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

by Mary Anne Yarde

  Alden dismounted and helped Merton straighten the saddle. The horse obviously didn’t like all the fuss because he flattened his ears and snorted with indignation. But at least he didn’t try to bite as some horses did when their girth was tightened.

  “Are you sure you are fine?” Alden asked with concern.

  “Yes. There is no need to fuss. Caleb used to be the same,” Merton stated as he recalled his old warhorse.

  “But you are not the same,” Alden said in an undertone. “Casworon,” Alden called out to one of his knights, before Merton could form a reply. “Swap horses with my brothe…” Alden stopped himself just in time. “With Sir Galahad,” he quickly corrected himself.

  “No,” Merton raised his voice loud enough for Casworon to hear. “There is nothing wrong with my horse, Alden. I can manage him. Stop making such a big issue out of it. He rolled — horses do that. Let it alone…please,” Merton didn’t look at Alden as he spoke, for he didn’t want to see Alden’s concern or worse still, pity. He led his horse forward. He hated this. He hated being treated like he was something fragile, like he was something that would break.

  “That’s a lot of nuns,” Garren observed trying to clear the air. He could understand Alden wanting to protect Merton, but why give him such a horse in the first place? He wondered if Alden was trying to make a point. But perhaps he saw things that were not there.

  “Are we going to talk to these nuns or not, Sire?” Merton called.

  The nuns were stood in a huddle on the beach, and not far from them was the patrol that had noticed them land.

  “I count about ten,” Garren said. “Ten nuns, in a boat. There is a song there somewhere, waiting to be written,” he jested, although nobody laughed.

  “I wonder what brings them here?” Alden questioned aloud.

  “They must have heard about your splendid hospitality?” Merton muttered. “Garren can attest to that.”

  “I don’t think the cave is big enough for ten nuns,” Garren mocked, catching Merton’s eye and winking. “It might be a little on the cramped side.”

  “We chained more than ten traitors in the cave after the Rebellion,” Merton mused.

  “Rebellion?” Garren asked with a concerned frown. There was so much he didn’t know. He wished someone had written everything down, so he could lock himself away for a couple of days and catch up on the last ten years. He wondered how many years would have to pass by before he didn’t feel like an outsider any more.

  “Long story, happy ending,” Merton stated. “Bit bloody though.”

  “They deserved to die a traitor’s death,” Alden stated coldly. “I’ll tell you about it some time,” he promised dismissively, and Garren fell silent.

  “Please reconsider,” Alden said, under his breath, to Merton, “and ride a different horse, for my own peace of mind if nothing else. I know I gave him to you, but I will buy you another—”

  “Alden, I don’t want another horse.”

  “He doesn’t need a different horse,” Garren said, speaking at the same time as Merton did. Could Alden not see what he was doing? He was treating Merton like a child, making him appear weak in front of everyone. That was the last thing Merton needed.

  “I think you do,” Alden contradicted them both. “Casworon,” Alden called to the knight again.

  “Casworon, stay where you are,” Merton demanded, when he saw Casworon again dismount. Casworon shook his head in annoyance and mounted again.

  “Mordred and Philippe have taken a lot away from me. My body has taken even more. Today, you took my sword,” Merton spoke with urgency. “Don’t take anything else from me, Alden. This is my horse. I can ride him.”

  “No, you can’t. You have proved that already.”

  “We have all been on a horse that has taken it into his head to roll,” Garren said, feeling the need to come to Merton’s defence again. Although he wondered what it would cost him. He knew he should tread carefully around Alden, but Merton was his brother too. “Can you not remember when that pony of yours dumped you on the ground because he wanted to roll in that muddy puddle?” Garren asked Alden.

  “Ponies are not war horses, and we were children then. Galahad is—”

  “Don’t say it,” Merton interrupted, his eyes beseeching Alden not to say anything else. “Please, don’t say it.”

  “Galahad handled the horse perfectly well until we got to the beach,” Garren stated. “And none of us could have stopped the horse from rolling.”

  “If I want your opinion, I will ask for it,” Alden spat back at Garren. “I am trying to protect you,” Alden said, turning his attention back to Merton. “You are not the same as you were, you cannot do the same things…”

  “But you are not protecting me. Alden, you are smothering me—”

  Alden shook his head in disagreement. “Galahad—”

  “Garren, can you give me a leg up?” Merton asked, deliberately slighting Alden.

  Garren looked from one to the other. Both Alden and Merton were staring at each other in a battle of wills, and they had unwittingly trapped him in the middle. So he stayed where he was, on top of his horse and waited.

  “Have it your way,” Alden said, backing down. “But don’t come running to me for sympathy when you fall off and break your neck.”

  With another glare at Garren, Alden led his horse away from his brothers and back to where his knights waited.

  “You will be the last person I run to,” Merton shouted to Alden. “Because I won’t be able to run with a broken neck, I would be dead.”

  Alden turned back, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You would find a way, just to spite me.” Alden returned.

  “I would. So be warned,” Merton called back.

  Garren frowned, not understanding at all what was going on. The two of them had argued, and yet, here they were making jests. He couldn’t keep up with these mood changes — Alden and Merton were as unpredictable as the weather. “Did I miss something?” he asked as he dismounted.

  “No. I AM ALWAYS RIGHT,” Merton yelled so that Alden would hear him. “THE KING OF CERNIW DOESN’T ALWAYS APPRECIATE THAT FACT.”

  Alden turned around again, walking backwards, and sent Merton a very obscene gesture with his hand and then he turned back around and continued walking towards his knights.

  “I don’t understand you two,” Garren admitted.

  “That makes two of us,” Merton stated with a touch of sadness. “Are you going to help me get back on this horse, or not?”

  32

  On the King’s command, the knights got down from their horses. Merton stayed where he was until he saw Sampson, who was deep in conversation with a man that stood a distance apart from the nuns. It seemed that Garren was wrong. Sampson had not ridden the other way, but then, Merton didn’t really think he would. If there were a soul in need of saving, then Sampson would be there. There was something familiar about the man Sampson conversed with. But he was too far away for Merton to see his features clearly.

  “Do you know him?” Garren asked as he followed Merton’s gaze.

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” Merton got slowly down from his horse. His back felt like it was on fire. His skin burning. But he did his best to ignore the pain as he handed the reins of his very sandy and disgraced horse to Garren.

  “What did your last groom die of?” Garren asked dryly.

  “The flux,” Merton replied in the same tone. Garren mumbled something unintelligible under his breath, but Merton paid it no mind as he hobbled toward the King.

  Merton was glad he had brought his stick, for the sand was damp — which was a small blessing, for that made walking easier — but the last tide had left a collection of small smashed shells, as well as a quantity of slippery seaweed, on the shoreline. Alden glanced at him, as he came to a stop by his side.

  “They are nuns, Alden,” Merton said, for he could sense his brother’s apprehension. “And you are the king of this realm. When in Heaven
you may have to bow down to them, but not here. This is your land. Your kingdom. They must pay homage to you, not the other way around.”

  “I don’t like this,” Alden confessed. “It feels wrong.”

  “Are you the King?” one of the nuns dared to step forward, although, despite her courage, she looked fearful.

  “I am Alden du Lac, King of Cerniw,” Alden answered, in the same language as the nun had used. The various kingdoms of Briton all spoke in different dialects, but the Church knew only one. “What brings you here?”

  For a moment no one spoke. The nuns looked at the King and his knights in fear, as if they expected an attack. The air was so thick with tension that it could be cut with a knife, and Merton wondered at it.

  “You are safe here,” Alden reassured, wondering, as Merton did, at their hesitance and fear. “My knights and I mean you no harm. But I must know, what brings you here to my shores?”

  Again his question met with a wall of silence.

  “I cannot help you if you do not tell me,” Alden spoke calmly, encouragingly, as if he were talking to one of his children. But still no response. Alden glanced at Merton for help.

  “The King of Cerniw asked you a question,” Merton said with impatience, for he was hurting and he wanted to go home. He had no time for guessing games. If the nuns didn’t want to cooperate, then that was up to them, but he had better things to do — like sleep because by God, he was exhausted. “Unless you want us to put you back on the boat, I suggest you answer him,” Merton had not meant his tone to be so harsh, but the nuns were stood there like a herd of frightened deer and for some reason that grated on his nerves.

  A few of the nuns crossed themselves when they looked upon Merton. But there was a younger nun, a nun of great beauty, who looked at him with curiosity. She made him feel more self-conscious than the nuns who were now muttering prayers for protection under their breath. He looked away from her and pretended to concentrate on a small flock of gulls that were perched on a rock a little way out to sea.

  Another woman stepped bravely forward. She looked careworn and broken. There was blood on her sleeve and down the front of her habit. Strands of grey hair had escaped from her veil. She reached up and pushed the hair out of her face with a dirty, blood-stained, trembling hand. She raised her head slowly and looked at the King. She blinked once, and for a moment her face looked quite vibrant, but when she blinked again, the expression was gone.

  “I am the Prioress of the Priory of Holywell in Londinium,” tears formed in the nun’s eyes and her voice shook as she spoke. She looked down at her age-worn hands, which she wrung in front of her desperately. “I was the Prioress of the Priory of Holywell in Londinium,” she corrected, “but the Priory is no more.”

  “You were attacked,” Alden summarised as he took hold of her hands briefly in his, squeezing gently in a silent offer of support. Her hands were like ice and no wonder. For this wasn’t the best time of year to be at sea.

  “Yes,” she barely got the words out as she tried her best to hold back a sob. The young nun put her arm around the Prioress. “They killed so many. They set fire to the Priory,” the Prioress began to wail. It was a heart-wrenching, ear-splitting wail, which frightened the gulls on the rock who took to the sky and protested loudly at the noise. The Prioress bent over as if in agony. Her nuns fussed over her. But soon the Prioress was on her knees, grasping handfuls of wet sand in her palms as if such an action would help with the pain in her heart.

  “She needs to rest,” the young nun begged. “Why are we being kept on the beach? We have done nothing wrong, other than to seek your help.”

  “This is a time of great instability,” Alden explained. “All newcomers are treated with suspicion.”

  “We are nuns.”

  “Yes, you are,” Alden agreed. “But the law is the law. Whether you are a slave, a peasant, a nobleman, or a nun, all is looked upon with suspicion, to start with anyway. Spies come in all shapes and forms.”

  “We are hardly spies,” the nun protested. “Brother Sampson will vouch for us. He has told us that there is a monastery at some place he called The Mount. If you care to direct us there, we will be out of your hair, so to speak. We have no interest in your court or your kingdom. We are only seeking sanctuary because it is no longer safe to live in Londinium.”

  “What is your name?” Alden asked the nun.

  “Sister Bernice. Please, Sire, do not turn us away in this, our most desperate hour of need. God will look kindly on you and your kingdom if you treat us with compassion.”

  “Who attacked your Priory?” Alden questioned.

  “Saxons. We were not expecting them. The cruellest of men led them. He rode a white horse with eyes the colour of blood. I fear that we are living in the last days. We will all be judged, and those found wanting will be thrown into the fire. If you turn us away, you risk losing your place in Heaven.”

  “Do you always threaten those who do not do as you want immediately with damnation?” Alden asked, with a raised eyebrow. “I have a duty to my people to keep them safe. It would be remiss of me if I took you at your word just because you are a nun.”

  “It is not my fault if you have trust issues,” Sister Bernice returned, not missing a beat. Usually, she was very shy when speaking to strangers, but now she was fighting for the welfare of herself and her Sisters, and that, along with God, gave her confidence.

  “Did you say the man who led the Saxons rode a white horse with red eyes?” Merton queried, for there was only one man he knew that owned such a horse.

  “Yes,” the nun stated. “It was one of the horses of the apocalypse. Its rider had a bow in his hands, and he was set on conquest.”

  “Did he have a crown on his head too?” Merton ridiculed.

  “You mock me, Sir. You think I am lying. I am not. I saw what I saw. I will never forget him for as long as I live.”

  Merton turned himself slightly away from the nuns and towards his brother. “She saw Mordred,” he whispered to Alden in Cerniw, so the nun would not be able to understand what he said.

  “Why would Mordred attack a Priory? He is a Christian, isn’t he?”

  “Unless there was someone there that Mordred wanted to die,” Merton stated. “Someone who could make things difficult for him.”

  “Who?” Alden asked with a frown.

  “That is the question, isn’t it? But I can think of no other reason why he would mount an attack on a Priory.”

  “If that is so, then if we take them in we could be buying more trouble?”

  “That depends on who it is and why Mordred wants them dead,” Merton replied wisely.

  “The soldiers pursued us,” Sister Bernice interrupted, her face portraying the horrors that she had so recently witnessed. “We had to abandon our cart, which held provisions and our sacred holy relics. Some of our dearly beloved elders couldn’t keep up. To survive, we had to leave them behind. Despite their age and their fragility they were shown no mercy.”

  The Prioress began to wail again at Sister Bernice’s words.

  “We are but a handful of those who lived in the Priory,” the young nun continued, raising her voice so she could be heard over the older woman’s hysteria. “The rest are dead or worse,” she wiped at the tears that had formed in her own eyes. “I pray for the souls of those we lost and for the souls of those monsters who took our beloveds away, for, in their ignorance, they know not what they do. But if I could ask them one thing, I would want to know why. Why did they attack us? We were defenceless, no threat to them. Why?” She looked up at Merton as she spoke, the scars on his face did not seem to scare her as they did others.

  “We would like to know that as well,” Alden said under his breath.

  “Money, riches, land,” Merton listed some reasons, and he watched the nun’s reaction closely. “There probably was no reason. The Saxons are a bloodthirsty race.”

  “Then that makes it all the worse, for good people should only die for a g
ood reason,” Sister Bernice stated.

  “If that were so then the good would never die at all,” Merton pointed out. “Perhaps, you are asking the wrong questions. Maybe, you should ask your God why he did nothing to stop them.”

  “My God?” Sister Bernice asked. “Is he not yours as well? I was under the impression that this was a Christian kingdom.”

  “It is a Christian kingdom. But I am not a Christian,” Merton replied, the words slipped out, but now that he had said them he realised they were true. He felt Alden’s questioning gaze on him, but he kept his attention on the nun. This wasn’t the time or the place for a serious talk on the divine. Sister Bernice fidgeted under his gaze, but she didn’t look away. She was brave like his Amandine had been, and he admired the nun for that. Not many men, let alone a woman, would stand up to a group of armed knights.

  “God sent us Alan,” Sister Bernice said, looking back at the King. “If he had not been there, I fear that none of us would have got out alive.”

  “Alan?” Merton turned his head sharply and looked back at Sampson and the man he was talking to.

  “By God,” Alden spoke under his breath. “Knights,” he shouted the command and withdrew his sword. All the nuns, aside from Sister Bernice, squealed in terror at the sight and sounds of swords being drawn.

  “Sire?” Sister Bernice began, her attention now focused on the blade that was in the King’s hand.

  “Silence,” Alden ordered, and the nuns who were whimpering tried their best to contain their grief and fear as they huddle together in a collective mass, with their heads bowed submissively and their bodies shaking. A few began to pray to God asking for his intervention.

  Under Alden’s orders, two of the knights got back on their horses and intercepted Alan and Sampson. The rest of the knights spread out around the sorry group of nuns, each with their sword drawn. A few of the nuns dared to look about them. Panic could clearly be seen on their faces and also confusion, for they thought that here they would find safety and a sympathetic ear. But instead, they found another form of terror.