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

by Mary Anne Yarde

  “No,” Amandine cried at the terrifying image Bastian’s words provoked. Surely the Church would not be that cruel? Where was the mercy that Jesus preached of? Bastian pulled her into his embrace, and she clung to his tunic. “Please don’t let them do this to me,” she begged.

  “I will see if I can obtain a potion that will dumb your wits,” Bastian promised, his voice thick with emotion.

  “Or you could kill me now,” Amandine said, clutching his tunic more the tighter. “Bastian, please, I beg you…please. I am not brave enough to die on a pyre.”

  “If I kill you now, then they will make me take your place.” He pulled away from her and stood up. “I’ll get you a potion,” Bastian promised, looking down at her for a long moment. “You stupid girl, you should have left when I gave you the chance.”

  This time when he shut the door behind him, he did so quietly, and Amandine did not hear the key turn, for the tears that she had been so desperately trying to hold back for days took hold of her body and her soul. Eventually, she curled up on the bed and prayed to God that he would take her now and spare her the horrors of tomorrow. She tried to hold her breath, but her traitorous body demanded to breathe. She wondered if she could make a noose, but with what? They had removed her bedding as soon as it was known that Philippe had sentenced her to death. They wanted her to die, but they didn’t want her to play any part in her death. There was nothing here, nothing that could aid her.

  Bastian returned to her chamber early in the morning, so early that the sun had yet to rise. Amandine had not slept at all. She was sat on the floor, next to her carving on the wall. Her silver brush was beside her — its point bloody. The engraving she had made in the stone would now be forever stained with her blood. She wanted those imagined people in the future to know that this love story had not ended well.

  Bastian immediately put down the plate of food he had brought her and knelt down beside her. He took her arm in his hand and looked at the gash she had cut into her skin. Thankfully the cut was not deep enough to cause death, but if the Church saw it then he would have some explaining to do.

  The Pope had sent one of his Bishops to oversee the execution. The Bishop was a strange-looking man, with eyes so large that he looked as if he was permanently surprised. And his voice was disobliging to the ears. His manner was ungracious and as far as Bastian could see the Bishop had nothing commendable about him. But Philippe had fawned all over him last night as if he were God himself. Philippe had promised the Bishop that Amandine’s death would be everything the Pope would expect and more. In return the Bishop had informed Philippe that the Pope was pleased with Philippe’s cooperation and when Amandine was dead, the Pope promised that the Kingdom of Brittany, along with her new King, would receive a Papal Blessing. Who was Philippe to turn down such an offer? One meaningless life for a Papal Blessing, it seemed a fair deal.

  “Let me die,” Amandine whispered in a voice that had gone beyond desperation.

  Bastian ripped his tunic and wrapped the piece of the shredded material tightly around the wound.

  “Suicide is a sin,” Bastian stated.

  “It is better than being burnt to death,” Amandine answered, between dry lips, her tone of voice devoid of any hope.

  “I brought you the potion,” Bastian whispered, handing her a small dark bottle that he had purchased from an Apothecary very late last night. “Careful, don’t spill it. I am told it will numb your senses and make the pain bearable.”

  Amandine stared at the bottle and then lifted it to her mouth.

  “Not yet,” Bastian stated, grabbing the bottle back. “Drink it at the very last moment. Abbot Daniel will come before the guards take you to the place of execution. Although be warned, do not expect to receive the Sacrament. You will have a few moments between the departure of Abbot Daniel and the coming of the guards. Take the potion then. I am told it is strong, but not so strong that it will kill you. If you appear faint then that is only to be expected, it is a harsh punishment you face.

  “Will there be many people at my execution?” Amandine asked. She suddenly wanted to know everything. She wanted to be prepared for what awaited her.

  “Yes,” Bastian answered. “Your death is to be treated as a cause to celebrate. The Church bells will ring out across the Kingdom when you take your last breath, and the crowd will cheer.”

  “So there will be children amongst the spectators,” Amandine stated on a sad sigh. She had hoped her death would be a private affair. She didn’t want to be the cause of childrens’ nightmares or their celebrations.

  Amandine had done nothing else but think about what it would be like to be burnt alive. She told herself that she would not give them what they wanted. She would not cry out. She would not beg for mercy. Amandine wondered if she had it in her to be quiet and not make a noise while the fire burnt through her flesh.

  “Yes, I should imagine so,” Bastian replied.

  “Will you be there?” Amandine asked, and she raised her head and looked at him.

  “Do you want me there?” Bastian asked, hoping against hope that she would say no, for he did not want to witness her death.

  “Everyone will condemn me. I know how these things are. They will throw things at me. They will try to reach me so they can hurt me. They will curse me. I fear that there will be no one there who I can look at who does not want me to die. You brought me this potion. I am assuming, despite everything you have said, that you don’t…that perhaps…you don’t hate me?” She sniffed back her tears. “Maybe you do. Maybe you, like everyone else, cannot wait to see me burn.”

  “I don’t hate you,” Bastian reassured, reaching up and brushing a tear from her cheek with the pad of his calloused thumb. “And I think that a terrible injustice will be committed this day.”

  “I am not the first innocent to be executed and nor will I be the last. I am not the first to die because of love,” Amandine stated sadly. “It is said that Jesus’ mother watched his crucifixion from a distance. My mother is dead, as is my father, as is everyone I ever loved. I have no one. So I find I must ask you a favour. Will you do the same for me as Mary did for her son?”

  Bastian swallowed. “Yes,” he vowed. “I will. I will be there for you.”

  “Then perhaps, with your presence and this potion, I will face my death and my accusers with courage. As Merton did.”

  “Merton isn’t…” Bastian stopped himself from saying more. Why upset her any more than she already was. If she knew Merton was possibly still alive, then she would find it even more difficult to walk towards her death.

  “I will see you later,” he said, touching her cheek again. He picked up the hairbrush and rose to his feet. “I will be the friendly face in a crowd of haters.”

  “Yes,” Amandine answered as she tried valiantly to hold back the tears. “I will look for you.”

  “Remember who you are. No matter what they do to you, never forget.”

  “I am a du Lac,” Amandine stated with a small heart-breaking shrug.

  “You are. Be brave. Do not shame the name.”

  Amandine nodded her head, “I will try my best.” Her eyes followed Bastian across the room.

  When he reached the door, he turned and gave her a sad smile. “I’ll see you later. I promise.”

  When the door closed behind him, Amandine closed her eyes tight shut. “Be brave, be brave, be brave,” she whispered under her breath again and again while the tears fell beneath her closed eyelids.

  35

  The gods were on their side. That is what Yrre kept saying. Merton wasn’t convinced, but then he had lost all faith in his God, and he had no interest in the Saxon ones. He pulled up the hood of his cloak and wished, like a tired child, that the journey were nearing an end. He just wanted to get to Brittany, find Amandine and bring her home. He wanted this to be over with, in the past, forgotten. He sat down near the bow of the ship and looked out at the horizon, hoping that he would soon spot land.

  The
journey so far had been uneventful. An offshore breeze had swept them out to sea, and a strong wind had whipped at the sail and blown them over the high white waves that crashed against the bow of the boat. They were travelling at a steady speed, and they would make good time. But for Merton, even that did not feel fast enough. He wished that man had designed a way to fly across the sea. He imagined a boat with wings that could glide through the clouds as gracefully as any bird and as fast as a falcon.

  Alan handed him a dry biscuit and, although Merton felt too nervous to eat, he forced himself to take a bite. For as much as he hated to admit it, Garren had been right. He could not afford to faint again. Not when it was Amandine’s life on the line.

  “It won’t be long,” Alan said encouragingly as he sat down next to Merton and looked out at the empty horizon. “Not much further,” he muttered.

  Merton wondered if Alan was addressing him or merely talking to himself. Not that it mattered.

  Merton had spent many hours in Alan’s company since they set sail. Yesterday, when the night had closed in around them, he and Alan had retreated to the stern of the boat and sat down to talk. Alan spoke of Philippe and Mordred. He spoke of how the army of Brittany had changed beyond all recognition. Finally, Alan had approached the subject that they were both desperate to talk about and yet, at the same time, strangely reluctant. Alan told Merton harrowing accounts of what Amandine had endured. When Merton heard, in detail, how the Church had starved her, beat her and shaved her head, he stopped Alan from saying any more. The thought of the suffering she had endured was beyond anything he had ever experienced. It was one thing to be tortured, but listening to the hell Amandine had been through was ten times worse than anything a torturer could inflict, or his mind could imagine. It was like being repeatedly stabbed in the heart, and the more Alan told him, the more it hurt. He knew the Church could be cruel. He had seen what they called justice first hand, but this was Amandine they were talking about. His Amandine. He closed his eyes against the pain of it.

  When he opened them again, Alan was sat at the other end of the boat.

  “Are you all right?” Yrre had asked with concern, taking Alan’s place next to him.

  In answer, Merton had sighed heavily.

  “There is talk…” Yrre had said in a low voice.

  “What kind of talk?”

  “The kind that says you will get us killed.”

  “The men are questioning my leadership?” Merton had suspected as much. Loyalty was never assured. No one wanted to follow a broken man.

  “Trace is, and you know how the men listen to him. You may have to do something drastic,” Yrre warned. “Especially if you want to shut Trace up and keep the men’s respect.”

  “I will kill anyone who gets in the way of me rescuing Amandine from that hellhole,” Merton stated with a touch of anger. How dare they? After everything they had been through together, how dare Trace take such a stand.

  “But you cannot, can you? Kill anyone, I mean,” Yrre said with no hint of mockery. “You don’t have the strength to, not anymore. You would be cut down where you stand. They will not take any threat of violence from you seriously. You know what they are like. Merton, I don’t have to tell you that if Amandine is alive then I will do everything within my power to get her out of there,” Yrre promised. “And if she is not…if he has lied,” he nodded towards Alan, “then I will avenge her and Wann. I swear by the gods that Philippe will…” Yrre left the rest unsaid because there were simply not the words to do justice to what he had planned if Amandine were dead. Brittany would burn.

  Yrre’s promise was no small thing. Merton knew Yrre would do everything in his power to get Amandine out of Brittany. But the thought gave him only a little comfort. His men had lost confidence in him, and that wasn’t something to be snide at. The men needed a strong leader, not a has-been.

  Merton wasn’t arrogant enough to think that he could be a part of the rescue party. He couldn’t lead his men to victory, but he had to be able to trust them. Otherwise, there was no way anything he planned was going to work.

  As the night closed in around them and the stars peeked out from an inky heaven to shine down on their solitary, insignificant boat, Merton’s thoughts had become trapped in a repetitive loop, demanding an answer to this, his most feared unspoken question. If Amandine were alive, what was he going to say to her? I am sorry. I thought you were dead. It was too simplistic; it was nowhere near enough of an apology.

  He thought back on his long recovery and how he had accepted what he was told. He didn’t think to question Alden or Josephine when they told him Amandine was dead. He took their word for it. Alden, he knew, would be feeling equally guilty for not having checked to see if what he had been told about Amandine was the truth. But Merton had learnt long ago never to trust anything but what his eyes showed him. He should have questioned what they said. He should have come back to Brittany, as soon as he was able to travel, and made sure. If he had done that, then he could have spared Amandine all these very long months of suffering.

  “Look, Brittany,” Alan pointed to the horizon, a grin on his face.

  Alan’s words not only brought Merton back to the present, but they also did something to his insides. It felt as if his stomach had flipped over. Determined to keep the contents in his stomach, he began to chew on the biscuit Alan had given him. Yrre caught his eye and gave him an encouraging smile, but Merton didn’t feel encouraged. Far from it. He felt afraid.

  Merton had thought that when he saw the shores of Brittany, he would feel a burning need for revenge and justice. Instead, he felt numb with fear. He didn’t want to be here, not this place, not with all these memories. The only thing that kept him from demanding the boat be turned around was that Amandine was there and that was all. He felt a tightness in his throat and images flashed before his eyes. A mallet. A sneering king. Amandine screaming his name. Mordred looking down at him. A blue sky. He tried to keep his breathing even. He didn’t want to show his men that he was afraid, for that would only confirm that he was not the leader that they needed. He shifted position on purpose and welcomed the pain that shot down his back and focused his mind.

  Merton stayed where he was, determined not to give in to his fear, as they crept ever closer to the sheer cliffs that rose up from the sea like some ancient fortress from times of old. The sea battered the rocks as the sun shone through the early morning sea mist. It looked almost ethereal in its appearance, and it certainly did not feel welcoming.

  The boat cut effortlessly through the waves as they passed by the rugged cliff face. The sun, rising higher in the sky with each passing moment, illuminated the pale redness of the rocks — something that Brittany was renowned for. There was no other coast like Brittany’s. In that, she was uniquely beautiful. But Merton saw none of the beauty, for Philippe had stolen it from him, along with everything else.

  “We should find a cove, somewhere hidden,” Yrre said, speaking in Briton for Alan’s benefit. He glanced over at Merton as if waiting for confirmation and guidance, for that was what they had planned to do all along.

  “No,” Alan interrupted, surprising everyone. “I have been thinking about that. Philippe has convinced himself that Alden will bring his army here at some point, he has every cove, and every inlet watched.”

  “And you did not think to mention this before?” Yrre asked with a touch of anger.

  “I think it will be far safer to sail into the harbour and anchor. This is a trading vessel. No one will raise an eyebrow to us stopping in the harbour of Brittany. But if we are caught hiding out in a cove, then questions will be asked. And I don’t think any of us have the answers if that happens. You said so yourself, Merton, that your plan depends upon invisibility. In and out, take no prisoners — that is what you said. At the harbour, with all those other merchants, we can lose ourselves in the crowd.”

  “Or expose ourselves,” Yrre countered.

  “I agree with Alan,” Sampson said, speakin
g for the very first time since he had been pushed, rather forcefully, onto the boat. He had found a relatively comfortable spot in the vessel, sat down and sulked. He had no idea why he had been forced to come along, and Merton had not thought to enlighten him.

  “It may have escaped your attention, but there is a noticeable lack of cargo in this boat,” Yrre said sarcastically. “We are sailing high in the water. It will draw attention.”

  “What do you say, Merton?” Alan asked.

  “We can say that you paid us a considerable sum of money to sail you back here,” Sampson offered his opinion. “You are, after all, a very important man. Alan of Brittany, Keeper of the Blade,” Sampson grinned which made his face look even younger than his years.

  “Exactly,” Alan said. “Although, don’t mention the Keeper of the Blade part, for that would get me thrown in the dungeons and would ensure a swift walk to the hangman’s noose. Merton, what do you think?”

  Merton looked from Alan to Yrre, then back to Alan again. What Alan suggested made sense, but at the same time, Yrre was right. Sometimes being in a crowd did have its disadvantages, and they couldn’t afford for anything to go wrong.

  “I stand with Alan,” Sampson said. “You know what the harbour is like, Merton. No one is going to take any notice of us. We will just be another trading vessel.”

  “What does God say?” Merton asked, looking at the monk.

  “By the gods, don’t encourage him, Merton,” Yrre said, throwing up his hands in annoyance.

  “Is God with us, Brother Sampson?” Merton asked again.

  “Is that why you brought me?” Sampson asked, a frown marring his face. “So that you would have God on your side?”

  Merton chose to remain silent, but he did notice how his men hung on to every word and for those who didn’t understand, Trace helpfully translated the words into Saxon.