On his journey, he had avoided people, for he knew they would react as they had on the bridge over the Tamar. But this mad old pagan woman had not once treated him as something inferior, or something to be feared. She had walked miles, in great discomfort, to find the owner of a horse and now she welcomed him into her home, despite his Christian upbringing. She was alone here, that much was obvious. Why would she trust him? He could kill her, and no one would ever know. She was taking a risk, inviting a stranger into her house. She was some foolish version of the Good Samaritan. The thought almost made him smile — he doubted very much Tegan would appreciate the comparison.
Snow began to fall from the darkening sky. Jenna was right it seemed, Merton laughed softly to himself. If Tegan had not come for him, then he would have died this day, and Amandine would never have been avenged. The thought sobered him. Sampson had once said that he was convinced that Merton had been spared from death because God had this grand plan for him. Merton doubted very much if that plan involved an old Druid woman.
“Are you coming in or not?” Tegan asked from inside.
Merton stepped over the threshold, and he felt a sense of rightness, just like he had felt back at the Standing Stones. He was meant to be here. For what purpose, he didn’t know.
The curtain fell shut behind him, trapping in the warmth. Immediately the skin on his hand and face began to burn with the change of temperature. He wished for a bucket of warm water he could soak his hand in to restore the blood flow. But by the time it took for the water to be heated, his hand would have stopped hurting.
He took a moment to let his eyes adjust to the darkness of the room. The room smelt homely. He glanced up at the ceiling and saw bundles of dried herbs and strings of garlic hanging from the rafters, so either Tegan liked cooking or, as he had suspected, she was one of those superstitious types.
“There is always food in this cauldron,” Tegan spoke with pride as she lifted the heavy black cauldron over the fire. “I never know who is going to drop by. Not that I get many visitors. You are the first in…” she paused as she hooked the cauldron onto the hanging frame, and then she began to count on her fingers, “three years.”
“You haven’t seen anyone in three years?” Merton asked in disbelief.
Tegan shrugged as if it wasn’t a big deal and shook her head. “Maybe four, to tell you the truth I can’t remember. Are you hungry?”
In answer, Merton’s stomach grumbled, for whatever was in that cauldron smelt delicious.
“How long have you been alone?” Merton asked.
“My husband died a while ago,” Tegan said. “I am happy that he is in the Otherworld. I do not mourn him…not now. I guess there comes a time when you cannot cry anymore.” She shrugged as if the death of her husband was inconsequential. But Merton could see in her eyes that his death was anything but.
“Is it true what they say? Is time a healer? Does it get easier?” Merton asked. It was hard for him to imagine a future when he didn’t feel so absolutely devastated by Amandine’s death.
“Yes. Yes, it does. There will always be good days and bad days, but life…it goes on. And on…” She said and then she cleared her throat. “I don’t know about you, but all that walking has made me ravenous. Luckily I prepared this stew earlier, all it needs is warming through. Now I make the best stew in all the Southern Kingdoms, and that is a fact. You won’t go hungry while you are here. My trusted cauldron will make sure of it.”
“I can believe you, it smells delicious,” Merton said as he looked around the room. Appearances can be deceiving they say. To his delight, he had been deceived. There were no animals inside the house, and everything had its place. There were huge storage jars and smaller ones filled with nuts and dried fruits from the forest. There was enough food stored here to keep a small village fed throughout the winter. He looked back at Tegan with surprise.
“In summer, remember winter,” Tegan spoke an ancient Cerniw proverb as if that alone explained why she had so much food.
Merton tilted his head in understanding and then continued his inspection of the room.
The house would have been of average size if it were not for all the furniture in it. Never had he seen a peasant house furnished with such a wonderful collection of items. The beautiful and intricately carved bed would not have looked out of place in a castle. He wondered how she got the bed in through the door — maybe the house had been built around it. Fine furs, that no peasant would ever be able to afford in their lifetime, covered the bed. There was even a woven rug on the floor. Who the hell was she?
Merton leant heavily on the walking stick and turned his head to take in the rest of the room. There were many chests of various sizes, pushed up against the wall. A fire pit in the middle of the room embraced the house with warmth and light, the smoke swirling upwards to escape through a small hole in the roof. There was a tapestry above the bed — an image of a knight dressed for combat. Merton turned to look at the wall behind him, and he couldn’t believe what he saw for there was a vast variety of weapons on display — swords, shields, axes, spears — the blades catching the light of the fire. Merton surmised if he were to touch the edges of the blades he would find them sharp for there was not a speck of rust on them. Who was this woman? And what did she want with him?
His eyes were drawn back to his rescuer. Tegan was muttering to herself as she stirred the cauldron. She tore up a handful of dry herbs and threw them into the stew.
“Sit down. Sit down,” Tegan muttered. When she briefly caught his gaze, she pointed to the bed.
Merton stayed where he was. “I don’t understand,” he said, looking about him again at all the riches that were on display. “Where did you get all of this?” he turned his head to look at her.
“I was a thief,” Tegan replied straight-faced, and then she winked.
“You must have robbed some very wealthy people,” Merton said, humouring her. He turned his attention back to the display of weapons. If she wanted to pretend she was a thief, then so be it.
“You have no idea,” Tegan said in a tone that made him want to ask more questions. But when he turned back around to look at her, she was concentrating on stirring the stew.
“This isn’t a peasant’s house,” Merton muttered, his eyes drawn back to the weapons — it was as if he couldn’t look away from them. He had lost his sword in Brittany, and when he had left Cerniw with Sampson, he had carried no weapons. All he had about his person was a small knife that he had stolen from the monastery kitchens. He felt naked without a blade hanging by his side.
“It is hard to explain about a life already lived,” Tegan said as she continued to stir her stew. “My husband and I wanted to lose the madness. Get away. Escape. But we had no intention of living like peasants. We packed up everything we could onto a cart, and after many weeks of travelling, we stumbled upon this place. It was as if she was waiting for us. We made a home here. We made a life, and for a time the madness stayed away.”
“Who was your husband?” Merton asked, looking at the weapons again. With a collection like this, he must have been a great warrior — one of King Marke’s knights or, perhaps, one of Arthur’s?
“Does it matter?” she asked. “You wouldn’t recognise his name, even if I said it. But, he was a great man. He was genuine and kind — a gem in a world full of stones. You would have hated him.”
“Yes, I always hate genuine and kind men,” Merton said, rolling his eyes. “Doesn’t everyone?”
“You would have hated him because when you looked in his face, you would have seen your own shortcomings.”
“I do not need to look upon another man to see that.” He glanced down at what was left of his arm.
“I wasn’t talking about the physical,” Tegan replied quietly. “Now, go and sit down, the food will be ready directly.”
There were several chairs drawn up to the fire. Merton chose the one with a cushion; it seemed a better bet than perching on the bed. He fidgeted for
a while, trying to make himself comfortable. In the end, he gave up and sat up straight on the edge of the seat.
Tegan pretended not to notice his discomfort as she poured some dark red mead from a clay pitcher into a cup. “Now this will warm your cockles, my boy, make no mistake about that.” She handed the cup to Merton.
Merton took a sip and grimaced for the mead was very strong. It tasted vile, like a potion he had been forced to take by the healer when he was seven.
“Now I made that myself, out of rowan berries,” Tegan said with pride. “The first sip, as you have discovered, will make you want to empty the contents of your stomach. But by the third sip, this will be your new favourite drink.”
Merton took another cautious sip. The second was as bad as the first.
“One more time,” Tegan edged him on with humour.
To appease her, Merton raised the cup to his mouth. This time, when he swallowed the mead, it didn’t burn his throat as it had done the first two times. He closed his eyes and savoured the sweetness of the berries mixed with the warmth of the honey. Tegan was right; it was good. When he opened his eyes again, Tegan was grinning from ear to ear.
“Told you, didn’t I?” she went back to her cauldron and Merton was content to sit by the fire and warm himself.
It wasn’t long before Tegan was offering him a bowl full of steaming stew. He balanced the stew on his lap and took the offered wooden spoon. The stew was exquisite, as fine as any he had ever eaten in his brother’s Great Hall. He savoured the first few mouthfuls, but then he suddenly didn’t feel hungry anymore. His appetite, or lack of, had been a great concern to Sampson, but the truth was as soon as Merton started to eat then his hunger would vanish. He didn’t know why. He had always had such a huge appetite before the beating.
“When was the last time you ate?” Tegan asked as she popped another spoonful of stew into her mouth.
“A couple of days ago,” Merton answered. He forced himself to take another mouthful.
“Then you should be hungry,” Tegan observed. “There is plenty in the cauldron.”
“Thank you. You are most generous,” his words were overly polite, forced almost. He stirred the stew in his bowl with his spoon.
“And don’t you forget it,” Tegan said, her eyes sparkling with humour as she brought another heaped spoonful to her mouth.
Merton made himself eat. He didn’t want to appear ungrateful, and besides, the old proverb was right, winter was the hardest season to live through — food was hard to come by, and many would die because they didn’t have enough to eat. Who was he to waste food?
When they had finished eating, Tegan took his empty bowl and placed both his and hers by the door for the cat. The cat, which had made himself scarce until now, ran inside and began to lick up the residue cooking juices that were left in the bowls.
“I still have my husband’s clothes,” Tegan spoke the words as if she had just discovered how to turn pebbles into gold. She crossed the room and opened a heavy oak chest. “I know I am an old fool to keep them, but I could not bear to be rid of them. They will be a might too big for you; my husband liked his food, and I liked to cook.” Tegan rummaged through the chest for what seemed like an age. Merton was content to listen to her mumblings and felt himself smiling when she discovered something that she had apparently placed in the chest a long time ago for safe keeping and then forgot where she had put it.
“Finally,” she said triumphantly as she pulled out a tunic made of the finest wool. She held the fabric to her nose and inhaled. The tunic still had the scent of the bag of herbs she had placed on top of it to deter the moths, but it no longer smelt of her husband. For a moment she looked at the garment, lost in memory. When she rose to her feet, there was a slight glisten to her eyes. She sniffed and made much ado about shaking the garment out. She was pleased to discover that despite the fold marks, the garment wasn’t that creased. She hobbled back over to where Merton sat in the chair.
“Like I said, it won’t be the greatest of fits, but it will do, at least until I have had a chance to clean your clothes.”
“You have done so much for me already. I wouldn’t expect you to—”
“You hush now. I like washing clothes.”
“No one likes washing clothes,” Merton argued with humour.
“Well, I do. So there,” Tegan stated, but then her attention turned to the brooch that held his cloak together. She didn’t speak. She just stared, and Merton began to feel uneasy. He watched her with caution as she stretched out her fingers and touched it.
“I never thought I would see that again,” Tegan muttered as her fingers traced the three small engravings on the brooch.
“Again?” Merton asked, hoping he sounded baffled.
“The crest of the du Lacs,” she looked into his face for a moment and then back down at the brooch. “Where did you get it?”
“I found it,” Merton struggled over the words as he tried to think of a plausible story, while he silently berated himself for being such an idiot. What had he been thinking? It was bound to have been recognised at some point. “I found it lying in the dirt. I did not know what it meant. I did not know it had any connection with the du Lacs,” he lied.
“Did you not?” Tegan asked in a voice that showed her disbelief. She undid the brooch and placed it on the palm of her hand. “The wild boar is the emblem of Cerniw,” she pointed to the boar and then her finger travelled to the next engraving. “The ermine is the emblem of Brittany and here look,” she pointed to a tiny flower, “the water lily, the emblem of the du Lacs. This was Lancelot du Lac’s brooch, once upon a time. It is probably worth some money if you had the mind to sell it. But I don’t think you do.” She smiled as she slipped the cloak from his shoulders and laid it over the back of her chair. “Your cloak will soon dry by the fire. I will brush the mud off then. Now, we must get you out of that tunic. I wouldn’t want you to catch a cold.”
Merton shook his head. “I am fine,” he sipped some more of the mead, and he found it a struggle now to keep his eyes open as exhaustion overtook him.
“Said the blind man to the deaf man, who wasn’t really listening,” she grinned. “I have seen a man’s chest before,” she stated in all seriousness, although there was still a hint of humour in her eyes. “I promise, I won’t faint.”
“It isn’t a pretty sight,” Merton stated, and he looked away, embarrassed. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”
“I was there when the Saxons defeated Arthur in the Summer Lands. Worst day of my life, or so I had thought.”
“You were there?” Merton asked, staring at her intently. He had never spoken to anyone who had actually been at the battlefield that day, unless you counted Cerdic of Wessex, but Merton never counted him. “You were at the battle?”
“The battle was only the beginning. It wasn’t enough for the Saxons that Arthur was dead and his Knights were defeated. They had their revenge, but they wanted more. Every village those Saxon bastards marched through on the way to Camelot, they set alight. Every. Single. One. There was no mercy, not even for a babe in arms. Blood ran in the rivers. The sky vanished under a thick cloud of black smoke,” Tegan said as she handed her husband’s tunic to Merton, although she kept hold of Merton’s brooch. “A few managed to escape the carnage, but many were badly burnt — some beyond recognition. But I knew them, here,” she pointed to her head, for it was a well-known fact that the Druids believed that the soul dwelled in the head. “I recognised them, despite them being unrecognisable. When I said I had seen worse scarring than yours, I meant it. But have heart son, with time and with the right treatment — my treatment — the redness of your scars will diminish, and you will look roguishly handsome. You will have to carry a stick with you to beat off all the mothers who want you for their daughters.”
“I have lost my arm,” Merton stated, the bitterness in his words were not hard to miss and besides he had no interest in mothers and their daughters.
�
�I have lost my virginity, but who cares?” Tegan replied dryly.
Merton snorted in amusement and shook his head. She truly was outrageous.
“Do you think less of me because of it?” Tegan tilted her head while she waited for his answer.
“I do. I am disappointed in you,” Merton responded, a grin pulling at his lips. “I like to think of you as something innocent and pure.”
This time it was Tegan’s turn to chortle. “It has been a long old time since I was pure. In fact, I don’t think there ever was a time. I will not think less of you if I see your scars. I never understand why people are so ashamed of scars. You should be proud of them for it means you are a survivor.”
Merton shook his head in disagreement. “When I see my scars, all I can think about is how I failed.”
“You are looking at them wrong then, aren’t you?”
Merton sighed deeply at her words.
“Just take your damn tunic off,” Tegan said, clearly exasperated.
Merton came to a decision. He rose to his feet with difficulty for the long walk this morning had taken a toll on his body. Once he was sure of his balance, he reached up to pull the tunic over his head.
Tegan watched as he struggled with the tunic, but she did not offer to help, she knew better.
It took a lot longer than was the norm for Merton to take the tunic off, but eventually, he did, and he looked down at the woven rug in shame. He held the tunic in his hand and slowly raised his head.
Tegan frowned, but she wasn’t looking at his scars or the tangled mess that was his arm. She was looking at his shoulders, for the right side was clearly lower than the left. “Stand up straight,” she ordered softly.
The Du Lac Princess: (Book 3 of The Du Lac Chronicles) Page 11