The Du Lac Devil: Book 2 of The Du Lac Chronicles

by Mary Yarde

  Merton grabbed Yrre’s tunic. “Do not speak her name. Ever again. I forbid it.” He shoved Yrre away from him. “Or so help me God…”

  “Your God would never come to your aid. He never comes to anyone. He is a phantom. He is a myth. He rules with fear and condemnation.”

  “And your gods don’t?” Merton snarled back.

  “At least my gods are honest. Can you say the same for yours?”

  “Let’s kill him and be done with it, for this conversation is boring me,” Wann said unhelpfully. “We can then dispose of his brothers and take this kingdom and all the riches that are inside it,” Wann smirked as he spoke. “We could retire in the Mediterranean and surround ourselves with beautiful women,” he sighed at the thought. “And eat those orange fruits — I had one once — it was…” he groaned in pleasure. “It was almost better than...” He closed his eyes and sighed wistfully. “Or we could take control of this kingdom. I could be a king, and you could be my squire, Yrre.”

  Merton breathed out unsteadily. What Wann said sounded so ludicrous that he felt his anger slipping away. Yrre was right. Wann was always saying the wrong thing in jest.

  “Your squire?” Yrre said, joining in with the banter, although he still kept his eyes fixed on Merton’s face.

  “I meant, my fool,” Wann said.

  “Aye, I could juggle knives, although I fear one might slip from my hand and stab you in the-”

  “You are not getting into the spirit of things, Yrre. Honestly, I don’t know why I bother. Nevertheless, I think we should take the castle. It is a good idea.”

  “You wouldn’t get passed the portcullis,” Merton warned.

  “Wann, this is Brittany. We don’t burn villages in Brittany or dispose of their king,” Yrre said, still looking at Merton.

  “Why? Because it is Merton’s childhood home? We burnt villages in Saxony — that’s where you and I grew up, so what’s the difference?” There was no malice in his words; he was merely stating a fact.

  “The difference is, I would kill you if you tried,” Merton answered, but his voice did not hold the anger that it had done moment’s ago. He looked away from Yrre and turned his attention to Wann. “I can not offer you the Mediterranean but Cerniw is the next best thing, and Alden is a good king. You would do well under his leadership. And I know you are the son of a great man. Your father would be proud.”

  “My father certainly would not be proud if he were still alive. But, if that is meant as an apology then I will accept it,” Wann said. “If it isn’t then I’m going to gut you like a fish.” Wann unsheathed his knife and began to toss it in the air, threateningly, catching it by the pommel each time before throwing it again.

  “I need to get back to the castle,” Merton said, not at all cowed by Wann’s threatening behaviour, although he was keeping an eye on that knife, for if Wann decided to fling it at him, he needed to be ready to move out of the way quickly. “Before you gut me, can you do me a favour and look after her,” he tilted his head in Amandine’s direction. He wasn’t at all concerned that Wann would approach her or try getting her into his bed. If he were under orders, he would do as he was told. Otherwise, the consequences would be...painful.

  Amandine had not moved the entire time. She was like a statue. The only movement was the skirt of her dress and her braid, which was caught by the wind every so often. “Make sure no harm comes to her.”

  “I am not a guardian. I would rather dig ditches,” Wann stated in disgust. “If you want to give me a job then give me something worthy of my attention.”

  “She is worthy,” Merton argued.

  Yrre frowned and turned his attention to Amandine. Merton had never asked any of them to protect anyone before, apart from the baby.

  “She is important to me, Wann.”

  Wann shook his head in disagreement. “This is beneath me. Merton, don’t ask me to do it.”

  “If you do this, then I will take you into my trust. I will tell you how to get in and out of Benwick Castle undetected and unhindered.”

  Wann frowned. “You would tell me such secrets?”

  “I would. Wann, I fear for her safety, especially after what you and Yrre have just told me. If this knight wants to slit my throat-”

  “He may not want to slit your throat. We can not know that for certain.” Yrre said. Merton looked at him dogmatically. “Or apparently we do,” Yrre rolled his eyes as he corrected himself.

  “You would give me the keys to your brother’s castle?” Wann asked.

  “I need to know she is safe. Look after her for me and I will make it worth your while.” Merton unstrapped a pouch from his weapon belt. He tossed it to Wann, who caught it and tested the weight of the coins the pouch held in his hands. He then stepped closer to Wann and whispered about a hidden Roman tunnel, which led to the grain cellar in the grounds of the castle. Wann listened intensely as did Yrre. When Merton had finished speaking, Wann nodded his head in agreement and turned to look at his new charge.

  Merton began to walk away, and Yrre hurried to catch him up.

  “Are you mad?” Yrre asked. “Have you completely lost your mind? I wouldn’t trust Wann with that sort of information. He could rob you all blind in your sleep.”

  “He could, but he won’t,” Merton said.

  “You are deluding yourself if you think that. Wann is a mercenary, there is no honour in him.”

  “I paid him to do a job. He will honour it.”

  “I wanted to ask you about that as well. How are you going to pay Wessex, now that you have given all his money to Wann?”

  Yrre was the only one who knew about Wessex, although it was something that rarely came up in conversation.

  “I don’t have enough to pay him this month,” Merton stated. “And he would not be content with partial payment.” He carried on walking, leaving Yrre staring after him.

  “You never had any intention of going to Cerniw, did you?” Yrre called after him as a cold realisation dawned on him.

  Merton turned slowly back around to look at him. He should have known better than to think he could keep things from Yrre. “I cannot go to Cerniw. If I do, then Wihtgar will follow me there. It is me he wants, not you or the men. I doubt he can even recall any of your names. I need you to protect my brother and to protect my son.”

  “You are going to face him, aren’t you?” Yrre shook his head. “Merton, you can’t. He’ll kill you.”

  “But you will live, and my son will live.”

  “I will not let you do this.”

  “I did not ask for your permission. I will do as I please.” Merton shrugged. “I need to go and find Alden and see what time he is planning on leaving tomorrow. I want you, the men, and my son, on that boat with him, especially if it isn’t safe here.”

  “You knew it wasn’t safe here before we came. And I will not leave you here to face your adversaries alone.”

  “Yrre, you have a son that you have never seen. I want you, of all people, to be on that boat tomorrow, you deserve a chance of living a normal life. Yrre, you are not like the others, you are not a mercenary, not in your heart. Go back to Cerniw, take up the plough, and forget all about this life. I know that is what you want. I want you to watch your children grow, and I want you to grow old with your woman.”

  “This isn’t who you are either,” Yrre countered. “You would cherish a simple life as well. Merton, we don’t have to go to Cerniw, there are other places.”

  “Wessex will march on Cerniw when he realises no money is forthcoming. Alden will need your help.”

  “So it isn’t the plough you want me to take up. You are asking me to step into your shoes. You expect me to protect Alden. How much longer is this going to go on?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, I think you do. Alden is a man. He is a king. He could stand on his own two feet if you would just give him a chance to prove it.”

  “You don’t know him as I do. You didn’
t see what Wessex did to him because of me.”

  “For goodness sake, that was years ago, and besides, you don’t know Alden any better than I do. You have not seen him in two years. Merton,” Yrre closed the distance between them. “You saved my life. I owe you.”

  “You have repaid that debt a thousand times, and besides you were the one who disarmed me, you won your freedom fair and square.”

  “Dropping your sword on purpose does not count,” Yrre stated. They had never talked about that fight, but suddenly it seemed important to acknowledge it. “It is the only time I have ever seen you lose your sword, so do not tell me I am mistaken. I would be dead, or a slave, if it were not for you.”

  “Maybe I thought your life was worth saving.”

  “Does Alden know of your plans?” Yrre asked with an edge of desperation in his voice.

  “He knows of them, yes.”

  “And he agreed?”

  Merton didn’t answer the question. What happened between him and Alden remained between them. “Tell Emma I shall try and get away later on this evening and tell my son I miss him.”

  “Merton-”

  “You and I were never destined to remain on the same path. You knew this day would come.”

  Yrre looked away from Merton and shook his head in disagreement.

  “I need to go and pretend to be Lord du Lac for a while. I’ll see you later.”

  “Later?” Yrre scoffed, but he wouldn’t look at Merton now, when he did finally raise his head, his eyes looked like they did when Bors put him in that arena. Defiant. Arrogant. Ready for a fight. “Please, don’t let me stop you from pretending to be something you are not. They may call you a demon, they may call you a monster, but I know you Merton du Lac. I have always known you.”

  “Then you will understand why I am asking you to leave me behind.”

  “No. I will never understand that. You do not seek a battle without an army.”

  “Who said anything about seeking a battle? You are reading too much into it, Yrre. And contrary to popular belief, I am capable of looking after myself, and I did manage on my own those three weeks without you.”

  Yrre didn’t smile at Merton’s attempt at a jest. “But we are talking about Wihtgar.”

  “Yrre, I need to go.”

  “Are you really going to go into that nest of vipers?” Yrre asked, glancing in the direction of the castle. “Any one of them could stab a knife into your back.”

  “Is that your way of asking if you can come with me?” Merton said, raising his eyebrows in query.

  There was a pause in the conversation while the two men just looked at each other.

  “You said that if you took us inside, your brother would see it as an act of war.”

  “He probably would, but when have such things stopped us before?”

  When Yrre didn’t answer, Merton turned and continued on his way.

  “Do they have food?” Yrre called.

  Merton chuckled. “Undoubtedly so. I should warn you; they will make you disarm at the gate,” Merton said as he carried on walking.

  “I don’t mind them having the weapons they can see and besides, I always like meeting new people.”

  “Just before you rob them, I know.”

  “What a thing to say…as if I would,” Yrre said as he retraced his steps and grabbed the reins of his horse. “I don’t know what you take me for.”

  “A mercenary, I think they call it.”

  “Mercenary?” Yrre grinned. “I always preferred to describe myself as an opportunist with a sword.”

  14

  The banquets at Benwick Castle were legendary and the evening’s meal did not disappoint the mourners who had come to pay their respects. To start with they ate in silence, respectful, ever mindful of the reason they were there, but as the wine began to flow, the conversation grew louder, and when Budic continued to stay away, the feast became quite a cheerful affair indeed.

  Merton and Yrre had the sole occupancy of one of the tables, which was heavily laden with food. No one would come near them although everybody seemed to be keeping an eye on them both. Merton found it rather amusing. What the hell did they think he was going to do? Massacre them all while they ate?

  Yrre wasn’t at all self-conscious at being studied by the people in the Hall. Being a mercenary he had gotten used to the attention. He was either looked upon in awe or looked down on in fear. It was the way things were. He ignored the curious glances and the whispered words hidden behind hands. He had long since stopped worrying about what people thought of him. Everyone was entitled to their opinion, he supposed, and as long as it didn’t involve his death or that of his friends, he considered their views none of his business.

  Besides, he could put up with their snide comments and curious looks because the food offered here was exquisite and as they had the table to themselves, it was in plentiful supply. He piled his plate high with food and sampled every delicacy, savouring each mouthful, for he could not remember a time when he had eaten so well. A man could soon grow fat here, he concluded.

  Merton picked at the food. He wasn’t that hungry. He could feel the hostile stares directed at his back, and he fought the sudden urge to turn around and pick a fight. He smiled to himself, it was what they were expecting him to do, so why should he disappoint them? He glanced up at the top table; Alden was acting as host and because of that, he would remain seated. He would not embarrass his brother for the world.

  Kingship seemed to come naturally to Alden, but Merton knew what a burden it really was for his brother. He wished there was more he could do to ease that load.

  The Hall fell respectfully silent as a nobleman dressed in the finest tunic, that was so dark it could almost be considered black, entered the Hall. The man had dark brown hair, freshly styled and falling to his shoulders in soft waves.

  “That’s the man,” Yrre stated loudly in Saxon, between mouthfuls of food. He pointed to the newcomer with the rib of pork that he held in his hand. “He’s the one. He was the one we saw in the woods.”

  Merton frowned and looked closer. The nobleman did not look to be very old; maybe twenty and he had the pallor of a man who spent most of his time inside. He would have quite the gut on him when he was older, Merton mused, but for now, youth kept such weight away. The nobleman walked purposely forward as if he owned the Hall, but he didn’t get very far, for those sat at the tables quickly stood up trying to catch his attention. He stopped and shared words with most of them, touching his loyal subjects briefly on the arm as he did so and kissing the back of the hands of the ladies who were presented to him. The women all blushed becomingly at his attention, while the men lapped at his heels like dogs to a master. Who the hell did he think he was?

  “Philippe de Manfrey,” Alden supplied as he sat down next to his brother.

  “Marcus’s brother?” Merton asked in Cerniw, not taking his eyes off Philippe as he did so. “By the way, where is Marcus, I haven’t seen him?”

  “Marcus died six months past.”

  “That’s a shame,” Merton said. “I liked him. How did he die?”

  “He was drunk, fell over and hit his head. Philippe,” Alden nodded his head towards Philippe, “has become Lady Josephine’s guardian, although I think there is more to their relationship if the rumours are to be believed, not that I take much notice of court gossip.”

  “You always take notice of court gossip,” Merton corrected with a hint of humour. “They are lovers?” Merton asked. He was surprised. Philippe was not Josephine’s type. But then, what did he know? He had not spoken to her in years and besides, he had no right to judge her decisions.

  “That is what I am told,” Alden said, picking up the jug and refilling his goblet with a rich, sweet, red wine. He may not like Budic, but his brother always kept a fine cellar of wine, and he was determined to enjoy every goblet full of it while he was here. He may even pilfer a barrel or two to take back to Cerniw with him. He was sure Budic would not miss
it.

  “He is popular,” Merton stated, still watching Philippe.

  “He holds a high office, and you know what people are like towards those with power. They always seek favours. Good luck to him, that’s what I say because I for one do not envy him his station. I can think of nothing worse than being a member of Budic’s court.”

  “He was the one Yrre saw with that knight I told you about.”

  “That is him,” Yrre confirmed.

  Alden chuckled. “Are you sure you haven’t overindulged in mead. This supposed threat sounds a little far-fetched — even for you two.”

  “I know what I saw. I do not like the man.”

  “Do you always judge a man before you meet him?” Alden asked, amusement in his voice.

  “In our business, yes. If we did not, we would long be dead,” Yrre answered.

  Merton smiled and tilted his head in silent acknowledgement at the truth in Yrre’s words.

  “Yrre has weighed him on the balances…” Merton supplied, quoting the Bible.

  “And you found him wanting?” Alden asked.

  “I did,” Yrre said as he picked up another rib of pork — by the gods, the meat here was tender. “He is up to something, and I want to know what.”

  “He is coming our way, why don’t we ask him?” Merton said, and they all turned to look at Philippe as he strode bravely towards them.

  Everyone else had shunned Merton’s table, but Philippe did not and he made sure everyone saw that he did not.

  Philippe had had a busy morning. First the funeral and then the somewhat tense audience with...damn it all, he was forbidden to utter the man’s name, and he had been advised not to dwell on it either. If anyone were to find out — if he were to let it slip — then everything they had planned would be for nought. This was the first time he had ever actually met him, although they had communicated by letters for a long while now. Lord Jenison knew him well and had sung his praises. It was Jenison who had arranged the face-to-face meeting. Philippe had very nearly backed out at the last minute, but he was glad that he had seen it through.