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

by Mary Anne Yarde

  “Alan —”

  “All these lies and for what?”

  “I do not have the answers to your questions. But Amandine hasn’t got all day, pull yourself together and help me,” Merton ordered sharply.

  Alan was a soldier, and he was used to obeying orders. He puffed out his cheeks and blew out slowly as he prepared himself for what he had to do.

  “Now, Alan,” Merton insisted with an edge of irritation in his voice.

  “You will want to hear what he has to say,” Alan yelled, grimacing as he did so. Was that even his voice? It sounded so different.

  “My Lord, my apologies,” the soldier said, addressing Alan. “I did not see you there.”

  “No need to apologise. Just go and tell Bastian that he must hear this man out. He has news of the most vital importance.”

  “My Lord,” the soldier turned on his heels and marched back towards the castle.

  “When we get out of here you are going to explain your actions this day,” Alan said to Merton.

  “If we get out of here,” Sampson added, as the sun went behind a cloud, casting them all in shadows.

  “He is right. If. Tell me, are you always this suicidal, Sir Galahad?” Alan asked as he watched the soldiers on the battlement aim their arrows at them. “You do realise that if they let loose now, we would be dead before we hit the ground. And despite what you think, you are not that unrecognisable. I knew who you were straight away.”

  “They are not expecting me because I am dead,” Merton answered, his eyes fixed on the portcullis as he waited for Bastian. The cloud moved on and the sun shone down upon them, warming them in its radiance. At last Bastian began to walk towards them. His gaze not wavering from Merton’s.

  “What news?” Bastian asked as he stopped a good two sword lengths away. He made no move to come any closer.

  “I wondered what I would feel like being in your presence again,” Merton said conversationally as he looked into the face of one of his torturers. “I was expecting rage, anger, a little fear maybe, but instead…nothing. I feel nothing.”

  “Good for you, now if that is all, I have things to do,” Bastian stated, his voice portraying his nerves as he spoke. He glanced back behind him to make sure his men had his back.

  “I am sure you do. Burning an innocent woman must be very trying on your time.”

  “She lost her innocence when she took up with you,” Bastian returned. Bastian took a step back and regarded Merton with a critical look.

  “You have a stick?” he queried with mockery. “Can you no longer walk without help? And oh dear, you have lost an arm. What a shame.”

  “Where is she?” Merton asked, for he had not the time for trading insults.

  Bastian took a cautious step towards his enemy. “You have come to rescue her?”

  “Why else would I be here?”

  “You took your bloody time.”

  “Someone told Alden that she was dead. Now, who do you think that was?”

  “Have you brought Alden’s army with you?” Bastian asked, for there was not the time for truths.

  Merton frowned when he saw the look of hope shine out from Bastian’s eyes. Bastian still had a foot in both camps then. Why should he feel surprised? Bastian was only concerned with saving his skin. He cared nothing for loyalty.

  “No. Just me.”

  “Just you?” Bastian laughed without humour, any hope he had fading rapidly. “You were a fool the day I took your arm. I see that you are still a fool now. Please stop wasting my time. Get back on your boat, or your horse, or however you came here, and I will pretend I never saw you.”

  “I am not going anywhere without her.”

  “Take a look around. See for yourself the power that you are up against. You could not win before, and you cannot win now. I don’t want her to die. As it happens I think her death will come back to haunt Philippe—”

  “Oh, if she dies, it is going to haunt him,” Merton promised. “Mark my words, it will.”

  Bastian sighed heavily and ran his hand through his hair in frustration. “What do you need me to do?” he asked, coming to a decision. If he had expected to see surprise on Merton’s face at his words, he would have been sorely disappointed.

  “You need to take me to her. I can handle the rest.”

  “I can not do that,” Bastian stepped closer still. “I am not allowed anywhere near her chamber. She is being guarded by men who have had no previous interaction with her. Philippe fears that someone might help her escape. There is a great deal riding on her death. A blessing from Rome, for one.”

  “If she dies, it will not be a blessing from Rome that Philippe receives but a condemnation from Hell.”

  “I believe it is a risk Philippe is willing to take,” Bastian replied. “I am sorry, I cannot help you. I wish it were otherwise. She is not even allowed to receive the Sacrament. But Abbot Daniel is allowed to attend her before she is taken to the place of execution,” he looked at Merton pointedly. “I urge you not to linger. A disguise can only deceive for so long.” Bastian’s eyes flickered to Sampson. “Brother Sampson,” he tilted his head in acknowledgement.

  “My Lord,” Sampson replied.

  “Alan,” Bastian looked questionably at him as he took a backwards step away from them. “Good day to you,” he raised his voice so it would travel on the wind. “And thank you for the information. It is most…enlightening.”

  “The bastard,” Alan whispered under his breath as Bastian strode confidently back to the castle.

  “Not necessarily,” Merton replied. Turning his back on the castle, he looked at Sampson with a critical eye.

  “What?” Sampson asked, nervous at such scrutiny.

  A disguise can only deceive for so long. Bastian had given him an idea. He now knew for certain that bringing Sampson to Brittany had been the right thing to do. The illusive plan began to take on a shape, an image, a life of its own. It was as if Merton was looking at an intricate drawing laid out in front of him. He could see everything so clearly now.

  “Oh by the gods, I don’t like that look,” Yrre said, noticing Merton’s expression.

  “Do you think we could pass him off as a woman?” Merton asked Yrre in Saxon.

  “Sampson? Possibly. Why?”

  “I think I know how to get her out,” he turned to Yrre, excitement in his eyes.

  “What are you two talking about?” Sampson demanded to know, for he clearly heard his name mentioned.

  “Abbot Daniel, I am assuming he was Brother Daniel?” Merton asked, looking at Alan and ignoring the monk completely.

  “One and the same,” Alan replied. “He is a marked improvement on his predecessor. He is a good man.”

  “I always liked him. Where can I find him?”

  “Right now, this minute? I don’t know, the church, perhaps?”

  “Do you think you could get a message to him that Sister Mary Elizabeth has travelled very far, on the Pope’s orders, to hear the Lady Amandine confess her guilt?”

  “Sister Mary Elizabeth has never left Rome in her life,” Sampson stated, for he had heard of this remarkably pious woman.

  “This is a very special occasion, Brother Sampson,” Merton reminded him. “The Pope wants to make sure that Philippe is true to his word, so that he can grant Philippe that all important Blessing.”

  “But he would have sent his most trusted Bishop to assure that Philippe was, as you say, true to his word,” Sampson argued. “And besides, Rome is many miles from here, several weeks journey, in fact. There is no way you could bring Sister Mary Elizabeth here in time. You will have to think of some other way to get Bishop Daniel’s attention.”

  “She is already here,” Merton stated in all seriousness.

  “Where?” Sampson looked about him as if he expected her to suddenly appear.

  “I am looking at her,” Merton replied.

  Sampson frowned, for he could see no one but Philippe’s soldiers. He looked at Merton in the hop
e of following his gaze to the said Sister, but alas, Merton was looking at him.

  “Absolutely no way,” Sampson stated as he suddenly realised what Merton meant. “I would be recognised.”

  “By who? People believe what you want them to. If we dress you up as a nun, I do not think you will be recognised. I believe that Sister Mary Elizabeth is in a cloistered convent. Only the Pope and her fellow Sisters know what she really looks like. Oh, and Wann, he knew, but that is another story… I have also heard a rumour that the Pope and Sister Mary Elizabeth have a very special relationship.”

  “I do not like your insinuations. How dare you…” Sampson stated, as his face went from dark red to white and then red again as he tried to control his anger, but the truth was he had never felt such rage before. It wasn’t in his nature to be angry, and he did not know how to deal with such emotions.

  “So send me to Hell,” Merton stated offhandedly.

  “I am not a deceiver. I am sorry, but you go too far. The Lord detests a lying tongue. And to put on a woman’s clothes is an abomination to the Lord our God. How dare you ask me to sacrifice the very heart of my belief with deception. You would make a mockery of me and the true religion,” Sampson shook his head in disgust and began to walk away.

  “You are not dressing up as a woman for your own pleasure. And I thought that to do what was right and just was more acceptable to the Lord than any sacrifice?” Merton called after him.

  Sampson stopped walking and turned slowly around, his anger so great that for a moment he could not speak. “You would use my Lord’s Proverbs against me?”

  “I desire not sacrifice, but mercy,” Merton continued. “Mercy for Amandine, for she has done nothing wrong. Will your conscience really let her burn? You have but a moment to decide.”

  37

  Amandine braced herself when she heard the key turn in the lock. Not much longer now and this insufferable wait would be over.

  She had cried so hard and for so long that she felt like a wet rag that had been walloped across a rock and wrung within an inch of its life. It felt as if a drummer had taken up residence behind her eyes and he was banging that drum of his for all he was worth. Louder, her head pounded, and louder still, until it drowned out any other sound. Amandine would need no drumbeat to escort her to the pyre — she would just step in time to the beat in her head.

  She fought to stay awake for despite it all, her body was heavy with exhaustion, and it was a struggle to keep her eyes open. Perhaps if she slept now, then she could lose herself in the time she had left to dreams. What a relief that would be. And then when they came for her, she could pretend that reality was an extension of a dream. A nightmare in which she would awaken from at any given moment. But no such luck.

  Bang! Bang! Bang! Went her invisible drummer, making sleep impossible. Amandine knew why her head hurt so much. The pain was self-inflicted. Her head hurt, not only because of the tears she had shed and the many sleepless nights she had experienced, but it was also because she had not eaten in days and she had stopped drinking yesterday when she learnt she would die by fire. A small part of her hoped that by starving herself, she would die before the executioner got his hands on her. But she had left it too late. She should have stopped eating and drinking the moment she learnt she was to die.

  “I will die with honour this day,” she told herself. “I will die like a du Lac.” The potion that Bastian had given her would dim her wits and stop her from screaming aloud.

  Amandine considered what she would say if they let her speak before they lit the pyre. She decided she would be kind to her accusers. She would shame them with her piety and her forgiveness. And Philippe would look upon her and know that he had made a terrible mistake.

  The small window, at that moment, allowed a shaft of light to enter her chamber. She raised her aching head and watched, fascinated, as the sunlight highlighted the dust floating around in the air. That is what she would be soon. Dust. But at least she would be free at last. Free to go where she willed. Free from her accusers. Free from blame. Free from everything.

  The door opened, but Amandine did not turn her head to see who entered, for there was no need to. She had nothing to say to the monks. There was nothing that she wanted to repent. And there was nothing that they could say, which would give her any comfort. It was, after all, their condemnations that drove this day forward.

  Abbot Daniel cleared his throat. “Lady Amandine?”

  She heard the concern in his voice, but she could not bring herself to acknowledge him. What she would have done for a visit from this kindly Abbot all these many months, but he had stayed away. And now, at the moment of her death, when she was gone past caring, he came. It was too little, too late.

  Amandine was sat on the bed; the Abbot knelt down in front of her. He took her cold and trembling hands in his. He said her name again, but she could not bring herself to look at him. The drum in her head was getting louder. BANG! BANG! And a whooshing sound like the sea crashing against the shore was vibrating in her ears.

  “Drink this.”

  She felt a cup being put to her parched, cracked lips. But she ignored the offering, and the weak ale trickled down her face.

  “Don’t you dare give up now,” Abbot Daniel urged. “Not when we are so close to getting you to safety. Drink, my Lady, drink. Brother Sampson, help me.”

  “What have they done to her?” Sampson, who was dressed in a nun’s habit and a veil, stared at Amandine in shock. “She is nothing but skin and bones. This isn’t going to work, Daniel. She is afflicted. Look at her face. Look at her eyes.”

  “It has to work,” Abbot Daniel stated with urgency. “She does not deserve to die in this horrendous way.”

  “The Pope has ordered—”

  “Damn the Pope, man,” Abbot Daniel spat. “He is wrong. In this instance he is wrong. Brother Sampson, I know you are troubled by what we do today. I know you do not want to be here. But you said you cared for Merton very much.”

  “God placed him in my path,” Sampson stated, clearly agitated. “But I don’t know why? He has rejected God. He has become a non-believer, he hankers for the Old Religion of his forefathers. He will no longer listen to reason.”

  “Calm yourself, Brother. You are right in what you say. Merton was placed in your path for a reason. But maybe that reason had nothing to do with Merton and everything to do with her.”

  “But the Pope, he is the successor of Saint Peter. How can he be wrong in his judgement? God guides his hand. He says she must die.”

  “He also said Merton must die, but you felt no qualms in saving Merton’s life and yet…”

  “Women are…” Sampson looked down at the reeds on the floor in embarrassment, blushing bashfully.

  “Women are what?” Abbot Daniel queried, a frown marring his face.

  Sampson struggled to form an answer, and Abbot Daniel laughed softly.

  “I have seen too many times young monks blame women for all the evils of the world. Eve was the wicked one, not Adam — that is what we are taught, is it not? I do not hold that belief. Both were equally to blame for the fall from grace. Both chose to disobey God. Merton has killed many, and yet, you were willing to forgive him. Amandine has killed no one, and yet, she is somehow unworthy of your mercy. My dear Sampson, Amandine is innocent of the crimes she stands accused of. She is no devil worshipper.”

  “I have been dwelling a lot on her these past few days. Like everyone else, I thought she was dead. A devil worshipper she is not, but we cannot pretend that she is not a sinful woman,” Sampson stated. “And the Bible says—”

  “I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven — as her great love has shown. But whoever has been forgiven little loves little. Do not forget Jesus’ teaching and do not be swayed by mans’ opinion. Do not forget what I have taught you about the Bible and the world. You have always been a good pupil, but be careful where your thoughts take you. I will not always be around to guide you, although I would nev
er leave you,” Abbot Daniel smiled at Sampson’s confusion. “You have learnt much, but there is much to learn still, young one, about God and his mercy. Remember that sometimes we must do what our heart says is right and ignore what our superiors order. You saved Merton’s life — that in itself is a miracle. Now God has given you a chance to save Amandine’s life as well. God has chosen you for this task. You are doing God’s work. You know, in your heart, that what we are doing is right. I know you do. Brother Sampson, you have a connection with God the likes of which I have never seen. Let God guide your hands in everything, and if you do, I think your life will be an extraordinary one. Do not let men of power and their false words corrupt you. Now,” Abbot Daniel smiled, “get changed and let us please God by saving a worthy soul, for I truly believe that Amandine is deserving.”

  Abbot Daniel turned his attention back to Amandine.

  “We are going to dress you up as a nun, and you are going to walk out of here. There is a boat that has come all the way from Cerniw, on King Alden’s orders, to rescue you.”

  “Alden?” Amandine’s bloodshot eyes tried to focus on the Abbot’s kindly face, but everything was going blurry. She felt as if she were in the sea, the water rising steadily over her head. And there were things floating before her very eyes — if she reached out, she could touch them. She could see the Abbot mouthing words, but she couldn’t hear him. She had not been able to follow the conversation the Abbot had with his fellow companion. Their words were muffled, indistinct. Only the odd word broke through the thick fog. Alden’s name had been one of them.

  “Drink,” Abbot Daniel encouraged.

  This time she swallowed. The ale slid down her parched throat and eased the soreness there.

  “Good girl, keep drinking. You must be able to walk, my dear, if you are to live.”

  “Pass me a piece of that bread,” Abbot Daniel ordered softly. “Goodness knows the last time she ate. It is obvious she has been starving herself, or dare I say, been starved.”

  Sampson, with the habit around his ankles and the veil still on his head, reached for the plate and handed it to the Abbot.