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

by Mary Anne Yarde

  “Mordred killed him,” Merton’s voice shook as he spoke and his heart went out to the poor woman. He did not want to add to her suffering, but she deserved to know the truth. “He poisoned my father and my mother, my uncles, everyone.”

  Tegan put the sword back. “Then you have a problem.” Tegan continued to study her wall of weapons as if looking for something that was missing. “Because he won’t stop until you are all dead.”

  “Can Mordred be defeated?” Merton asked.

  “You’re asking the wrong question,” Tegan muttered.

  “What is the right question?”

  She turned back around to look at him. “Can you be defeated?”

  A muscle jumped in Merton’s face. “Apparently so. Look at me Tegan. I am no longer a warrior. I am a cripple,” he spoke the words with bitterness. “If Mordred came at me with a sword, then he would slaughter me as easily as one would a lamb. I am defenceless. I am nothing. I might as well have died.”

  “You don’t get it, do you? You don’t understand what you are up against. Listen to me boy, and listen good. You will never have a big enough army to defeat Mordred Pendragon in a conventional war. If he survived Camlann, then he would have returned to his homeland, and I am not talking about Camelot. His family are so much in the purple that they will have several legions at their disposal. You take on Mordred, and you take on Rome. Add to that the Breton cavalry and the odds of you surviving are so slim that only a fool would bet on it. Even if you were healthy and had both your hands, you wouldn’t win.”

  “Then it is hopeless. Brittany is truly lost, and so is my revenge.”

  “I wouldn’t call it hopeless,” Tegan said, sitting back down. “You are your father’s son, and your father didn’t get to where he got just because he was good with a sword. He was clever, quick. He could outwit an opponent with words as easily as he could kill his enemy with a sword. I see him in you.”

  “So what are you saying, I can defeat Mordred with a speech?”

  “You cannot meet him on a battlefield, not with your back.”

  “Thank you for stating the obvious,” Merton sighed with annoyance.

  “But I would bet that you know how to plan for a long campaign. You were The Devil, no? Yes, even cut off as I am, I have heard about you. They say you fight the Saxon way. The Saxon way is good, but it is no match for the way our ancestors used to fight. If you plan a campaign with the old ways in mind, Rome won’t know what hit her,” Tegan stated.

  “Are you suggesting that I become the next Boudicca?” Merton scoffed at such a thought.

  “Boudicca made the mistake of meeting the Romans on their terms. You will not make the same mistake.”

  Merton frowned as her words sunk in and a spark of hope lit his heart.

  “We are free from Rome, son. We don’t want her sticking her nose back in where it doesn’t belong. You may not have an army as big as Mordred’s, but with the right words to the right people, you could beat him. You must seek out Mordred’s enemies and befriend them, bring them over to your cause and more importantly, lead them.”

  “I have no idea who his enemies are,” the spark of hope extinguished. Tegan was dreaming.

  “I should think Alden would be one,” Tegan said.

  “The Cerniw army is not strong enough to take on the might of Rome.”

  “Are you not listening to me? An army does not have to be big to win if you fight in the old way. Ambush, hit, run, hide — that is what I am talking about. We are of this country, Merton. It is in your blood. Can you not feel it? All it needs is one man with the courage to unite Mordred’s enemies. And I promise you…Mordred has plenty of those. Your greatest enemy could be your greatest ally. You need to have an audience with Wessex.”

  “Wessex bows to Mordred and besides, he thinks I am dead. If Wessex discovers I am alive, he will sharpen the blade of his axe and take my head.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  Merton went to argue, but Tegan put up her hands in the air to silence him.

  “Cerdic of Wessex would never kill a du Lac. I would stake my life on that.”

  “What century are you living in?” Merton asked, rising to his feet in anger. “But I suppose, being here, hidden away, you missed the whole Saxon invasion. Cerdic took Alden, lashed the skin from his back, and ordered his execution.”

  “And then his daughter saved our King, yes, I have heard the story. Don’t you think that odd?”

  “No. Annis loves my brother, and she risked her neck to save his life.”

  “And if you believe that, you’ll believe anything.”

  “You don’t know her,” Merton said, temper flaring in his eyes. He would not stand for Annis’ name to be blackened. He loved her like a sister, and he would allow no one to utter a bad word against her. She was family.

  “I do not doubt that she loves your brother, but we are talking about Cerdic of Wessex. He let Alden and his daughter go.”

  “You have no idea what you are talking about. You have no idea what they went through.”

  “All I ask you to do is think about it. Nothing is ever what it seems. Now,” Tegan said reaching for her cloak, “I can’t spend all morning listening to you talk my ear off, I have hens to feed.”

  “You are wrong about Wessex,” Merton said as Tegan made for the door. “And you are wrong about me. I can no longer lead men into battle.”

  “I bet you your father’s axe that I am not,” Tegan said over her shoulder. “Think boy, think hard. If anyone can unite the land, then it is you, youngest son of Lancelot. I have every faith.”

  15

  Benwick Castle, The Kingdom of Brittany.

  Bastian watched the servants as they carried bucket after bucket of heated water into Amandine’s room. Philippe had promised Amandine the luxury of a bath. Bastian wished the King had consulted him first. If he had, Bastian would have told the King where to stick his bath. On second thoughts, maybe he wouldn’t. Bastian wished he had the courage to tell Philippe that what he planned was beyond cruel. To order Amandine to dine with him in the Great Hall was sick.

  Philippe had no intention of the two of them dining alone. He was going to make a spectacle of her. Philippe was nothing more than a cat that toyed with a mouse, played with it, made it feel safe and then devoured it whole. Amandine was the mouse. What Philippe was doing could be considered a subtle form of torture that was wrapped up in fancy words such as compassion and mercy. But whatever you wanted to call it, it was still torture. Philippe planned to throw her to the wolves when she least expected it, and then he would sit back and enjoy the show.

  Bastian would be the first to admit that even he had initially been fooled by Philippe’s attention to Amandine. But Philippe always had his own agenda. He was using her for her knowledge, which came as no surprise, but it was more than that. It was something else. It was as if Philippe took a perverse sort of pleasure from keeping her close. It would be a boon for Philippe if he could turn Amandine against the du Lacs.

  Bastian had witnessed how Amandine’s eyes lit up when Philippe had entered her chamber earlier today. He had seen the look of relief on her face. She was beginning to trust the King. She was beginning to trust the man who had ordered and carried out the torture of her lover. What was Philippe doing to her? How could he manipulate her so easily? Was she blind to the danger she was in? She should be cowering away from Philippe after everything he had done, not welcoming him.

  Damn Alan, and his sick father, he wished he was here because as far as Bastian could see, there was only one option left. He had to get Amandine out of here and away from Philippe’s cruel clutches. It was that, or let Philippe destroy her, and he didn’t want to see that. Amandine was a kind soul, a gentle woman. She wouldn’t hurt a fly. She didn’t deserve to be treated in such a way. And he would not stand by and watch her develop a distorted opinion of who Philippe really was.

  He looked across the room. Amandine was stood flat against the wall. Fe
ar clearly visible in, not only her face, but her entire posture. It was as if she wished the wall would swallow her up, hide her from the curious glances of the servants. Her fear was understandable. After all, it had been drummed into her that everybody hated her and were crying for her blood. Even he had played along with it, everyone had. Except for Philippe of course, who offered her protection and sympathy. Philippe was more of a threat to her than everyone else in the kingdom put together, but she couldn’t see that.

  Bastian muttered a curse under his breath. Another servant came into the room and laid an elegantly embroidered gown on the bed for Amandine to wear to this so-called private dinner. Bastian marvelled at the lengths the King was prepared to go to, in order to set his trap.

  “STOP.”

  Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at Amandine, for she had shouted the word at the very top of her voice. Amandine looked back in confusion and then horror. She had not meant to speak, and Bastian wondered what terrible thoughts were going around in her head.

  “Hurry up, we haven’t got all day,” Bastian ordered sharply, as he turned the servant’s attention away from Amandine and back to him. “The water is going to be cold by the time you have filled the tub. Get a move on.”

  He glanced back at Amandine. She was looking at him, but when he caught her gaze, she lowered her head and stared at the floor.

  “I said hurry up and get a move on, you lazy bastards,” Bastian raised his voice with impatience. He snatched a bucket from one of the servants and tipped the contents into the bath. He then slammed the bucket back into the servant’s chest. The servant gasped in pain and hurriedly left the room.

  Like a dog does to sheep, Bastian harried the servants. He swore and yelled at them until all the buckets had been emptied and then he chased them out the room.

  Bastian did not leave Amandine’s chamber as the servants did. Instead, he shut the door and rested his forehead against the rough wood as he battled his conscience. Bastian had a family to protect. He couldn’t get involved. He needed to leave — walk away. He was Amandine’s gaoler, nothing more. Bastian pictured the face of his two-year-old daughter. She was the image of her mother, so very beautiful, so very innocent. He would not put her at risk and yet…Amandine was an innocent too. She had done nothing wrong that he could see. Bastian had carried the weight of shame around with him all day. He shouldn’t have spoken to Amandine like that. He shouldn’t have thrown her food on the floor. The guilt was eating him up inside like a tumour. Against his better instincts, he slowly turned back around to look at his charge. Amandine had sunk to the floor and was hugging her knees in front of her. It was time to make a decision. He needed to choose a side and this time, stick with it.

  Bastian looked away from her, for her fear was a terrible thing to witness. He was a defender of women, not a torturer of them. As he watched her, he felt fresh hatred for his King and even more so for his cousin, Mordred Pendragon.

  Bastian wished he had done things differently. He wished he had told Alden about Budic’s vulnerability. But instead, he had listened to Mordred and Philippe. But what good were regrets? What was done, was done. There was no going back. He breathed out slowly and thought about what a great general hindsight would make.

  Amandine would die when Philippe or Mordred decided that the time was right. For the moment it pleased them both to keep her locked up here as if she were an exotic pet. When Mordred came back from Rome, then no doubt he would see her suffer. Or perhaps he too would pretend friendship. There was no telling with Mordred. He was as fickle as the North wind.

  Mordred should have died at Camlann, why God spared a man such as him was a mystery to Bastian. He had seen the scar on Mordred’s chest and back. An inch to the right and Natanleod would have pierced Mordred’s black heart. Just an inch…

  Bastian crossed the room and frowned down at Amandine. She was deathly pale, more so than usual and her breaths were coming in short gasps as if she was having trouble breathing. Sighing deeply, he bent down and closed his hand around the top of her arm. She flinched away from the contact, and her breathing became even more irregular.

  “I am not going to hurt you,” Bastian said, reaching out for her again. “Let me help you off the floor,” he tugged gently on her arm. She regarded him for a moment with wide, frightened eyes and then she scrambled back to her feet on her own accord and looked at him in fear.

  “Come,” he held out his hand to her, speaking gently, like one would do when approaching a frightened horse. “We have lots to discuss and not much time to do it in.”

  She looked down at his offered hand, but instead of taking it she flattened herself further against the wall.

  “There is no need to be scared,” Bastian said as he backed away from her and sat down in the chair. “Sit down,” he indicated the bed with a wave of his hand. She shook her head and remained standing.

  “All right, if you prefer to stand, I’ll not make you sit. But I think it would be easier to hear what I have to say if you were to take a seat.”

  She watched him cautiously, and she continued to watch him as she backed towards the bed. She took a seat, her eyes riveted to his face as if waiting for him to strike her.

  “Where to begin…” Bastian stated, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on her face. “Before Merton…died…when he and I were fighting…that day…we locked swords and Merton came close enough to ask a favour of me without being overheard.” Bastian paused, watching her reaction. Tears had appeared in her eyes, but apart from that, she was motionless. “Merton asked me to get you and Alden out of Brittany. He made me promise. It was so typical of him, he was about to die, and he was still thinking of others.”

  Again no response, apart from a tear that slipped down her cheek.

  “I got Alden and Budic out the dungeon,” Bastian shrugged as if it were of little consequence. “I got them on the boat.”

  He waited for a moment, looking deep into Amandine’s eyes, but she betrayed no shock or surprise at his words.

  “Yes, that was me. I am the traitor that Philippe is looking for. I wanted to get you out with them, but Josephine…she wanted you to stay. She said it would be for the best. I disagreed with her, but she threatened me…” Bastian frowned as he remembered. “I do not envy Budic, his wife,” he clenched his teeth and shook his head. “Pretty she might be, but by God, I have never met a more vicious woman in my life. I guess she didn’t like Merton loving you.” He paused again, waiting for her to say something, but she didn’t. She just sat there looking at him.

  “I didn’t want to hurt him,” he continued. “I loved Merton. I know you won’t believe that, but I did. Philippe wanted Merton to be maimed. I don’t think he wanted Merton to die, not really. I think he just wanted to eliminate the threat Merton posed to his throne. We all know that a cripple can never be a king. It was Mordred that wanted him to die. He wants all of the du Lacs to die. What we…what I did…I…I feel shame when I think of it. I have never tortured anyone in my life, not like that. I have never intentionally inflicted pain on someone who couldn’t fight back. When I looked into his eyes, before I dropped the mallet on his arm, I saw fear.”

  “Can you leave, please…” Amandine begged in a very small, shaky voice.

  “I was afraid as well,” Bastian ignored her plea and continued with his story. “We had a moment of shared fear — I the torturer and he the man who was to be tortured.”

  “Go, please, go…” Amandine whispered in desperation.

  “Merton du Lac was the bravest man I ever met. He took on the army, single-handedly. He knew he would lose. He knew…and yet, he did it anyway. And you…I saw you fight, and I saw you surrender. Make no mistake; to surrender to Philippe took courage. When Philippe said Merton could go free if he killed you, you didn’t hesitate. I watched you beg Merton to end your life.” He paused and smiled sadly at her, which made his face appear so much older. “Merton was the bravest man I ever met, and you are the bravest woman.�
� Bastian rose from the chair. “I wanted you to know that despite appearances, I am not your enemy. We each have a role to play in life. I play mine. Philippe plays his, and you must play yours. Never show them that you are scared because those who hate you will relish in your fear. No matter what they say to your face or how they whisper behind your back, remember you stood up to the King while so called knights cowered. You are stronger than you think.”

  “Close the door on your way out…”

  “I know you must feel afraid about tonight,” Bastian continued as if he had not heard her. “Be assured I will do everything in my power to make sure you are protected at all times. Amandine, I don’t have to tell you that these are dangerous times. But they are more dangerous than you could possibly comprehend. I want to tell you something. I have told no other, apart from Alan, and I trust you to keep it a secret.” He took a deep breath as if he was about to dive into the abyss. “I am losing control of the men,” he blurted the words out. “It is little things, an ignored order, weapons going missing. But I know the signs of mutiny.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Amandine asked her voice weak, unsure.

  “Because you need to be prepared. They are coming for you…”

  “Philippe has assured me—”

  “Do not trust him. He’s manipulating you. This meal tonight, that the two of you will share in the Great Hall, isn’t him being nice. He is not interested in your welfare. This is about politics. Listen. There are a couple of courtiers who have started to make their grievances about the King known. You would think they would know by now what Philippe does to those who disagree with him. He kills them, Amandine. Can you remember how he killed?”

  “He wouldn’t hurt me,” Amandine stated, her voice stronger this time, more sure.