, The Kingdom of Cerniw.
Merton’s eyes began to close, and his head fell to his chest. He jerked awake and then wished he hadn’t as he hissed in a breath of pain. He was so tired. He feared that if he didn’t stop soon, then he would fall off the damn horse and goodness knows what damage that would do. He yawned and gave the horse another encouraging kick. The animal’s head was hanging low, and Merton let him have the reins so he could stretch out his long neck. The horse, as annoying and unpredictable as he was, needed to rest, and so did he. But where? Not here. The ground was too boggy, and besides, it was open country. He needed to find a wood, somewhere out of the way. Somewhere he wouldn’t be bothered by wildlife or passing strangers intent on mischief.
He glanced up at the ink black sky and looked at the stars. There were so many, more than could be counted. They seemed to mock him and his plight. And they made him feel insignificant, small. The moon shone brightly down from a cloudless sky, and the temperature had already dropped to an uncomfortable level. Merton yawned again, and his breath came out as white clouds of smoke. He huddled further into his cloak seeking warmth, but he didn’t find any.
By the time they made it onto more stable ground, the horse’s head was so low that it was almost touching his hooves. They passed a mighty oak, which slumbered seemingly without a care in these darkest of winter days. Tangled amongst the tree branches, mistletoe had taken root, its fate now tied with its host. If the tree died, then so would it, but that did not stop the mistletoe from sucking the very essence from the tree. Merton had long since concluded that, like the tree, the story of man would one day come to an end, but not because of a parasite. Oh no. The real threat to mankind was mankind, and they were perfectly capable of bringing about their own destruction.
The Du Lac Princess: (Book 3 of The Du Lac Chronicles) Page 8
