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

by Mary Anne Yarde

  “I am,” Merton stated, frowning back at her as he tried to decipher what she was thinking.

  Tegan took a step back as if the distance would give her a better understanding and continued to look at him. “Turn around, let me see your back.”

  “Why?” Merton asked, and he felt a cold tingling sensation travel up his spine. It felt at that moment as if his whole future was hanging on the balances.

  “Just do as I say,” Tegan encouraged. “Turn around.”

  Merton looked into her eyes, and he saw such concern in hers that he knew that if he turned around now, then things would never be the same again. But if he refused, if he didn’t turn, then he would never know the truth. He had asked Sampson to look at his back. Sampson had, but he had said he could see nothing wrong with it. But now he came to think of it, Sampson had avoided eye contact. Merton was sure that Sampson wouldn’t lie to him — he was a man of God, to lie was to sin. He had nothing to fear. If there were something wrong, Sampson would have told him.

  Tegan stopped the gasp from leaving her mouth just in time. His back, like his front, was littered with scars. She could clearly see the pale silver scar of an arrow wound in his left shoulder. There was a long thin scar near the small of his back that had clearly been made by a knife many years ago. But that wasn’t what concerned her. What concerned her was that his right shoulder was lower than his left, and his right shoulder blade was unnaturally stuck out. In fact, the whole of his right side did not match the left. He must be in absolute agony. She held her hand across her mouth to stop any sounds from coming out. How he made it across the moor was a mystery to her. She felt a new respect for the man who called himself Galahad but wore the emblem of the du Lacs. She should have known — Lancelot had been a stubborn fool as well, a trait that he seemed to have passed on to one of his sons. Oh yes, she knew. She had known the moment Galahad had opened his eyes and looked at her. She just wasn’t sure which son of Lancelot’s she was currently sharing her house with. How fortune’s wheel keeps turning.

  She took her hand away from her mouth and shook her head in wonder. “Stand as straight as you can, son.” She hoped it was the way he was stood.

  Merton shifted his weight, but it made no difference, he favoured the right side.

  “What do you see?” Merton asked as the silence stretched on.

  “May I touch your back?” Tegan requested in a voice that quivered. She didn’t have any answers for him yet because she had never seen anything like this before. “I promise I will be gentle and if I hurt you, tell me so, and I will stop.”

  Merton nodded his consent, although he was shivering now and not from the cold. She reached out and touched him. Her fingertip was as soft as a butterfly, but it felt like a burning blade against his skin.

  “The base of your skull is here,” she whispered as she parted his flaming red hair, that was so much like his mother’s had been. And then slowly, ever so slowly, her finger travelled down the length of his spine. When she reached the bottom of his shoulder blades, she stopped. And everything went very quiet.

  It was as if the world had inhaled and Merton realised that he had too, so he exhaled slowly. There was nothing to be frightened of, he told himself. He had been The Devil. Men had feared him, not the other way around. Sampson would have told him if there was something wrong with his back. He would have…

  Her finger started to follow his spine again, but it wasn’t in a straight line now, it was off to the right. She followed the curve with her finger. And Merton closed his eyes against the rising panic. In his mind, Merton could trace the pattern she was drawing on his skin. With relief, he felt her finger travel in a straight line again.

  “Loosen your trousers,” she commanded in a voice that was barely above a whisper.

  “We have only just met,” Merton tried to jest, but his voice trembled.

  “Believe me, sex is the last thing on my mind,” Tegan stated with wide eyes as she stared at the curve. “And besides, I am old enough to be your mother.”

  Merton gritted his teeth and loosened his belt. Tegan pulled his trousers down until she could see the base of his spine. There was another curve at the bottom, this time going to the left. It was as if the spine was trying to balance itself out somehow. She took her fingers away, and for a time she simply looked at his back.

  “Bend over,” she ordered. “Try to touch your toes.”

  “Why would I want to do that?” Merton asked, but he did so anyway, although it hurt him to do so and he came nowhere near to touching his toes.

  Tegan shook her head, for the curves were more defined, and there was a noticeable hump.

  “You can straighten now,” she said with an air of hopelessness.

  Tegan gave herself a moment to prepare what she was going to say. She didn’t want to frighten him, but she could not hide the truth from him either, for that would do him no good in the long run.

  “Your spine has been damaged,” she finally said, and Merton drew in a deep breath. He had suspected it, but Sampson had said there was nothing wrong, he had said…

  “I cannot understand how you are still on your feet,” Tegan stated with all honesty.

  “You lie,” Merton said as he pulled his trousers back up.

  “I wish I were,” Tegan said as she sat down heavily on the chair. “But you know I am not.”

  Merton hurried to put the clean tunic over his head. He felt like the child he had been when his parents died. He wanted to hide — if the world couldn’t see him, then everything would be fine. But he wasn’t a child anymore, he was a man, and he had to face the truth. He couldn’t run away from this one. He had naively thought that as soon as he was back with Yrre, then they could train and everything would be as it always was. He couldn’t live like this. He was better off dead than to live the life of a cripple.

  “Can it be mended?” His voice shook, but no answer was forthcoming. “Tegan?” he stood over her, and slowly she raised her head and looked into his eyes. “Can it be mended?” he asked again.

  She slowly shook her head. “Your spine curves not once, but twice. Even if you had the best healers in all the kingdoms of Briton look at it, they would say the same as what I am going to tell you now. It cannot be straightened. You may find many who would promise you they have a miracle cure that would mend your back, and they would happily take everything you own to do so. But believe me,” she reached up and took his hand between both of hers, “they would only make things worse. Some things cannot be mended. Some things cannot be changed.”

  “If the spine curves then surely it can be straightened? If you stretched me…or…something…” Merton knew he sounded desperate, but by God, he was.

  Tegan shook her head. “Son, this isn’t a dislocated shoulder, I cannot put your spine back into place and to be honest with you, I wouldn’t try. I could do goodness knows what sort of damage. I could break your back — you could end up bedridden, unable to move, unable to do anything. Is that what you want?”

  “You don’t understand…” Merton muttered pulling his hand away from her. “I have to avenge her. I cannot let her death go unpunished. I have to…I cannot. Brother Sampson would have told me if there was something wrong with my back. You are lying,” he threw the words at her.

  Tegan rose slowly from her chair, and he watched her with distrust as she reached up and took an axe from the wall.

  “Catch,” she threw the weapon at him unexpectedly. Merton caught hold of the axe, but pain shot through his back and down his arm. He lost his grip, and the axe fell to the floor.

  Tegan folded her arms over her chest and stared at him defiantly. “I know you were a warrior, I can see it. Tell me Galahad, how many battles have you fought in?”

  “More than can be counted,” Merton answered.

  “Have you ever dropped an axe before when it was thrown to you in the heat of battle?” Tegan asked.

  Merton shook his head, his eyes wide with fear. He bent to pick the weapon
up, and pain once again shot down his arm. He slowly raised the axe into the air as if to strike an imaginary opponent, but his fingers began to lose sensation. The higher he held the axe, the more painful it became, and the numb feeling began to spread up his arm. He lowered the axe with a look of defeat, and then he let the weapon fall to the floor.

  “If I cannot fight, then my enemies have won. I might as well have died.” He turned away from her. She was telling the truth. He knew that. Sampson had lied to him. It was over. These long months he had thought of nothing other than how sweet his revenge would be, but now that had been taken from him as surely as Amandine had been. He bowed his head in defeat, and a sound like that of an animal caught in the caged teeth of a trap escaped his mouth. He wanted to scream. He needed to, for the pain that knowledge brought was beyond enduring. Once he started to cry, he couldn’t stop. He had been a warrior, and now he was nothing — a cripple who couldn’t even avenge his love. He wished that Sampson had left him to die in the dungeon of Benwick Castle. That would have been the merciful thing to do.

  “Drink this,” Tegan said softly as she placed a cup into his hand. “Drink it. It will help. I promise.”

  Merton looked at her through his tears. “Please, I beg you, help me. I will do anything…anything…just make me strong enough to fight them. I must avenge her. Her death cannot go unpunished. It can’t…”

  Tegan shook her head. “I will not give you promises. I cannot,” she touched his arm when he turned away from her. “Who is this enemy who took your beloved away from you? Tell me his name.”

  Merton sipped the drink and felt a sudden calmness wash over him. “Philippe de Manfrey,” he stumbled over the name.

  “Philippe de Manfrey?” Tegan shook her head for she had never heard of him.

  “He usurped Budic from the throne. He and his followers did this to me,” Merton raised the cup to his mouth again and took another sip. His eyes felt heavy, and he stumbled backwards a little. Tegan took the cup from him and steered him gently towards the bed. He watched as if from afar as she pulled back the furs.

  “Lie down,” she encouraged.

  “What was in that drink?” Merton tripped over the words as he sat down on the edge of the bed — everything seemed so far away, so inconsequential all of a sudden.

  Tegan knelt down on the floor and pulled off his boots for him. “A healthy dose of valerian. It is for the best if you sleep for a while. You have experienced a great upset. Now lie down, son. Rest. You are safe here.”

  “Are you going to tell me things will be better in the morning?” Merton asked, with dull eyes as he laid himself down on her bed.

  “No. But we will see what can be done. I cannot offer you a miracle, but maybe we will find a reason to hope and a way to lessen the pain.”

  Merton wanted to tell her there was no hope. There never would be, but he was too tired to argue. He closed his eyes and wished for death. “There is one other that I want to see die,” Merton mumbled.

  “Who is that?” Tegan asked as she covered Merton with the fur.

  Merton forced his heavy eyes to open. “Mordred Pendragon.”

  Tegan’s hands stilled on the fur, and her face showed her disbelief. She leant in closer to look into Merton’s face. “Mordred Pendragon is dead.”

  “No,” Merton shook his head. “He is alive. I saw him at Benwick.”

  As if in a trance, Tegan took a step back away from the bed and looked about her. She shook her head. “He cannot be alive. He died at Camlann many moons ago.”

  “I saw him,” Merton said again.

  “Mordred…” Tegan said his name as if it pained her, and then she looked back at Merton. Her eyes, so caring before, changed, they became like steel forged in the fires of hell. So great was her anger that if looks could kill, Merton would have died.

  “Then if that is the case, if Mordred is alive, then you will not need this,” she touched Merton’s arm. “You will need this,” she touched his head.

  Merton mumbled something unintelligible, and he could not keep his eyes open a moment longer.

  Tegan ran her trembling hands through her hair, and she turned away from the bed. Her eyes fell on the cauldron, and she swore softly under her breath. “I was a fool to think it was over. It will never be over. May the gods curse you, Mordred Pendragon.”

  11

  Castle Aergol, The Kingdom of Dyfed. One week later.

  It had taken them almost three days to navigate their way through the Tywi Forest. But at last, they were in sight of Castle Aergol. Garren du Lac kicked his horse on towards the river. Once there, he let the animal have his head, so the horse could drink his fill. Garren shielded his eyes from the sun as he raised his face to look at the local bluestone of the castle battlements. As castles went, Castle Aergol was a pretty one. The castle sat securely in its position on the top of, what the locals called, Grongar Hill. Aergol Lawhir, King of Dyfed, wasn’t taking any chances it seemed. He could see for miles from the top of that hill, and anyone who thought to attack him would be a damn fool. Garren knew that their presence had already been noted. He doubted not that soon a detachment of soldiers would come to greet him and the two knights Alden had insisted he had for protection. Garren had wanted to tell Alden where to stick his knights. But he knew that would be unwise. He should be thankful that Alden had given him an escort in the first place.

  Garren had visited Dyfed once with his father many, many, years ago. He had been left in the charge of the royal nanny while his father spoke of important things to the king. The nanny had delighted in telling him stories of this Enchanted Land. She told of the Tylwyth Tegs — the little people, faeries. Garren had not believed her. He was too old for tales about such things, but she had such a way with words that she captivated his attention. She had taken him to see his very first Faery Ring. He had silently laughed at her nonsense until she showed him that ring of mushrooms. She had asked him if he were brave enough to enter the ring and dance with the faeries. He had refused, and she had laughed. She then went on to tell him that if he were to stand in the right spot at Pen Cemaes, then he would be able to see the Otherworld where the faery folk came from. He had asked her if she had ever seen the Otherworld. She had shaken her head sadly and explained that she had never found the right spot at Pen Cemaes. But she was sure that a young, strapping, would-be knight like him, would be able to do so. Of course, he had wanted to go. And so she took him, and although they spent all day looking for the right spot, they never found it. Garren smiled at the memory. How easy life had been back then, and what he would do to go back to the time when his greatest concern was tracking faeries and glimpsing the Otherworld.

  Yrre, one of Alden’s knights, whistled to get his attention. Garren looked up, and Yrre pointed to the wooden bridge that would take them safely across the river. Garren shortened the reins, pulled his horse’s head back up, and turned the animal to follow the two knights. He glanced up once more at the bluestone of the castle battlements, and he sighed softly to himself. This was the last place he wanted to be. He wanted to be back in Cerniw or, better still, Brittany, but neither option was open to him now.

  Alden’s reaction to his return had shocked him. Growing up, Alden had been more than a brother. He had been his best friend. Garren wasn’t naive enough to think that they could just slip back into being what they once were to each other. But he had rather optimistically thought that there would still be something between them — a shared memory of childhood if nothing else. How wrong he had been.

  Time had been stolen from him, and while his life had come to a standstill, it was not so for the other members of his family. They had moved on, grown up, made a life for themselves that didn’t include him. He had been dead to them. While in bondage he had often wondered if that was the case, now he knew it to be true.

  Garren could sympathise with Alden. He knew that Alden was grieving and that the death of Merton had been a tremendous blow. But what everyone seemed to forget wa
s that he was grieving too. Just because he wasn’t there for the deaths of his sister, brother, wife, and Anna, it did not mean that he had gone beyond caring. In a way, it was even harder for him because the last time he had seen Rheda, Merton, and Amandine, they were still children. And although he understood that they were adults when they died, he couldn’t shake off the image of children being slaughtered. And as for Anna — Garren knew that there were some things you never got over. He knew he would never get over her death.

  Garren didn’t want to be here. He had no interest in seeing Budic. He would have rather stayed in Cerniw and regained Alden’s trust and friendship. Garren wanted to prove to Alden that he wasn’t interested in his crown. He didn’t want the responsibility of a kingdom. He wondered how long it would take for Alden to realise that. He wasn’t a threat, but Alden evidently feared that he was, which was why he had sent him away. Maybe he should have minded his own business when the Ambassador of Brittany tried to seek an audience. Looking back, Garren realised that he should not have disagreed with Alden so publicly. When anger and hatred are involved, there is no point trying to give an alternative perspective. Garren had thought he was offering an objective council. He should have known better. There was no place for a peacemaker in times of war.

  Yrre led them over the bridge, their horses’ hooves clattering noisily on the wood as they crossed. Once they had made it to the other side of the river, they decided to wait in the shadow of a beech tree, rather than make their way up to the castle. It was sometimes better to let the soldiers come to you. Yrre and Eadger seemed uneasy, although no words were exchanged. Garren could guess what they were thinking. It was too exposed here, if they experienced any trouble it would be difficult to make an escape. Yrre pointed out two soldiers who were making their way down from the castle on sturdy looking brown ponies. Yrre made a joke under his breath about the quality of the horseflesh. But Garren had heard good things of these mountain ponies. They were not only sure-footed but also loyal, and that had to count for something, so he didn’t laugh at Yrre’s jests.