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

by Mary Anne Yarde

  “Clumsy? That is not a word I would have associated with Lady Amandine,” Philippe answered.

  “Don’t worry. I will get you another,” Bastian said with what he hoped came across with hatred.

  “Where is Alan?” Philippe asked. “He is in charge of bringing Lady Amandine her food.”

  “As I was explaining to your prisoner, Alan has been called away. His father is dying. And before you start, your Majesty, the only time Alan has not been at his post in the last seventeen years was when he either had an injury or a fever. I could not refuse the request, Sire.” And with that, Bastian left the room. He did not even bow to his king.

  Philippe followed him to the door and shut it. “What a pleasant way to start the morning. Don’t take any notice of him. He is full of…well, you know, I don’t have to spell it out.”

  “You shouldn’t let him talk to you like that, Sire,” Amandine said, she was pleased that her voice wasn’t trembling. “He is disrespectful.”

  “He is old and cantankerous. I choose my battles carefully. I have no desire to start a fight with him. Bastian is my general. I know of no other who I could trust to lead my soldiers. I have to handle him carefully.”

  “You are generous, Sire. More so than what Budic would have been.”

  “Budic was never known for his generosity.” Philippe chuckled. “And look where he is now.”

  Philippe’s nose wrinkled as he regarded the spoilt food. “It is a good job I brought pastries,” he said with a smile and a wink. He unwrapped the pastries from the cloth and handed her one.

  “Thank you,” Amandine said with a smile. He was always doing this. He never came to her room without something mouth-wateringly delicious that he had pilfered from the kitchens. She took a tentative bite of the pastry. The pastry was warm, fresh out of the oven, and sweet. It was exactly what she needed after such a disastrous start to the morning.

  “I don’t know about you,” Philippe said conversationally as he sat down on the chair. He indicated with his hand that she should sit on her bed, which she did. “But I have had enough of this room. A change of scenery is in order, don’t you think?”

  Amandine’s eyes lit up at the thought and then immediately she remembered why she was not allowed out. “I thought it wasn’t safe for me to go out of this room?”

  “It isn’t. But this is my castle, and I say who can reside in it. Tonight you are going to dine with me in the Great Hall.”

  “That would be foolish,” Amandine replied.

  “Under normal circumstances, I would agree. But tonight there isn’t going to be anyone else in the castle, apart from my loyal servants and guards. We will dine together in the Great Hall while the rest can wait outside until we are finished.”

  “Outside?” Amandine shook her head. “You can not possibly think—”

  “The castle does have a very large courtyard and some beautiful gardens. I do not believe we will have rain today. The fresh air will do them good. And if they don’t like that, they can take refuge in the church. Say you will have dinner with me. If you are with me, then you will be perfectly safe,” Philippe reassured.

  “I have upset enough people already, will this not antagonise them further? I—”

  “I couldn’t care less what other people think. I am their king. It is not for them to judge my actions. I want to spend the evening with you. I want to dine with you.” He looked down at the pastry in his hand.

  “Why?” Amandine asked.

  “Why not?” Philippe countered with a smile.

  “Has something happened?” Amandine asked, for his smile did not meet his eyes. She was beginning to know him, she realised. She was beginning to see when something had upset him. When had she started to have such insight?

  Philippe’s shoulders dropped as if under a great weight. “My ambassador to Cerniw has returned. I am sorry to say that he was mistreated. He was locked up in the dark, all this time. He is very ill. The healer is not hopeful that he will make a recovery.”

  “I am sorry for that,” Amandine answered with sympathy.

  “He says Alden wouldn’t even see him. All this,” Philippe raised his eyes to look at her, “all these plans, this feast, was to be in Alden’s honour.”

  “I thought—”

  But Philippe interrupted her. “How can I apologise, how can we move forward, if Alden won’t talk to me?” Philippe asked. “I offered him money to recompense for Merton’s…” his words trailed off. “But Alden doesn’t know that because he wouldn’t let my ambassador speak. Am I to spend the rest of my reign waiting for Alden to cross the sea with his army?” He looked at her then. “You have forgiven me, why can’t he?”

  “He loved his brother. Alden may never forgive you, and he certainly won’t forget,” Amandine said quietly. Philippe thought she had forgiven him? Did she? No. Yes. Dear God, she didn’t know what to think anymore.

  “You loved Merton too.” He frowned. “But that does not stop us enjoying each other’s company. Listen to me, I am not asking Alden to forget. I am asking him to act like a grown up and talk. We need to sort this out, once and for all, and then we can both get on with our lives. Is that too much to ask?”

  “Perhaps you should give him more time?” Amandine dared to suggest.

  “The more time I give him, the more likely he is to declare war on me. On us. Is that what you want? I am trying to save lives. Why can’t he see that?”

  “I don’t know,” Amandine answered because she really didn’t. She felt so overwhelmed. She didn’t have the strength for this conversation, not after Bastian’s verbal assault.

  “It is the du Lac pride, that is why he will not speak. He thinks me lowborn, not worthy of his attention,” Philippe said bitterly.

  “You did kill his brother,” Amandine said. Realising her mistake at speaking out, she took a big bite of the pastry to stop herself from saying more. With Alan gone, the only person she had was Philippe. She must not antagonise him by speaking the truth.

  “I didn’t actually kill him,” Philippe stated. “He just died. It wasn’t my fault he wasn’t strong enough to take a beating.”

  Amandine gasped at Philippe’s cruel words. For a moment Philippe sounded like Budic, for Budic’s words were often callous and cruel. Budic always blamed everyone else for his mistakes. He never took responsibility for anything. Amandine had thought Philippe was different.

  “I will leave you to enjoy your pastry,” Philippe said rising from the chair. He seemed oblivious that his words had upset her. “No, don’t get up. I will see you tonight. You and I shall feast in the Great Hall. We will pretend that we have never heard of Alden or Merton and, for that matter, anyone else whose name ends in du Lac.”

  14

  Goon Brenn, The Kingdom of Cerniw.

  Merton opened his eyes and stared straight into the yellow eyes of Tegan’s bloody cat. The first morning he awoke in Tegan’s roundhouse, the cat had frightened the life out of him with his penetrating stare. That marked the beginning of what was to become an everyday ritual. Every morning the cat’s eyes were the first thing he saw.

  Merton was convinced that this cat was not all feline. There was a hint of the Otherworld about him. A few years ago Merton had stopped and listened to a bard. This bard had travelled over valleys and hills, crossed rivers and lakes, he spoke of mountains and something called the Highlands. He spoke of beauty and splendour. He told of kingdoms and kings. This bard was an exceptionally good storyteller, but what kept his audience in awe was the story he told of a cat. In the Highlands, he had said a cat resided — a black cat with a white spot on his chest. But this cat was no ordinary cat — it was a soul stealer, who spent its day stealing souls from the newly departed. It was something to be feared.

  Tegan’s cat had a tiny spot of white fur on his chest — Merton had seen it. Was that why the cat, like the wolf back at the Standing Stones, watched him so intently? Were they waiting for his death so they could steal his soul?


  The cat meowed and jumped from the bed, leaving a dead mouse on the pillow as a gift.

  “Your cat has the most disgusting habits,” Merton complained as he stretched. He relished in the warmth that he could feel all down the length of his spine. Tegan must have changed the heated rocks again in the middle of the night, bless her. The heat was certainly helping with the pain, and he didn’t feel as stiff as he normally did when he awoke.

  “He likes you,” Tegan said as she lifted the cauldron back on to its frame.

  Her and that bloody cauldron. Merton knew some women loved to cook, but Tegan seemed obsessed with the cauldron itself. She always kept a close eye on the cauldron, as if she feared the cauldron would be stolen away. Although why someone would want to take an old, blackened cauldron was anyone’s guess. Merton had to admit though, that he had never eaten so well in his life. His appetite had, to an extent, returned. And that was all because of Tegan’s cooking.

  “Now don’t go trying to get up without me, boy. I need to move the rocks, or you will burn your skin.”

  “I wouldn’t want that to happen, would I?” Merton said with a grin. “A scar on my perfect face, what would I do?”

  Tegan wiped her hands on a cloth that she used to dry the dishes and made her way over to him. “As I have told you many times, those scars will fade. They have already improved since we started using the ointment. Women will soon find you irresistible. Now stop your grumbling and stay still. I don’t want to burn my hands because of your impatience.”

  Merton stayed as still as he could as Tegan carefully took away the stones and placed them back into the fire pit to warm again. She then went back to her cauldron.

  Merton took a moment to twist his body this way and that, trying to loosen up his shoulders, and then he carefully sat up. Holding his breath, he positioned himself on the edge of the bed, where he stayed for a while as he gathered up the courage to stand. Once again he found his eyes resting on the impressive display of weapons that Tegan had hanging from her wall.

  “Are you eyeing up my axe again?” Tegan asked as she stirred her cauldron, although she didn’t look up. Sometimes Merton wondered if she had eyes in the back of her head, she always seemed to know what he was doing.

  “I am thinking of stealing it,” Merton replied dryly.

  Tegan snorted in amusement, “You and whose army?” she turned her back on him and began to concoct another one of her foul potions for him to take. There had been a great deal of trial-and-error over the past couple of weeks, while Tegan tried to find the ingredients that worked to help ease his pain. Her potions had rendered Merton unconscious, not once, but twice. He had experienced the joys of an upset stomach. And he had spent long hours leaning over a bowl while his body tried to purge itself of the poison that Tegan had been so sure would work. But at last, she had finally found a potion that he could not only tolerate but also helped. She walked towards him as she stirred the mixture harshly in a cup with a spoon.

  “Here you are,” Tegan said as she handed him the cup, looking on with amusement.

  “I am not going to thank you because it is truly horrendous,” Merton said, taking the cup and looking at the swirling green mess.

  “Oh shut your mouth and drink it.” She stood over him while he drank, making sure he swallowed it all.

  “Thank you, Mother,” Merton mumbled as he handed the cup back to her. All he had to do now was wait for the potion to start working.

  Tegan said something incomprehensible under her breath and then she hobbled back over to her cauldron.

  Merton reached for the walking stick, which Tegan had given him, and rose unsteadily to his feet. It was best to get moving as soon as possible, loosen up his muscles, and get things working. He paced the length of the house, keeping an eye on the weapons. There were many to look at, but Tegan was right, he did favour the axe that was kept high out of reach. Tegan would have to stand on a chair if she wanted to get it down and so would he. It was an elegant weapon, the handle was made of ash, but it was the blade that caught his attention for it was engraved. He had never seen the blade of an axe engraved before. He longed to get it down and study it when Tegan was outside doing chores. But knowing his luck, he would fall off the damn chair as he tried to reach it.

  “That was your father’s axe,” Tegan stated, although she didn’t look up. “I won it off him.”

  “What?” He said in disbelief. “How did you win…?” Merton suddenly remembered that she did not know who he really was, so he stopped himself from saying more and made much of clearing his throat from an imaginary cough. “I very much doubt my father would have owned such an axe, in his dreams maybe. As I told you before, he was a peasant.”

  Tegan snorted. “Lancelot du Lac has been called many things over the years, but he was never called a peasant.”

  “I found the brooch on the ground,” Merton stated with tired patience. How many more times did he have to repeat the lie before she believed him? “I have no connection with him or the du Lacs.” He sat down carefully on the chair by the fire.

  “And your eyes, did you find them on the ground as well?” Tegan asked, looking up from her cooking. “And your hair, did you find that on a bush? And your hand, your fingers, where did you find them? You have the eyes and body of your father and the hair of your mother. I would recognise a son of Lancelot du Lac a mile away. Your scars do not hide who you are.”

  “Unless my mother was unfaithful to my father then I cannot see how. I will ask her next time I see her.”

  “Oh stop it,” Tegan said, picking up the drying cloth and throwing it at him. “Peasant’s son, my arse.”

  She dragged a chair over to the wall, stood on it and took the axe down. “Now your father, your real father, not the imagined peasant one, and I had a disagreement. This wasn’t uncommon. We argued a great deal. He was an exceptionally disagreeable man. A bit like you. Anyway, he had made a sweeping statement that denounced female warriors. He said that war was no place for a woman. I didn’t take to kindly to this, so I challenged him to a wrestling match.”

  Merton choked on a genuine laugh. Tegan came out with the most outrageous stories; she always managed to bring a smile to his face with her tales. “Let me get this straight. You challenged the King of Brittany to a wrestling match? You?”

  “He wasn’t the King of Brittany then. He was young, not much older than you. We all were young. Young and foolish and naive, we thought this new world we built would last forever. But nothing does, does it? Still, it doesn’t take away from the fact that the early days of Arthur’s court were some of the best times of my life,” Tegan continued without pausing for breath. “There was a vibrancy about the place. We were adventurers, exploring something different to what had come before. We were going to do something unheard of, something new. For the first time in centuries, there was to be peace between all the kingdoms on this island. An agreed peace, not one imposed upon us by Rome. We were all going to work together to vanquish the Saxon threat.” She chuckled softly. “That worked out well, didn’t it?”

  Merton didn’t say anything. He just continued to listen.

  “It wasn’t easy, bringing the kingdoms together under one High King. There was a lot of distrust and a lot of personalities that thought themselves better than they were. But Arthur’s biggest challenge was convincing the du Lacs to join him in this venture. You see, the Pendragons and the du Lacs had been enemies for a long time. It wasn’t a recent thing, this hatred. They had always hated each other. The du Lacs belonged to this land — some say they founded it. Whereas the Pendragons were newcomers — in the grand scheme of things at least. They had come over with the Roman Army.”

  “Pendragon isn’t a Roman name, are you sure?” Merton asked, for he had never heard this version of history before. He had assumed that the Pendragons were as much of this land as his family was.

  “Of course I am sure. Their family name wasn’t always Pendragon, it was Castus, later it became Aurelia
nus. I can see by the look on your face you have heard of them.”

  “Yes,” Merton couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice. “Castus betrayed his knights and Aurelianus wore the purple.”

  “Yes, you are right, Castus did betray his knights, a terrible business that was. As for the Aurelianus’, they still do wear the purple,” Tegan stated. “The du Lacs were right to be wary of Arthur’s proposal. King Ban sent his middle son, Lancelot, your father, to the talks that Arthur held at a place he had started to call Camelot. It was nothing but an old hill fort and a big stretch of land, but the name sounded impressive. The castle, of course, came later and it still stands today in Wessex, but under a different name as I am sure you well know.”

  “I know it,” Merton muttered.

  “That first meeting, of course, was a shambles. It was an unorganised mess. Arthur was a great warrior, but he was never one for inspiring speeches. Arthur was a complete contrast to your father. Lancelot was good at politics. When he spoke, everyone listened. By the gods, that man could talk a hind leg off a donkey, but he could captivate an audience like no one I have ever seen before or since. That was the kind of man your father was. He could get things done. And he did so without anyone ever losing face. Now, that takes skill.”

  “Lancelot isn’t my father,” Merton tried one more time.

  “Give it a rest, boy. You are Lancelot’s son. Nothing will ever convince me that you are not. I have been trying to figure out which son you are. Not Budic, because we all know the truth about his birth.”

  “Do we?” Merton asked, his face unreadable underneath all the scarring.

  “And Garren disappeared, I always thought there was something fishy about that.”

  “That was because he was lost at sea,” Merton stated with sarcasm, which earned him a glower. He wished Garren was still lost at sea. No. He shouldn’t think like that. But by God, he hated him. He hated Garren for coming home. He hated him for ruining his relationship with Alden. He hated Garren for the way he had treated Amandine when he had married her all those years ago. Garren had never been faithful to her, yet she had idolised him. He hated Garren because Garren hadn’t been there for him, for Amandine, for Alden, for any of them. Merton knew such thoughts were illogical — it wasn’t Garren’s fault he had been taken — but still, that is what was running through his head.