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

by Mary Anne Yarde

  “Don’t,” She drew back a little, surprised to find she was panting. “I’ve been sick—”

  “That was hours ago. Believe me, you don’t taste of sick now,” Merton said and covered her mouth with his once more. His lips moved over hers, slowly and sensuous. Shyly she began to copy the movements, and then, as her confidence grew, she began to put more of herself into the kiss and then more still. She grabbed hold of his head and forked her fingers through all that rich, thick hair, glorying in the fact that he was alive and they had been given a second chance at love. She pulled him closer, he moaned into her mouth, and she felt this incredible fire heat up her insides, and without conscious thought, she straddled him. She wanted to be as near as she could to him, so she pressed closer, but still, it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. She would never be close enough to this man.

  “Merton,” she gasped his name when he let her up for air. “I thought you were dead,” she hit him, but this time there was no malice in it, no fear.

  “I am going to have to get used to being hit again,” Merton joked, rubbing his nose against hers, for that had always been their thing ever since they were children, he would tease her and she would hit him. “God, I missed you, woman. I missed you so damn much,” and then he was kissing her again. She opened her mouth to his gentle urgings, and his tongue touched hers. He tasted of heat and hope and something that was undeniably Merton. She had never been kissed like this before. He made her forget everything — who they were, where they were, where they had been, where they were going — nothing mattered, not in this moment.

  She tore her mouth from his, trying to catch her breath. But he did not draw away from her. Instead, he began to trace the contours of her cheek with his lips. She closed her eyes and raised her chin so he could have better access to her neck. Pleasurable sensations shot along her nerve endings, and she moaned.

  “Marry me,” she begged softly, tears of joy streaming down her face. “Lord Bretagne is no longer my husband, I am free. Please Merton, marry me. I don’t ever want to be apart from you again.”

  “I thought you would never ask,” he answered, and she felt his grin against her face, and then he kissed her again and made words, for the moment, completely unnecessary.

  Epilogue

  The Kingdom of Wessex, Briton. Ten days later.

  Menacing clouds graced an ever-darkening sky, and the air smelled of rain. Cerdic, King of Wessex, kicked his horse on, but he need not have bothered, the animal’s ears had pricked up, as had his pace, for they were nearly home.

  His army was two days behind him, under the command of his son. Cerdic had needed some time alone to gather his thoughts, and so he had ridden on, despite his son’s and his general’s misgivings.

  It had been a tedious journey, from Wessex to Londinium then back to Wessex again, but a necessary one. Mordred had been very explicit in his instructions. The nuns at Holywell were to be put to the sword. Cerdic had wanted no part in this, and although he felt no compunction at the thought of killing nuns, he did respect their God. The last thing he needed was to enrage this Christian deity — he had enough problems as it was. He had told Mordred he could borrow his men, but he would have to lead them himself. That went down as well as could be expected, but Cerdic had stood firm for the first time in ages.

  As much as Cerdic hated Arthur’s bastard son, he could not help but admire him. While most warlords ran around like headless chickens, scratching and fighting for any scrap of land that they could conquer and own, Mordred sat back, watched and waited. And then, when the time was right, he launched his attack. But this was the clever part, Mordred fought on a different level to everybody else. While most charged into battle with a sword drawn, Mordred would wait until there was something that his enemy needed and then, he would give it to him. Money was no object. And everyone had a price. But what his enemies, and allies alike, didn’t realise until it was too late, was that Mordred’s money came with a cost. And that cost was enough to bring any man or kingdom for that matter, to his knees. There was no escape from Mordred once he had his talons impaled in you.

  Cerdic remembered his first encounter with Mordred Pendragon. The weather had been miserable — much like it was today — only the clouds had been obscured by black smoke. Cerdic had felt the foul taste of blood and burning wood in the back of his throat, and he had willed for the evening to come for he was exhausted, as were all his brother’s men.

  The battle beneath the old Tor had been hard won. They had lost good men, although Arthur’s losses had been larger. No one had the energy to wade through the blood-soaked peaty moorland to scavenge riches from the dead bodies. But, Cerdic had been commanded by his brother to find Arthur’s body, a task that he only half-heartedly attempted. He had no interest in finding a dead monarch and parading his body through the streets. Arthur was his enemy, but he had a healthy respect for him. He thought it wrong to disgrace what was once a great king by desecrating his body and putting it on show.

  He could recall standing, almost knee high in churned up mud and blood, and wondering if this was all his life was going to offer him. Was he to follow his brother from one bloody battle to another? Was he to watch as his brother and his men raped and murdered and pillaged, until one day, he too, would abandon decency and join in?

  His thoughts had turned to Brianna, whom he had left back in Brittany. By the gods, he had loved her. It had broken his heart to let Lancelot take her away from him, but he had no choice. If he had kept her with him, then his brother would have had the leverage to threaten him into compliance forever. Or his brother would have taken her away from him and done with her what he willed. For her own safety, he had no choice but to give her back to her kin. He felt his anger and resentment rise inside him. If only his brother had died that day, if only they had lost the battle, then he would have been free. He would have been free to marry the love of his life and then, maybe, things would have turned out differently. If only…

  He had turned over knight after knight in his search for Arthur’s body, glancing briefly at their faces, before moving on to the next one. Some of their bodies were still warm, a few were still alive, but with a quick slice of his knife across their throats, they breathed no more. He felt like a butcher. There was no honour in this. He could vividly recall that he wished he had been born into a family of farmers. He would have been content with his lot then.

  Eventually, he had admitted defeat and dared to go back to his brother empty handed. His brother was enraged and lashed out.

  It was in the early hours, when he was sat with a wet, cold cloth against his swollen eye, that Mordred approached him.

  Mordred’s footsteps were light, and when he stepped out of the shadows, Cerdic had dropped the cloth and reached for his knife. Mordred had taken one contemptuous look at the knife and sat himself down.

  Mordred stared hard at Cerdic and then he had thrown him a big purse full of coins.

  “What is this?” Cerdic had asked, staring at Mordred with distrust.

  “Payment,” Mordred said simply. This boy, this man, whoever he was, had a Wessex accent, although he spoke Saxon well enough.

  “Payment for what?” Cerdic had questioned, but Mordred had risen to his feet and walked away.

  “Payment for what?” He had called again, but Mordred disappeared into the night, and Cerdic had been too tired to pursue him.

  Cerdic had opened the purse, and he had gasped in surprise. For inside there were many gold and silver coins. He had never seen so much money in his life. It was more than he could ever hope to earn as a second rate mercenary.

  He had pocketed the purse before anyone else saw it, and he had congratulated himself on his good fortune. With hindsight, he wished that he had put a blade through Mordred there and then. Little did he know that he was now in the employment of someone who was so full of tricks and trickery that he would put even the Christian Devil, that he had heard so much about, to shame.

  As the y
ears went by, he forgot all about that strange man who had presented him with that bag of coins. The life Cerdic was forced to live changed him from a young man full of possibilities to an older creature that had become hard and ambitious — he would be unrecognisable to his younger self. He now wanted what his brother had.

  Cerdic cried no tears when his brother died. Instead, he had contemplated what he would do with this new found power that now fell in his lap like a gift. He began to forge his kingdom. And like Arthur, he saw the practicalities of having a united front. After all, he was not the only Saxon who was taking an interest in Briton. In fact, it was rumoured that the Jutes, and the Angles were casting their eyes in Briton’s direction as well, and why wouldn’t they? The land in Briton was perfect. A man could feed his family here. A man could prosper. As Arthur did before him, Cerdic set about peaceful negotiations with his neighbours. For the most part, there had been agreement — even the du Lacs saw the wisdom of such a treaty. It had been quite an accomplishment getting the du Lacs on side. He had felt incredibly pleased with himself. And for several years there was peace. No one invaded. No one attacked a neighbouring kingdom. Everyone got along. But then, one day, Mordred turned up uninvited at court. And that bastard then started to make demands. Cerdic, having no idea who he was, had him arrested and thrown in the dungeons. Looking back, he should have asked what his name was first, and then he should have killed him. The dungeons did not hold, Mordred. He bribed the prison guards and escaped, but that wasn’t the end of it. Mordred became like a sharp stone in a shoe, a persistent agony. He began to breed rebellion with whispers and plots. It was like trying to defeat a phantom. Crops were burnt, livestock slaughtered, people taken. Cerdic tried to put a bounty on his head, but he didn’t know who he was. No one knew who he was. And if they did, they were too frightened to say.

  Then, one day, when Cerdic was out hunting, he got separated from his men. He had been blind to any danger, thinking himself untouchable in the vast grounds of his castle, so it came as a surprise when an adder flew through the air. The snake landed on his horse’s back. Understandably, the horse panicked and threw Cerdic onto the hard earth. With hooves flying, the horse galloped back to the castle. Before Cerdic could gather his wits, someone held a knife to his throat.

  Mordred tied him up and took him deep underground where water collected in deep clear pools, and stalactites hung from the ceiling. There was also an effigy of a witch that had so called been turned to stone by a Christian holy man many years past — it wasn’t the kind of place you wanted to find yourself in. It was there that Mordred revealed who he was.

  Mordred spoke of many things that day, and Cerdic, being gagged, had no choice but to listen. Mordred didn’t make any threats. He made promises. If Cerdic cooperated with him than they would share glory and riches beyond comprehension. If he did not, then it would be death and destruction, not only for Cerdic, but for his kingdom. Mordred explained that the bag of coins he gave him, all those years ago, was a payment and that he had come to collect. All Cerdic had to do was invade Cerniw and kill the king. He made it sound so simple. But killing a king is never simple.

  When the gag was finally taken from his mouth, Cerdic had argued. He had no quarrel with Alden — he was family of sorts. He also feared the army of Brittany would come to Cerniw’s defence, and he did not have the men to withstand an attack on that scale. But for every argument Cerdic made, Mordred countered it, until, by the end, Cerdic could see only the merits of Mordred’s plans.

  Cerdic had never thought himself to be the kind of man who could be manipulated, but then again, he had never met a man like Mordred before. And so began Cerdic’s reign of domination and threats. With the backing of Mordred he felt himself invincible and, as Mordred had promised, Cerdic became more powerful, his army became so big that no one could stand in its way. Even King Natanleod and his army of 5,000 were defeated. Anything was possible now because Mordred had made it so. If Cerdic wanted a kingdom, he simply took it — as long as Mordred agreed with him. And there was the problem. Riches and land were his, but Cerdic no longer had his freedom. He was nothing better than a slave to Mordred’s whims, and like all owned men, he wanted to escape from the bonds of servitude. He dared to ask Mordred to release him of these invisible chains.

  Cerdic had expected to have to pay for his freedom, but when Mordred saw the many bags of coins Cerdic had gathered in a bid to buy his freedom, he had laughed and asked what Cerdic thought he needed the money for. He owned half of Briton as it was. Cerdic argued with him and said that he was the High King. The land was his. He had fought for it. He had won it. Mordred had picked up one of the bags of coins, opened it and took out a handful of gold.

  “Every single coin originates with me. You own nothing, Cerdic. Nothing. And you will do as you are told, or I will wipe your people out.”

  It wasn’t an idle threat. Mordred meant it, and Cerdic knew he had the means to make good on his promise.

  Cerdic’s horse broke into a trot as it caught sight of the castle battlements. Cerdic reined the animal in, for he had no desire to trot. He was getting older and riding came with sore thighs. As they passed through the portcullis, a groom ran up to him and took his horse’s reins. Cerdic dismounted, and with a yawn, he made his way to where his wife waited with pinched lips and a haughty expression. No smile of greeting, no rushing to embrace him. What a welcome.

  “My Lord,” she curtsied, but she looked right through him.

  “Wife, you look well,” Cerdic stated formally. In truth, she looked like she had been eating something sour that had left a bitter taste in her mouth. By the gods, was there nothing worse than a miserable wife?

  Ignoring her, Cerdic walked into his castle. Four of the castle dogs came bounding over to see him, wagging their tails and yapping in excitement. At least someone was pleased he returned. He took his time to pet them all and then he made his way towards the Great Hall. There would be feasting tonight to celebrate his homecoming, but he would have much preferred to eat his food in his chamber and then go to bed. He was certainly not as young as he used to be and a busy Hall with members of court jostling him for favours wasn’t something he looked forward to anymore.

  When he entered the Great Hall, he was surprised to find it empty of all but one. The man, hearing him enter the Hall, turned to look at him. Cerdic sighed his annoyance.

  “My Lord Wessex,” the man said, bowing respectfully low, although he slighted Cerdic by not addressing him as Your Majesty. This was a man who was not afraid of the Saxon warlord.

  Cerdic frowned and reached for the mead, making sure he poured himself a generous helping.

  “I heard a rumour you were back from the dead,” Cerdic said conversationally as he crossed the room and seated himself on his throne. He was thankful for the softness of the animal pelt that cushioned the wood somewhat. Cerdic raised his goblet in tribute and took a sip of mead. He then sighed in pleasure — there was nothing better than a goblet of mead after a long and tedious journey. Shame he could not savour it alone.

  “Are you going to tell me what you want, or do I have to guess?” Cerdic asked as the silence lingered on. He did not have the patience for this. He just wanted to lie down in his bed and go to sleep for a couple of hours.

  “How is Mordred?” Garren du Lac asked, with a hint of an ironic smile.

  Cerdic shook his head and sighed in obvious displeasure. “What do you want, Garren?” he asked, taking another sip of his mead.

  “A favour,” Garren replied.

  “I will grant you a favour, leave now before I run you through. Du Lacs are not welcomed in Wessex… Not anymore.”

  “I heard what you did to Alden. That was very brave of you, wasn’t it? You must remind me to return the favour some day.”

  “There’s the door,” Cerdic pointed to the far side of the Hall. “Tell Alden I said hello and that I haven’t forgotten him or his traitorous bitch of a Queen.”

  “It wasn’t Annis tha
t was the traitor though, was it?” Garren raised his eyebrow in query. “But, I know how you can make amends for your duplicity.”

  “Who told you I wanted to make amends?” Cerdic asked, clearly amused by Garren’s words.

  “I am looking for Josse.”

  The smile fell from Cerdic’s face, and his expression became guarded. “I have no idea who you are talking about.”

  It was Garren’s turn to laugh. “It is strange that you have no idea who he is, considering you helped me hide him from Budic all those years ago.” Garren untied a purse from around his belt and threw it at Cerdic’s feet.

  “And what is that?” Cerdic asked, leaning back in his chair. He made no move to pick the purse up.

  “It is money, my Lord, surely you have heard of such a thing before? Or maybe you still trade with cattle in Wessex…? I’ll try to find you an auroch, although I hear they are becoming harder to come by. Will an ox do?” Garren asked.

  “And here I was mistakenly thinking that the du Lac sarcasm died with Merton,” Cerdic replied.

  Garren did not correct him; let him think Merton was dead.

  “I do not want for cattle or money, Garren. Your purse of silver does not interest me.”

  “Let us forget about the money then and instead talk about your integrity.”

  “My integrity?” Cerdic laughed. “Garren, it has been a long couple of weeks, I am tired, and I am hungry—”

  “It must have been very difficult, slaughtering defenceless nuns.”

  “I took no part in that,” Cerdic stated, the laughter fading from his voice.

  “I know that. I know you are not the murdering bastard you pretend to be. But they were your men.”

  “Garren, I have no fight with you. I suggest you go before I do.”

  “We were once friends,” Garren reminded him. “Despite everything.”

  “We were.”

  “You taught me many things,” Garren continued. “You were my unofficial sword master.”