Garren didn’t understand Budic, he never had. He recalled how Budic had treated Anna like a possession. Budic had smothered Anna with affection when first they met and then he grew tired of her and cast her aside like a child with an unwanted toy. It was no wonder that Anna had fallen into his arms.
He shouldn’t have made love to Anna, just like he shouldn’t have made love to Josephine. There must be something wrong with him. Why else would he be drawn to unavailable women?
Budic should have punished him. He was to blame, not Anna and certainly not the child. Garren felt his hatred for Budic grow inside of him. How could Budic have professed to love Anna one minute and then poison her without a second thought in the next? What kind of man would do such a thing? If it had been the other way around, if Anna had been his wife, and if she had carried Budic’s child, it wouldn’t have made a difference. He would have accepted Budic’s child as his own. Perhaps he was being naive. But he wouldn’t…he wouldn’t have done that to her. To rip a much-wanted child from a mother’s womb — it was incomprehensible to him.
Garren made a promise to himself that if Budic tried to harm Josephine or the baby in any way, he would kill him. And if in turn that meant he would forfeit his life and die on the scaffolds as a criminal, then so be it. He would not let Budic kill another innocent. Not while he had breath left in his body.
Garren wasn’t one to take life lightly, but he had fought in foreign wars, and he had killed. He found himself daydreaming about how he would kill Budic. Poison had a poetic ring of justice to it. Let Budic suffer as Anna had. He would stand there and watch as his brother rolled about in agony on the floor. Garren breathed out slowly when he realised the direction his thoughts had taken. He wasn’t a murderer and yet here he was contemplating murder. There must be another way to protect Josephine that didn’t involve condemning his soul as surely as Cane had his. He wondered if Josephine could be granted a divorce on the grounds of cruelty? That was something he would have to ask Sampson.
Outside the wind still roared, and rain pelted the walls of the tavern. The innkeeper had been right in his drunken prediction — last night there had been one hell of a storm. Garren hoped it would blow over soon. He didn’t want to be stuck here any longer than was necessary.
He sat on the edge of the bed and reached for his boots. The temperature inside this sparsely furnished room left a lot to be desired. He had asked for the fire to be lit, but Chesten had looked at him as if he were daft in the head. She had offered the loan of her dog, which she said if you cuddled into was as warm as any fire. But Josephine had screwed up her nose at the thought, so he had declined.
When the innkeeper shut the door and left them alone, Garren had drawn Josephine into his arms and led her over to the bed. They fell upon it, a tangle of arms and legs, but they did nothing more than kiss, for Josephine was fatigued, and the room didn’t particularly lend itself to romance. He found that stinking cockroaches, which were obviously huddled together somewhere in the room, tended to kill the mood.
Neither he nor Josephine had dared take off their clothes for fear that they would have a mass of bite marks on their skin come morning. Garren rubbed his head vigorously with his hands, hoping to dislodge any lice that may have decided to stake a claim. By God, his head itched like the devil, although whether that was because of the lice or his own fanciful imagination, he could not tell. He pulled up the sleeves of his tunic and was pleased to see only one small itchy red mark. He hoped Josephine had faired equally well.
With a yawn, a stretch of tired muscles and a roll of his shoulders, he rose to his feet in search of something to eat — if such a thing existed in this hellhole. He opened the door to his room and was surprised to see Yrre, stretched out in front of it, seemingly asleep. What was he doing? Garren nudged him with his toe, Yrre groaned and rolled over to his other side. A wise man once told him that it was best to let sleeping dogs lie, Garren didn’t want to be responsible for waking this particular beast.
The stairs creaked as he made his way down them. The main room of the tavern stank of stale ale and unwashed bodies. There were several men asleep on the floor of the tavern, and he stepped over them carefully. The innkeeper was slouched next to the door, asleep. Sounds like a pig eating contentedly from a trough came from his opened mouth. A small piece of bread came flying through the air and bounced harmlessly off the innkeepers face.
“Damn it,” he heard the giggle of a young girl. “Yer try Kelynen. Yer aim has always been better than mine.”
Another small piece of bread went flying through the air, this time it landed in the innkeeper’s mouth.
“Yes!” a triumphant voice whispered.
Garren fought down a smile. While the cat was away, or in this instance, asleep, the mice did play.
“Girls, what do yer think yer be doing?” a shrill voice that Garren thought could wake the dead, although apparently not the drunk, asked.
“Sorry, Mistress Chesten,” the two girls stated in unison.
“Away with yer, them chores won’t do themselves,” Chesten stated with a clap of her hands.
When the girls were out of earshot, Garren heard Chesten laugh quietly to herself.
Garren’s stomach rumbled, the noise thankfully hidden by the sounds of the innkeeper’s snores. But it reminded him why he had come down the stairs in the first place. If the servants had enough bread to spare that they could throw it at their master, then surely there would be something in this flea ridden place for him to break his fast on.
“Mistress Chesten,” Garren said, introducing himself.
“Oh, by God,” Chesten said, raising her hand to her racing heart. “What do yer think yer doing scaring livin’ daylights out of me?”
“It wasn’t my intention.” Garren apologised. “I was wondering if the kitchen was open yet?”
“Open for what?” Chesten asked with a frown. “Oh, yer mean food. Not yet, Sur. But won’t be long. Why don’t yer sit with me for a while, I can pour yer some fennel tea, it’s good for the digestion. That’s what I’ve been told anyhow.”
Garren reached for a coin, but she wasn’t having any of that.
“On the ’ouse, if yer like as long as yer consent to spend a couple of minutes with me. I don’t have much company ’ere yer see. Well, I ’ave ee,” Chesten pointed to her husband. The piece of bread was still in his mouth, but he showed no signs of awakening. “If yer could call him company. Which I don’t. The years have not been kind, I’m afraid. When I married him, ee were mighty fine on the eye, and ee were charming. Yer wouldn’t think it ter look at him now, would yer?”
“He is undeserving of you,” Garren stated, giving her the words he sensed she needed to hear. He took a seat and accepted the tea, which, when he tasted it, was surprisingly good. “There are so few good women in this world. I can see that you have integrity and a good heart. He is lucky to have you.”
Chesten blushed and made much of brushing invisible crumbs from the table as she too, sat down. “I got no idea what integrity do mean, but I thank yer for yer words.”
“It means you are honest,” Garren explained with a smile that would have charmed the birds down from the sky.
“Honest, hey? That be me, honest to the core. I be glad you and yer fellow travellers came knocking on our door. God brought yer ’ere. I ’ave no doubt ’bout it. Do yer mind me asking, Sur, where you be from? Just that we don’t see the likes of yer very often in our fine establishment. Most folk can’t even put a sentence together, but you use words like integrity and such.”
“I was born in Brittany,” Garren said, taking another sip of the tea.
“I thought that’s where yer came from. Yer have a look about yer. Same look as Merton du Lac did. Yer related?”
Garren chuckled but didn’t answer her.
“I knew it, soon as I saw yer, Sur — I mean, me Lord. I said ter myself, Chesten that be there a son of Lancelot. But don’t worry, yer secrets safe with me,” she tapped her
nose as she spoke and gave him a conspirators look.
“Did you know Merton well?” Garren asked for he was curious. He wanted to know everything about his brother. He wanted to fill in the missing years and learn all he could about what happened to the people he loved while he was away.
“Ee were a regular ’ere for a while. Quiet lad. Ee were content to sit back, sup his ale and watch what were going on, ’course there were always summat going on. I thought, yer know, being a youngster, he’d be interested in the wenches and such, but nah, he weren’t. I think they frightened him. Mind that don’t take much, sometimes they frighten the life out of me. ’Course I would rather there were no need for ’em, me being full of integrity, but me husband he says that we would be out on the streets without ’em. He says they bring in as much money as the drink and the lodging combined. Of course, me being full of integrity know that ain’t true, ’cuz if he stopped drinking, we might be able to turn a profit. He says that if I didn’t nag him, he wouldn’t drink, but I only nag him ’cuz he drinks. Story of me life that is, and a right sad one it is too.”
“When did Merton stop coming?” As fascinating as Chesten’s conversation was, Garren wasn’t that interested in the woes of an innkeeper’s wife.
“Many a year gone by since we last saw him. I reckon it were before Wessex invaded. They were bad times, they were. We had ter abandon this place and run for our very lives. I thought for sure this place would be burnt ter ground, but twernt. All the drink were gone, but I guess that were to be expected and the place were smashed up a bit, but she stood strong against the aggressors, just like the kingdom, thanks be to God and his saints and such like, that’s what I say.”
“Where did you go?” Garren asked, genuinely curious to hear her story about that time.
“Only place we could go, me Lord, Goon Brenn. It were the only place safe when they came. The Saxons would have been fools ter follow us on ter moor. Place is deadly for those who don’t know it. We were lucky ’cuz we knew Tegan and Jago. They ’elped a lot of people, they did. They hid us and ’elped with food and such. I was right sad when I ’eard Jago had passed on. I do think of Tegan out there on her own. I invited her to live ’ere, but she wouldn’t have it. Not that I can blame her.” Chesten looked at her husband. “I don’t want to be ’ere either.”
“Tegan?” Garren frowned as he said the old woman’s name. Could Merton have found his way to her door? It would explain why no one could find him.
“Yer sound like yer might know her?” Chesten stated. “Although I wouldn’t know how.”
“I visited her and her husband once with my father. But that was a long time ago. I was a boy.”
“That would make sense, she being who she were and yer father being who he were. Not that many people know the truth mind. Not that many people interested.”
“Does she still live in the wood?”
“Aye, she does. Saying that she might be dead, she don’t venture down ’ere any more, and I ain’t got the time to go traipsing about the moor after her. But I s’pose I should be making the effort, what with being a woman of integrity. But then,” she shrugged her thin shoulders in defeat. “This place would fall apart without me. And we would soon run out of ale if I weren’t ’ere to keep an eye on it,” she glared at her husband as she spoke. “Oh look,” Chesten’s eyes suddenly lit up, “Brother Sampson, I hoped yer slept well? Can I get yer something to eat? Yer look right famished,” and with that, she rushed from the room into the direction of the kitchen.
“I thought the kitchen wasn’t open yet?” Garren called after her.
Goon Brenn, later on in the day…
“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Holy Mary, Mother of God—”
“Please. Stop. Chanting. That.” Garren demanded as he drew his horse to a halt. “It is unnerving, to say the least.”
“There is evil here,” Sampson stated, his voice laced with terror. “I can feel it. I felt it as soon as we stepped onto the moor. This is where we will meet our doom.”
“The only evil is in your wild imagination,” Garren answered, quickly dismounting. His feet hit the rain-soaked earth with a loud splosh, mud flying everywhere.
It had taken longer to get here than Garren had anticipated. The weather made the terrain hard going on the horses, and parts of the moor were flooded, which meant they had to take an alternative route, which in turn had cost them time. Thankfully, the Standing Stones were ahead, hiding in the mist and the rain. Garren led his horse over to Yrre and handed him the reins.
“What is this place?” Yrre asked.
A streak of lightning lit up the sky and Sampson’s horse shied, but thankfully the monk knew how to stay in the saddle.
“It was a sacred place of the Old Religion,” Garren answered, keeping his voice low enough for Yrre to hear him through the rain, but not so loud that Sampson could. “There is nothing to fear here, do not let the monk terrorise you with his irrational superstition. The Druids were a peaceful people. My father said they were men and women of great learning. Sampson is scaring himself with stories from Rome, pay him no heed.”
Thunder answered the lightning. The sky roared with rage, and the rain came down harder. The storm was nearly overhead.
“They sacrificed people here. Children, babies,” Sampson stated with a tremor in his voice. “They smashed their heads against the stones. Gutted them while still alive and then they ate them. Can you not feel the evil? Holy Mary, Mother of God—”
“This isn’t the hour of your death, so do us all a favour and be quiet. By God, I wish you hadn’t come. You should have stayed behind with Josephine and Eadger. And I am sure Chesten would have been more than happy to look after you,” Garren said, trying his best not to break into a grin for the innkeeper’s wife had not left Sampson alone. Garren had to admit he felt jealous. Especially when he compared his plate of food with the one Sampson was given.
“Chesten is a pretentious woman who is a Christian only when it suits her purpose and when it doesn’t she forgets all that she has learnt.”
“I think that is a little harsh. Please tell me you are not one of those who judges by the size of the person’s purse,” Garren shook his head and glared at the monk.
“How dare you…”
Sampson said more, but Garren couldn’t hear him because the lightning lit up the sky again and the sound of thunder quickly followed.
“…The more I see of the world, the more I am learning about it,” Sampson continued to speak. “It is a Godless place full of evil. No wonder so many of my kind become hermits.”
“If evil is all you are looking for, then evil is all you will find,” Garren replied raising his eyebrows as if that would somehow drive home the point.
Sampson seemed to consider this for he fell silent.
“Chesten might be common and keep company with drunkards and whores, but tell me, Sampson, what choice does she have? She wants to be a good Christian woman, you can see it on her face. How dare you try to take that away from her because her language is a little coarse, and she lives on the wrong side of town.”
The sky lit up again.
“You are right,” Sampson stated with meekness, and his hand reached for his mouth as if he were trying to wipe the words he spoken earlier from his tongue.
Thunder shook the sky and made the horses jump.
“Let the monk say his prayers,” Yrre interrupted. “If it gives him comfort to do so, who are you to tell him no? Was this some sort of temple once?”
“Something like that,” Garren stated, turning his attention away from Sampson and back to the Stones. “I wasn’t brought up in the Old Religion, so I am not as versed in it as some. But I do know that this is a very holy place. We must be respectful.”
“Could you tell me again, what exactly we are doing here?” Yrre asked.
“Waiting to be found,” Garren said with a grin, and he began to make his way towards the circl
e.
“What does that mean?” Yrre called after him.
“You can’t find Tegan. She has to find you.”
“Where does she live?”
“She lives on the moor, in a wood,” Garren pointed, although Yrre couldn’t see anything because of the rain and the mist that hung over the moor.
“Can we not go to the wood?”
Garren shook his head. “No. Not if you value your life. My father always said she was pretty handy with a bow. We have a greater chance of survival if she finds us.”
“And how long will that take?” Yrre asked.
“As long as it takes,” Garren replied.
“What makes you think Merton will be with her? Sampson is convinced he is in Brittany,” Yrre reminded him. “And so am I.”
“Maybe he is.” Garren shrugged. “Maybe he isn’t. Who knows?” Garren laughed carelessly and walked to the centre of the stone circle. He raised his arms in the air until they were shoulder height. Great forks of lightning lit up the sky. Garren heard Yrre curse, and a horse whinny in terror, but just for a moment he felt invincible. He tipped back his head, closed his eyes and let the rain pour down his face. And for the first time in a long time, he felt truly alive.
24
Holywell Priory, Londinium.
“I have come to the conclusion that the most challenging aspect of life is watching the ones we love die,” Guinevere said. “May I?”
Alan gave a non-committal shrug, and Guinevere sat down next to him on the damp, cold wall. A light drizzle fell from the grey sky, but Alan paid it no heed, for what was a little rain in the grand scheme of things? His mind was in torment. He closed his eyes briefly as if to block out the truth. But it did no good. He was a Pendragon. He had the blood of those he detested running through his veins.
He wasn’t in the mood for company, and he wished that the Prioress had not sought him out. He needed time alone. Time to collect his thoughts and decide his next step. He stared moodily across the Priory’s pathetic excuse for a vegetable plot. He found himself noticing things that usually he wouldn’t have paid much heed to — the frost that still clung to the soil, the sorry-looking state of the last of the winter’s leeks. He watched a chicken as she tiptoed her way across the rough terrain, stopping every so often to rake the soil in the hope of finding a grub to eat.
The Du Lac Princess: (Book 3 of The Du Lac Chronicles) Page 28