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

by Mary Anne Yarde

  If it were discovered that Merton lived, then he would be hunted like a deer. And his enemies would not stop until they had felled him, and that, Alden would not allow.

  Alden’s thoughts lingered on the unnamed dead soldier they had carved up and left in the dungeon for Philippe to find. He felt terrible shame at what they had been forced to do that day. They had been desperate, but it didn’t make it any easier to live with what they had done. Alden had Mass said five times a day for the dead warrior. It was the least he could do. He hoped it would be enough to ensure the deceased’s soul sped quickly through Purgatory and found lasting peace in Heaven.

  Alden ran a hand over his eyes and rubbed his forehead, willing away a headache. They had all been changed by the events of that day. The knowledge that all this time, Mordred Pendragon had been watching them, waiting patiently as he silently inflicted his revenge, made Alden question everything he thought he knew and everyone he had ever met. Mordred had murdered Alden’s parents, his uncles and goodness knows who else. And now he had his claws in their cousin, Philippe. Philippe was such a naive fool. He may have won Brittany, but he wouldn’t keep her. Mordred was using him, and when Philippe had served his purpose, he would be disposed of. Alden hoped that he would be there to see it. After what Philippe did to Merton, he deserved everything that was coming to him.

  This desperately unstable time should have been a cause for unity between Alden and his brothers. But now, they were more divided than they had ever been. It left them all vulnerable. Not that he could tell his older brother, Budic, that. In truth, he hoped never to see the bastard again. He and Budic had always had a very strained relationship. It had started when Alden was born and had not improved over the years. Budic hated him, and that was that. There was no common ground where they could meet in the middle. Budic is as Budic was, he would not change for anyone, especially not for Alden. And that was the end of it.

  But Merton…he was different. Alden felt a parental responsibility towards him, even though there was only a year’s difference between the two of them. The death of their parents had affected Merton very deeply. He had only been ten, still a child, when they had died. Merton was a little boy in need of his father’s guidance and desperate for his mother’s love. Budic, the eldest brother, had not the time for a grieving little boy. And Garren was busy securing his own life, which left Alden to pick up the broken pieces of a child who thought everyone he loved was going to die. Alden promised Merton that he would always be there for him, no matter what. But now all he could think about was that he had forsaken Merton in this, his most desperate hour of need. He should be with him. He should be helping him come to terms with Amandine’s death. It was his responsibility to help Merton through this difficult time, and yet, instead, he had surrendered that responsibility to a monk. A monk? How ridiculous. The Devil was now under the charge of a Saint — a would-be one anyway. Alden trusted Sampson with Merton’s life. He knew that while Sampson breathed, then no physical harm would come to his brother. Alden had no doubt that Sampson would live a charmed life. He was a favourite of God’s after all. Merton would be physically safe if he stayed close to him. But it wasn’t the physical that Alden was worried about.

  Alden closed his eyes again and breathed out slowly through his mouth. The last thing he wanted was to burst into tears. A king that cried? That would never do. But at night, when Annis pulled him close, he gave way to tears, and he shared his darkest fears with her. His fears for Merton. His fears for the future. She would listen and hold him tight. She made no false promises that it would be all right because it wouldn’t. She missed Merton too and often she would cry along with him. Merton wasn’t dead, but he might as well be, and they both grieved for him dreadfully.

  “Sire, the Ambassador of Brittany has arrived, and he is demanding an audience with you.”

  The Hall fell silent. The dog, sensing something wrong, lifted his head and started to whine. All eyes turned to the King. Some wore expressions of shock, while others, anger. Annis squeezed Alden’s hand again and then let go. Alden regarded his Herald through suspicious eyes. He felt his heart pick up speed and he felt the uncomfortable and unwelcomed sensation of nerves in his stomach. This was the last thing he had expected.

  “I must have misheard you because I thought you just said the Ambassador of Brittany has arrived.”

  “I did,” the Herald bowed respectfully low.

  The atmosphere in the Hall instantly changed, and those who were armed reached for their weapons.

  “Are you telling me that Philippe has the audacity to send his Ambassador to me?” Alden asked, anger in his voice. He rose from his chair, the dog got to his feet, wagging his tail and looking up at his master with expectation. Alden stared intently at his Herald. “HE HAS SENT HIM TO ME?” He yelled the words. His knights instantly withdrew their swords as if they were expecting the army of Brittany to burst through the door at any moment. The dog whined and went over to Annis for reassurance.

  “It appears so. Can I slit his throat?” the Herald asked with hope.

  No one from Philippe’s court was welcome on Cerniw soil, and that was never going to change. Philippe was a fool to send his Ambassador here.

  A man stepped forward. His grey eyes, so similar to Alden’s, looked on patiently at all the agitated faces. There was a calmness about this man. A sense of serenity would come over you when you were in his presence — Alden avoided him like the plague. His eyes finally came to rest with compassion on the King’s face. Alden could not hold his gaze. It hurt to look at him the same way it hurt if you looked too long at the sun. Garren was the image of what Merton had once looked like, apart from the hair. Garren’s hair was a nondescript brown, like his own, Merton’s was a dark red, the colour their mother’s hair had been.

  “I think we should see what he has to say,” Garren du Lac spoke with an air of calm diplomacy that was not welcomed in a Hall that wanted vengeance.

  “Why?” Casworon, one of Alden’s knights, asked before spitting on the ground in disgust. “Philippe murdered Merton, he beat our King, threw him in the dungeons—”

  “I know what he did,” Garren stated, his voice did not rise, but there was a sharpness to it that hadn’t been there before. “And I hate him and Mordred as much, if not more so than anyone else ever could. I lost my wife. I lost my brother. And I lost my home,” he looked back at Alden. “But, if Philippe has sent his ambassador then that means he is in the mood to talk—”

  “What could he possibly say that I would want to hear?” Alden challenged, glaring at his older brother as he did so. “You were not there that day. You did not witness what he did. You did not watch your brother die. Do not ask me to listen to that bastard’s ambassador. I have not the patience or the stomach for it. This is my kingdom, Garren, and I will say who can step into my Hall.”

  “I am sorry I wasn’t there,” Garren answered with sincerity alight in his eyes. “You will never know how sorry I am. But war does not make peace. All it does is tell you who had the most weapons and the most men. And yet, both sides leave the mothers and the wives to bury the dead. Tell me, who wins? And besides, you can not fight a war on all fronts, brother.”

  “You have been back for a season, and now you think you have the right to tell me how to run my kingdom,” Alden emphasised the my because, by right, the kingdom was Garren’s, but Alden would be damned if he would give her up. This kingdom was forged with his own blood, sweat and tears. The day he gave Cerniw up would be the day he died.

  “I have seen more than I care to remember,” Garren continued patiently. “I have suffered the humiliation of being sold at a market and bought, as one would do a horse or a goat.”

  Those gathered in the Hall turned their faces away. They all knew what Garren had been through, but that didn’t mean they wanted to hear about it. Talk of slavery, suffering and death made them feel uncomfortable. They didn’t know what to say, or how to act around someone who had been so aggrieved. A
lden was different, he was their king, and any suffering he had endured was for them, so that made him gallant. Unfortunately, Garren had been gone a long time, and no one had quite figured out how to talk to him yet. He was too aloof, silent for the most part, and when he did speak, it was like listening to an ancient one from long ago. He was a wise man, but like all wise men, he made others feel inferior. So when he started to speak, it was the norm for everyone to look the other way. Only Alden’s gaze did not waver from Garren’s face.

  “I had to obey my master’s every whim. I have seen war — forced to fight for a king I never swore allegiance to. I have fought in battles in a land that is so ineptly named, Holy. Each night I would look at the stars and say all of your names in a bid not to forget. And when I finally found my way home, I learnt that I was five months too late. You have every reason to hate Philippe, Alden, as do I, but it is Mordred that is the enemy. If you want revenge for Merton’s death, then you need to forget about Philippe and look to Mordred. I say, let us hear what Philippe has to say and then we can decide what to do next.”

  “An elegant speech,” Alden jeered. “Did you practice that in the slave market?”

  “Alden,” Annis whispered his name, although the censure in her voice was not lost on him.

  “In the slave market I learnt the meaning of suffering. I learnt the meaning of survival. I can promise you the last thing on my mind was elegant speeches.”

  “And yet, here you are, dressed in your finery, commanding the attention of my Hall.”

  “Why are you trying to pick a fight with me?” Garren asked softly.

  “Because you are the only man among us who wants to listen to what Philippe has to say. I do not recognise his sovereignty, and I will never forgive him.”

  “Are you not even a little curious? What harm would it do to hear him out?”

  “Show the Ambassador of Brittany what a Cerniw welcome is like. And someone get me an axe,” Alden said, the look on his face daring Garren to contradict him.

  A great cheering rose up from the knights at Alden’s words.

  “So you are personally going to make the Ambassador a head shorter?” Garren jeered when the cheering had died down. “What will that accomplish? You will just stain your hands with innocent blood.”

  “How dare you,” Casworon said, withdrawing his sword and marching purposely towards Garren. “How dare you speak to the King in such a manner.”

  “It is all right,” Alden said, holding up his hand to stop Casworon’s progress.

  “We have a traitor in our midst. You, Sir,” Casworon pointed at Garren with the tip of his blade, “are a Pendragon.”

  The accusation hung in the air.

  “That is like accusing Jesus of being the Devil,” Garren stated. “I am a du Lac, and I am proud of that. I am proud of my heritage, and I am proud of my family. I would rather fall on my sword than fight for Pendragon.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Casworon stated, his blue eyes cold with animosity.

  “I really couldn’t care less what you believe,” Garren said, then he stepped towards Alden. “I know you don’t trust me and I can understand your hesitation in listening to my council. I was gone for a long time, and suddenly I return like a bolt out of the blue. Believe me, Alden, it was just a coincidence that I arrived not long after Mordred had made his presence known again. I am not associated with him in any way, shape or form. I swear in front of the Almighty himself, I would never betray you. Alden, one day I would like to travel to Brittany so that I can lay flowers on my wife’s grave. And I want to kneel at my brother’s grave and thank him for trying to protect her. If Philippe is offering his hand, then maybe one day I will be able to do that, but if you ignore him, then I never will.”

  Alden shook his head ever so slightly. Garren didn’t know that Merton lived, and he certainly did not know that his wife and his brother had been intimate. If he did, then maybe he would be singing an altogether different tune. Alden felt his wife’s knowing gaze on him, but he ignored her. No doubt she would have something to say about this later on.

  “Swear fealty to Alden then,” Casworon challenged.

  “Aye, swear fealty,” another knight stated.

  Garren continued to look at his brother, while those around him demanded he fall to his knees.

  “If I swear fealty, will you wait to pass judgement on the Ambassador of Brittany?”

  “No,” Alden replied tight-lipped.

  Garren chuckled, although no one else did and his laughter faded to nothing. “You drive a hard bargain, don’t you?”

  “No,” Alden said again, his face blank of emotion and his eyes looked like granite, unreadable, distant. “You should only pledge fealty if that is what is in your heart. You should not pledge it so you can get what you want.”

  “And you have been a king for how long?” Garren queried with a gentle mocking scorn.

  “Longer than you,” Alden reminded him. “Do not fear; I don’t want your fealty. I don’t want you here. I think it is time you go on to Dyfed, spend time with Budic. You have just outstayed your welcome.” He sounded like a child throwing a tantrum, he knew he did, but he couldn’t seem to stop. The words just kept coming. Alden had dreamed of Garren one day walking through those doors, alive and well. But now Garren was here, all he felt was anger. And he didn’t know why.

  “What possible harm could it cause to listen—”

  “THAT IS ENOUGH,” Alden yelled, rapidly losing his patience. “If you want to talk to the Ambassador, then be my guest, but I will not allow him to sully my Hall.”

  “Then, I have my King’s permission to talk to him?” Garren asked, feeling it wise to double check.

  “NO, YOU DO NOT HAVE MY PERMISSION,” Alden yelled again, his eyes sparkling with rage.

  “Then I shall make the arrangements to leave. It is very obvious that my presence is not welcomed here…” Garren’s words were cut short when he realised that he no longer held Alden’s attention. Alden was looking past him at someone, and Garren turned to see who it was.

  A monk had entered the Hall. His coarse grey habit was splattered with mud, and his face was weary from travel.

  “Sire,” the monk came to stand next to Garren. “Brother Sampson sends his regard. He hopes that this letter,” the monk held the letter out for Alden to take. “Finds you in good health.”

  Alden rose to his feet, stepped forward and took the letter, although he didn’t open it. For a moment he and the monk simply stared at each other.

  “And how is Brother Sampson?” Alden asked.

  There was a trace of nervousness in Alden’s words that Garren picked up on and he looked at the monk and then his brother, trying to guess the reason why.

  “He is steadfast in his devotions,” the monk replied.

  “Good,” Alden answered. “Now, if you will excuse me,” Alden crossed the Hall and opened the door to his private chambers, the dog following close to his heels.

  Garren watched him leave and then he turned his attention to the Queen. For a moment their gazes held. Then the Queen stood, and without a word, followed in the footsteps of her husband. James, the General of Alden’s Army, followed in her wake. James reached the door and there he stopped. He turned around and looked at the Hall. Those in the Hall began to talk, but Garren remained where he was and stared at James with suspicion. James stared back and then, with a discreet tilt of his head, he indicated for Garren to leave the Hall. The conversation of the knights penetrated Garren’s thoughts. There was anger in the knights’ words, and a lot of it was directed at him. Garren knew when it was time to leave, so he turned and marched for the exit. He looked back once at James. Whatever was in that letter was obviously more important than anything the King of Brittany had to offer.

  Alden placed the letter on the table and for a moment simply stared at it. He heard Annis’ soft footsteps as she crossed the room and came to stand beside him.

  “I don’t know what is worse,” Al
den admitted, his eyes still fully focused on the letter. “The waiting for news, or the receiving of it.”

  “It is not going to read itself, is it?” Annis leant her head against his shoulder, and his arm crept around her waist, keeping her close.

  “Sampson has never sent a letter before,” Alden’s voice shook as he spoke. “Something has happened to…”

  “I am sure Galahad is fine,” Annis reassured.

  Galahad was the name that Merton now went by, although Alden doubted he would ever get used to calling him that.

  Annis reached for the letter. She broke the seal and unrolled the parchment, before handing it to Alden. Alden hesitated in taking the letter from her. But then with a big inhale, he took it and read Sampson’s neat cursive hand.

  “What does it say?” Annis queried.

  Alden read the letter twice more before looking at his wife.

  “He’s gone,” Alden stated.

  “Gone?” Annis asked, tears gathering in her eyes, “He’s dead?”

  “No, not dead. Gone.” Alden looked back down at the letter. “He threatened one of the monks with a knife, made the poor bastard row him to the mainland and then disappeared. Sampson has looked everywhere for him, but it is as if he has vanished into thin air.”

  “I don’t understand. Why…why would he…what?” Annis breathed out unsteadily. “His wounds…how long has he been gone?”