by Mary Yarde
Several days later, she watched as Merton and his men rode away from the camp and she knew her opportunity had come at last. She crept out of her tent and picked up a sword that one of the soldiers had carelessly left stabbed into the earth outside of his tent. And with the blade in her hand, she made her way to the tent where Emma and her husband’s demon child slept.
Emma was humming a lullaby while she folded some changing rags, so she did not hear Adèl come in. Adèl raised the sword, but she could not kill Emma. Emma was an innocent victim in all of this. So she hit her hard across the head with the pommel of the weapon. Emma crumbled to the floor, blood trickling from the wound, which soon stained her blonde hair red.
Adèl had to suppress a giggle — this was too easy. If she’d known, she would have done this long before. She turned her attention to the child who was asleep, wrapped in a blanket on top of a soft fur. She performed the Christian cross of protection as she stepped closer, wishing she had a crucifix to hold out in front of her to ward off the evil spirits that protected the child. She knelt and reached out cautiously, touching the child on the arm. She felt a tingling sensation go up her arm and a voice in her head chanted, “Kill the demon. Kill the demon. Kill the demon.” The baby woke, his grey eyes so like his father, stared at her in confusion, for he did not recognise this woman. His little lip began to wobble and he screwed his eyes tight shut, preparing to scream. Adèl quickly placed her hand over the baby’s mouth and nose, smiling as she did so.
Merton had felt uneasy all morning, he felt a menace in the air, an unknown threat, and he feared that something was wrong back at the camp. He did not voice his fears aloud, but he made some pithy excuse to Wihtgar about forgetting something that he needed and had turned his horse and headed back to camp before Wihtgar could form an objection. Back at camp, there was no sign of a disturbance; everything was as it should be. Becoming a father had made him more than a little paranoid. He smiled at the thought. Still, he was here now; he might as well go and see him. Any excuse was good enough. He wanted to be near his son, to hold him, or just to watch him sleep — he could waste away hours just watching him sleep. Yrre said fatherhood suited him; he wasn’t so sure, he feared it was making him weak.
He had called Emma’s name as he entered the tent. When he saw her on the floor, seemingly lifeless, he had reached for his knife and then he saw his wife bent over the furs and he knew exactly what she was doing. He yelled her name and she had turned and smiled gloatingly at him, telling him he was too late, that their devil child was back in Hell where he belonged. To him, in that moment, she looked like the demon she accused him of being. He couldn’t recollect what happened next, only moments later Adèl was lying on the floor, not moving, and the baby was in his arms, crying.
Yrre and Eadger had helped him bury the body. Merton had not meant to kill her, but when he dragged her off their child and threw her to the side, she had fallen awkwardly and hit her head hard on the unforgiving ground. Eadger said it was more than she deserved, no man, or woman for that matter, attacked his Emma. But that didn’t make Merton feel any better and his heart felt heavy with guilt.
There was no man of God at her funeral. Merton knew the Latin to the funeral rite, but he was pretty sure the last thing Adèl would have wanted was for him to say them, so he remained silent.
Merton had stayed looking at her grave for a long time. He remembered what she was like when he had first met her. He recalled the way she laughed and the humour in her eyes. If he concentrated hard enough, he fancied he could imagine the feel of her in his arms. Slowly, he opened his eyes again and looked down at the mound of earth. He was responsible for what she had become. Maybe, she had been right all along. Maybe, he had corrupted her. If it weren’t for him, she would have been happily married to a decent man — a man of her parents choosing — and she would have had a place in her village for life. She might even have had a ‘respectable’ baby that she could love. He had denied her that life and then he had killed her. He vowed on her grave, never to make such a mistake with a woman again.
“She tried to kill your son.”
Merton had not realised that Yrre was still standing by his side, but then he should have known. Yrre never let him face an enemy alone.
Yrre placed a supporting hand on to Merton’s shoulder, for he knew Merton well, and could guess what he was thinking. “You have nothing to feel guilty about.”
“Who says I am feeling guilty?” Merton snapped back. He walked away from the grave then, not waiting for Yrre to answer. He wandered long into the night, until finally, under the light of a full moon, he had sunk to his knees and given way to tears.
The first thing he did when he got back to the camp in the morning, was to set fire to their tent. He wanted no reminders of his life with her. He wanted all memory erased. He would bury his guilt as surely as he buried her. No one was allowed to speak of her. It was as if she had never existed...
7
Merton awoke with a start, his heart pounding and sweat upon his brow. He had not dreamt of her in a long time and he wondered why he did so now.
“Are you all right?” Yrre asked, sitting down next to him.
“Bad dream,” Merton replied, dismissively.
Yrre knew better than to ask Merton to share his dream. Merton was a very private man, he very rarely shared what he was thinking, let alone his innermost fears, and Yrre respected that. Actually, he more than respected Merton, he admired him. From the moment their wooden swords had clashed, all those years ago, back in Cerniw, Yrre knew, even then, that Merton was one of those rare men, the kind that only grace your life once — if you are lucky. He caught himself smiling at the memory. Merton had saved his life that day. He had let him win. But why? Yrre had asked himself that question many times and yet he could not fathom an answer. Why would Merton du Lac throw a fight to save the life of a no good Saxon mercenary? It was a riddle. Merton was a riddle.
There was more to Merton than the general consensus. Yrre, who knew him best of all, could see past the pretence. Underneath the ruthless warrior appearance was an ordinary man, a kind one, who was affected deeply by who he was and what he did. Merton had never shown any signs of weakness, but sometimes Yrre could catch a glimpse of the deepest sorrow in his eyes. If Merton was, what others said he was, then why was his soul so deeply scarred? And why, when he slept, did his dreams torment him?
“We mustn’t exist,” Merton mumbled to himself as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and accepted the ale horn that Yrre passed to him.
“Right...” Yrre said, rolling his eyes. Merton often mumbled strange things, which made sense to no one but himself.
“No. Seriously,” Merton said, sitting up straighter. “We need to become invisible.”
“Have you been drinking again?” Yrre asked, taking the ale horn quickly away from Merton.
“No,” Merton shook his head and stood up. Good God, why had he not thought of it before? He stretched, awakening his sore, tired, muscles. “Do you fancy going hunting, Yrre?” he asked, bending over and picking up his horse’s saddle. He knew what they had to do now. It was a long shot that it would work, but they wouldn’t know unless they tried.
“Depends on what we are hunting,” Yrre replied cautiously, raising the ale horn to his mouth.
“Uniforms.”
Yrre choked on his ale. “Uniforms?” he coughed and banged his fist against his chest to clear his airways. “We wouldn’t be talking about Clovis’s uniforms, now would we?” He coughed again and took another sip of the ale.
In answer, Merton grinned at him like a child intent on mischief.
“Merton...” Yrre shook his head. “Don’t be a fool. What you are suggesting is nothing short of suicidal.”
“Maybe,” Merton agreed. “But if we have those uniforms, we will be able to cross Clovis’s lines and no one would think anything of it. But, by all means, if you can think of a better idea, then I am open to suggestions.”
“F
alling on my sword sounds appealing right now,” Yrre spat back sarcastically. “Merton, we cannot just stroll into Clovis’s camp and take what we want. You know that as well as I-”
“I said nothing about going into his camp.”
“You are going to try and draw some soldiers out?” Yrre snorted in disbelief. He had always thought Merton was a mad old bastard — here, at last, was the incontestable proof.
“No. Not me personally. I thought I’d leave that bit to you.”
“You want me to....” Yrre stood, and stepped closer to his leader. “No,” he emphasised the word. “I will not be used as bait. Not again. Not after the last time.”
“No?” Merton asked, seemingly shocked at Yrre’s lack of enthusiasm.
“No.”
“You still hold that against me, after all this time-”
“Yes, I do actually. You left me in that prison?” Yrre interrupted.
“Yrre, I apologised for that.”
“You…you apologised?” Yrre snorted in disbelief. “I must have been absent that day.”
“I came back for you,” Merton said in his defence.
“After three weeks,” Yrre reminded him. “Do you know what rat tastes like? Because that is what they served up in that bloody dungeon, that’s if they remembered to feed us at all.”
“I couldn’t just walk in and ask for your release. And besides, I thought you said you quite liked the taste of rat? But maybe that was the delirium, you didn’t make an awful lot of sense when we got you out. Although you did say something about...now, what was his name? Oh, yes,” Merton chuckled, “I remember. Alger, that was his name. Remind me, what was it that you said he was really good at?” Merton chuckled again. “Oh, don’t bother, I remember now. You said that-”
“Don’t try my patience, Merton,” Yrre warned.
“By my honour, I swear that we are not going to get caught. This time the plan is fool proof. I will happily admit that the last time you were used as bait I had not quite thought it through properly, but this time…it’s going to work.” Merton said with assurance. “Do you want to hear my plan?”
“No, I do not want to hear your plan. Read my lips, my answer is no. No to your schemes, and no to your plans, and no to me being used as bait.”
“No as in you might be prepared to consider it?” Merton persisted.
“No as in No. No. NO.” Yrre said, rapidly losing his patience.
“So, no is your final word?” Merton asked.
“Yes.”
“Yes?” Merton looked at Yrre in apparent confusion. “Now you’ve got me all confused, are you saying yes you will, or no you will not? Which is it?”
“I am saying I dislike you greatly,” Yrre stated. “You mad son-of-a… You may want to die young, but I happen to have something to live for.” Yrre touched the leather woven bracelet that his wife had made for him the last time he had seen her.
Merton shrugged, although he had noticed Yrre touch the bracelet on his wrist. What he would give for a love like they had, but there was no time for such wishful thinking today. This plan of his would only work if Yrre was on-board. “You are right. I am sorry. I should not ask this of you. I was wrong. I’ll ask someone else,” Merton sighed as if upset, but Yrre could see that those grey eyes of his had that light in them, which meant that this conversation was far from over.
“But...I don’t know…” Merton continued and Yrre braced himself for what was to come next. “…It has always been you and I. I think it will be all right, though. Why don’t you take a nap, you look tired? I’ll see you later.”
“We are all tired and I think the lack of sleep is affecting your judgement,” Yrre answered, his voice harsh and hostile as he watched Merton place the saddle upon his horse’s back.
“Obviously, it would be easier if I had you with me.” Merton mused. “But-”
“You are not going to make me feel guilty for not going along with one of your mad schemes.”
“Guilty? I wasn’t trying to make you feel guilty. I was just thinking about the men. We promised them safe passage and...”
Yrre scoffed at that.
“Yrre, it sounds like you have a bit of a sore throat,” Merton said with mocked concern. “Maybe Emma has something for that — you should ask her. And Yrre, you are going very red in the face, do you feel feverish?” Merton stepped towards him and placed the back of his hand on Yrre’s forehead. Yrre jerked away from his touch.
“You are burning up. You should definitely stay here.”
“There is nothing wrong with me. It is you that needs a healer,” Yrre scowled as he spoke. “Perhaps Emma has something for a pretentious little-”
“I hope it’s not contagious,” Merton interrupted. “Stay away from my boy, just to be on the safe side. In fact, I think you should stay away from the men as well. You should come with me. I think that would be for the best.”
“Have I told you today, how much I hate you?” Yrre asked with a growl.
“Not yet, but I guess there’s still time,” Merton answered with a grin. “So are you with me?”
“Of course I am bloody with you. You’d only go and get yourself killed if I was not, and I don’t need the guilt.”
“I knew you’d see reason, in the end. Guilt is a terrible thing, Yrre. You have made the right choice,” Merton mused, his tone was light and teasing, but he knew all too well about guilt, for it had been a constant companion of his for many years. He turned back to his horse and finished tacking him up.
“Reason? By the gods...” Yrre mumbled to himself as he walked to where his tack was. “And you can shut-up as well,” he said to Rand, who was leaning back against a tree and trying not to smile at the exchange he had just witnessed.
Rand had wondered, over the last couple of hours, if he was doing the right thing, siding with Merton, but watching the exchange between Merton and Yrre, had convinced him that he had made the right choice. If anyone was going to get passed Clovis’s lines, then it was Merton du Lac. And by the gods, if they were caught, then Merton would be able to talk his way out of the situation.
8
Benwick Castle, Brittany. Ten days later.
Josephine du Manfrey held the spill with a shaking hand as she lit the candles at the back of the church. It was cold. The wind had been blowing a gale all day and it had started to rain relentlessly hard just as the sun set, and had not stopped.
The church’s thatch was in need of repair, evident by the growing number of puddles on the church floor, but nobody paid the dripping ceiling any attention. There were more important things to attend to, this night.
The monks had gathered, singing mournful hallelujahs to the Lord, although how God could hear them praising him over the sound of the tolling bell and the howling wind, Josephine could not imagine. She took a step back away from the candles, watching them for a moment as their little lights danced in the slight draught from the gap at the bottom of the closed church door, and then she sank softly to her knees on the hard, cold, flagstone floor at the back of the church.
Night had come and gone and dawn was just about to break over the horizon. Josephine had spent the night keeping vigil. Later today the funeral service would take place and all those that had travelled many miles would stand respectfully, looking forlorn, eat King Budic’s food, drink his fine wine, form new alliances and strengthen older ones, before heading home. What else were funerals for? For most they were just another social occasion, like marriages or baptisms.
Josephine remembered her own husband’s funeral. The mourners smiling at her with insincere sympathy, telling her what a ‘good’ man Marcus had been, as if they had known him well, and some of them, she knew, had not even liked him when he was alive. They were hypocritical, all of the mourners there, including herself. She had not mourned her husband at all. In fact, she was glad to be rid of him.
Their marriage had been a disaster from the start. She didn’t want to be married to him and he had only marrie
d her for the money his cousin, Merton du Lac, had paid him to take her off his hands. Love had not grown between the pair of them as it does in some cases; instead, they had a marriage of indifference. Marcus did not care what his wife did, as long as she didn’t shame him and Josephine happily overlooked Marcus’s many mistresses. Her thinking was, if he were busy with them, then he would leave her alone.
There was only one good thing that had come out of their marriage. Philippe. Marcus’s brother. He was attentive and funny and kind. He made her feel special. He was everything Marcus was not. And he loved her, for he had told her so on countless occasions. In fact, he was the only person who had ever said those words to her. Philippe cared for her, even if the world did not.
She had tried not to seem overly joyous when her husband died. She had tried to act the grieving widow. It had been difficult. Thank God for Philippe. He had stayed her constant companion throughout the whole horrendous process and had taken her into his house and placed her under his protection. If it weren’t for him, she would have had to come back to Benwick sooner.
Philippe would not be pleased, however, if he knew she was here. He had specifically told her not to come and had tried to make her promise that she would not. She wondered why he seemed so adamant for her not to pay her respects. Surely he would come to see that it was the only right thing for her to do? She had, after all, been a lady-in-waiting to the Queen. It would appear odd if she did not attend. Then again, Lord Bretagne had not allowed his wife to keep vigil either and she had been a lady-in-waiting too. Perhaps there was something that these good men were holding back from their womenfolk. And if so, she wondered what it was.
She listened to the mournful singing of the monks and she took a moment to watch them. Philippe would have a thing or two to say if he could see them now, dressed in their pretend poverty-stricken brown robes. What did they know of poverty? They were just playing at it.
Philippe certainly had no time for the Abbot of Brittany. As he pointed out only recently, the Abbot was a man so large from feasting that he could barely walk ten strides without breaking into a sweat and panting like a dog. Yet, he preached on the dangers of gluttony at every service he had ever attended.