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

  “Merton, you don’t need to do this,” James said.

  “I am committed. If I stepped aside now, I would be labelled a coward. Listen to me James, when this is over, I want you to kill him...quietly. And make it look like an accident. I will not allow Bors to stir up the people like this. I think he may have had something to do with the rebellion.”

  “Then he will have a fatal accident,” James answered coldly, as he stared at Bors. He had lost his best friend in that uprising. “Be careful, that Saxon has skill, do not take any unnecessary risks.”

  “I never take any unnecessary risks,” Merton protested. He grinned and patted James’s horse on the neck and then turned back to face the crowd. “Give me a wooden sword,” he yelled. “We will fight as equals or we will not fight at all.” Once again the crowd erupted at his words. They had chosen their champion.

  “There is no need to fight fairly. He has to die anyway,” Bors protested as he handed Merton a wooden sword.

  “And who told you that?” Merton asked. He could see Bors physically bite his lip to stop himself from saying another word.

  Ignoring the disgraced knight, Merton entered the arena, if you could call it that, for the walls were merely people and when the crowd surged forwards the space the warriors had to fight in shrank. Merton was surprised that none of the spectators had suffered any injuries thus far. He could feel the Saxon’s gaze on him, and he could feel the hatred coming off the man in waves. Merton held up his hands to silence the crowd.

  “This will be the last fight of the day.” The crowd booed and jeered at his words, for they were enjoying themselves. Merton shook his head and the people grudgingly began to murmur their laments instead. “Your King has ordered the prisoners to be sold, and that is what will happen. He did not give his permission for this,” he glared at Bors as he spoke.

  “Is that because of his Saxon whore?” one spectator bravely yelled.

  The crowd fell silent, and everyone’s eyes were drawn to Merton, waiting for his reaction.

  “If there is anyone else who has something to say about our Queen, say it now,” Merton stated, his voice filled with suppressed rage. “SAY IT NOW,” he yelled. “Because I promise you, there is always space in the cave for one more.”

  Alden had, for the first time, showed no mercy to those who had risen against him. The traitors, who had survived the battle, were hunted down and chained to the cave, where they waited in fear, for the tide to come in. Every single man who had dared to raise his hand to their Queen and their King was now dead.

  As if one, the crowd took a nervous step back and they all lowered their eyes, no one would look at Merton now.

  “I WILL HAVE RESPECT FOR OUR KING AND I WILL HAVE RESPECT FOR OUR QUEEN,” he spat as he yelled. “Or so help me God,” he continued, “I will make Wessex look like a saint. The next time I hear even a whisper about the Queen, I will personally cut out the tongue of the one who speaks it and feed it to the ones who are listening. Do we all understand?” Merton asked, looking about him. “DO WE ALL UNDERSTAND?” This time, there was a mutter of agreement and a few of the men fell to their knees in respect. Soon the whole crowd followed their lead. “This is the last fight of the day,” Merton repeated his words. “And this time, the fight will be by my rules. If the prisoner beats me, then he has won his freedom and as a free man, he will have the same rights as all of you. So if anyone thinks to harm him, they will end their days in the cave. Do not try me. I have very little patience as you all well know.”

  He let the matter drop and looked at the prisoner. “If you beat me, then you are free,” he said. The Saxon narrowed his eyes at his words, as if he could understand him. “But you are not going to win,” Merton said with a smile.

  In reply, the Saxon twisted the hilt of his wooden sword around in his palm and beckoned Merton forward with his hand.

  Merton smiled at such confidence and stepped forward. But it was then that the woman he had seen by the cart full of the dead, caught his eye again, for she had pushed her way to the front and she was staring at the prisoner and the prisoner was staring back at her. He watched as she placed her hand on her heart and she mouthed the words “I love you.” Merton quickly looked away; it felt like he was trespassing on something intimate and pure.

  The Saxon dragged his eyes away from the woman and focused instead on Merton.

  “Are you ready?” Merton asked.

  The Saxon rolled his eyes and then threw himself into an attack.

  3

  By God, this Saxon was fast. Merton felt pain travel down his jaw as the Saxon’s fist caught him across the cheek. Tomorrow he would have one hell of a bruise. He took a step back and watched the Saxon warily. It was rare for him to meet a man who matched him in a fight. But this warrior did.

  The crowd continued to yell Merton’s name in encouragement, while the two warriors circled each other, looking for a way to better the other. This time, it was Merton who struck first. He swung his sword up and hit the wound on the Saxon’s arm hard, the warrior roared in pain and brought up his elbow, but Merton moved out of the way before it could connect with his face. Merton ploughed into him. Pain travelled down his back as the Saxon’s wooden blade connected with his spine. In retaliation, Merton brought his knee up to the warriors groin and then kicked the Saxon’s legs from under him. The Saxon fell to the ground with all the finesse of a sack of grain, groaning in pain as he did so. Just for good measure, Merton stamped on the Saxon’s hand, breaking a couple of fingers. The Saxon let go of his sword and Merton kicked it away and stood over him, his breathing laboured, as he pointed his wooden sword at the warrior’s heart. The crowd cheered triumphantly.

  “Please. No,” the woman cried.

  Merton heard her words only because he was unconsciously listening out for them. Afterwards, he would not be able to explain why he did what he did. He took a step back and the Saxon glanced up at him in confusion, then very carefully he got to his feet and picked up his sword.

  The Saxon took a deep, steadying breath and spat out blood. He transferred his sword into his left hand and glared at Merton. Merton returned his glare with a simple smile and, as if to mock, Merton beckoned the Saxon forward with his hand. But the smile was soon wiped off his face as the Saxon attacked, for it took all of his skill to keep the bastard at a distance. If this were a real fight, with real swords, then by now they would both be dead. It was time to bring this battle to an end.

  The Saxon knew he was going to die, but he had sworn to the gods that he would go down fighting. So when Merton suddenly gave him an opening he did not rush to take it. He did not trust it. Merton’s eyes shone with irony as his sword connected with the underside of his jaw. The Saxon stumbled backwards into the crowd. Someone from behind him hit him in the small of his back and he was roughly pushed forward towards his adversary. He stumbled into Merton. Merton grabbed his hair, pulling his face up.

  “Do you want to die?” Merton said the words with a hint of ridicule.

  No, he didn’t want to die. He tore himself free, leaving Merton holding a handful of hair.

  Much like a cat loves to toy with a mouse, the brother of the King was enjoying himself, the Saxon realised. There had been whispers about Merton du Lac in the columns of Wessex’s army. He was fearless, some said. Reckless, said others. But then, this esteemed du Lac warrior gave him another opening. Merton lowered his sword and stepped closer and this time, the Saxon did not hesitate. He thrust his wooden sword into Merton’s stomach with as much force as he could muster. Merton gasped with pain and staggered backwards. But the Saxon wasn’t finished yet. He hit Merton again, this time across his head, catching his ear, and Merton stumbled to the ground.

  The weapon fell from Merton’s hand as the world spun around him. Disarmed and vulnerable, Merton waited for the next blow, and at that moment, he questioned his wisdom in letting the Saxon win. One more hit across the head like that and he would be unconscious. However, there was something about th
is Saxon warrior that intrigued him. He wanted to know where he learnt to fight like this. He wanted to know how a Cerniw woman came to love a foreign invader. There were easier ways of getting the information he supposed, but the idea of torture had never really appealed to him. A prisoner would say anything to stop the pain, so it could not be relied upon.

  The expected blow never came. Instead, the Saxon picked up Merton’s splintered blade and rested it on the back of Merton’s neck. “I win,” the Saxon spoke in broken Cerniw.

  Merton held up his hands in surrender, a small smile hovering on his lips, despite the pain in his stomach and the throbbing of his ear. The crowd fell deathly silent. No one had expected such a result, and they did not know how to respond.

  The woman, who was long since past caring about her reputation, raced across the arena and threw herself at the Saxon prisoner. The Saxon dropped the swords, his hands reaching for her shoulders to steady them both.

  “You are free. You are free,” she said over and over again.

  “I am not free,” the prisoner replied. “You must not be here. Go. Please. For your own safety, I beg you.”

  Merton rose stiffly to his feet, his hand on his stomach. “Congratulations,” he said with a wince, watching as the Saxon tried to gently pull away from the woman’s embrace, which made her hold on to him all the tighter. “Is she your lover?” he asked the prisoner.

  “My…my wife,” the Saxon replied nervously, fearing at what such a confession would cost the woman he loved.

  “He is not like the others,” the woman cried. “He kept my family safe. He kept me safe. Please. Our King married a Saxon. I have done nothing that he hasn’t. Please don’t kill him.”

  “I am not going to kill him,” Merton said, looking at the Saxon as he spoke. “I said if you won you could go free. You are free. I keep my word. Always.” He turned his attention back to the crowd. “Go home. The show is over.” Reluctantly the crowd began to disperse. “Not you,” Merton said, addressing Bors as the man tried to walk away unnoticed. “James wants a word.”

  Bors turned his head in James’s direction and glared at him before reluctantly walking over to where James was sat on his horse, waiting.

  Merton turned his attention back to the Saxon. “What were you in Wessex’s army?” Merton queried. “A knight?” for the Saxon certainly fought like one.

  The Saxon laughed ironically. “No,” he shook his head. “Paid help.”

  “You are a mercenary?”

  “I was,” the man said, glancing at his wife. But he would give it all up for her.

  “What do they call you?” Merton asked, drawing the man’s attention back to him.

  “Yrre. They call me Yrre.”

  Five Years Later

  4

  Summer AD 500, On the border of Burgundar.

  “Clovis is a clever bastard,” Yrre said the words under his breath, as he watched the army of the Franks assemble themselves. He moved forward a little, using the shelter of the trees and the ferns to stay hidden. It would not do for them to be seen. Not yet, anyway.

  Merton wiped the rain from his face with his hand. It had rained nonstop for three very long days. And Wihtgar had said that it was always sunny in Burgundar…he was a lying son-of-a-bitch.

  Yrre crawled back to where Merton waited. Like Yrre, Merton was keeping his head and body low to the ground. It was an uncomfortable position to be in, for a gnarled tree root was digging into his stomach and the ground was wet. The air smelt of trees and wet foliage, but that made a welcomed change to the usual smell of blood and carnage.

  Merton rubbed his sore, chapped red hands together, trying to encourage the feeling back into them. He glanced up at the sky through the tree flora, at the menacing black clouds, and he fleetingly wondered if he would ever feel the warmth of the sun on his skin again.

  They had been watching Clovis’s Camp since daybreak, looking for something, anything, to exploit to their advantage. But there was nothing.

  “Now what do we do?” Yrre asked, although he wasn’t expecting an answer. Only the gods could save them now.

  Merton had no reassuring words to share. He couldn’t see a way out of this one. Their situation was precarious, to say the least. They were surrounded and their chance of survival was slim to non-existent. Damn. Why did everything always have to go wrong at the same time? And why the hell had he not listened to his intuition in the first place?

  “An easy win,” Wihtgar had said. “It was easy money. Nothing to it.” But Wihtgar had never said anything about Clovis. He had never said that that was whom they would be fighting. For the love of….they were mercenaries. They didn’t fight when there was no chance of winning and worse still, no chance of being paid.

  Thunder rumbled overhead and the sky flashed brightly for a moment. This day couldn’t get any worse.

  But then it did.

  Merton bit back a groan of anguish as he watched Clovis’s cavalry ride into the camp. Beside him, Yrre cursed profusely, unable to keep the words in.

  “It was nice knowing you,” Yrre said when he had run out of obscenities.

  Merton didn’t reply. The cavalry was certainly impressive in number. Whether they had any skill, well, that remained to be seen. But still, it wasn’t what he had wanted or expected to see. Clovis kept on surprising him.

  Yrre touched his shoulder briefly. “Let’s get out of here. Maybe the others have had better luck.” His voice, however, lacked conviction.

  Merton stayed a moment longer, watching the army. There was no choice; they had to cross the enemy lines…somehow. He had to get his men and his son to safety. He owed them that much.

  Why on earth had he got involved in this messy family feud in the first place? He should have known better. No amount of money was worth all of this. He watched as Clovis came into view. He was easy to pick out against the rest of his men, for no one else wore clothes as fine as he did, and Clovis held himself like the commander he was. He was confident. Sure. This wasn’t the first time the two of them had run into each other, but Merton suspected it would be the last. This time, one of them would die. Merton had a strong suspicion that it wouldn’t be Clovis.

  Clovis must have sensed someone watching him because he turned his head to where Merton lay, not that he could see him, for Merton was well hidden. Still, it would not pay to linger. Slowly, Merton began to make his way over to Yrre. He would never live it down if he were caught. Not that he would be kept alive for long if he were. There was no forgiveness for a man like him, and many would rejoice at his death. And who could blame them?

  In the last few years, his world had been turned upside down. He had seen things he had never even imagined, and he had done things that he never thought he would have done. He had traded his soul for a steady supply of gold. Some now called him the son of the Devil, because you could tell where he had been, for he left fire and destruction in his wake. He was feared. Which was a good thing. It was what he wanted.

  His late father, the once-great Lancelot du Lac, had been an honourable man. Merton had been told countless times that his father would be rolling in his grave if he could see what his youngest son had become. Merton had shrugged off such comments, because, in the grand scheme of things, it hardly mattered. His father was dead and he wasn’t coming back anytime soon. Why should he lose sleep over a dead man’s opinion?

  Contrary to popular belief, however, he had not been born a monster. Sometimes, in the still of the night, he would imagine an alternative life to the one he now lived. He would have a wife he adored, and he would make a home for her and their children. He would live a life of peace, away from war.

  Peace was a foreign word to a man like him, and no woman would want him now. His late wife certainly had not. She hadn’t wanted their son either. She had called their baby the Devil’s spawn and flatly refused to nurse him. He closed his grey eyes briefly, refusing to think about her. That bitch had put him off women for life.

  Only a h
andful of people knew why he had become what he had, and why he did what he did, and even they did not necessarily understand. He owed his brother a debt, and this was the only way he could see to pay it off.

  Yrre waited for Merton to catch up. Neither spoke as they began to make their way back to where they had left their horses, for there was nothing left to say. The rain continued to pour from the sky and the thunder rumbled around Clovis’s realm threateningly. Perhaps Yrre was right. Perhaps they had upset Thunor. Merton didn’t want to believe it. He had been brought up a Christian, but he had seen too much to believe that such a god existed. If he did exist, then God had no place for a man like him. The Pope had decreed it so.

  Not that he had time to think about God. There were more important things to worry about today. Merton would have felt slightly more confident if it was just Clovis’s army that they were fleeing from. But he was now on Wihtgar’s most wanted list as well, for he and his men had deserted, and no one had ever deserted from Wihtgar’s army before.

  Wihtgar had chosen to fight on the side of Burgundar…the money was good. Merton had few morals left, but he had just enough of a conscience to know he could never kill in Gondebaud, the King of Burgundar’s, name.

  He had met more than his fair share of madmen, but he had never met a man like Gondebaud. Gondebaud had already massacred his two brothers and their wives and now he decided that his niece also had to go. Unfortunately for him, his niece was married to Clovis. For some unfathomable reason, Clovis did not look too kindly on the attempted murder of his wife. And here was Merton thinking his family had problems.

  Merton and Wihtgar had quarrelled. Which wasn’t uncommon. Merton had never met a man so thoroughly disagreeable as Wihtgar, apart from perhaps, Wihtgar’s uncle, the King of Wessex — it must be a family thing he had concluded. But this time, things had become physical. Wihtgar was a formidable warrior, but he was no match for Merton. No man was. He had told Wihtgar he was a fool, just before knocking the bastard out. But maybe he was the one who had behaved foolishly. He should never have gotten involved with Wihtgar of Saxony in the first place. It was an irresponsible thing to do, but by God, he had needed the money. In fact, he had been desperate for it. Being blackmailed by a King was very expensive at the best of times, but over the last few months, Merton was sure that King Cerdic of Wessex could have run his kingdom on the money he was sending his way.