Yrre and Eadger began to converse in their native tongue, effectively shutting Garren out of the conversation. He didn’t mind. It gave him a chance to gather his thoughts. He hoped that he would receive a warmer welcome here, than the decidedly frosty one that Alden had given him in Cerniw.
Garren’s arrival in Cerniw had not been the homecoming he had dreamed it would be. Alden had initially refused to see him and had ordered that he be dragged to the Cave and chained to the rock. Garren had come home, and Alden had sentenced him, without speaking to him, without even seeing him, to a traitor’s death. Why would he do such a thing? James had promised he would do everything in his power to change Alden’s mind. The old general had then left Garren alone in the dark, damp cave to think about his own mortality.
Garren would have laughed at the irony if his heart were not so heavy. He had spent the last ten years desperately trying to get out of chains, and when he finally made it back into du Lac territory, when he finally found his way home, his hands were once again shackled. He could have screamed at the injustice of it. Instead, he waited with quiet patience for the tide to come in. Garren knew that there were worst ways to die than by drowning, so maybe this was a blessing in disguise. And he supposed that in some way it was nice, knowing that he was to die on Cerniw soil and not in some foreign land where he did not belong.
The tide was up to his hips when James finally came and got him. James had apologised for the delay, but Garren brushed away his apologies. James was only obeying orders. It wasn’t his fault.
Alden had looked every bit the king as he sat on the Cerniw throne with his Saxon Queen by his side. Despite the shaky beginning, Garren still felt a tremendous amount of pride as he looked upon him. This was his younger brother, grown up into a man, a king. He had always known Alden was destined for greatness and he was thankful that he had lived to see it.
“You are the image of Father,” Garren had stuttered the words for he was cold from the water. James placed a fur on his shoulders, which Garren was thankful for and then James left them to it.
Alden sat back in his throne and regarded him for a long time. Garren became uneasy under the appraisal, so he sought out the calm place that he had found inside himself not long after he was first taken.
“Why are you here?” Alden had finally asked.
“Where else was I supposed to go?” Garren had asked, his words thick with emotion.
Alden had not been satisfied with that answer, and he had thrown one question after another at Garren. By the time Alden was through with his interrogation, Garren was exhausted. When Alden got up to leave, Garren had dared to ask how Amandine fared.
“She is dead,” Alden had answered coldly, and then he had left the room without looking back.
“She is dead?” Garren asked, looking at Alden’s Queen for confirmation.
Annis had got up and came to stand before him. “I am so sorry,” she had said.
Garren and the Queen sat down together and with care and diligence, Annis filled him in on what had happened these past years. She was careful with her wording, watching his reaction, knowing when to stop and when to continue. She explained all about the war and Mordred. She helped him understand, in part, why Alden was acting the way he was. Annis had even offered her shoulder when his tears came. The story she told was brutal, but she delivered it with compassion and honesty — what more could he ask for?
“State your business,” one of King Aergol’s knights demanded, as he rode closer towards them. The knight had an incredibly strong accent. He spoke slowly, punctuating each syllable as if all words should be given the respect that they were due. The knight had a weatherworn face that was full of wrinkles. His hair was as white as snow, but his eyes were clear and showed a quick wit and sharp intelligence. The other knight was younger, with a face full of wispy hair and a forehead full of pimples.
“I am Garren du Lac. Son of the late Lancelot du Lac of Brittany—”
“Garren?” The knights began to whisper to each other. Their words, unlike before, came out so fast that Garren could no longer follow their conversation.
“And them?” the old knight asked, pointing to Yrre and Eadger. “Who are they?”
“They are knights of Cerniw. My escort,” Garren explained.
The Dyfed knights began to talk again in their hurried speech that only they could understand.
“If you would rather I presented you with my patent of nobility and a note from my King telling you of my authenticity, then I am sure that could be arranged,” Garren stated, interrupting the rapid flow of words.
“Begging your pardon, my Lord,” the older knight said, slowing his speech. “But your escorts are not Cerniw knights. They are Saxon mercenaries. Such men are not welcome in Dyfed.”
“You are as mistaken as you are rude,” Yrre stated. “This is Alden du Lac’s brother, and we were charged with bringing him here. If you refuse us entry, then you would undoubtedly cause embarrassment for your King as well as mine.”
The two Dyfed knights began to converse again. Their words were becoming even more incomprehensible as they debated what they should do.
“I know you. You used to ride with Merton — may God have mercy on his soul,” the old Dyfed knight pointed an accusing finger at Yrre and then Eadger.
“And what if they did?” Garren asked. “They fight for Alden now.”
“They fight for Alden, and yet they used to ride with Merton — there is a difference, isn’t there? Once a mercenary always a mercenary, that is what I say.”
“Once a Dyfed bastard, always a Dyfed bastard,” Yrre returned with a touch of humour. He had learnt how to resolve a situation from the master, and sarcasm had saved Merton’s life more times than he could count. “Is it true that the reason you all sard sheep is because your womenfolk are so ugly?”
The old knight chuckled while the younger one made sure the pommel of his sword was in easy reach. For like many other young knights he was hot-blooded and quick to temper.
“I often wondered why your race was so strong in the arm but thick in the head. Is it because you like to keep things in the family? ” The old knight returned.
“At least we don’t sard sheep all day,” Yrre stated, smiling broadly. “We like women.”
“Women such as your sisters and your mothers, you mean?” The old knight mocked.
Yrre scoffed. “Believe what you want to, old man.”
“I will,” the old knight reached up and scratched his beard. “You are here to see Budic?” he said, turning his attention back to Garren.
“Why else would he be here? He has no interest in sheep,” Yrre answered before Garren could say anything.
“To be honest with you,” the old knight said, “I would prefer a lifetime in the company of sheep than an hour with Budic. Begging your pardon again, my Lord, but when you get to my age, you say it like it is. And you stop giving a rat’s ass about what other people think of you. You had best follow us if you want to see that miserable bastard you call ‘brother.’ Although if I were you, I wouldn’t bother. This way…”
Garren wished he did not have to see Budic because by the sound of it, nothing had changed. He kicked his horse on and reluctantly followed the two knights up the steep road that led to the castle.
“I don’t know how you managed to come all the way from Cerniw on those old nags,” the old knight continued to torment. “But then, I guess, Cerniw is not known for her horseflesh. Is it true that those born in Cerniw have webbing between their fingers and toes?”
“Webbing?” Yrre asked with a frown.
“You know, like ducks. Quack! Quack! Quack!”
“What are you going on about?” Yrre asked.
“Cerniw…” The old knight said the name of the kingdom as if that explained everything.
Yrre shook his head. “That isn’t an explanation. I still don’t understand.”
“It rains in Cerniw. Oh, for the love of…it is a wet country, lots
of boggy land, and rivers, and ponds, and seas. All that wetness causes webbing, like a duck. Oh, I give up…”
The old knight clearly had no issues with insulting everyone and Garren did not know what to make of him.
“Regardless about webbing. You are a fine one to talk about old nags,” Yrre stated, clearly offended. “Your horse, I mean pony, looks like it is about to keel over.”
“Is that a fact?” the knight turned in his saddle to look at Yrre. “Sounds like you might be open to a wager. My horse against yours. Tomorrow. Over there,” the knight pointed back down the road to the other side of the river where a muddy track could easily be made out.
“You want to race?” Yrre chuckled. “You’re on, old man. But you will be eating dust. This here is the fastest horse that ever lived.”
“That’s a bold claim, but I bet on Dyfed soil even an old ass could beat him. My name is Bedwyr, by the way, and I look forward to our race tomorrow young bachgen…”
“You really think an ass could beat my horse?” Yrre smirked. “Not likely.”
“I assure you, he will,” Bedwyr stated. “In fact, I would put a hefty wager on it.”
“Why would you do that? Don’t you like money?” Yrre asked with humour. “Or are you going to use sorcery?”
“Maybe,” Bedwyr chuckled. “It is true. We don’t have much to do around here. We either practice magic or as you so elegantly put it, sard sheep. But at least we don’t have webbed feet, and neither do we sleep with our sisters.”
Yrre chuckled and shook his head.
Nothing more was said for they were now in the shadows of the castle. Garren felt nerves in his stomach, but he refused to acknowledge them. He wasn’t one to borrow trouble or second-guess an outcome. But he did have a plan. Garren had not wanted to acknowledge the one other place where he might find a welcome, because if he went there, then he might as well call himself an only child. For his brothers, especially Alden, would never forgive him.
“Oh my God, it really is you,” Budic said moments later, as he rushed down the castle steps as Garren and his small entourage rode into the Castle’s courtyard. “It really is,” Budic said again, shaking his head in wonder as he watched his long lost brother dismount. “When Alden wrote, I didn’t believe. But here you are,” Budic looked Garren up and down. “My brother, back from the dead. This is a cause to celebrate. Aergol, come meet my brother.”
This wasn’t the welcome Garren had expected, it seemed as unreal as Alden ordering him to be chained in the cave. He could not recall Budic being this happy…ever. It felt wrong.
“It is good to see you,” Garren said as Budic swept him into a hug that any bear would have been proud of.
“I can’t breathe Budic, for God sake,” Garren complained, trying not to shudder at Budic’s enthusiastic embrace. Everything about this felt wrong, and Garren had learnt long ago to listen to his intuition.
Budic drew back a little, but he kept a firm hold of Garren. Garren had to suppress the urge to shrug himself free.
“It is bloody good to see you brother. We mourned you. Well, Alden didn’t, but the rest of us did.”
Budic began to lead him up the steps. Budic was still talking, but Garren couldn’t concentrate on what he was saying. All he could think about was what Budic had just said — Alden had not mourned him.
Garren was presented to the King of Dyfed, his Queen, his sons, courtiers, knights and a couple of holy men, one of which was the famous Brother Sampson that he had heard so much about in Cerniw. Garren spoke to each, thanked them for their kind words, and warm welcome, but all he could think about was Alden. He searched his memories, trying to find a reason why Alden hated him so.
“My wife,” Budic said, and Garren looked into the eyes of a young woman of such beauty that it stole his breath and he forgot all about Alden. Budic’s wife was round with the promise of a child, but he paid that no heed. Instead, he lost himself in the most startling blue eyes he had ever seen, and he noted that her luscious blonde hair reached to the small of her back. Perfect. He always had a thing for blondes. Garren itched to run his fingers through her hair, and he felt his breath catch in his throat as he looked at her. She was like an angel, a vision from God.
“You don’t remember me do you?” the woman asked as Garren bent to kiss her hand in greeting. “I am not surprised. I was a little girl when you disappeared.”
“Josephine?” Garren asked with a tilt of his head as he realised who this vision was before him. What the hell was she doing married to Budic? Her father would have kittens if he knew. Just like Budic would have kittens if he knew that her father was alive. Josse, Josephine’s father, had been a very good friend of Garren’s. Unfortunately, Josse had also been the one who took Budic’s eye. Budic had, in return, banished Josse from court, which everyone knew was a coward’s way to sentence Josse to death, for Josse had many enemies and a banished man had not the protection of the kingdom. Josse was now a non-citizen, which meant he could not work, he could not support his family, he was little better than a slave. The only option for Josse had been to cross over to Frank, but he had many enemies there too. If Garren and a close friend had not smuggled him out of the country, he would be dead. Garren wondered where Josse was and how he fared. Josse could be dead for all he knew, but somehow he doubted it. Josse was a survivor.
“I always said you would grow up to be a beautiful woman, but,” Garren shook his head and took a step back so he could admire her from head to foot. “You have surpassed my expectations.”
Josephine blushed becomingly.
“Come on Garren, let us get you something to eat and drink,” Budic pulled at Garren’s arm, glaring at his wife as he did so.
Garren could not help but look back at Josephine as Budic dragged him away. He had always had a weakness for women, regardless of who they belonged to and she was beautiful. Too beautiful for Budic.
Garren was completely unaware that Brother Sampson watched his every move from the back of the Hall. Garren was so much Merton’s image before the horrific torture that it was a shock to see him. Sampson wondered if there were any other similarities between the two brothers. He would talk to Garren before he left in search of Merton. Thoughts of Merton began to occupy his mind again. He should have seen the signs, they were there, but he had ignored them. He had thought he had known best. But in the end, his best had not been good enough. He knew better now — you cannot clip a wild bird’s wings and expect it to be thankful, even if it is for that bird’s own good.
12
The Monastery of Caldey, The Kingdom of Dyfed, Briton. One month previous.
Brother Sampson shut the door to the Abbot’s chamber as quietly as he could. He had finally settled the Abbot down to sleep, and he didn’t want anything to disturb his slumber. Sampson gave a small, quiet sigh of disgust. Things had certainly changed since last he was here. The Abbot had always liked his drink, but this was the fifth time in a sennight that he had to clean up the Abbot’s sick and change his bedclothes. This could not continue. The monks, under the Abbot, were no better. They were ungovernable and a law unto themselves. Brother Gwilym had even had the audacity to sneak a woman of ill-repute across the small stretch of sea and into his cell. He had then shared the woman around the Brothers as if she were a piece of meat. Sampson had walked away in disgust. If the monastery went down with the pox, then they would only have themselves to blame.
This monastery was a shambles, a mockery of his faith. He wished now that he had not come back here, there were other places where he could have gone. But, Alden wanted Merton to be as far away from Cerniw as possible, so here he was, back at Caldey.
With another sigh, Sampson made his way outside. There had been a hard frost during the night, and the air had a bite to it. However, it was just what he needed to rid his nostrils of the smell of alcohol-induced sickness.
He stood still for a moment and savoured the wonders of God’s creation. With the stillness of the morning, he could
hear the sea as it crept up the shore and retreated gently back to where it had come. Sampson closed his eyes and savoured the sound of the waves. He lost himself, for a time, to the mesmerising sounds of nature. When he opened his eyes, he spotted a little red-breasted robin. He felt a smile pull at his lips as he watched the bird hop from branch to branch, pecking at what was left of the autumn’s, bright red berries. He would toss the birds some crumbs around midday. He always did. And the birds, knowing the routine, would wait patiently for him outside the kitchen door.
Sampson marvelled at the fact that whenever he felt down, or when the load he carried seemed too heavy, God always found a way to bring a smile back to his face and hope to his heart. God was a wondrous and generous master, if you wanted proof, then all you had to do was look around.
The grass crunched under his feet as he made his way towards the little stone well. He doubted any of the other monks had the foresight to collect water, let alone make anything to break their fast, the lazy, good for nothing…
He dropped the bucket into the well with a splash and tried his very best not to feel discontented or worse still, angry. He had never raised his voice before in his life, and he did not intend to start now, but even his patience had limits and the Abbot and his wayward monks were surely testing it. Once the bucket was full, he pulled on the rope and brought it back up again. His eyes were drawn to the robin, who was watching him intently from an overhanging branch.
“I have no food on me now, you will have to wait for your dinner little one,” Sampson told the bird. The bird tilted his head to one side, as if listening and then he stretched his tiny wings and flew away. Sampson was confident that the bird would return. He always did.
In other monasteries the monks would be in the church long before now, saying Mass. There would be an order to the day. A strict routine. But such routines had been thrown out the window and God seemed to be the last thing on anybody’s mind.
The Du Lac Princess: (Book 3 of The Du Lac Chronicles) Page 13