The Du Lac Chronicles: Book 1 Read online

  “Who are you? Where are you taking me?” Alden gasped, as another wave of pain robbed him of his breath momentarily.

  “The last place they would expect to find you,” Annis stated. “The very last place,” she added bitterly. Her father thought her worthless. What use was a daughter? She had been a disappointment to him in all her seventeen years of life. But he had not forgotten her completely. She was a bargaining tool now that she had come of age, sold as easily as one would sell a horse. King Natanleod of Sussex was reportedly on his way to claim her. But she had promised herself she would be long gone from here before he did, for Natanleod had a terrible reputation when it came to women and she would be wife number six. What had befallen the other five did not bear thinking about, except they were all dead and buried. She had tried to argue with her father, reason with him, but one did not reason with Cerdic of Wessex.

  “Are you taking me to Cerdic’s bedroom? He will be surprised!” Alden jested, although where he found the strength to jest at a time like this even he did not know.

  Annis felt a small sense of relief, for she feared the torture he had suffered had addled his mind. He still had his sense of humour, even if it was hanging on by a thread and for that, she was thankful. “No. Mine. Now save your breath,” she quickly added, “we still have a long way to go.”

  2

  Sunlight poured through the small window and fell upon the bed and the man who was sleeping fretfully upon it. Beside him, slumped in a chair, Annis was fighting to stay awake. Outside her room, a servant dropped a tray. The clattering of silverware on the floor made her jump and her eyes, which she had just closed, snapped open. With her heart pounding, she took a deep calming breath, and stood, laying the back of her hand gently on the former King’s forehead. He was still running a temperature, whilst every so often his body shivered violently. She straightened and rubbed the side of her neck, grimacing slightly as she massaged out the kink. Her hand strayed to her face, rubbing at her eyes, forcing herself to full wakefulness. By the gods she felt like she were a hundred years old, every muscle complaining. How she would love to summon her father’s servants and order a nice, hot bath, but explaining why the escaped prisoner, who everyone was still looking for, was asleep on her bed, would take some doing, and she wasn’t great with words. Besides, she was being self-absorbed, selfish even — how much more pain must he be in?

  Very carefully, so as not to disturb him, she lifted the covers and manipulated his body so she could look at his back. She had cleaned his wounds the best she could in the early hours of the morning of that fateful night, picking out small splinters of wood. He had not said a word through the long, agonising process, only grunting occasionally when the pain had become too much for him. She had been loathed to stitch any of the wounds, for she was hopeless with a needle. Instead, she had gathered as many cobwebs as she could find, a feat in itself as she was scared of spiders, and packed his wounds with them, hoping they would have the skill to bind a wound that she was so fundamentally lacking.

  She adjusted the covers again, trying not to over-fuss, for she did not want to wake him. Sleep was the best healer, or so she had once been told.

  Self-doubt plagued her. She was no warrior. No healer. She was nothing. Shaking her head at her own stupidity, she turned away from the bed, walked over to the window, and looked out at the view of the stables. Last night there had been a hard frost and with the previous night’s snow, the outside world looked pure and clean.

  The snow was not deep enough to stop her father’s soldiers from patrolling the area, searching for the escaped prisoner that was so far proving elusive to find. Her father was enraged; she could see that as he came into view, strolling purposefully towards the stables, his scarlet cloak flowing freely behind him.

  “My horse.” He practically screamed the command and Annis took a step back, fearing he might see her if he should look up. Mere moments later she heard the clatter of hooves and the thrashing of a whip. She stepped towards the window again and watched as her father galloped out of the castle gates, past the bodiless heads that were stuck on pikes, there as a reminder to those who thought to disobey the Wessex King. She had heard from her mother that Draca had been given a different type of punishment to that of the other guards who had neglected their duties. While they were unmercifully beheaded, he was imprisoned with the very men whom he had previously tortured. His death had been long and drawn out. It was her fault these good men were dead, her mother had said. Strange. She didn’t feel remorseful.

  There was a soft knocking on her door and she turned back to the bed, but Alden slept on. Annis fleetingly wondered if he would ever wake again.

  There was another soft knock and cautiously Annis walked over to the door. Thus far, in this dangerous escapade of the last two days, she had managed to avoid all unwanted intruders into the solace of her chamber — all apart from her mother, that was.

  “Annis, hurry, open the door,” her mother all but yelled. The poor woman had never learnt the art of subtlety, which Annis found surprising, considering whom her mother was married to.

  Annis quickly dragged her large wooden chest, which she had used to reinforce the door from unwanted intruders, away and removed the long wooden bolt.

  “Well, it is about time,” her mother moaned as she glided inside, watching as her daughter struggled to replace the bolt. She did not offer to help.

  “He is still here, then,” she stated, looking at the bed through narrowed eyes before turning her attention back to her daughter. “And really, Annis, you have not put a comb through your hair and you have bloodstains on the sleeve of your gown.”

  Annis instinctively touched her hair, finger combing it and forcing the long, curly honey-blonde mess into an untidy braid.

  “Must I do everything for you, incompetent girl?” her mother said as she picked up the comb from the small table on the other side of the bed.

  Annis felt her eyes water as her mother tugged at the knots.

  “Well?” Lady Wessex asked as she tied her daughter’s braid with a pale blue ribbon.

  “Well, what?” Annis asked as she watched, feeling like an idiot child, as her mother replaced the comb.

  “I should tell him, you know,” Lady Wessex stated.

  “And see my head join those of the others?” Annis challenged back, meeting her mother’s eyes, but her small spark of defiance did not last long and she lowered her gaze first.

  Lady Wessex threw her arms up into the air in abhorrence at her daughter’s actions.

  “I don’t know what possessed you. How could you be so stupid? I thought the gods had blessed you with a brain. What were you thinking?”

  “He is an honourable man. Father was wrong.” Annis felt the tears threaten and she swallowed hard.

  “You have no right to question your father’s decisions. Alden du Lac is a monster; his brother Budic is even worse. Look what happened to my dear sister-in-law’s daughter, Edmee. She died by this man’s hand.” Lady Wessex pointed to the bed and the man lying on it, “and now you seek to be his liberator. He deserves it not.”

  “Edmee’s dead? When? How?” This was news to Annis and she wondered why she had not been told.

  “Oh, I don’t know when, wretched child. You did not like her anyway. I didn’t think you would be interested.”

  “Mother, why wouldn’t I be interested? She was my kin.”

  “Do not take that tone with me.” Lady Wessex shook her head as if confused. “You are a strange creature. If I didn’t know better I would say you were dropped on your head as a baby.”

  Annis had heard this all before so she did her best to ignore her mother’s rant.

  “So he is a widower.” Annis said it more to herself than her mother, her eyes resting on the man asleep on her bed.

  “Oh, I see,” Lady Wessex said scornfully and then she laughed. “My dear, a man li
ke him wouldn’t look twice at someone like you. If you think by saving his life, he would look favourably upon you, you are very much mistaken; and besides, by this week’s end you will be another man’s wife. Remove this man from your chambers. If he is not gone by this time tomorrow then I will tell your father and you shall suffer the consequences of your most foolish actions.”

  “Tell him now. You have nothing to lose. Apart from a daughter you are ashamed of.”

  Lady Wessex did not need to reply; her glare was frightening enough. She gathered up her skirts and swept across the room, pausing as she lifted the bolt and let it fall carelessly to the floor with a bang before slamming the door behind her with an even louder thud.

  Annis stood in the middle of the room, her shoulders shaking as she tried to suppress the tears. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve and straightened her resolve as well as her back. She was King Cerdic of Wessex’s daughter. Her mother, of all people, would not cow her.

  She picked up the bolt, flexing her arms to lift the heavy wood back into place. Not that a single piece of wood would really keep her safe, if her mother did what she threatened to do. She pushed the chest back against the door, then walked back towards the bed and gently brushed back the hair that had fallen into Alden’s face.

  He wasn’t safe here, but where else could she hide him? She sat back down heavily on the chair by the bed and held her head in her hands, for she felt the beginning of a headache, just like the ones she often suffered before a big storm. Only this time, she would not be able to lay herself out on the bed until the pain passed. This time, she had to try to forget about the pain. She had to have a clear head and think her way to freedom.

  Alden was dreaming — well, he thought it must be a dream. He was dressed in his finest clothes, and his younger brother, Merton, was standing next to him, telling him amusing anecdotes, trying to keep his spirits up, for today was the day every man secretly feared. Today was his wedding day. He felt ridiculously nervous, like a student waiting for a newly-appointed scholar, fearing he would not meet expectations, that he would appear stupid and slow and somehow lacking.

  As a King, he should be brave and courageous, see the political gains of such a marriage, but he had a cold feeling of dread that sat heavily upon his gut, telling him that this whole charade was a bad idea. To unite himself to Wessex, to make a bond that cannot be easily dismissed, seemed like madness. Indeed, a rational man would tell him he was insane. Cerdic was a barbarian, and worse than that, he was a foreigner, with no claim to the land he ruled other than that of a battle won, a great king defeated. He was not liked, this outsider. The other Kings, from the various kingdoms of Briton, tolerated Wessex, but all had increased their border patrols if their land bordered his, for this Saxon was a dangerous man and an ambitious one.

  It had been Budic’s idea, this union between the du Lacs and the Wessexes. Alden had gone along with it, seeing the merit in the plans that were so easily discussed around his brother’s fine oak table in Brittany. But now, with the hangman tightening the noose and Budic nowhere to be seen, Alden had the sudden urge to make a run for it. Sweat broke out on his brow, he felt his heart start to pound and he tried his best not to clench his fists. He looked around the room again, looking for an exit. Unfortunately, too many nobles had turned out for this wedding and he could see no escape. One last desperate look around and then his eyes caught that of a young woman. Annis of Wessex, Cerdic’s daughter, stood next to her hard-faced brother. He had heard about Cerdic’s daughter but had not really dwelled too much on her, for she was kept hidden out of sight, as if she were some hideously deformed monster, so he was surprised to see her.

  Today he was marrying Edmee of Wessex, Cerdic’s ward and niece, who it was rumoured had more honours heaped on her pretty head from the King of Wessex than what he bestowed on his own daughter. But as he stared at Annis, with her mass of curly hair that had been decorated with tiny white flowers, he wished now that he had paid more attention to what was said about the only daughter of Wessex. The soft hazel eyes, which were at odds with her Saxon heritage, were downcast and she looked around the hall fearfully, as if frightened someone might notice her. Then her eyes had met his and for what seemed like an eternity everything else — the people, the noise, everything — had faded into the background and all that was left in the room, was just the two of them. She had looked down at her hands, a blush on her cheeks. He could not drag his eyes away from her; it were as if she had cast some spell. Never in his life had he felt this drawn to a woman. She had looked up again and he watched as her pretty white teeth bit her lower lip in a nervous gesture, and he was lost. Merton had broken through his reprieve by asking him if he was sure he was marrying the right woman, for he had seen whom his brother was gazing at. He had laughed and said that of course he was. However, his eyes had strayed back to Lord Wessex’s daughter.

  His dream of Annis became misted, swallowed up as dreams often are, and he found himself in front of a door, a familiar door. He reached for the latch, but his hand was shaking. He felt sick, sick to the very depths of his soul. He wanted to turn away, run and never look back, but it was as if an invisible force had taken over his body and he pushed the door open.

  The furniture had been overturned, and clothes were thrown all over the floor. The beautiful embroidered counterpane on the bed was covered in blood, stained beyond redemption. Against his will, he moved forward, and heard the crush of broken glass underfoot. His heartbeat hammered in his chest and he felt an icy fear like he had never known. He stopped at the foot of the bed, fearing to look, knowing he had to, knowing what he would find. He knew who was dying on the bed and he knew, as God was his witness, that there was nothing he could do, or have done, to save his wife and their unborn child. She opened her eyes, but those blue eyes had lost their sparkle. She looked at him as he reached for her wrist, as he tried to stem the blood. And she smiled a small, triumphant smile. She had won, as she knew she would. She closed her eyes and turned her face away from the man she called ‘husband.’

  “No.” He heard himself speak, heard the anguish in his voice as he relived the memory, the pain as bad as when it had happened. “No, Edmee. What have you done? EDMEE.” He screamed her name over and over again, until he felt something covering his mouth to muffle his cries.

  “Please stop, please stop,” Annis begged as she attempted to silence him. “Please, please, wake up, it’s a dream, it is only a dream. Sshh.” She held his head, her face bent over his. “It is all right. Everything is all right.” She continued to speak softly to him in Latin as she smoothed back his hair from his damp forehead. She could feel the trembling of his body and wished there was something she could do to ease his pain.

  “Edmee,” he yelled again, but this time no sound came out. He felt cold and numb as shock set in and death suddenly looked appealing. Just as he resigned himself to death, he felt an invisible hand dragging him backwards. He tried to hold on, to grab hold of the furniture, to stay in this room with his wife and his unborn child, but the force was too strong and whatever he touched simply turned to ashes in his fingers. The banked fire in the hearth suddenly exploded, a thick black smoke hiding his wife from his view. The room was ablaze, and he started to cough, fighting the fire for air. All was lost — his wife, his child, his home, his kingdom. Everything. He slumped down on the floor and leant back against the wall. He watched as everything he had spent so long protecting and building disappeared right before his eyes. The fire was coming closer; he could feel the heat on his skin —

  He awoke with a start, although his eyes remained closed. A shiver ran down his back and his whole body began to tremble. He was so cold. He tried to draw in a shaky breath, but there was something held across his mouth and he panicked, thinking he was being suffocated, and he fought to free himself, twisting and fighting until a wave of pain hit him throughout his body and he moaned in agony.

  “Peace,” Annis said
between clenched teeth. Her arm hurt where he had grabbed her and it had taken all of her strength to subdue him. “You were screaming. You must be quiet.” Slowly she withdrew her hand from his mouth. “You will get us both killed.”

  He opened his eyes, looked at her for a long moment as if he could not quite believe what he was seeing, and then closed them again.

  She got up and reached for another blanket, which she kept high up on the large chest where her finest clothes were hung. She shook it out and spread it on top of the bed.

  “You have a fever,” Annis explained when she saw that he was watching her again.

  All Alden could do in answer was to shiver and, to his shame, his teeth began to chatter.

  Annis sat back down on the bed. She didn’t know what to say. She felt her cheeks heat and she wished he would stop looking at her.

  “You know where you are, don’t you?” Annis finally broke the silence. “You were my father’s prisoner. He sentenced you to death.”

  “You saved me?” Alden stuttered, still frowning. He tried to sit up, a pain so excruciating that he hissed in his breath, made him pause, and he allowed the memories to come flooding back. Still shaken by his dream of Edmee, he was unprepared for the present descending upon him. His kingdom had been taken, his home burnt to the ground and his men scattered or dead. His brother, Merton, probably lay in some ditch somewhere, a grave forever unmarked. All he had held dear was gone.

  “Water?” he said. His voice, after his screaming, was hoarse and weak.

  Annis got up, quickly poured water from an extravagantly engraved silver jug into an equally beautiful silver cup, and then held it to his mouth. He raised his hand to take the cup, for he would not be waited on like an infant, but the pain in his back made him rethink and his hand shook terribly, so like the conquered King he was, he admitted defeat and allowed her to help him. The water was warm, not cold, as he wanted it to be, but then beggars cannot be choosers and he continued to drink. When he had had his fill, he turned his head away, although the pain from such a simple action was great.