The Forgotten King

by Jonathan Dunn

At last, he said heavily, “I do not know you, Celestine.”

  “If time has separated our bodies, our minds are one. We will find our love again, in time.”

  “You do not feel it either, then?”

  “I feel its memories and its anticipations.”

  “As do I. Perhaps it is better this way.”

  “That we do not feel love?”

  “That we know it without feeling it, for the road is easier for the blind man that knows it well, than for the blind man who merely feels his way along.”

  Silence reigned for a moment, before Celestine continued.

  “You are captured; can there be any hope?”

  “The men are still free.”

  “But can they act without a strong leader to hold them in when they are overzealous and to push them out when they are afraid?”

  “No, for that is not their nature.”

  “Then all is lost: Gylain has won.”

  Alfonzo only smiled, “There is another.”

  “Who can replace Alfonzo of Melborough?” and she caressed him. “Perhaps you do not realize the trouble you have caused Gylain. He does not say it, but I listen to his eyes and hear more than he says. I hear the guards talking: they fear the forest, speaking of a single man who kills a dozen men, of a monk who makes himself a devil, of the rebels who rain down from the sky. But without you, what will they fear?”

  “Who is not afraid of the forest? You are mistaken, though, Celestine, for it is not me alone who strikes fear into the hearts of men.”

  “Yet God is slow to anger.”

  “I did not mean him, but the man who slew a dozen men.”

  “Then, it was not you?”

  “I am a fair swordsman, but a dozen men?”

  “Who is he?”

  “The king.”

  Celestine fell off her stool, her face flushed with surprise.

  “Yet the king does not know who he is.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He has no idea that he is the king!”

  Chapter 19

  After Gylain left the room, he made his way down the stairs to his own quarters, which were directly below Celestine’s. They were the most secure in all the castle, for a man who gains power by a coup fears a coup himself.

  The central tower was a castle within a castle, for it sat in the center of the outer walls. These walls were thick, housing barracks and storage rooms within, and defended by a moat without. Unlike other castles, no blacksmiths or other artisans were kept within the castle walls. Rather, Gylain relied upon the city for those things, and kept his stronghold purely military.

  The great stone tower that composed the inner part of the castle was several hundred yards in diameter at the ground. It tapered off as it went above and below the ground, until, in each direction, it ended in a small, round spire. Downward, in the very depths of the earth, it housed the castle’s dungeons. These were layered, the more depraved criminals kept in the very bottom, and the lesser ones near the surface, all in a collection of circular rooms connected only a by narrow stair.

  Gylain reached his floor – for his rooms took the entire level – after a moment. As he did, he was greeted by a man with a clean-shaven face and dark black hair combed forward at the temples; he wore a dark cloak, with an ornate sword hanging from his belt without a sheath, and an iron-knuckled glove on either hand. When Gylain came into the room, the man strode toward him and knelt at his feet, saluting him in both manner and in mind.

  “Arise, Montague, and come with me. We have business to attend to.”

  Gylain showed no emotion as he spoke, his eyes ignoring Jonathan Montague.

  “As you wish,” and the two men passed the guards and entered the room.

  It was majestic. The ceiling rose up a hundred feet, and the walls were made entirely of stained glass windows. The room was bare of furniture, except for a writing table and two chairs, the former of which was roughly cut and wobbly. Besides this, there was a bed mat on the floor in the corner, where Gylain slept. He used no bed. The contrast was his obsession: he slept on the cold stone floor so that, when he sat otherwise, he would be more comfortable. It was his belief that things are only known by contrast, that white cannot be seen without black, and comfort cannot be known without pain. It followed, therefore, that to fully enjoy his power and wealth, he must live as the poorest pauper.

  When they were in the room and the door was closed, Gylain sat at the desk and Montague in front of it. Their conversation is as follows:

  GYLAIN : I have heard and seen that you have taken Alfonzo. Yet something is amiss, for I can see that you are not pleased with yourself. Speak, for there is nothing to fear but death itself.

  MONTAGUE : Are my thoughts so easily read? I must work on this. Yet there is something amiss, for although I have taken Alfonzo, the rebels seem to grow only stronger. I have a report from the Elite Guards, that they were forced to retreat by three men, one of whom was transformed into the devil. Whether it is nonsense or commonsense, I do not care. What disturbs me is that our men were frightened away. There was a prisoner, however: Oren Lorenzo. He is in the dungeons now, along with some wretched Frenchman. I could think of no greater torture than to place them together.

  GYLAIN : Then it is as I expected.

  MONTAGUE : How so? The Frenchman or the devil?

  GYLAIN : Neither. I mean destiny, Montague – the fate which presses down upon us, and drowns us in our predestined actions! I cannot control it, yet so easily it controls me. For I can see what comes upon us. I am a harbinger, as is all of the present, for that which comes has already been decided. Did I not know, when I was young, that I would become the tyrant of my people? I did, and though it disgusted me – and though it still disgusts me – it is my fate. Can I argue with God? No, but what I do is not what I desire to do. And what I desire to do I cannot do, for it is written in the book of life that I am something which is not my own. Can the poor man lift himself from the ground, and produce wealth from the air? Neither can the rich become poor. For it is written. Can the blind man open his senses to perceive the dawn? Neither can the man who sees keep himself from seeing. For it is written. Can the weak man raise himself to power, and, by his own purpose, become the tyrant of all? Neither can the powerful, to whom tyranny is given, desert it. Is it a joy to murder and to torture? To plunder and to rob? No, and I only do so because I have no choice. For it is written.

  MONTAGUE : What, then, does this mean? For I, at least, am unable to see.

  GYLAIN : Thank God for the blindness he has given you. It means this: Prince Willarinus has survived. The tide has turned, and soon it will overwhelm us. The deluge has begun. I can see it, even as I can see its letters etched upon my eyes with a fire’s brand, and spelled with blood upon the empty pages of my mind. The man you fought in the forest, is it not he?

  MONTAGUE : Perhaps, but Alfonzo gave him no special consideration. We will see. Should I return to the forest, to look into the matter?

  GYLAIN : Yes, it would be wise. God has predestined, perhaps, but I am eager to defeat him. If he carries out his judgment through the rebels, it is them we must battle. Yet, we have politics to consider. The Queen of Saxony is to arrive this week, and it would be best if the domestic front was silent during her stay. Cybele is not Casandra; the daughter is not the mother. But I would still possess her – for her own qualities, and for her father’s hatred. She knows of Celestine, but she is a hard woman, a polite woman. She knows the nature of power, and the nature of morality by strength. If God’s morality is his strength to conquer, it can be no different for men.

  MONTAGUE : And what of me? Am I to be present at the feast?

  GYLAIN : Do you object?

  MONTAGUE : No, with pleasure, my lord. If power is sweeter than love, it does not preclude it.

  GYLAIN : Perhaps. You may go now.

  MONTAGUE [exiting]: I will return when the queen arrives.

  GYLAIN [to himself]: Power sweeter than love? N
o, for the first is the means, the second the ends. Do I not have all the power a man can be given? Yet I do not have love, and I am lost. I can move mountains, perhaps, but I have nowhere to put them; and no reason, other than vanity. Does power console me in my pain, and rejoice with me in my happiness? No, but I must ask: does love?

  GYLAIN [pacing in front of the stained-glass windows]: Man is created in the image of God, and yet is sinful and corrupt. What conclusions can we draw? Yet even among men, there are those who are righteous, and those who are evil. God has appointed our positions, and given us the actions we must take, even as he judges those same actions. But why must I be evil? Could it not be another, could it not be Alfonzo? Why is it my destiny to be against all that is good, to destroy and tear down? What wretched fate is this, that God has given me? It is my destiny to be cruel, can I complain? For I am but a servant of God. Like master like servant. God is cruel; so I, too, must be cruel. God is heartless; so I, too, must be heartless. Yet look, what wretched company this destiny is. It precludes us all to foolishness.

  GYLAIN [in a whisper]: To hell with destiny – to hell with me!

  Chapter 20

  Meanwhile, far below the tower where these things were taking place, something else of importance was happening. The dungeon occupied the same tower as the rooms above, though it was as far below the ground as they were above it.

  There was a layer of grime and mold along the walls that obscured the stones and left only a black, formless mass in their stead. Since it was a continuation of the massive stone tower above, the dungeon was circular, and only a narrow stairway led from level to level, cell to cell. It came down through the middle of each room, while the prisoners were chained to the sides. There were doors between these levels: barred, not solid.

  The last of these levels was called the Devil’s Door, because no one in it ever survived to be released. To the superstitious prisoners, this was the devil’s doing – for those in the bottommost cell did not simply die, but rather, disappeared. Whenever a prisoner was released, he first passed through each of the cells above his own, traveling up the central, winding stairway. Those prisoners in the Devil’s Door never passed upwards again, whether living or dead.

  At this particular time the only prisoners kept in the lowest cell were rebels. It was their special punishment to be subjected to such horrible conditions. The room itself was circular, as were the others. On one side the stairway came down, and on the opposite there was a statue of a strong, thick-bearded man holding a golden sword, with intricate pictures carved into its blade and handle. In his hands he held two rings, to which the chains of the prisoners were connected.

  “There never was a more loyal citizen of Atilta than myself,” said the first prisoner, in his heavy French accent. “To charge me with treason is most preposterous; for I was, at the time of my arrest, actively serving my country.”

  “Yes, but is that country Atilta or France?” boomed the other. “I would chance that your French accent is heavier than my mother, may she rest in peace.” The speaker’s face was covered by a lightning bolt mustache, which twisted when he spoke as if it were another feature of his face. Some say that it was.

  Vahan Lee, the first prisoner, was distracted by the flopping mustache of the second, Oren Lorenzo, and could only manage to mutter, half to himself, “Surely, that is not so.”

  “If it is not, then I wish I may be hanged.”

  “Be careful what you wish for, friend.”

  The last remark was made by a scrunched, small-boned old man who had come quietly into the room while the prisoners were conversing.

  “By Saint Simon, the mother of Jesus!” exclaimed Lorenzo, “If it isn’t Jack Clifford! How can it be? In the flesh?”

  “Yes, in the flesh. Or rather, half out of it, for age has besieged my body. I do believe that I am quite as old as Saint Simon, though I doubt he is the mother of Jesus. Lorenzo, you could be a Calvinist, for all of your mistaken doctrine. What do you know of your companion?” and he looked at Vahan Lee.

  “Nothing, particularly, but that he is here. And there are no friends of Gylain this deep.”

  “Yes, of course. I forget the others are afraid of the Devil’s Door,” he chuckled.

  Vahan answered Clifford’s questions about him: “To the Plantagenets, of Atilta and of France, is my loyalty given.”

  “The latter being your home country? Why do they not send help?” Jack Clifford questioned.

  “In body it is my homeland, yet not in spirit. As for the rest, I am not sure, but perhaps they are scouting the situation.”

  “Is that so, Thomas Vahanlee?” replied the old man Clifford.

  Vahan’s leg leapt up – though his body did not follow – at the surprise of hearing his true name spoken, for he had not given it to the guards.

  The old man turned to the other prisoner and said, “He is safe, Lorenzo, old friend. I was just with Alfonzo of Melborough, and he praised him highly to me, asking me to see to him.”

  “Alfonzo is here? By the devil’s mother and the Queen of Saxony!” Oren Lorenzo jumped to his feet as he said this, forgetting the chain around his wrist, which pulled him back sharply to the ground and made him sit once more.

  “Be careful,” laughed Clifford, “And mind your curses, for every idle and useless word will be judged we are told, dear prior. And do you not know that the devil’s mother and the Queen of Saxony are one and the same? But yes, Alfonzo was taken.”

  “What woe is this!” moaned the other, “Has hope deserted us after all these years?”

  “No, hope has just returned, old partisan.”

  “I cannot see how.”

  “The king has returned!”

  Oren Lorenzo was once more so filled with passion that he leapt to his feet, and once more the chain pulled him back to the stone floor with a hollow thud.

  “By Daniel’s staff and Moses in the Lion’s Den!”

  “There is hope, my friends. Yet I must go and work on your escape.”

  “There is a way safely out of this dungeon?” Lorenzo asked. “But I would not have you risk your cover as the court jester on my account. I can scare away the devil, friend, so there is nothing to fear about that matter. Have I not walked half a day with him myself? Even he has had enough of Gylain!” Oren did the sign of the cross and muttered holy things to himself. “He scared the hell out of those soldiers, crying ‘Homeward bound!’ all the way, and the fools ran like tomorrow was today, and yesterday was lost two weeks back.”

  Even the court jester could not top this outburst by the red faced, red mustached Lorenzo. So he answered calmly and soberly:

  “Have no fears about my cover,” he said, “For there is a way out of this dungeon, and not past the guards. Indeed, you are chained to it – the statue is the door to a secret passage!”

  Oren once more leapt to his feet, and again he was thrown to the floor.

  “Let us be gone, then. The countryside needs revived. There is work to be done!”

  Lorenzo’s mind was too focused to have any memory of what he had just done. He leapt up again, and was pulled sharply back.

  “There is a – uh – slight obstacle,” muttered Clifford.

  “Then out with it, for there is no time left unused within my pockets. We are hard pressed.”

  “I have lost the key.”

  “By Peter’s wife and Pottifer’s denial, what else can equal the distress caused by a single person!”

  There were, of course, many more oaths that flowed from the mouth of Oren Lorenzo, priest and rebel soldier, after he learned of this, but it would not be useful to record them here. Let it suffice to say that the three loyal souls parted with hope and encouragement, along with a fascination with the statue for one; very sore wrists and bottom for another; and a stinging inward rebuke to remember where it was he had put the key, for the third.

  Chapter 21

  Ivona traveled five days through the forest, avoiding the roads for fear of being di
scovered – although she still wore the stolen monk’s frock. For in the wilderness, men would have different ideas with a crusty hermit than a young enchantress. She gruffed her voice until she seemed an old man, and padded the frock to conceal her form. She traveled as a hermit, and a hermit she became. The quiver was strapped to her back and the sword to her waist, and she held the bow in readiness for an ambush. Such was the way of the forest.

  At this time, it was evening and the sun had already retreated from the forest floor, although the canopy still burned. The larger animals were coming out, and Ivona crept along from tree to tree, concealing herself beneath their gnarled roots as she began her nightly hunt. After a moment she came to a stream, and the roots of a nearby tree were exposed, spread like toes several feet above the ground. There was a crevice between them at one point, large enough to shelter Ivona, surrounding her on three sides while leaving her front open to the forest. She knelt down and laid her bow before her, laying an ambush for the animals that would come to the stream to drink and bathe.

  The first to come was a giant black bear, standing upright and walking like a man. She raised herself to see more clearly, but a twig snapped beneath her. The bear stopped and turned to her, searching the darkening forest for the noise. Yet she was in the shadows of the roots, invisible. The bear nodded slightly, as if acknowledging something behind Ivona, then continued on its way to the stream. Ivona did not wait, raising her bow and fitting an arrow to its string. She aimed, then, with a skillful arm, brought back the arrow to bring low the bear. She prepared to fire; but she never did. For at that moment a sword was thrust against the back of her neck, cutting through the frock and resting roughly on her skin.

  “Shoot and I will run you through, regardless of your position in the church.”

  Ivona raised her head slowly, careful to keep the hood over her face. A monk stood beside her on the upraised roots; he had not been there before and she had not heard his arrival. His face was fair, though forested with a long, unkempt beard that made him seem a beast. His eyes glowed, as did the sword which jabbed her neck.

  “Would you deprive a poor hermit of his daily bread?” asked Ivona, her voice a hermit’s.