The Du Lac Devil: Book 2 of The Du Lac Chronicles Page 3

  At the time, it seemed like a good idea…to pay Wessex to stay away from Cerniw, his brother’s kingdom. He had thought it would give him some time to implement a more permanent solution, but time did not wait for Merton to get his house in order, it just marched on relentlessly like the soldiers in Clovis’s army.

  The Du Lac’s and the Wessexes had a long, bloody history, which had climaxed six years previously when Wessex had invaded Cerniw and taken King Alden du Lac hostage. Merton had killed many of Wessex’s men as he tried to get to his brother, but there had been too many to fight. When he knocked one down another two appeared. It had been like fighting the Hydra of Lerna, only worse.

  It had been a battle he could not hope to win, but he had fought on like a man possessed. It was that battle when the demon inside of him had been released for the first time. It was that battle where he learnt just what he was capable of. It was that battle that changed his life forever.

  In a bitter twist of irony, Wessex had taken the flesh from Alden’s back. “One lash for every Wessex soldier killed,” he had said. It wasn’t justice Wessex had sought, but petty revenge. And Merton, like Alden, had felt the sting of it.

  Alden was lucky to be alive. If it had not been for Wessex’s daughter, Annis, he would have died. Annis had rescued Alden from her father’s dungeon and they had fled Wessex together. Later, the two of them had married, despite all the reasons they should not. They loved each other and for them, it was enough. And anyway, Annis was lovely. It wasn’t her fault her father was who he was.

  Back then, there had been others who were brave enough to take on Wessex. But now those who had dared to fight for the chance for the Britons to be at last ruled by themselves were either dead or had been driven to the brink of starvation until they had yielded to the Saxon foreigner.

  The House of Du Lac were the only ones left who refused to bow down to Briton’s new High King. They would not be ruled by a murdering savage. But as good and noble as that sounded, the practicality of such a stand was a little more complicated.

  Wessex had a fine army. His army was probably larger than the one Clovis led and the Du Lac’s had no allies left. It was them against the rest of Briton. Brittany, the kingdom of his eldest brother, Budic, was not in danger. And as long as trade was not disrupted, Budic couldn’t care less what Wessex was up to. But Cerniw was on the mainland and although she was self-sufficient, and she had good trade routes with the Mediterranean, her borders still needed protecting, as did her King.

  Merton had seen countless brave men change after a particularly nasty battle or when they had been taken prisoner and subjected to abuse. They became weak, cowards if you like. During the long months where he and his brother took on Wessex and lay siege to their own kingdom, he watched Alden change. At first, Alden had become very short with his knights, and then he had become very cold to his wife, whom he had loved to distraction previously. He started wandering off, not telling anyone where he was going. It had been the most difficult thing Merton had ever had to watch, for he had worshiped his brother when he was a child. But the man he knew was dead to him; there was a stranger in his place. However, when Alden had accused Merton of having an affair with his wife, any sympathy he had towards his brother vanished. Merton told him to stay away from Annis, for he was breaking her heart, and to stay away from him. He had meant it. He was so angry that Alden would even think that he would betray him in such a way that he almost got on his horse and rode away. And the most horrifying part was that Alden had wanted him to. For a long time after, Merton had lain awake at night, wondering what would have happened if he had. He had not realised, until then, that Alden had been on the verge of suicide. And all because of Wessex, and what that man had done to him in the dungeons of his castle.

  Alden had confessed all. He told Merton all his fears, and showed him what a coward he truly was. Merton had never felt prouder. Merton didn’t care what anyone else thought, as far as he was concerned it was a brave man who could stand up to the world and say “help me. I can’t do this anymore.” Merton had made his brother a solemn promise that he would never let Wessex come anywhere near Cerniw again, and that was a promise he intended to keep, one way or the other.

  His preferred choice would have been to kill the bastard. But he couldn’t get close enough to him to do that. Wherever he went, Wessex was surrounded by heavily armed guards. Merton knew there was more than one way to kill a man, but everyone was so afraid of the Saxon High King, that no one would help.

  Alden was blissfully unaware that Wessex had ridden towards Cerniw again, two years later. Luckily, Merton had been fighting in Powys when he heard Wessex was on the move. Merton had caught up with Wessex’s army in no time and managed to secure an audience with the High King. A deal was struck. Merton would use his long-respected family name to infiltrate the courts of other kingdoms and to be Wessex’s ears. In return, Wessex would turn his army around and leave Cerniw alone.

  As time went on, Wessex became more demanding. He started to ask for money as well as information and if Merton didn’t pay him then…

  Merton had reluctantly agreed. Although he had no idea where he was going to find the figures, Wessex spoke of. All the money he earned went straight back to Alden to strengthen the kingdom. Then, not content with that, Wessex asked for recompense for all those men Merton had killed years before. Merton had argued that Alden had settled that debt when the skin was taken from his back. Wessex had merely smiled and then said that if he didn’t receive the money by the end of the month, then Cerniw would be back under his control by the spring. But it was Merton’s choice, of course.

  Some choice.

  He was glad Alden didn’t know. He doubted Alden would ever forgive him if he did. He had seen his brother only twice in the last five years. Alden had greeted him on both occasions like he was some sort of lost prodigal son and had ordered a huge feast in his honour. But he wasn’t the prodigal son because he left again and he carried on sinning. There was no heaven set aside for the likes of him. Wessex had turned him into the monster everyone thought he was.

  The horses were where they had left them. Their heads were bowed down against the rain and they were soaked. Merton’s horse pricked his ears at the mention of his name and turned his head to look at Merton through the rain.

  “Are you all right, my boy?” Merton asked. The horse’s saddle had slipped and the painful sore, where the pommel of the saddle had rubbed his withers was exposed to the elements. Merton quickly unfastened the girth, sliding the saddle off his back and then, as gently as he could, he padded the injury before replacing the saddle. It would have to do for now. What the animal needed was rest and time to heal. No such luck. He should really trade the animal in, but he couldn’t bring himself to. The horse had been a present from Alden and he had been with him these past five years. The two of them had survived many a violent situation. Merton had changed the horse’s name to Caleb because he, like the man in the Bible, was a survivor. Gingerly, Merton sat down in the saddle, trying to be as careful as he could be, but he knew he was hurting him.

  “Come on,” he whispered, turning his horse gently and riding back the way they had come from.

  They had made camp a little over an hour’s ride away and the rain did not let up the entire time. They left Clovis’s kingdom and crossed over into Gondebaud’s. Both men were wary, keeping watch, waiting for signs of a scout or worse still, one of Wihtgar’s assassins. Merton would bet his life that they were being watched, but no one challenged them. They took the long way back to the camp, just in case they were being followed. Not that it really mattered if they were. Chances were they would all be dead before the sun set this day.

  Merton turned in his saddle and looked at Yrre. Yrre was huddled in his cloak, trying not to shiver.

  Yrre raised his head and snorted on a laugh. “When you asked me, all those years ago, if I wanted to go for a ride, I didn’t think we would end up here. And I didn’t think we would end our
days like this,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Distant country…pinned between two armies…” he glanced up at the sky. “Wet. I never thought I would die soaking wet.”

  ‘We are not dead yet,” Merton replied. “You are not dead, yet.”

  “But by this day’s end, we will be. You cannot talk your way out of this one, Merton. We should prepare ourselves and make peace with our gods.”

  “When have I ever let you down before?”

  “I know you will not go down without a fight and I respect you for that. I will be by your side, like I always am. But you are not a coward; you cannot convince yourself it is going to be all right when you know for a fact there is only one way this can end for us. We are going to die.”

  “We all have death in common. It is a forgone conclusion. The odds of survival are not the best. I will concede that. But I will do everything in my power to get you back in one piece to your wife. One more battle, Yrre. Just one more and then you can go home.”

  Yrre nodded his head in acceptance, but even through the rain, Merton could see the doubt in his face.

  5

  “Any luck?” Merton asked with hope, as he rode towards his men. But they didn’t need to answer because the look on their faces told him all he needed to know.

  Merton dismounted slowly, like an old man. He stood still for a moment as the feeling slowly came back into his cold, numb, feet, and he sighed heavily. On the ride here, he had almost convinced himself that his men would be waiting with good news for him — one of them would have found a way through Clovis’s lines. But it was not to be. He had unwittingly marched his men towards their own deaths and now there was nothing he could do about it.

  He pulled the reins over his horse’s weary head and tossed them over a broken branch, before gently taking off the saddle. He paused for a moment to check the wound. It was beginning to weep and the skin around the wound was hot to the touch. The last thing he wanted was for the wound to become inflamed. He ran his hand down the damp, wet, fur of the horse’s sleek neck and hoped that the animal would have the strength to stay on his feet, at least until they made it passed Clovis and his army. After that, he would willingly walk all the way to Brittany if need be, and from there they would charter a boat to Cerniw. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the horse’s neck as the seriousness of the situation drove him almost to despair — there would be no walking to Brittany, there would be no Cerniw, there would be no tomorrow. This was it. This was the end. It was time to accept the truth. They were all dead men.

  “I take it you didn’t have any luck either?” Wann asked as he took the saddle from Merton, resting it over his forearm. Wann was a tall man, one of the tallest people Merton had ever come across, and he had to raise his head to look into his face. Wann also had a beard that was the envy of all. No one could grow a beard like Wann could, although many had tried.

  “I am sure we can break through the ranks, as soon as we have slaughtered Clovis’s cavalry,” Yrre said unhelpfully, brushing past the warrior, as he stormed towards the tree where the rest of the men and one woman, were taking shelter from the rain. He threw his horse’s saddle to the ground in a frustrated rage.

  “I am glad Yrre is in a good mood,” Wann said as he and Merton walked towards the others.

  “Think yourself lucky, I have been with him all morning,” Merton said with a sigh. “Did you…” It was obvious that they had nothing good to tell him, he didn’t need to ask the question.

  “Nothing you would want to hear. We are going to have to take our chances with Wihtgar. We cannot break through Clovis’s lines. Clovis knows what he is doing. We wouldn’t stand a chance against him,” Wann said, answering the unspoken question anyway. “His army is too big.”

  “Don’t tell me something that I already know,” Merton said, stepping away from Wann and heading towards the tree. Thunder still rumbled overhead. “Did your mothers never tell you not to stand under a tree during a storm?”

  Eadgar snorted on a laugh as he secured his dripping wet hair behind him with a leather tie. “We are in a bloody forest, haven’t you noticed?”

  He had noticed all right. It was all such a mess — even nature was conspiring against them. Strike us down now, he thought, and be done with it.

  “How’s my boy?” Merton asked, keeping such defeatist thoughts to himself, for they would serve no purpose.

  “Asleep,” Emma said, trying for a smile, but her eyes glistened with unshed tears.

  “It will be all right,” Eadger, Emma’s husband, reassured, as he put his arm around her in comfort. “Merton will think of something. Isn’t that right, Merton?”

  Merton didn’t answer. Instead, he took the baby from Emma and gazed lovingly down at the soft, red downy head of his son. He looked so beautiful, such a picture of innocence. His little thumb had found its way into his mouth again and his eyelashes fluttered as he dreamed.

  “He will be hungry when he wakes,” Emma said, taking the baby back.

  “I’m bloody hungry now,” Trace said. He was huddled in his cloak, the hood up, hiding his face from the worst of the weather.

  “You should have eaten last night when you had the chance,” Wann replied, tight-lipped.

  “I am not eating your cooking. I learnt my lesson the last time,” Trace answered. Since that unfortunate incident when they had all come down with terrible upset stomachs, Trace had chosen to err on the side of caution and refused to eat whenever Wann cooked. Sometimes, he found, it was better to go hungry.

  “There is nothing wrong with my brother’s cooking,” Vernon, Wann’s younger brother, was quick to jump to his defence. At only fourteen he was the youngest warrior among them, but by the gods he was fast, and with an axe in his hand he was as deadly as the rest of them.

  “Is that why you fed it to that dog of yours?” Trace queried, looking at the ugly mongrel bitch that was curled up asleep by Vernon’s feet.

  “I didn’t,” Vernon immediately stated, catching his brother’s eye, while trying his hardest not to smile. He stood up straighter and schooled his face in to, what he hoped, came across as a sincere and honest expression. “I swear on our father’s life.”

  “Our father is already dead,” Wann growled low in his throat and took a menacing step towards the lad. Vernon grabbed hold of Trace, using him as a human shield.

  “Get away from my brother so I can kill him,” Wann snarled the threat.

  “Isn’t that what you tried to do last night with your cooking?” Trace asked, with humour.

  “Quiet,” Yrre ordered suddenly, drawing his sword.

  They all looked to where he did. A horse whinnied in the distance and Merton’s horse whinnied back in welcome. Sometimes he could murder that bloody horse of his, Merton thought.

  “DU LAC?” A voice yelled from the trees.

  “That’s Rand, what does he want?” Yrre said, glancing at Merton. Rand was Wihtgar’s staunchest ally. But as he rode into view and saw them, he unstrapped his weapon belt and threw it to the ground.

  “I am not here to fight,” he said. Behind him rode his twelve-year-old son, Leof, which was unusual, for usually he kept his son away from any danger.

  “Then what are you here for?” Merton asked, stepping forward, his eyes scanning the undergrowth as he did so, for he would not put anything past Wihtgar.

  “To warn you,” Rand said, dismounting. “And to ask if you will have me in your ranks, for I have had enough of Wihtgar and his-”

  “You’ve had enough?” Yrre jeered. “Ever since I have known you, you have kissed Wihtgar’s arse. You are lying, may the gods strike you down.”

  “If it wasn’t for me, Merton would be dead.” Rand looked at Merton as he spoke, his eyes almost pleading in their intensity.

  “What’s he talking about?” Yrre questioned, glaring at Merton as he did so.

  “He turned a blind eye,” Merton answered. “He let me walk out of the tent after-”

  “Next time yo
u leave that bastard lying in a pool of his own blood make sure he is dead,” Rand advised. “Leaving Wihtgar alive is the gravest mistake you have ever made.” Rand walked forward, leading his horse behind him. “He has marked you all and he has put rewards on each of your heads. But he will pay most generously for the head of your child, Merton.”

  Emma cried out in terror and clutched the child tightly to her bosom.

  “And as for you,” Rand sniffed, for the cold was making his nose run. “He says he wants you alive so he can crucify you like that Christian God of yours did to the one he called Son. He means it, Merton.”

  “If he comes within a mile of us, we will crucify him,” Eadger spat the words out. No one threatened the child. His wife would never live through the loss of another infant. He would defend Merton’s son until the last breath left his body. As they all would.

  Merton heard the words that were spoken, but he did not react because his attention was still on the undergrowth.

  “There is no one there,” Rand said, glancing over his shoulder. “He thinks you are heading back to Saxony. But I knew,” Rand smiled, “that you would head to Cerniw.”

  “We are not heading anywhere at the moment,” Merton said as he drew his gaze back to Rand. Rand’s hair was dripping wet, his beard too, from the rain. Leof had dismounted as well and had come to stand next to his father. He saw Vernon and nodded his head in greeting. Sometimes the two of them would train together, even though Vernon was two years older and could outshoot and outmanoeuvre Leof every time. “Clovis is getting ready to invade. We are trapped. At a total disadvantage. So please, call your men out of hiding and let’s get this over with.”