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

by Mary Anne Yarde

  “It gets worse, as you get older,” Guinevere said. “As you watch family and old friends die, you cannot help but wonder when it will be your turn. I used to be scared of death, but now I find that I am scared of life. For what does life have left to offer when there is no one left to laugh with?”

  “If you are looking for conversation, then you have come to the wrong place,” Alan’s voice was unrecognisable even to himself. He brought his hands together on his lap, and he pinched the skin between his thumb and his finger hard, in the hope that pain would give him something to focus on other than this despairing sense of betrayal. He knew he would never forgive his father for hiding his true heritage from him. Just like he knew he would never forgive himself for being a Pendragon.

  “I am in exactly the right place. Gossip is not looked upon favourably here. We only talk when needs must. But I think, you and I have a lot to say to each other,” Guinevere said, turning her body slightly so she could look at him. “You are the rightful heir of Wessex. That must come as quite the blow. I am told that Arthur felt the same when he learnt that he would have to step into Kay’s shoes. It is easy to forget, but Arthur did not seek the crown. He was a soldier, like you. He was happiest in the midst of battle, and that is how I remember him — he was a warrior.”

  Alan frowned at her words for he hadn’t thought past the fact that he was a Pendragon and now here was Guinevere telling him the responsibilities that came with such a name.

  “How can I be an heir to a kingdom that no longer belongs to my family? And besides, Mordred would be next in line.”

  “Mordred is not next in line. You are. You are Kay’s son, the rightful heir of Wessex.”

  “I doubt Cerdic would see it like that, and I have no wish to pick a fight with him.”

  “You do not want to liberate your people?” Guinevere asked, not hiding her surprise and her dismay.

  “What did you think I would do when I learnt the truth? What did you expect me to do? Raise an army? Go to war for a throne I don’t want and a crown I won’t wear? I am sorry to disappoint you, but you have the wrong man. I am a knight. I will never be a king. And as much as you may want it or my father may want it, I will never be a Pendragon. Not in here,” he pointed to his heart. “Not where it matters. My loyalty is to the sons of Lancelot, and it always will be.”

  “You speak so passionately about loyalty, and yet, you let a pretender take the throne of Brittany. You stood by and did nothing,” there was censure in Guinevere’s voice.

  “I don’t need this,” Alan said, rising to his feet in rage. “How dare you sit there and judge me. At least I didn’t cause a war. At least my hands are not stained with innocent blood. You disgust me. Hiding here, pretending to be someone you are not. You are just a whore, and that is all you will ever be.” Alan didn’t know where all this was coming from, but it was as if a dam had burst inside of him and everything he had never thought to say spewed out of his mouth.

  He was expecting Guinevere to stand up, maybe slap him across the face for his insolence. But she stayed where she was and said nothing. Alan turned to walk away from her and from this place and yet, Guinevere could answer questions that no one else could. If he walked away now, his questions would forever remain unanswered.

  With a sigh and a growl of frustration, he sat back down on the wall and put his head in his hands. After a while, he felt the softness of Guinevere’s hand on his shoulder. He had insulted her, but she still reached out to him with compassion. It made him feel shame.

  “What was Arthur like?” Alan finally broke the silence, and he turned to look at the Prioress. “I want the truth. I don’t want a bard’s version of history. Who was he? Who was the real Arthur?”

  Guinevere reached up to his face and brushed his hair away from his eyes like one would do to a child. “He was not the tyrant that the du Lacs would have you believe. And yet, he was also not the saintly king that his supporters speak of. Arthur fell somewhere in the middle. He was a good man. He just…lost his way at the end. He saw treachery where there was none. He became suspicious. Distrustful. Fearful. The crown turned out to be too much of a burden for him.”

  “You say he was a good man, so what possessed you to throw your lot in with the du Lacs?”

  “It is complicated,” Guinevere answered, a pale blush appeared upon her cheeks. “Will you honour your role as Keeper of the Blade?”

  Alan scoffed.

  “And what does that mean?” Guinevere asked, raising her eyebrows in question.

  “It doesn’t mean anything,” Alan answered.

  Guinevere’s eyes searched his face, but he found he could not hold her gaze, so he went back to staring at the leeks.

  “Have you ever fallen in love, Alan?” Guinevere asked. When he didn’t reply she smiled sadly. “Lancelot was the love of my life. And I am not ashamed to admit that.”

  “That sounds wrong coming from a Prioress. Surely you love God more?” Alan queried with a hint of scorn. “Or is this,” he indicated the church with an arrogant tilt of his chin, “all a pretence?”

  “I would have followed Lancelot until the end of time and never once would I have regretted it. If I had to choose between Lancelot and God…it would be a very short contest. Lancelot would win every time. You see that is what true love does. It binds you to the other in a tie so strong that no one could ever break it. Not even God. I love God, for God saved me and brought me here. But this isn’t where I belong. This isn’t my home. My home is wherever Lancelot is.”

  “Lancelot is dead,” Alan said without compassion.

  “That is my misfortune, but while my heart still beats, it beats for us both.”

  “Maybe not, he didn’t marry you after Arthur’s death, did he?” Alan asked with malice.

  “Because by then he was already married to Brianna, and she was carrying his child. He was faithful to her, and I respected him for that. But it doesn’t change the fact that we loved each other.”

  Alan did not know what to say to that, so for a while, he said nothing. But the silence became uncomfortable, and he felt the need to break it. “You are no ordinary Prioress,” Alan finally stated.

  Guinevere smiled at his words. “No, I am not. But I think you are no ordinary knight either. You are a Pendragon with the heart of a du Lac — a rare breed indeed.”

  “Did you ever love Arthur?” Alan was curious now. “I mean…I know—”

  “Arthur and I had an arranged marriage,” Guinevere grimaced. “I was terrified of him initially. There I was, a young girl of sixteen and there he was, an old man of three and twenty, who had proved himself on the battlefield again and again. My father told me I should feel joy at wedding such a warrior, but all I could do was cry.”

  “You feared him?” Alan asked.

  “No,” Guinevere shook her head. “I was in love with another man. We had married in secret for my father would not have approved of him. I thought my marriage would protect me from the ambitions of my father, but even the Church could not stop such ambitions. My father, when he found out, demanded that my marriage be dissolved. The Church agreed and gave me back my virginity,” she laughed at the memory, as she had laughed the day the Bishop had, with a very solemn face, announced she was a virgin again. What utter nonsense. “I found myself dressed in the finest gown I had ever seen, my neck was adorned with jewels and, before I understood what was happening, I found myself married to a King.”

  “What happened to your first husband?” Alan queried.

  “Nothing. No one knew we had been married, apart from my father and the Bishop, who conveniently died not long after Arthur and I wed. I think there was perhaps another who knew; she was my first husband’s confidant. If she knew, she never said anything. I was so jealous of her. She could speak to him whenever she wanted to, whereas I had to pretend I didn’t know him. At one point there was talk of them marrying. I was so relieved when he didn’t go through with it. Not that I didn’t want him to be happy. But
she was everything I was not. She was brave. So very brave. I wished I had possessed an ounce of her bravery. I feared he would grow to love her more than he did me and I didn’t want that. I wanted to be first in his heart. I know that sounds incredibly selfish, especially when I recall how much Arthur gave me. I had riches and respect but…I was desperately unhappy, pining for a knight that could never be mine. You see, that knight commanded my heart, and I know now that he always will.”

  “I thought Lancelot commanded your heart?” Alan asked, suddenly becoming suspicious of her story.

  “Lancelot does command my heart and like I just said, he always will.”

  “You were married to Lancelot?” Alan’s face and voice portrayed his surprise.

  “I told you it was complicated,” Guinevere said with a simple shrug.

  “Did Arthur know?”

  “No. At least I don’t think he did. I tried my best never to look at Lancelot, but there were times when our eyes would meet, and in those moments, I could not hide my love for him. Arthur wasn’t blind. He saw what I tried to hide from everyone. He must have known I loved Lancelot more than I did him.”

  “That must have put a terrible strain on your relationship with Arthur.”

  “It did and it didn’t. Arthur…he loved Lancelot too. The two of them were closer than brothers. But there was more to their relationship than that. Arthur needed Lancelot. He couldn’t have become High King without Lancelot’s support. Arthur had many wonderful ideas, but he was a poor statesman, he did not have the patience for life at court.”

  “But Arthur’s court was renowned for being a place where every man was an equal. He was a visionary. The Round Table—”

  “That was Lancelot’s idea, to appease the kings and the lords. No one would have appointed Arthur as High King if they didn’t get something out of it. As for the knights, they came later — Briton needed an army and Arthur needed men to lead the soldiers. But even so, there was still that divide. There were those who were there because of Lancelot, and there were those who were there because of Arthur. When Lancelot left, Arthur’s court fell apart. The knights divided, chose sides, and we found ourselves back where we had begun. And this is Arthur’s legacy,” she raised her hands in the air. “A kingdom at constant war. The people oppressed. It makes you wonder why he bothered.”

  “Arthur wanted to make a difference, I suppose,” Alan allowed.

  “Praise for a Pendragon from a du Lac supporter. There is hope yet,” Guinevere said, touching his arm again and smiling.

  Alan found himself smiling back. He was about to ask more, when the bell rang, this sound was followed by a clatter of hooves and a man calling for the Prioress, in a very alarmed voice.

  Guinevere rose to her feet and rushed towards the entrance of the Priory. Alan deemed it prudent to follow her.

  “Father Rasyphus?” Guinevere said the man’s name on a gasp as she grabbed hold of the sweat-soaked horse’s reins. “What are you doing here? We thought you were in Gaul. Father, you are bleeding. What has happened?”

  “Saxons,” the priest spat out blood as he spoke. “They are coming this way.”

  “Help him down,” Guinevere instructed some of the other nuns who had come running to see what the commotion was about. An older nun, with a very jolly round face, fat belly and massive bosom, pushed through the growing crowd, but she, like the others stopped when they saw several arrows protruding from Father Rasyphus’ back.

  “How many men?” Guinevere asked.

  “An army,” Father Rasyphus stammered, and blood began to trickle from his mouth. “I stumbled into them. I ran. They took up the chase. I fear I have led them here…” Father Rasyphus began to cough up great clots of blood.

  “Get him off the horse,” Alan ordered, as he reached for the priest. With the aid of the round-faced nun, he lowered the priest carefully to his side on the ground.

  Guinevere knelt down on the damp pitched paving and held the dying man’s hand as she mumbled through her tears a sacrament that a priest should have said, but as Father Rasyphus was the only priest here, it fell to her to say those sacred words.

  Father Rasyphus held her hand desperately tight and his despairing eyes locked with hers. “Leave,” he choked out the words, blood pouring from his mouth. “You must leave…” He began to make a desperate gurgling sound as he drowned in his own blood. He coughed once more, the light in his eyes went out, and he stared vacantly at her. His chest rose one last time, and then he stilled.

  “He is dead, may God have mercy on his soul,” the round-faced nun stated.

  Alan pulled the arrows from the dead priest’s back. Blood trickled from the wounds and soaked the priest’s habit. With the help of the round-faced nun, they lay Father Rasyphus onto his back.

  “You are in God’s hands now,” Guinevere muttered as she placed his hands upon his chest. Father Rasyphus’ face did not look peaceful in death. There had been too much fear in his last moments of life, and that fear still showed in his expression. Guinevere reached a shaking hand towards the priest’s face, and closed his eyes, hoping that this would soften his appearance. But it didn’t. Nothing would. Guinevere prayed he would find lasting peace in Heaven.

  Unsteadily, Guinevere rose to her feet; there was nothing more she could do for him. She had to concentrate on the living. The dead would have to take care of themselves.

  For a moment no one said anything, although all their faces wore identical expressions of shock, grief and fear. It was Alan that broke the silence.

  “If they are coming this way, you need to leave,” Alan stated with all seriousness. “Your walls will not stand against them.”

  “They left us alone last time,” Guinevere stated, sniffing back her tears. “We have no reason to believe that they will attack us. They may have just chased Father Rasyphus for sport,” her voice broke.

  “Sport?” Alan scoffed. “Open your eyes. They were not hunting deer. I think their intentions are very clear. Someone get me my horse,” Alan commanded. “NOW,” he yelled when nobody moved. Two nuns ran towards the stables and returned very quickly with his horse

  “Where are you going?” Guinevere asked, panic in her voice, as Alan swung himself up into the saddle.

  “To see how far away this army is. In the meantime, I suggest you pack food and water. Essentials only. But enough for a long journey, for when I come back we are leaving.”

  “This is God’s sanctuary. We cannot leave it,” Guinevere persisted.

  “This may be God’s sanctuary, but the Saxon’s do not know that, and if they do, then they do not care. They do not worship our God. He means nothing to them. This sacred ground means nothing—”

  “He is right,” the round-faced nun said to Guinevere. But Guinevere seemed to be unable to form any words as she stared helplessly at the dead priest.

  “You heard him,” the round-faced nun said, taking charge. “Everyone to the kitchens and you,” she pointed to the young nun, “ready the cart. And you,” she pointed to another, “bury Father Rasyphus.”

  When Alan came cantering back into the Priory, the courtyard was a hive of activity. The cart was piled up, and the poor horse sagged in his collar from the weight.

  “Why are you packing chairs?” Alan asked with disbelief as he dismounted and stormed over to the cart. He climbed onto the cart and began to throw things down to the floor. “Essentials only,” he yelled. “Which part of that did you not understand?”

  “We need something to sit on,” an elderly Sister reprimanded.

  “That is why God gave you a backside, woman,” Alan replied. “Food, water, blankets and money, that is it. That is all I want to see on this cart.”

  “What of our sacred relics?” the nun that he thought looked like an angel asked. Her voice, as he had imagined, sounded like music.

  “No relic is more important than your life,” Alan said, checking his tone when he spoke to her, for it would not do to shout at an angel. “God will under
stand.” Her face showed her sorrow at his words, and he found himself wanting to please her. “But perhaps if they are small then they can come along.”

  The angel nodded and smiled. She held out her hand, he hesitated for the scantest of seconds, and then he grasped her hand and pulled her onto the cart with him.

  “What do they call you?” Alan asked, longing to hear her speak again.

  “Sister Bernice,” the angel answered.

  “My name is Alan—”

  “I know,” Sister Bernice replied. “Shall we…?”

  “Of course,” Alan stammered. The blood rushed to his face in embarrassment. Sister Bernice was a nun. He had no business thinking her beautiful and besides this was hardly an appropriate time or place to think about a courtship that would never happen.

  Together and in silence, he and Sister Bernice cleared the cart of anything that wasn’t essential to their immediate survival. When they had finished, Alan went to look for Guinevere.

  He found her in the chamber with his father.

  “We are almost ready to leave,” he informed her and then he would have left if his father had not called his name.

  “I know you hate me for not telling you the truth. But please believe me I had your best interest at heart,” Kay stated. “How many Saxons are heading this way?”

  “Too many,” Alan replied.

  “You would think Cerdic would have better things to do then terrorise innocent women,” Kay said, his hand clutched the fabric of his blanket desperately.

  “It isn’t Cerdic that leads them,” Alan said. “It is Mordred.”