The Forgotten King

by Jonathan Dunn

  “A poor hermit, indeed, to think a bear provides bread. And perhaps a hungry night would not deplete your stores,” and he pushed his sword against the padding beneath her frock. Looking away, he called to the bear, “Come, Horatio, and show this hermit you are not the bread he seeks.” He mumbled to himself, though purely for Ivona’s profit, “This hermit who has been caught in our hunting press.”

  Ivona smiled, thinking she had come across a true hermit. Horatio came up at that moment, looking over Ivona closely.

  “Horatio does not resent you, for bears do not take revenge like men.”

  “Like men other than yourself, you mean?”

  “I am more beast than man; and if you ask forgiveness, there is none in the forest. Still, as I have watched you, I have seen a skilled hunter – for a man among men. For that, you have my respect and friendship. I know of a willow grove where we can make camp, within five minutes of this place. There are plants to eat there, which you may find are better than meat, especially that of bear.”

  “I should introduce myself: Eglebert, of the Franciscan order,” Ivona lied.

  “I am Willard and this Horatio, my blood brother. We are not churchmen, though we wear their robes.”

  “What are you, then?”

  “A prince.”

  Ivona’s heart stopped, recalling the wild man who saved her father.

  “In truth?”

  “No, in falsehood,” he laughed, “But it sounds better than the truth, for I am no one.”

  Ivona looked him over closely, but let it pass. If Willard was no prince, he was at least a king. Yet neither knew it. At this point, they reached the willow grove. It consisted of a small ring of trees with a clearing in the center, large enough for several people to rest comfortably. Around the outside, the willow branches drooped to the ground, forming a curtain that blocked the forest from view. Willard made a fire in the center of the clearing with firewood he had collected along the way, and Ivona filled their canteens from the stream that ran several feet to the south of the camp. Horatio gathered a hard fruit that grew from a tall, thorny tree, which his claws rendered an easy task. They ate. When they were done Willard began the conversation.

  “How long have you been a hermit, Eglebert?”

  “I cannot say; time means little in the forest.”

  “True, there is only day and night. I am surprised we have not met before.”

  “This is a vast forest.”

  “Indeed.”

  “And you, how long have you spent here?”

  “My life, mostly. What else I have done, I cannot remember. For now, however, I am traveling to Eden.”

  “The road is to the south.”

  “Yes, and I will come across it again as it heads to Eden. I am in a hurry, and the road is too indirect a path for haste.”

  “Why are you in haste?”

  “I am a forest man, and thus know little about the politics of the city and the coup. But whether Gylain is right or wrong, he has moved against the forest and I will defend it.”

  “Then you are connected with the loyalists, the rebels?”

  “Some would say by blood. I have come across Alfonzo and Montague, and between the two Montague was my enemy and Alfonzo my ally. He aided the Fardys and me against Montague.”

  “The Fardys? It would seem you truly are a rebel, with such friends. I have been long in the forest, and far from news. Can you tell me of a certain rebel, Milada of Erlich?”

  “I have spoken to him once; but as it is, I cannot claim to know him. He was frightened by the forest, and I by a nobleman. Neither of us spoke candidly, and I would think myself dishonest to repeat his words, spoken in fear. You could say, however, that my present journey is for his faction.”

  “How so?” Ivona watched him in interest.

  “I happened to travel with an ecclesiastic from his abbey, and we came across the Elite Guard burning a monastery. He could not be controlled and charged the soldiers: now he is taken to the castle dungeons. We attacked, but they fled on horseback and the monks held us back in our chase. That is where I go now, to free Oren Lorenzo.”

  “Oren Lorenzo!” she cried, forgetting herself. Her hood fell down, revealing her beautiful face in the firelight, and her voice was left undisguised. “Oren Lorenzo? What devilry is this?”

  “What devilry, indeed!” cried Willard, jumping to his feet. “What treachery is this? A female monk? A nun dressed as a man?”

  Ivona lowered her head in shame, “I am no monk. I wished to escape notice, even as yourself. Yet, while you revealed yourself, I was too wary to do the same.”

  “And for good reason, for the forest is a treacherous place. You have wisdom, at least, as well as wit. To me, that is enough justification for a lie.”

  She looked at him with entreating eyes, as if wishing to trust him.

  “You need not be afraid, for I have no evil intentions toward you,” he answered her unspoken fears.

  She smiled and sat back, fearless beside her newfound friends.

  He continued, “Then, Eglebert, what are your plans?”

  “First, I am not Eglebert, but Ivona.”

  “Ivona Milada?”

  “The same.”

  “Then that is well, for there are less things to be anxious about. You will come with me? Lorenzo was traveling to search for you, fearing you were kidnapped by Gylain.”

  “I was kidnapped, but only by my heart. I ran away, for my father wished me to marry some foreign prince, for political purposes.”

  Willard looked down at his pack, pretending to readjust it. “Then you despise this foreign prince?”

  “I have not met him.”

  “But what you have heard?”

  “I despise the prince, as a prince. As the man whom he is, I respect him for saving my father. Yet I will not be in bondage to such a man, and to his duties.”

  “Whom would you love? Every man has his duties.”

  “I would love no man. It is God alone who has my affections, and to marry I must first forsake him. My father does not have ears for such things, and I could do nothing but flee, even as Joseph from Pottifer’s wife.”

  “Yet you are the beauty.”

  Silence came. After a moment, Willard broke it: “Tomorrow we head south. We will take the road for a time, and then turn south again to look for Blaine Griffith and the rebel forces. We will need their assistance to free Lorenzo.”

  “So it will be. Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight,” and they went to sleep on the forest ground.

  Chapter 22

  The distance from the willow grove to the road was a few miles. As the canopy overhead blocked most of the sun, the forest underworld was left in constant twilight. At dawn, however, when the sun was still low on the horizon, it pierced the canopy and came through with little splashes of color. Thick mosses grew where the light struck the trees, joining the palette of wildflowers that crowned the ground. On the whole, they presented a uniform appearance; but upon closer inspection they were infinitely varied, each with its own living patterns and intonations.

  The early mornings were the time of song, when the nocturnal birds had not yet turned in and the day birds were already about. The song of the forest was not written in an artificial time scale invented by men, nor was it played on the artificial wave lengths designated by men as notes. Rather, it was played to the rhythm of life, and its only notes were those of nature. It was a symphony in its progression, a waltz in its simplicity; a ballad in its meaning, a sonnet in its sweetness.

  In an hour, the three travelers reached the road. The sobriety of the forest weighed heavily on them, and they could not bring themselves to break the silence. It was another hour, therefore, before they were disturbed from their inward reflections. The day was getting on, and they approached a bend in the road, around which they heard the sound of travelers.

  “Quick,” and Willard hastily motioned for Ivona to clear the road. She was entirely concealed before t
he other travelers came into view.

  Three men composed the approaching group, dressed as poor forest laborers. Willard recognized the bent nose and unruly hair of the first as the features of the mysterious Innkeeper. The others were unknown to him, though he was not entirely unknown to them. One was a tall, strong old man with a weather-beaten face and an officer’s demeanor; the other, a young and intelligent man.Seeing who was among them, Willard hastened forward and gave the Innkeeper a low bow.

  “These are among the friends of the forest?” he asked.

  “Yes,” the Innkeeper answered with a nod of his head. “There are none more true, on the seven seas or the thirty-two.”

  “Good,” Willard answered, giving the other men a look of hurried introduction. “I have good news, Innkeeper. Are you heading to Lord Milada’s, perchance?”

  “Yes, we are; and it is not too far. I’d guess we will be there, before old Lucifer loses his hair.” What this metaphor meant was beyond Willard, but he knew the Innkeeper’s meter, like that of many aspiring poets, was more important than his meaning.

  “Tell Milada his daughter is safe, for she is with me. We journey to rescue Oren Lorenzo from Castle Plantagenet. Have the Fardy brothers hurry to Eden with whatever forces they can gather, for we will need them in the battle.”

  “The lady is found, what joy profound! But where is she, that with you be?”

  “Hidden off the path,” Willard said, turning to the forest and beckoning for Ivona to show herself.

  She appeared in a moment, to the Innkeeper’s great delight. Then they parted, unwilling to attract the attention of spies. The old man never even threw off his hood to greet the young woman. It had been fifteen years since he saw her last, he thought, and she would not recognize him as her father’s old comrade.

  “It has been too long,” he muttered as he walked away, “Too long for even an old man like me.”

  Then came silence, as they parted into the forest, consumed by the trees.

  “How do you know the crazy old Innkeeper?” Ivona asked, once they were a good distance from the other party.

  “There are not many people in the forest,” Willard answered. “And what few there are come across each other from time to time.”

  “I suppose he will bring word to my father that I am found.”

  “Would you have it otherwise?”

  “No,” she hesitated, “Yet though my shame tells me I need to face what I have done, my pride tells me I should avoid it.”

  “You have an easy choice here, I believe, for the quickest road home is forward. There are hardships ahead that will outweigh your misdeeds, when you are reunited with your father. By that time, there will be more important things to remember than a foolish flight.”

  “True, but still I am convinced of the failings of my flesh. While it is my deepest desire to seek refuge in the arms of my father, that is the last place to which I run. The pride of men is only broken down by the dangers of life.”

  “Yet you are no man.”

  “Indeed, but I am a woman. Is that not twice as damning?”

  “Perhaps, if the judge is a man.”

  They fell silent for a few moments. Willard looked about them to see that they were alone.

  “Here is where we turn from the road,” he said. “We near the city, and the rebel outposts. To the forest we go.”

  He walked into the forest at an acute angle, and the three left the realm of man once more. It was as if they had been above water and suddenly dived below it. The one was of civilization, the other of the wild. There is an awe that comes when one is put into a place where man has no stronghold, where man is but a lone foreigner on enemy ground. On the road, there was a slight gap in the trees overhead that allowed a sliver of the sky to come through. It was narrow, yet it was the sky. In the forest, however, there was no sky but the branches. One was surrounded on all sides by living plants; living plants that seemed to breathe and talk, to walk and sway about; living plants that were imbued with the magical as no other plant is except those in the ancient forests of Atilta.

  And yet its magic was not in the sense of something that touched upon the supernatural, but rather a thing that was entirely of the natural, without the impurities of civilization. Its was a pure nature that flowed from a complete organic existence, untouched by man. There was the city of Eden, and the rangers of the forest, with their Treeway. Yet on Atilta, the vast reservoir of the forest was far greater than the blowing sand of man. All through the years the waters remained untouched, unfilled by the silt and sod of humanity that had slowly brought a drought to other lands. The forest was a fountain of youth for Atilta, and it was only by the forest’s deep foundations that Atilta was able to remain the last unspoiled creation, the last Garden of Eden, the last Olympus, the last Atlantis. Those who lived in Atilta did not realize what made their land special, what made it living. They remained in Eden, at that time the nautical hub of the world. It was the paradox of Atilta: the capital was the center of the civilized world, the forest the center of the natural world.

  “I hear a growling,” Willard said after several hours of silent marching, “And by experience I know it to be Horatio’s stomach calling for his lunch. Let us rest.”

  There was a meadow to the east, and the nearest side them was bordered by a large willow tree, whose little fingertips covered the area around it. They sprawled out under its shade, and it kept them from view of those more than a few yards away, while giving them a clear view of the meadow. The latter was a hundred yards across, covered with a mixture of short wildflowers: some golden discs, some blue bells, others red hearts. A few deer were grazing in the meadow, and, above all, the sky was clearly visible.

  “To think men cultivate the earth,” Ivona sighed, “When all is perfect without them.”

  “But its beauty is wild. Civilized beauty can only be made by destroying things.”

  She was silent for a moment, meditating on the scene.

  “Do you consider me beautiful?” she asked after a moment.

  “Yes.”

  “And of what type is my beauty: wild or civilized?”

  “It is partly of both. Your skin is wild, yet its features are civilized; for the beauty of the first is its pattern, the second its expression. Your hair is civilized, for it is kept together neatly. But your eyes,” he paused, “Your eyes are the buds which cover the willow’s branches,” he pulled one from the tree beside him and rubbed it in his fingers. “They are the smooth stone which is found at the bottom of a stream, that the water ripples past. They are the fog which covers the ocean on a summer night. They are of the wild.”

  Just then, the deer ran quickly from the field in a fright.

  “They have seen us,” Ivona said.

  “No, but they have seen another,” Willard answered, pointing to the far end of the meadow. “A troop of horseman advances from the far side,” and he stood to get a better view. “It is the Elite Guard, and they go to execute a man!”

  Chapter 23

  Twenty black-clad horsemen rode into the meadow. They were well-equipped in the accouterments of war, with steel shields the length of their upper bodies, plate armor and a plumed helmet, swords at their sides, and spears on their backs. It was a battalion of Gylain’s Elite Guard. They were a fluid body, moving as one into the desired formation: a fifty foot circle. As there were only twenty horsemen, there were gaps in this circle, and it was possible to see into its center. The leader dismounted first, carrying a double-headed ax. Two of his lieutenants followed him, the first carrying a wooden platform and the second a shriveled old man.

  “Jack Clifford!” whispered Ivona, “They have Jack Clifford, the king’s jester!”

  “The joke’s on him, if we do nothing, for they are about to execute him.”

  “Yet we will do something, will we not?” she looked to Willard.

  “Yes,” he answered. “Climb this tree, until you have a good view of the field. Shoot whoever tries to exec
ute him. In the meantime, Horatio and I will see what we can do.”

  “Just a moment,” Ivona turned and dashed up the tree. She stopped at the first branch and looked down at Willard, “You have no chance of victory, Willard.”

  “Not if I meant to fight them. But Blaine Griffith is nearby, and he would not let the Elite Guards dash about the forest without his supervision. We need only to keep Clifford alive until Blaine and his men arrive.”

  “And if they do not show themselves?”

  “Then we fight.”

  Willard and Horatio drew their hoods over their faces, and Willard hid his sword in the folds of his frock. They took to the open field, walking slowly and meditatively with their hands linked together in front of them under their baggy sleeves. At first they pretended not to notice the horsemen, until they were sure they had been sighted and their coming awaited. Then, with a slow nod, they acknowledged the presence of the riders and continued on toward them at the slowest pace possible. The leader of the Elite Guards realized he could not execute Clifford until the two monks came up, for religious reasons, and grew impatient.

  “Hurry there, you bloated bullhorns. I haven’t got a thousand years.”

  “A thousand years are as a day, and a day is as a thousand years,” Willard called back.

  “Blasted monks,” muttered the leader, and he resigned himself to wait until they arrived.

  A moment passed before the so-called monks reached them, and as they waited the riders stood with an impatient smirk upon their faces. When at last the two reached the circle, their leader hailed them.

  “Hello there, monks,” he said, “What is it that you want?”

  “We smelled death upon the wind this morning, sir, and have come to collect that which is God’s.”

  “That is churchmen for you, arriving just as there is money to be had. But you had best be on your way, friends, for this poor fellow is just that – a poor fellow.”

  “I meant his soul.”

  “Indeed? You can have that, if he gives it. You have my leave to take it, at least.” The horseman laughed, “For he has suffered enough.” It was evident from his appearance that Clifford had been severely beaten.