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

by Mary Anne Yarde

“Sire,” Sister Bernice tried again, for she would not be thwarted in her efforts to find safety for her fellow nuns. And she certainly would not be terrorised into silence. “I do not know what we have done to offend you. Alan was convinced that you would give us sanctuary. He said you were a good king. A kind one. We didn’t intend to impose on you. We were heading to Northumbria but a terrible storm blew up in the South Sea, we thought we would surely drown. We were swept off course and found ourselves here.”

  “Swept off course…?” Garren spluttered in disbelief when he heard the nun’s words. He had dismounted at the same time as the rest of the knights, but he had not withdrawn his sword. He had no intention of threatening nuns.

  “Yes,” Sister Bernice said, hoping that she had found an ally amongst the ruthless looking men that surrounded them.

  “Northumbria is the other way,” Merton pointed vaguely in the direction of the North with his stick. “Unless you wanted to take the scenic route. I am told Eire is lovely this time of year. Do you know what it is like this time of year?” He turned to ask Garren conversationally.

  “Beautiful,” Garren agreed as he looked at the nun. “She is beautiful.”

  Merton frowned at the expression in Garren’s eyes. It seemed even ten years a slave had not stopped Garren from chasing anything in a dress — even if the said dress clothed a nun.

  “Of course, you would then have to navigate around the North Kingdoms,” Merton stated, looking back at Sister Bernice. The nun was beautiful, but her complexion was almost too perfect, there were no unsightly flaws to her skin — no moles, no pock scars, no nothing. He could see what Garren saw in her, but Sister Bernice wasn’t Amandine, so she appealed to him not at all. “I have heard the tribes that live there can be a lawless bunch, especially the Picts,” he continued. “If you somehow survive an encounter with them, then all you have to do is contend with the wilds of the North Sea,” Merton chuckled, for there was no way a bunch of nuns would ever survive such a journey. How they managed to get here was a miracle in itself. “That is a fair amount of water to cover and at this time of year, I wouldn’t fancy your chances.”

  “We will walk to Northumbria from here,” Sister Bernice said defiantly.

  “Are you mad?” Merton shook his head. “Do you know how many kingdoms you have to cross to get there? How many Saxon kingdoms?”

  “A few,” Sister Bernice answered with a proud lift of her chin.

  “She is mad,” Merton stated, talking to Alden.

  “Get back on the boat and sail to Eire. I am sure High King Aíd Olláin will welcome you with open arms.” Alden stated. “But know that you are not welcome here.”

  “Our Prioress is ill. She is beside herself with grief. She needs to rest,” Sister Bernice insisted. She was dumbfounded as to why they were not being allowed to stay. “And then, and only then, will we take our leave of you.”

  “She cannot rest here,” Alden said harshly. “And do not think to tell me what to do in my kingdom. Bring him to me,” he yelled at the knights who had apprehended Alan, but he kept his angry gaze focused on the nun before him.

  Alan had put up no resistance. He had given his sword over, but that wasn’t enough for the Cerniw knights as they patted down his clothes, searching for any other weapons.

  “That is sacred,” Alan stated when they had released him of his knife. “Please be careful with it.”

  “Sacred is it? We shall see about that.” While one of the knights punched Alan cruelly in the side, the other grabbed his hair, forced his head back, and placed the newly discovered ‘sacred’ knife to Alan’s throat. They marched him forward until he was next to the nuns.

  “Put him on his knees. NOW,” Alden demanded.

  “Let him alone. This is barbaric. He has done nothing wrong,” Sister Bernice cried.

  “It is all right,” Alan stated as he fell to his knees on the wet sand. “Say no more, Sister Bernice. What will be, will be.”

  “Sire, this is an outrage,” Sampson protested. “How dare you treat my dear Sisters and the man who helped them like this.”

  “Do you know him?” Alden asked, pointing at Alan with the tip of his blade.

  “Of course I know him,” Sampson answered, clearly not understanding what the King was getting at. “We all know him. He was the one who found us—”

  “Then you can get down on your knees as well,” Alden interrupted, his voice hard and without mercy. He pointed to the sand with the tip of his blade.

  “Sire?” Merton protested.

  “Silence,” Alden answered, not looking at Merton as he spoke. Instead, he kept his eyes fixed on Sampson’s face.

  “Do I need to remind you who I am?” Sampson asked between clenched teeth. “And what I have done for you and your brothers.”

  “I know who you are and I know what you have done. You have betrayed us.”

  “Betrayed you?” Sampson frowned at such a ridiculous notion.

  “Alden,” Merton tried again. He didn’t know how Sampson had got mixed up in this, and quite frankly he didn’t care. What he did know was he needed Sampson. He needed him alive. He couldn’t go to Brittany without him.

  “Sire, I haven’t betrayed you,” Sampson persisted. “You need to calm down and listen to what Alan has to say. Alan has information—”

  “Down on your knees,” Alden ordered without any sign of clemency.

  “Oh, how ridiculous,” Sampson grumbled, but he did as the king instructed. “This is ludicrous. You are not going to kill me. Merton, talk some sense into your brother.”

  “SILENCE,” Alden roared when Merton’s name escaped from Sampson’s mouth. But the damage was done. Sampson had condemned Alan, and the nuns, and anyone else who had happened to hear him say Merton’s name.

  Merton watched all of this with a sudden sense of having seen it before. When he had the fever after Sampson took his arm, he could recall being on a beach and seeing two men down on their knees. The feeling caught him off guard. So when Sister Bernice fell to her knees in front of him and grabbed hold of his leg, it took him slightly longer to react than he normally would.

  “Please, my Lord, show mercy. Alan saved our lives. We owe him so much. We would all be dead if it were not for him.”

  “He should have known better than to come here,” Merton said, trying to keep his balance as the nun continued to tug on his leg. “I must ask you to let go of me.”

  “No, my Lord. No,” the nun begged, tears streaming down her cheeks now. “Please, please…I beg you. Alan is a good man. A God-fearing man.”

  “He is also Philippe’s man,” Merton stated. “Now for the last time, let go, or I will make you.”

  “No, no, please…”

  Garren bent over and plucked Sister Bernice’s fingers gently away from his brother’s leg. And with his urging, she rose back to her feet.

  “Alan is the Keeper…” The Prioress muttered, drawing the attention of the King and his brothers back to her. “He is the Keeper…”

  “Shh,” Sister Bernice pulled herself free of Garren’s gentle hold of her arm and gathered the Prioress back into her arms. “It is all right. You are safe,” she lied.

  “He is the Keeper, Bernice. The only one who…”

  “What are you trying to say, old woman?” Merton asked.

  “Alan is the Keeper of the Blade,” the Prioress managed to get her words out. She looked up at the King and his brothers with eyes full of sorrow and pain.

  “The Keeper of the Blade?” Garren chuckled. “I suppose you are going to tell us that there really is an Order of the Knights as well?”

  “Isn’t there?” The Prioress challenged back.

  “There is a Code but no Order,” Garren stated with confidence.

  “When the kingdom of Briton is in peril, the only thing that can save her from total annihilation is Arthur’s Knights and the ancient relics of this land. It is an old prophecy,” Sister Bernice stated wisely.

  “We know the story,” A
lden snapped. “We are not ignorant dogs.”

  “When did we start calling it an old prophecy?” Merton queried. “Arthur hasn’t been dead that long.”

  “We started last week,” Garren answered matter-of-factly.

  “Oh, well why didn’t you tell me? You should have sent me a note. Shame on you.”

  “You are nuns,” Alden said, interrupting Merton and Garren’s banter, for this was no time for jests. “You are Daughters of Christ. Why would you put your trust in the relics of the Old Religion?”

  “The relics are sacred to the people of this land,” Sister Bernice explained as if talking to an idiot. “They belong to this land. People will fight with the army that has them in their possession. They will think themselves invincible, and therefore they will be brave. And it is brave men that you want if you are to be victorious.”

  “They are all insane,” Merton stated to no one in particular, although he could see that most of the knights agreed with him. “Every last one of them.”

  “Who said I was going to war?” Alden asked, with a raised eyebrow.

  “It is Mordred. He is the one which threatens our security,” the Prioress spurted out in a quick torrent of words.

  “What do you know of Mordred?” Alden asked suspiciously.

  “He attacked the Priory,” Alan said, daring to speak despite the knife that rested on his throat. “He and his army of barbarians murdered the nuns in cold blood, and then they burnt everything.”

  “And you so happened to be in the area?” Alden asked sceptically. “And came to their aid? How convenient.”

  “My father was dying. The nuns were making his final days as peaceful and as pain-free as possible. I had a message that he was at the Priory, and I went to see him one more time before it was too late. I watched Mordred pull my father out of the Church, and then he slit my father’s throat from ear to ear. Do you honestly believe I would have let my father anywhere near the Priory if I knew that was what Mordred was planning to do?”

  “A likely story,” Alden said.

  “A true one,” Alan countered.

  “I’ll be the judge of that. Do you still wear the colours of the army of Brittany?” Alden asked, his voice hard and cold.

  “For now,” Alan stated, wincing as the cold of the knife pressed a little deeper into his skin. He felt the warmth of blood trickle down his neck. “But I am no friend of Philippe’s.”

  “And are you what she says you are? The Keeper of the Blade?”

  “I am,” Alan said. “And I will unite the Knights — if, I do not die on a beach this day.”

  “You are as mad as they are,” Merton stated.

  “And you are dead,” Alan answered frostily. “A body was pulled up from the dungeons. We thought it yours. What poor bastard died to take your place? Was it one of my men?” Alan asked, and although he did not raise his voice, it was evident that his temper was hanging by a thread.

  “The people will fight,” the Prioress began to speak again. “Especially if the Lia Fáil were to call out and proclaim the true king of Briton. And it will. I know it will.”

  “The Lia Fáil is long gone. That is if it ever existed at all,” Merton stated, glancing at the cowering nun, before turning his attention back to Alan.

  “It does exist,” the Prioress answered him, her voice growing stronger, her face losing the look of a defeated woman. “I have seen it. I was there the day Arthur placed his foot upon it.”

  “You were there?” Merton asked, curiously. “Then you must be someone very important. For only a select few were allowed to witness the event. Is that why Mordred burnt your Priory down? Were you the reason why so many of your people died?”

  “Yes,” the Prioress answered, and she hung her head in shame. “He sees me as a threat. He always has done.”

  “I had a suspicion that was the case. So unlike Christ, you chose to sacrifice everyone else apart from yourself?” Merton mocked.

  “How dare you stain our Prioress’ name with your foul accusations.” Sister Bernice spat back. “The Saxons burning the Priory had nothing to do with her, so don’t listen to her words. She is distraught.”

  “I wasn’t accusing her. I was asking her a question. Can she not answer for herself? What are you, her delegate?”

  “We came here seeking sanctuary—”

  “Are we supposed to trust you mean us no harm and offer you shelter because you have a cross hanging around your neck?” Merton asked.

  “Yes,” Sister Bernice stated, her eyes flashing with rage. “It is your Christian duty. You must not deny us,” as if to prove her point she grabbed hold of Merton’s arm tightly.

  “To hell with duty,” Merton spat back, stepping closer to the nun — so close that his face almost touched hers.

  “You do not intimidate me, you…you…Devil,” Sister Bernice stated, with rage.

  “That is right. I am the Devil. I have done things you cannot even imagine. I make Mordred look like a saint. I got these scars when I was thrown into the river of fire. But I was so evil that the Devil cast me out of Hell. Now, let go of my arm and turn around and get back on your boat, before I take it into my head to devour you whole.”

  “You do not scare me,” Sister Bernice spoke with bravery and conviction. “We have come here seeking sanctuary, and we will have it.”

  Merton tugged himself free from her grip and stepped back.

  “Thank God she is a nun,” Garren whispered in Cerniw, with barely concealed amusement. “For I would pity the man who married her.”

  “Pretentious bitch,” Merton replied.

  “How could you leave her there?” Alan asked, drawing Merton’s gaze back to his. “I thought you loved Lady Amandine, but I see now that it was a lie. You used her and then you abandoned her.”

  “Do not speak of her to me,” Merton stated, anger penetrating each word. Garren placed a restraining hand on his arm and Merton fought the urge to shake himself free.

  “Do you know what they did to her after you and your brothers escaped?” Alan taunted. “Do you have any idea what the Church did? Do you even care?”

  “You are a liar as well as a traitor,” Alden snapped at Alan. “And you will die as such.”

  “Wait,” Alan said desperately as the knife slid against his skin. “Promise me, Merton, that you will go back to Brittany and get Amandine out of there. She needs you. She is not safe there.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Merton. Amandine is dead,” Alden stated in anger. “Take his tongue, before you take his life.”

  “Guinevere, all of you, get back on the boat,” Alan ordered, while he tried to twist his face away from those who would render him speechless.

  “Wait,” Alden held up his hand. “Guinevere?” Alden looked at the nuns. Guinevere was a common enough name. There was no need to fear it. And yet… “Who is Guinevere?”

  “I am,” The Prioress raised her head. “My birth name was Guinevere.”

  “Shh,” Sister Bernice begged the Prioress. “Say no more.”

  “And do you have a last name?” Alden scowled down at her as he spoke.

  The Prioress hesitated for a moment as if unsure she should continue.

  “Her name was Pendragon,” Alan said, coming to the nun’s aid and uttering the name that they all feared and despised.

  Garren swore softly under his breath, and everyone looked at Alden to see what he would do next — everyone, apart from Merton, whose gaze had not left Alan’s face.

  “You are Guinevere? The Guinevere? Arthur’s Guinevere?” Alden paused. “My father’s Guinevere?” he added softly.

  Guinevere rose unsteadily to her feet. A nun stood either side supporting her. “Yes,” she answered simply. “Has anyone ever told you, Sire, that you look like your father?”

  “Once or twice,” Alden replied. “I thought you were long dead.”

  “Who says I’m not?” Guinevere asked.

  “Are you sure it was Mordred who attacked?”

>   “I saw him.”

  “And he meant to kill you?” Alden asked.

  Guinevere sadly nodded her head. “I know things about him. Things he wouldn’t care to be repeated. He wants to silence me.”

  “This complicates things,” Alden said in Cerniw to Merton. “If Mordred finds out she is here…” his words trailed off when he realised Merton was not paying him any attention.

  “Do you know she seeks death? She has some ridiculous notion that you will be waiting for her on the other side?” Alan said, addressing Merton again.

  Merton forced himself to look away from Alan. Amandine was dead. He was lying.

  “How do you do it, Merton? How do you sleep at night, knowing what you have done to her?” Alan continued to taunt. “The Church beat her, shaved her head...”

  Merton flinched at Alan’s words, but he refused to look at him.

  “I thought you couldn’t sink any lower, but I was wrong. You just accused Guinevere of sacrificing everyone else instead of herself. Did you not do the same?”

  “Gag him, or take his tongue, it is all the same to me, just shut him up,” Alden ordered.

  “Wa…Wai…” Merton tried to speak, to say something, but no words would form. It was as if he had suddenly been rendered mute. He held up his hand to stop the knights from doing anything too drastic to Alan. At the same time he felt his heart miss its regular beat, and then, as if to make up for it, his heart began to pound faster and faster still. The burning pain from his back now spread over his entire body and sweat broke out upon his brow. He found it difficult to draw in a breath, and he began to panic. Amandine wasn’t alive. The bastard was provoking him. She had not been left behind. She was dead. He sucked in a breath as a pain burnt its way through his chest. He dropped his stick and placed his hand upon his chest where his heart beat so out of time and so frantically. He staggered back a step.

  “Merton?” Alden asked with concern, as he reached out to steady him, but Merton shrugged him off. He had to know. He had to know if she were alive. He wanted to demand an answer, but he had lost his voice.

  “Amandine is alive?” Garren muttered in Cerniw. “I thought you said she was dead?” he looked at Alden accusingly.