“Do you trust Alan?” Yrre asked. “This idea of his about going to the harbour—”
“No. I don’t trust him. He is a slippery snake that one. But I do trust you. I need you to be my sword arm, my strength. Philippe took everything from me—”
“And I am happy to steal Amandine back for you. You know that. I am worried about Trace though.” Yrre glanced over to where Trace was sat watching them. “He is restless. I do not think he will be with us for much longer.”
“He is a mercenary. War is in his blood.”
“He thinks you should find another woman, forget about Amandine. But then, he has never loved.”
“Do you think me a fool?” Merton asked quietly.
“No,” Yrre answered. “Of course not. But I am fearful for you. I can see hope in your face, and I fear that if she is dead—”
“Can you remember when you were captured, and you spent three weeks in—”
“I am not likely to forget it,” Yrre interrupted, anger blazing in his eyes again at the reminder.
“That is where I am now,” Merton stated softly. “I have been locked in the dark ever since they told me Amandine was dead. You were in the dark for three weeks, I have been given a life sentence.”
Yrre shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“And now, Alan has come along and given me a reason to hope. Perhaps you are right, maybe it is a false hope, but it is all I have.”
“If she is dead—”
“Then she is dead,” Merton stated. “I am not asking you to go to war. I am asking you to find out. And if she is alive, I beg you, get her out of there. The men need you to lead them, Yrre. I need you to lead them.”
“Some days I wish you had never thrown that fight,” Yrre moaned.
“You would be dead if I had not,” Merton stated. “I have faith in you, Yrre. You can do this. There is no one else I would rather hand the reins over to.”
Yrre ran his hand over his face. “Please don’t look at me like that. I am not you. I can not perform a Christian miracle.”
“Neither could I,” Merton stated. “I was just lucky that the Devil favoured me.”
“Let’s hope that he still does,” Yrre stated with all seriousness.
36
Amandine sat with her back against the wall. She was shivering, but she didn’t know if that was from the cold or from fear. She resisted the urge to creep closer to the fire. For what was the point of seeking a little warmth when soon the flames would engulf her?
Someone dropped a tray full of plates outside of her room, and the sound made her jump. She took a deep, steadying breath, all too aware that each breath she took was precariously close to being her last one.
For some unfathomable reason, she had been offered food. A soldier had come in mere moments ago and replaced the uneaten food that Bastian had brought her, for some fresh bread, straight out of the oven. Why did they think she would want to eat? She had enough trouble keeping the bile in her stomach, let alone anything else. The food was still sat there, untouched on the plate.
Her bladder started to ache again, and for the hundredth time this morning she reached for the chamber pot.
When she had finished, she stood on shaking legs and looked at Merton’s tunic that was still laid out on her bed. Gingerly she touched the stained fabric. It was time. There was no point in delaying. With trembling hands, she unlaced the ties of her dress. Her every action was slow and laborious as she tried to stretch out the hours to her execution. Finally, she wriggled free of the dress. Bending slowly, she picked up the dress from the floor. She took a long time folding it neatly, before placing it upon the chair. Old habits die hard, she assumed, she had never been one to leave clothes in a heap on the floor.
The cold of the room made goosebumps rise on her skin, but she did not rush to put on Merton’s tunic. Instead, she stood with her arms folded about her and simply looked at it. Amandine had heard a rumour that before death the life you had lived flashed before your eyes, but this wasn’t the case for her. Instead, Amandine saw what her life should have been. She grieved for the man she had wanted to grow old with, and for the children that she should have had. Amandine would have liked children. She longed to know what it was like to have a baby growing inside her and what it felt like when the baby kicked for the first time. How wonderful that must be. She would never experience the pain of labour or the joy that came after. She would never know what it was like to nurse a baby. No child would ever look upon her and call her ‘Mother.’ And then, further down the years when she was wrinkled and grey, there would be no bonny baby for her to bounce on her knee. She would never have the chance to reminisce at how much the child looked like her daughter or son. It was more than her life that Philippe and the Church were taking from her this day. They were stealing her dreams.
With tears in her eyes, she picked up Merton’s tunic and held the fabric against her face, foolishly imagining that she could feel Merton’s hand upon her cheek.
She slipped Merton’s tunic over her head, and she fancied that Merton was holding her close, protecting her from the horrors that were to come. Thoughts of him would see her through this. She would pretend that he was there, by her side. Oh God, she didn’t want to die. Not like this. Not in fire. Philippe had promised. He had promised.
She sunk back to the floor in despair, her arms wrapped around her in a protective hug, as she tried desperately to hold back the sobs.
“Please God,” she whispered between her tears that fell unheeded from her eyes. “Give me the strength to face this.”
“The pyre is for her, but we cannot get her out,” Alan stated, kicking at a loose stone on the road with anger as he approached Merton, Yrre and Sampson. He had been turned away at the castle entrance, despite him being who he was. “They won’t let me in,” Alan said in disgust. “I am the second in command of the bloody army, and they won’t let me into the castle.”
A couple of villagers who were walking towards the place of execution looked at Alan curiously, for they recognised him. They whispered to each other before scurrying away in case this particular Breton soldier decided to turn his rage on them, for such things were not unheard of now. It was a dangerous time to be a peasant. The soldiers who they used to look on for protection were now those they tried their best to avoid. Since Philippe took the throne, there had been numerous cases of assaults, rapes, and disappearances. But no one dared say anything to the authorities because it was those in a position of power that were carrying out the attacks. Maybe things would get better once this so-called demon lover was executed. One can only hope.
“If I cannot get in then we cannot get her out. We are a day too late,” Alan growled out his frustration. “If we arrived yesterday, we could have saved her. One day. Just one bloody day,” he kicked at another stone.
A small group of old folk eyed them curiously as they walked slowly by.
Sampson, with his hood up and his eyes downcast, shook his head sadly. “She is in the hands of God now,” he said solemnly. “He will have mercy on her soul.” Sampson touched Merton on the arm briefly in a silent offer of support. “Believe in that. Come, we are rousing suspicion staying here. There is nothing we can do. We should get back on the boat. We must put the sea between us and this desperate place. No one can say we didn’t try. Amandine would understand, I am sure of it. Once we are back in Cerniw, we will hold a Mass and pray for her soul. After that, I beseech you, Galahad, to come back to the monastery with me. Come with me, and I will show you the path that leads to peace. You can put this behind you and move on.”
“You talk of peace as if it is given. I will never find peace if I walk away from Amandine now,” Merton answered, trying his best to hold on to his temper at the monk’s callous words. “You love a God who cannot die, who cannot be physically hurt. I love a woman who can. I am not leaving her here.”
“There is nothing we can do for her,” Sampson argued. “I am sorry, but I have God’s work to
do. There are others that I have to save. I cannot die for a lost cause.”
“Steady,” Yrre said, as he grabbed Merton’s arm to stop him from striking the monk.
Merton didn’t understand what had come over Sampson these past few days. When had this warm-hearted and generous monk become so unsympathetic and uncharitable?
“We have an audience.” Yrre forced a smile at some women. This group of young village women knew better than to stare too long at strange men in case they gave them the wrong idea. So they quickly averted their gazes and carried on walking.
“Why didn’t I contact Alden earlier?” Alan shook his head in despair. “Between us, we could have come up with something before it got to this stage.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Sampson spoke with compassion, and in a much gentler tone than the one he had used for Merton. “You did everything that you could. You were not to know that it would end like this. None of us did. We must not blame ourselves. It serves no purpose.”
“And yet, we are all to blame,” Alan answered looking at Merton.
“I am going back to the castle,” Merton stated. He shook off Yrre’s hand and began to make his way against the tide of people who were now flocking to the beach like a herd of sheep being harassed by a dog. Yrre followed close behind him.
“Galahad,” Sampson called after him, but Merton wasn’t going to stop for anyone.
Alan swore and pushed through the crowd to catch up with Merton and Yrre. Seeing no alternative, Sampson begrudgingly followed them.
“If I can not get in, then what hope do you have?” Alan asked as he caught hold of Merton’s arm and swung him around to face him.
“Let go of me,” Merton’s voice was low and threatening.
Looking into Merton’s face, Alan could appreciate, at last, why Merton had been given the name The Devil. For the rage in Merton’s eyes was almost animalistic in its intensity. He let go of Merton’s arm and took a step back.
“Either you are with me, or you are not,” Merton snapped angrily.
“I am with you,” Alan assured. “Believe me. I don’t want to see her die. But the castle is impregnable. There are soldiers everywhere.”
“Show me,” Merton ordered, for he would not believe anything he was told ever again, he had to see it for himself.
Going against the crowd, they followed the road that led to the castle, keeping their heads down and trying not to be noticed by the military presence.
“You are going the wrong way, cripple,” a soldier, who stank of ale, taunted as he pushed his way through the crowd. He grabbed hold of Merton’s arm and forcefully turned him around. He then proceeded to kick Merton on the backside. Merton stumbled into Yrre.
“You all right?” Yrre asked in an undertone.
“Never better,” Merton answered, and he gave a look that Yrre knew only too well.
“I’ll take your stick?” Yrre spoke quietly, unsure of Merton’s intentions, but taking a wild guess, anyway.
“Can I borrow your knife?” Merton returned.
“Why? What happened to yours?”
“I left it on the boat.”
Yrre unsheathed his weapon and handed it to Merton, pommel first. “The blade is sharp,” Yrre stated, his lips twitching at the corner of his mouth as he tried not to smile. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
Merton raised his eyebrows as he scoffed at Yrre’s words. Then he turned back around and began to once again make his way up the road. Although without the stick he did not feel so sure of his footsteps.
“Are you deaf as well as a cripple?” The soldier heckled, reaching out to grab Merton again.
Blind rage focused his mind, and for a moment Merton felt no pain. “No. But if you touch me again, I will show you what your kidneys look like,” Merton’s voice was as deadly as the knife whose point was now pushed into the soldier’s stomach. “Don’t,” Merton stated as the soldier went for his own weapons.
The soldier was drunk, so perhaps that was why he went against Merton’s advice. But before he had time to draw his blade, Merton’s knife had found a home in his stomach, not once but thrice. At the same time, Yrre came up behind the soldier and covered the soldier’s mouth with his hand, blocking any sound the soldier may have made.
“Quietly. Quietly. Shh…” Yrre whispered in the soldier’s ear in Saxon, and when he felt the soldier’s head fall back, he carefully lowered the body to the ground. There were a few gasps of horror by those who had witnessed the attack, but they knew better than to interfere. So instead, they increased their pace and pretended they had not seen a soldier murdered before their eyes.
Merton handed the now bloody knife back to Yrre, grimacing slightly as pain travelled down his arm.
“Yours,” Yrre handed Merton his stick back.
“Thanks,” Merton took the stick.
“Shall we?” Yrre asked with a raised eyebrow.
“After you,” Merton replied. “And you said I couldn’t kill anyone anymore…”
Yrre grinned. “You were always one to make a point of proving that something could be done when others said it couldn’t. I should have known better than to say that to you.”
“Yes. You should have.”
“I would apologise but…” Yrre smirked. “I can’t be bothered.”
“When can you ever?” Merton returned, his eyes fell on the dead soldier as he spoke. “I think it might be wise to—”
“Leave?” Yrre asked, with humour in his eyes.
“I don’t think we should linger,” Merton stated.
“No,” Yrre agreed as he too looked at the man they had killed. “You are probably right. Come on then…”
They walked around the body of the dead soldier and continued on their journey as if nothing of any significance had happened.
Sampson crossed himself when he saw the soldier’s body. “This is madness,” he muttered to Alan. “I cannot condone this sort of violence.”
“Then don’t,” Alan replied as he increased his pace, running a few steps to catch up with Merton. Alan lamented the loss of life, but he had chosen a side now, and the soldier that was once a comrade was now an enemy. It was a callous way to look at things, but true all the same and besides, being drunk on duty was a flogging offence, and in some cases, a hanging one.
The castle came into view, and Merton finally came to a stop. There were soldiers everywhere — around the portcullis, the perimeter of the castle and upon the battlements. It was as if the castle was expecting an attack.
“I told you there was no way in,” Alan said with defeat.
“The tunnel?” Yrre queried, an edge of desperation in his voice. “We used it before.”
“What tunnel?” Alan asked.
“No. It would be suicide,” Merton continued to address Yrre. “There are too many soldiers.”
Alan had more sense than to ask his question again. He knew Benwick had secrets, what castle did not? He thought that he had known them all — apparently not.
“We are rousing suspicion,” Sampson said in a singsong voice as he came to stand with them. One of the soldiers at the portcullis pointed to them, and another began to make his way towards them.
“Merton, we need to pull back,” Yrre stated with urgency.
“Alan, these are your men. Get us in there,” Merton commanded. He had no intention of pulling back. He was going to get into the castle if it was the last thing he ever did.
“Were you not listening? I tried to get in, but they have their orders. No one is allowed in. Not today. The castle has been secured. You are not getting in. We need to go. Now,” Alan replied sharply.
Merton raised his hand, in which he still held his stick, and tried to shield his eyes from the sun. “I am here to see Bastian,” he addressed the soldier who was coming towards him. “I am assuming Bastian is still the general of your army? That is what he told me, anyway,” Merton indicated Alan with a tilt of his head.
“What are you doing?�
� Alan whispered, turning his face away from the advancing soldier so that he would not be recognised. Although he had chosen to stand with the du Lacs, he didn’t want to be seen standing with the du Lacs. Not yet. At the end of his quest, he would have no qualm with standing at Merton’s side. But he was not at the end of his quest. He was at the very beginning. It would not do for the Knights of Pendragon to know that he was going to ask them to side with the du Lacs. He had to make sure his timing was right so they could not refuse his request.
“What you could not,” Merton replied to Alan.
“Come back tomorrow,” the soldier stated. “He has no time to see peasants today,” and with that dismissal, the soldier turned back towards the castle.
“He will see me,” Merton stated with confidence. “I come with news about Alden du Lac.”
The soldier paused. “Alden du Lac? What news? Tell me.”
There was movement on the battlements that caught Merton’s eye and there, with the sun shining behind him, was the man he sought.
“My Lord, I bid you good day,” Merton yelled. He bowed mockingly toward the battlements where Bastian stood. “I have heard many stories of your…” Merton paused as he searched for a word. “…prowess in battle and your mercy to a fallen enemy. It is an honour, indeed, to be stood before you now.”
“What do you want?” Bastian called down from the battlements.
“I come with a message from the King of Cerniw, for your ears only,” Merton looked pointedly at the soldier in front of him.
“Bastian is going to kill you,” Alan stated in a very low voice, although he spoke in the language of the Britons so that the soldier could not understand him. “But then again, if he was going to kill you he had plenty of opportunities. The lying bastard. Amandine thinks you are dead. We all thought you were. The body we thought was yours… Whose was that?”
“Best you don’t ask,” Merton replied. “I need Bastian down here, Alan. Help me.”
“Why would Bastian not tell us you were alive? Amandine has grieved for you. It has been heart-breaking to watch.”
The Du Lac Princess: (Book 3 of The Du Lac Chronicles) Page 43