by Mary Yarde
“No you are right, they are not. Loyalties change, but obedience…” Philippe took a deep breath and decided to change the subject. “I heard a rumour…that the King of the Franks has offered a bounty for your head.”
“Clovis was mighty pissed with me. That is for sure. Are you going to hand me over?”
“No,” Philippe answered. “Today’s entertainment…” he addressed those gathered, “is a fight to the death.” He looked back at Merton and smirked.
“Really?” Merton snorted in amusement. How original. Still, it had potential and maybe, if he played it right, it could work to his advantage. “A fight to the death? Is that the best you could come up with? Do you know how many fights to the death I have been in? And yet, here I am…still alive.”
“Your past does not interest me,” Philippe replied.
“Maybe it should,” Merton challenged. For a moment neither of them spoke, they just glared at each other the way fighting dogs do before they attack. “But I guess I have nothing better to do. So I will accept your challenge. Tell me, apart from my life, what else will I get when I win?”
“When you win?” Philippe laughed at the absurdity of such a statement. How arrogant Merton was. It would be his very great pleasure to teach him humility. “You are beginning to believe what they say about you. You cannot win. Because I have five thousand men at my disposal.”
“You want me to fight your entire army?” Merton shook his head in wonder. “An army against one man? Some would consider that unfair.”
“I will give you one more chance, because of who you are,” Philippe said, he was done debating with Merton du Lac. “Kneel to me and I will offer you a swift and honourable death. I will do it myself.”
“If it is all right with you,” Merton said as he reached for the buckle of his weapon belt, undoing it. “I’d rather take my chance with the army.” He held up his belt, his scabbard and sword still hanging from it, as was his knife, and showed the captivated audience that he was disarming himself. He threw the belt at Philippe. Philippe took a hasty step backwards. The sword and the belt hit the floor by Philippe’s feet with a soft thump as Merton had intended it to.
“How do you intend to fight without a sword?” Philippe asked, bending to pick up Merton’s belt. He unsheathed Merton’s sword and held it up to the light. “You’ll be needing this.”
“I just thought I would play fair. Your army is no match for me if I have a sword in my hand. Disarm your men, and let’s do this the old fashioned way.”
“You are so sure of yourself, aren’t you?” Philippe said in amusement. “Fine. If that is what you want, then that is what you will get. It is, after all, your last request in this life.” He turned his attention to the soldiers in the Hall. “Let it be known that anyone who bests Merton du Lac will win a chest full of gold and my undying gratitude.”
There was great cheering to this statement, and Merton felt the pain of it. It seemed everyone had the capacity to turn Judas. He was glad that his father was dead. It would have broken his heart to witness such a betrayal.
“You did not answer my question, what do I get when I win?” Merton raised his voice over the cheering and the laughter faded away as everyone waited for Philippe’s answer.
“It is hardly likely. A few may die, I’ll grant you that, but not all five thousand.”
“Humour me. Let’s pretend that I do kill them all.” He looked at the nearest soldier and smiled becomingly, and then simply for the hell of it, he also winked. The soldier became very red in the face and stepped forward as if to start the battle now, but a comrade stopped him. Merton was still smiling when he turned his attention back to Philippe. “What do I get?”
“You and Alden may go free,” Philippe said, seeing no harm in indulging him, for there was no way Merton was walking away from this alive. “Budic will stay here, of course.”
“You can keep him. I have no use for him. Have I your word? If I win, we can leave?”
“You have my word. And there are plenty of witnesses here to make sure I keep it.” Merton looked so confident that Philippe felt doubt flicker across his mind. He mentally shook off such a notion. “You do know you cannot possibly win, don’t you?”
“I like the odds,” Merton said. He turned, watching as the soldiers, one by one disarmed themselves. He took a steadying breath and tried not to think about how much this was going to hurt. But he would be brave because thoughts of Amandine would sustain him. Now all he had to do was convince Philippe that Alden needed to see him die. Philippe would not be able to help himself, for he was the type of man who needed and craved an audience. Philippe would pull Alden out of the dungeons to stroke his own ego and then… Well, then they would fight their way to freedom.
“He’s mine,” the soldier to whom Merton had winked at stepped forward.
“I am not yours,” Merton answered.
“I am going to enjoy killing you,” the soldier spat the words at him.
“Then what are you waiting for? Come and kill me.”
37
“Will you please, shut up? I don’t want the last words I hear to be yours,” Alden said through gritted teeth.
“I thought we were clearing the air,” Budic stated with mock sincerity.
“Are you enjoying this?” Alden turned in the direction of Budic’s voice. He could not see him, for it was too dark.
“Being locked in my own dungeon, with you? Oh, let me think…of course I’m not enjoying it. Christ! Whatever gave you that impression?”
“Are you scared?”
“Scared?” Budic scoffed and there was silence between them.
“It’s not the thought of dying that frightens me,” Budic spoke several long minutes later. “It’s the not knowing why. This isn’t Philippe’s doing, I know him too well, he hasn’t got the intelligence to mount this kind of attack on his own. This is someone else’s work.”
“Do you have any ideas?”
“I believe it is someone connected with Wessex. But who? Who the hell is it? And how did he smuggle Wessex out from this very dungeon? Answers…” Budic growled. “I need answers.”
“I thought you had…” Alden stopped himself from saying anything else. He had thought Budic had let Wessex go. He had been convinced. Alden’s hatred for his brother had a lifetime to fester. He wanted to believe the worst in him — for the most part, Budic gave him a good reason to — but maybe while he had let his hatred grow, he had missed the truth.
“I am as much in the dark as you, as to how Wessex escaped my dungeons. If you don’t believe anything else, believe that.”
The sound of muffled, but raised voices, came down to join them in the darkness from outside. The door at the top of the stairway that led to the dungeons below opened with a resounding creak, and the voices became more distinct, recognisable.
“Bastard.” Merton’s voice rang out from the outside. And then there was the sound of flesh hitting flesh. Someone moaned in agony. Thankfully it didn’t sound like Merton.
The door to their cell swung open, and Alden raised his tied hands up to his face to shield his eyes from the glow of the torches.
“The King has ordered your presence. He wants you to witness your brother’s defeat. No tricks,” the soldier warned, “or you will suffer the same fate as him.”
“Bring it on,” Budic mumbled. “You traitorous bastards, scheming manipulators, two-faced, no good, sons of bitches, by Gods’ bones, I will see you all pay for this. I will curse you, by heaven-”
“Sard off.” One of the soldiers returned. “And shut-up or I will gag you. I do not take orders from you anymore.”
“Instead, you follow a turncoat,” Alden said as he rose to his feet. “One day you will look back on this and feel shame.”
“At least we are getting paid,” the soldier returned in a very hostile manner.
“He’s got a point,” Alden said to Budic. Bastian had told him during their long night of drinking about Budic’s financi
al problems. Alden turned to look at his brother whom he could now make out in the torchlight. Budic was as white as the snow in the depths of winter. There was a deep dark stain on the front of his tunic, and there was blood dripping down his arm. Alden had not realised Budic had been injured, and he immediately felt guilty. Why had he not thought to ask if he was all right?
Budic rose unsteadily to his feet, gasping in pain as he did so. Like Alden, his hands were tied together. “We’d best get this over with then,” Budic swayed alarmingly on his feet and would have fallen if a soldier had not grabbed his arm.
“If you see a chance to escape then take it,” Budic addressed Alden in Cerniw, “and bring your army back.”
“None of that talk,” another soldier said, stepping closer to Budic and smacking him hard across the head. “If you want to say something then speak in Breton.”
Blood dripped from Budic’s mouth as he raised his head. “Take it,” he said again in Cerniw and this time, when the soldier hit him, he fell to his knees.
“Leave him alone,” Alden demanded, which took even him by surprise. He had never thought he would ever be in a position where he felt the need to defend Budic.
The soldiers ignored Alden and dragged Budic back to his feet.
“What are you doing?” Bastian said with annoyance as he entered the chamber. He purposely did not look at Budic or Alden but concentrated on his men. He felt Alden’s gaze on him, although he did not look up. “Our King is getting impatient.”
“Thirty pieces of silver,” Budic said, as he was dragged forward. “I hope it chokes you.”
“Why?” Alden asked, as he too was pushed towards the door. “Why did you do it?”
Bastian did not comment. Instead, he stared in front of him, seemingly indifferent to what he was witnessing and what he was a part of. He heard one of his soldiers curse as Budic tripped over on the steps and he listened to the sound of his former king being kicked cruelly in the stomach. This wasn’t what he had wanted. This wasn’t what he had signed up for. But now, like Judas, it was too late to give the money back.
38
Merton dodged another fist — this one had flown precariously close to his chin. He had paced himself, ready for a long fight, not giving it everything, but just enough to keep him on top of the game. Twelve of Philippe’s men were dead. Eight were unconscious, and there was at least a further six or more who now nursed broken bones. Only another 4,974 to go.
The soldiers had formed an orderly queue, all praying that they would be the one to win, not only the chest full of gold but also the honour and prestige of being the one who had brought the devil to his knees.
Out of the corner of his eye Merton saw Budic stumble into the brightness of the early morning sun and behind him was Alden and for a second their eyes connected. Merton managed the briefest of smiles, even though his lip was split and his nose was bleeding profusely.
“Best him,” a soldier yelled in encouragement to his comrade and Merton turned his full attention back to the soldiers as the next volunteer bravely stepped forward. This time, it was a young recruit, his face still held the softness of childhood. Merton didn’t want to fight him, there was no honour in killing a youth, so he did the only thing he could and knocked the boy out with one well-placed punch to the face. The boy would have a sore jaw when he regained consciousness later, but at least he would regain consciousness.
“Next,” Merton said sarcastically as he glared at the soldiers waiting their turn. This time several stepped forwards, it seemed they were past playing fair now.
Merton smiled in welcome and beckoned them forward. Let them beat him to a pulp if that was his destiny. He had no patience for a slow death.
“Enough of this,” Philippe stated, marching bravely down the steps, for he had been watching the entertainment from the battlements. “Stop playing with him and do as I commanded. He is to die. Ah,” he caught sight of Budic and Alden and smiled gloatingly. “Just in time. Wait one moment,” Philippe said, addressing his soldiers. “I would speak to Lord du Lac.”
The soldiers withdrew from striking distance and gave Merton a moment to spit the blood from his mouth and to catch his breath.
“You fought bravely,” Philippe allowed. “But you will die, Merton. You will die, knowing that you failed everyone. Bring her,” Philippe commanded with glee.
Wiping at the blood that ran from his nose with the back of his hand, Merton watched as a woman was dragged through the crowd of spectators. As he watched, Merton heard some of Brittany’s wealthy nobles betting on the outcome of the fight. Some had even bet on him. It seemed they had money to burn, as it was a forgone conclusion that he would lose. But, he appreciated their optimism.
He could not see who the woman was. However, he had a suspicion. He just hoped his guess, like the odds on whether he would die, were wrong.
“Hurry up,” Philippe yelled with impatience and the woman was brought forward. A soldier, twice the woman’s size had his hand twisted painfully in her hair. He kept her head at such an angle that she could not see where she was going, and she kept stumbling over her own feet.
“No,” Merton had not known he had uttered the word until he saw the nearest soldier’s smirk. This wasn’t meant to happen. He had not planned for this eventuality. He had left her safely locked in his room. He had thought...
Amandine was still dressed in his tunic, and a great deal of bare leg was on show. The soldiers were heckling her, and lurid comments were thrown her way. Her feet were bare and bleeding. Merton felt the fire of anger burn in his veins. The crowd had longed to see the devil — well Philippe had just awoken him.
“Let go of her,” Merton demanded, taking a step forward, but this time he was met with a spear aimed at his chest.
“Do you really think that is going to stop me getting to her?” he asked the soldier, his eyes blazing with rage. “Get out of the way or by God, I will kill you.”
The soldier passed Amandine to Philippe, who tangled his own hand in her hair. Amandine strained against him and when she caught sight of Merton, her struggles turned into a desperate bid to escape. She tried to claw at Philippe’s face. In retaliation, Philippe smacked her hard across the face and sent her sprawling onto the hard pitched ground. When she raised her face, her lip was bleeding, and she had a graze all down the side of her face.
“You bastard,” Merton shouted as a red-hot rage dimmed his vision. He stepped forward, using his forearm he pushed the spear out of the way, twisting his arm at the last minute so he could wrap his hand around the shaft and take control of the weapon. He immediately thrust it into the soldier’s stomach, pulled it out and thrust again.
Like a plague of locus the soldiers descended upon Merton, and he took them all on. An axe replaced the spear, and Merton showed them how he came to be known as the devil. He fought like a mad man, stepping over bodies in his bid to get to Amandine.
“Somebody stop him,” Philippe yelled, an edge of hysteria in his voice, for he had never seen anyone fight the way Merton did now.
Bastian stepped forward, a sword in his hand. He had been the first to put a blade in Merton’s hand, it was, therefore, his responsibility to put an end to this.
“Let me through,” Bastian commanded. “Stand down. I will deal with him,” Bastian ordered. But no one was listening and in the end, it took several more officers, as well as Bastian, to break up the fight.
“Ah, Bastian, my champion,” Philippe stated, once a sense of order had been restored. The crowd cheered, as was expected of them, and the soldiers began to chant their general’s name.
“Don’t do this,” Merton said, dropping the axe and picking up a sword as he saw Bastian approach. Blood was running freely down his face now and into his eye. Merton blinked rapidly to clear his vision. His clothes were sticking to him, his hair dripping with sweat. He saw the soldiers, who had just retreated on their general’s command, share a horn of water amongst themselves. He doubted very much anyone would
offer him a drink if he were to ask, even though he could have certainly done with one.
“I don’t have a choice,” Bastian replied. “Philippe is now my king.”
“We all have choices. That’s what my father used to say,” Merton stated. His parched tongue gingerly touched the split in his lip. “Can you remember him, Bastian? He trusted you. We all did. I hope you have a good excuse when I send you to meet him on the other side.”
“I told you not to come back. I also told you to leave,” Bastian said in an undertone. “I even wrote it down on parchment. Why didn’t you listen?”
“You also told my father you would protect his sons. I guess we both have trouble doing as you say,” Merton said as he took a step back and righted his balance. “You will not beat me. You know that don’t you?”
“It doesn’t matter. You life is forfeit. You won’t get out of this courtyard alive. This is for entertainment purposes only,” Bastian answered bitterly.
“Bastian, don’t be a fool,” Alden yelled, struggling against his captors. “Philippe…Merton and I, we have no argument with you. Just…let us go. You don’t need to do this. And I beg you, leave the Lady Amandine alone she has done nothing to warrant such abuse.”
“Thank you for pleading for my life in your little rant,” Budic muttered under his breath, but Alden ignored him.
“She is a du Lac, and I am sick to my teeth with the lot of you,” Philippe answered.
“We could draw up a treaty between our great countries,” Alden continued desperately. “We should be allies. You have much to gain by…” He could see in Philippe’s face that no matter what he said it wouldn’t make any difference. “You are making a terrible mistake. Please, stop and think.”
“Shut…your…mouth,” one of the soldiers spat. He held tight to Alden’s arm, in the other hand, he held a knife, which he now raised and rested it against the King of Cerniw’s throat.
“Philippe, please listen to me,” Alden persisted.
“Would someone shut him up?” Philippe roared in frustration and the soldier dug his knife into Alden’s throat and threatened to cut out his voice box if he continued to speak out.