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

by Mary Anne Yarde

  “And that pagan has welcomed you into her house, mind your manners, Monk,” Tegan snapped. “Or you can go and wait outside in the rain.”

  Sampson looked at her in surprise. “You know Latin?”

  “And a great many other things. Do not come into my house and spew hate. For those words are not welcome at my hearth. I am not a pagan. I just don’t believe in the same God as you do. I could call you a pagan if I so wished, but I have manners. Something your Church has yet to learn the meaning of.”

  “You know nothing of my Church,” Sampson stated simply. “If you did, you would see the falseness of your beliefs. Later, you and I will take a seat, and I will enlighten you to the one true God. You will rebuke your religion then and see it for the sham that it is.”

  “I met a man like you once,” Tegan stated. “He said the same thing. But I wasn’t convinced.”

  “It is hard to admit that we are wrong and easier to cling to what we know. I speak with the authority of God. He is my voice, and he wants you to hear his words, Tegan. He wants that with all his heart.”

  Merton shook his head for he knew Sampson’s words were also directed at him.

  “I will transform your life and save your soul,” Sampson promised. “For I am like a shepherd who brings all the lost sheep into the safety of the flock and protects them from the wolves. I am the fisherman that casts his net wide.”

  “You almost had me convinced until you called yourself a fisherman,” Tegan stated with a knowing look on her face. “I would wager that you are the type of man who, once he has cast the net and pulled in the harvest, has the audacity to complain that the boat smells of herring.”

  Sampson frowned, and Tegan chuckled at his expression.

  “I know you,” she said. “I have seen your make many times before. A grand speech. A good intention. So steadfast in your belief that even the strongest of storms could not shake you from your vocation. Men like you die on crosses, or have their throat slit on a starless night.” She placed her knife purposely down on the table.

  “I can think of no better death than dying in the service of God,” Sampson said bravely, refusing to look at the knife.

  “Then I hope your God will reward your loyalty. I hope he doesn’t consider you just another sheep or a small dead fish.”

  “God knows all of us individually. He will not forget. He hasn’t forgotten you, Tegan. He watches you. He knows your beliefs, and his heart breaks because you will not even take the time to learn about his loving nature and his promise of eternal life.”

  “Is he always like this?” Tegan asked, looking at Merton for an answer.

  Merton raised his eyebrows and sighed his answer.

  “All right, I’ll listen to you,” Tegan stated, willing to come to a compromise. “But, in return, you must listen to me and learn about my religion and my gods.”

  “I don’t think so,” Sampson stated, his voice betraying his disgust at such an idea.

  “And yet you ask that courtesy of me? How curious.” Tegan picked her knife up and sheathed it before putting it down again. “I think I shall stay away from you and your God. I wouldn’t want to tempt fate because sometimes this knife…” with a quick movement of her fingers the knife was back in her hand, and then it was at Sampson’s throat, “…has a mind of its own,” Tegan finished with a grin.

  Sampson did not flinch at the feeling of cold steel against his exposed neck, although he did narrow his eyes and glare at Tegan.

  Grinning, Tegan withdrew the knife from his throat and put it back on the table.

  “You must come back to the monastery,” Sampson directed this statement at Merton with urgency, although he glanced back once at Tegan. “It is the only place you are safe.”

  “I would be safe from arrows and swords, but I wouldn’t be safe from you, would I?” Merton looked back at Sampson as he spoke. “I asked you, and you lied. There was no curse, was there?”

  Sampson couldn’t hold Merton’s gaze for he knew what Merton spoke of. The old sorceress must have told Merton about his back. Sampson reached up for the cross that hung around his neck and silently prayed to God for guidance.

  “I thought the righteous hate what is false,” Merton continued.

  Sampson’s gaze snapped back to his. “I would have told you about your back in time, but you were not ready to hear it. Like you were not ready to take this journey. You must forgive your enemies, Merton, it is the only way. Vengeance will not bring her back to you, and it certainly will not bring you any closer to God. It is God you must turn to now. He will take away your suffering. You must let this need for revenge go. The road you are taking will only lead to more pain. Nothing good will come out of it. The only way you will find peace is through God, and don’t you scoff at me, you know what I speak is the truth. Or has this enchantress poisoned your mind against me?”

  “Get out,” Tegan said, pointing to the door.

  But Sampson’s feet were planted firmly on the ground, and he wasn’t going anywhere.

  “You are a cripple now. If you went to battle, you would be nothing but a hindrance to your men. You are no use to either man or beast, the only place for you, Merton, is the Church. You know that, and I know that. This…” he waved his hand around the room. “…is just a fantasy. A daydream. You are not a warrior anymore. Can you not see that?”

  “That’s enough,” the voice came from the doorway, it was commanding and familiar.

  As Garren stepped into Tegan’s house, Merton could have sworn that his heart stopped, but then his heart sped up so fast that he feared he would pass out. What the hell was Garren doing here? It was bad enough that Sampson and Yrre had intruded upon his sanctuary, but to see Garren here as well… Merton reached for his stick and rose awkwardly to his feet as a silence descended upon the whole house.

  For a moment all Merton and Garren did was stare at each other. And then Garren crossed the room, and Merton suddenly found himself in his brother’s embrace.

  “Brother,” Garren whispered on a choked sob as he held him tighter.

  Merton closed his eyes tight shut against the tears that threatened to spill. “I tried to save her,” he whispered, wanting absolution, but not from the Church. “I tried. I tried.”

  “I know,” Garren said, taking Merton’s scarred wet face between his hands. “I know you did. God, I missed you,” Garren took his brother back into his embrace again, and he didn’t let go of him for a very long time.

  26

  Benwick Castle, The Kingdom of Brittany.

  “I have something for you,” Philippe said with a mysterious smile. His eyes shone brightly in the candlelight with a kind of caged excitement.

  “Another gift?” Amandine asked, smiling shyly. “Sire, you are spoiling me.” The gown she wore was a gift, and this morning Philippe had presented her with a pot of snowdrops. He said that just because she couldn’t go outside, it didn’t mean the outside could not come to her. She had openly wept with joy when he gave her that pot of plants, and she had hugged it to her chest as if it were a rare and precious treasure.

  “And why should I not spoil the woman that I…” Philippe paused and searched her face intently for several long moments.

  Amandine felt equal parts dread and excitement at what he was going to say next.

  “…enjoy spending time with.”

  She quelled the urge not to gasp aloud. She felt strangely disappointed but also incredibly relieved. What was he doing to her? Why was he playing these games? She didn’t understand what he wanted from her. Bastian was right, Philippe was trying to manipulate her, but she didn’t know why he would want to. What could he possibly hope to gain? She had her theories on the matter, although they seemed rather flimsy and were certainly unsubstantial when held up to the light. She knew he felt guilty about hitting her and hurting Merton. Hurting Merton? Why was she trying to soften the reality so that it fell in Philippe’s favour? The man sitting across from her was a torturer and a murderer
. And yet…he was also her friend. Her only friend since Alan left.

  Philippe grinned at her, having absolutely no idea of the thoughts that were racing through her mind. He put down his goblet and rose from his chair.

  Amandine picked at the food on her plate and watched Philippe as he opened a chest at the foot of his bed. They were in his chamber, enjoying yet another private dinner. The room was surprisingly simplistic. In fact, she had been shocked by how ordinary the King of Brittany’s chamber was, although it was very, very, clean.

  Philippe always dressed impeccably — he had the finest weavers spin his cloth, and the ablest of seamstresses make his garments, but this room, apart from the beautiful counterpane on the bed, wasn’t at all extravagant or showy. And she wondered, not for the first time, who the real Philippe was.

  Philippe returned to the table a moment later with a small present wrapped in cloth and tied with a blue ribbon. He sat down, put the gift on the table and then pushed it across to her.

  Amandine smiled. “For me?” she asked, a blush rising to her cheeks. She had always loved to receive presents — a small part of her youth that had never gone away. But a gift from Philippe? Once again she felt torn. She could not refuse it unless she wanted to risk offending him.

  “For you,” Philippe said, sitting back in his chair and regarding her with amused eyes. “Open it.”

  Amandine tugged gently at the ribbon, her heart pounding, and then carefully unwrapped the present. Sitting in the nest of cloth, was a small, dark blue, silk purse. Initially, Amandine thought that this was the gift. The purse was exquisite and seemingly very expensive.

  “Don’t keep me in suspense, open the purse,” Philippe urged, his eyes sparkling with a secret delight.

  With shaking fingers, Amandine took the purse and carefully opened it. Something inside caught the light of the candle and shone with silver radiance. Amandine raised her head and looked at Philippe with questions in her eyes.

  “Take it out,” Philippe encouraged, almost beside himself with excitement.

  Amandine tipped the contents of the purse into her palm. She inhaled sharply as she realised what Philippe’s gift was and what it could mean.

  “It’s beautiful,” Amandine said in a voice that was husky with emotion, as she held the necklace up to the light. It was made of delicate strands of silver that had been intricately interwoven into plaits that seemingly had no beginning or end. She had never seen anything like it in her life.

  “Where did you get this?” Amandine asked, her gaze fixed on the necklace with wonder.

  “When I was in Rome, many years ago, I visited a silversmith. His reputation was renowned. I was told that a trip to Rome was not complete unless I had bought a necklace from Horatius Gaius Flavius. He was a strange man, who I can assure you did not live up to such a grand name. I think he may have said two words to me, during the entire time I was there. His daughter said that was his way. I am ashamed to admit that I was rather fascinated with Horatius’ hands, and to my embarrassment, I couldn’t look away from them. He had hands like a child. They were really very small,” he chuckled at the memory. “I commissioned him to make me a necklace, and this was what he came up with. I have kept it, in that chest, waiting until I found a woman worthy to wear it.”

  “Then you must have it back,” Amandine carefully placed the necklace back into its silk purse, “for I am not worthy of such a gift.”

  “I deem who is worthy to wear it,” Philippe took the purse from her, tipped out the necklace into his palm and rose to his feet. He came around the table until he stood behind her and gently he placed the necklace around her throat.

  “The clasp is a little fiddly,” he stated, but after a few failed attempts, he managed to secure the necklace and then he went back to his seat.

  Amandine clutched the necklace gently with her fingers. “I don’t understand,” she said, utterly bewildered by this turn of events. She was grateful for the new dresses, and the snowdrops had been very welcomed, but this… This was different.

  “My Lady, there is nothing to understand, just accept the gift and say thank you,” Philippe answered, grinning from ear to ear like a cat who had found where the cook had hidden the cream.

  “Thank you,” she said and then she giggled nervously. “I have never had anything so fine. It is so light I can hardly feel that I am wearing it.”

  “You deserve it,” Philippe said, as he poured them both some more wine.

  “No, I do not. This is something you should keep for your wife,” Amandine persisted, and with regret she found the clasp of the necklace, determined to give it back.

  A hard look came into Philippe’s eyes. “I said it is yours, do not insult me by giving it back.”

  Her hand fell from the clasp, and she looked at him, fearing she had offended.

  Philippe sighed deeply, and when he raised his head to look at her again, she thought she detected genuine regret in his eyes.

  “I would make you my wife,” he said slowly, not looking at her as he spoke but instead gazing unseeing over her head. “I would make you my wife,” he said again but this time quieter, “if I were not who I was, and you were not who you were.” His gaze flickered to her face. “I am a King, and you are damned. You were Merton’s whore…”

  She flinched at his words, and the necklace began to feel like a hangman’s noose rather than a piece of beautiful jewellery. She swallowed nervously and watched him with wide eyes.

  “I am criticised because I want to keep you alive despite the consensus,” Philippe continued. “Making you my ward has not come without consequence for me. And the more time I spend with you, the more I am criticised,” he reached for her hand and grasped it in his desperately. “I want to spend time with you,” he spoke passionately, kissing her knuckles. “A lifetime. You are the only genuine person in this entire kingdom and yet I am being asked to give you up. I am to marry the daughter of Erich of Rennais a week next Sunday,” his voice was resigned, although he kissed her knuckles one more time, and then he let her go. “By which time you will be dead.”

  Amandine’s breath caught in her throat at this revelation, and for a moment she couldn’t speak. So, she was to die — much sooner than she had expected. Bastian had been right all along. Amandine closed her eyes for a moment and felt a rising anger grow inside her, when she opened them again she looked at Philippe with contempt.

  “You toyed with me,” she accused. “Did I amuse you, Sire?”

  “It wasn’t like that,” Philippe insisted. “I spent time with you because I wanted to.”

  “And what was this?” Amandine jeered, looking at the mountain of fine food that was still on the table. “My last supper?”

  “No, no, don’t. Amandine, don’t do this,” Philippe begged. “Do not make this harder than what it already is. I have treated you well.”

  “I apologise if I seem a little ungrateful. But at least now I know what Jesus must have felt like when Judas betrayed him with a kiss, although I expect this necklace cost more than 30 pieces.”

  “I haven’t betrayed you,” Philippe insisted. “You betrayed yourself. You sentenced yourself to death when you became Merton du Lac’s whore.”

  “I wasn’t his whore,” Amandine contradicted, her voice rising. “He wanted me to become his wife. He loved me.”

  “If that is what you want to believe,” Philippe answered, “then believe it. Amandine, Merton used you, but you are still so in love with him, that you are blinded to the truth.”

  “I am blind to nothing. These past months have opened my eyes. When am I to die, Philippe? Today?” Amandine asked, her voice wavering as she tried her very best to remain composed.

  “Not today, no. It will be at the very last moment when I have run out of time and excuses. I cannot bare the thought of your last breath. Can we talk about something else…please? Here, have some wine. I had many things planned tonight. I wanted to make it special for you.”

  “I don’t wan
t your wine, or your food, or your finery. I want you to tell me the truth. Have you signed my death warrant?” There was no way Amandine was going to change the subject and make this easy for him. This was her life they were talking about. Her death.

  “Yes,” Philippe said, visibly distressed by his confession.

  “I see,” Amandine answered. She took several shallow breaths, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She braced her hands on top of the table in front of her as she struggled to drag in a breath. Philippe, seeing her distress, jumped up from his chair with alarm. He rushed to her side, tugged on her arm until she rose, and then gathered her up into his arms. “I am sorry,” he muttered over and over again. “This isn’t what I want.”

  “You are the king,” Amandine managed to speak, although her voice was weak and trembling. “You make the rules. You signed my death warrant, but that does not mean you cannot revoke it.” She had thought that she wanted to die, but now that the decision had been taken from her, she found that she didn’t want to.

  Philippe let her go so abruptly that she stumbled and if it were not for catching the back of her chair with her hands, she would have fallen to the floor.

  “I cannot revoke it,” he stated with despair. “The order comes from Rome. The Pope demands your death. My hands are tied,” he reached out towards her and touched her face. “It will be merciful and quick, I promise.” His hand dropped away. “There will be no pyre or stoning or anything that the Pope requested. It is enough that he commands your death.”

  Amandine battled to stop the tears, and she bit her lip so hard that it tore and blood ran down her chin. She wiped it away with the back of her now shaking hands. She then reached behind her neck and fumbled with the clasp of the necklace. She didn’t understand why he had bothered to give the necklace to her in the first place if he intended all along to replace it with a rope.

  She watched his expression as the necklace fell from her neck and into her palm. He was watching her every move, and his face showed equal parts grief and guilt, which surprisingly moved her. And yet, it was she who was walking in the shadow of death.