“May we take him aside privately, and offer him his last rights?”
“If you must, but in the center of our circle, at the platform.”
Willard and Horatio took Clifford by the arms and led him to the center of the circle, where their whispers could not be overheard. The old jester was haggard and dazed, but his wits still seemed to be with him. And a man with his wits is never alone.
“How are you holding up, old fellow?” Willard questioned in a friendly manner.
Clifford looked at him with confusion, searching his face for a moment before his mouth slipped up into a beaming smile and he exclaimed, “By God, its the king!”
The jester remembered Alfonzo’s account, and recognized the grown man whom he had once known as a child. Willard, however, thought the beatings had bruised his brain and left him with visions. He thought it best to let him think what he would.
“Yes, I am the king. We must escape, though.”
“Time’s up!” roared the leader of the horseman as he started toward them. He grabbed Clifford with his burly hands and pushed him down onto the wooden platform. He took the ax from his side and raised it above his head to bring it down on Clifford’s neck.
An arrow flew from the upper branches of the willow tree and struck the commander in the back. In pain, he hurled his ax into the air and cried out, “By the king’s men!” The ax thus thrown flew through the air until it came to rest on the head of one of the lieutenants, putting a swift end to his life.
In the confusion, Willard cried out, “The king has returned, and he is coming with a hundred hardy men! Run! Run and warn Gylain!”
The effect was instantaneous. The riders fled in every direction. One of them rode his horse past the commander, sending him to the ground in a whelp of pain.
“Come back here, you cowards!” he cried, “Reform the ranks!”
He was a powerful man, even in such a compromised situation, and at the call of his voice the men returned. Two had been shot down by Ivona. By the time they were reassembled another had fallen, and the arrows still came swiftly.
“Look, fools!” the commander yelled to his men, “It is only a single archer, in that tree. Go, bring him to me!”
The remaining fifteen men, not including the commander, galloped straight at the tree. Within a moment they had Ivona on the ground and in their hands, and started back to where the commander had sat.
Yet he was no longer alive. When the horsemen galloped off, Willard drew his sword from the folds of his robe and plunged it into the wounded man’s chest. Then, quickly looking about him, he concealed it in his frock once more. He went over to the commander’s body and pretended to worry over him, as if his wound had caused his death. They made no attempt to flee.
The riders returned with Ivona prisoner to where their commander lay dead. With the commander and first lieutenant dead, it was a young man who found himself in charge, and he had not yet the strength of mind to control his anger.
“You will pay for this with your lives!” he shouted.
“I doubt that,” Clifford answered.
“Why, you senseless old man, I should have killed you when I had the chance!” he raised his sword to strike the jester down.
“Yes, you should have!” laughed Clifford.
The lieutenant stopped his swing in the air. “Why the devil do you say that?”
“Because of this!”
Clifford took the fallen commander’s ax from behind his back, striking the young lieutenant at the joint in the greave of his armor. The ax tore through the weak point in the plate, and drove deeply into his leg. The young man, yelling in pain, swung at Clifford again. The old man closed his eyes and prepared for the fatal blow to come.
But it never did. Instead, the clash of swords rang through the air. Willard came up behind Clifford and extended his blade to absorb the blow. The young lieutenant held him in a deadly grapple: Willard was far stronger, yet the horseman had the advantage of height. Another of the riders came up to help the lieutenant, but Horatio mauled him as he approached. The horse of the rider, frightened at the bear’s sudden appearance, dashed wildly forward. The lieutenant was directly in front of him and caught the sharp side of the rider’s spear right through his helmet.
Thus fell the other lieutenant, yet things were still grim for the loyalists, for they were outnumbered fourteen-to-four. The riders formed a circle about them and prepared to strike. One of the veteran soldiers pulled them together, to outmaneuver their land-locked opponents and not allow them to attack one at a time. Slowly the circle closed around the four.
“It is an honor to die alongside the King of Atilta, my lord,” Clifford said as they came on.
Ivona looked at Willard strangely; he answered with an ambiguous smile.
Then, from the outskirts of the meadow, a deep trumpet blast was heard. The horsemen turned their heads, only to be greeted by a cloud of arrows.
“Down!” cried Willard, grabbing the shield of a fallen horseman and covering Ivona with it. In a moment they were all sheltered likewise.
Without their leaders, the Elite Guard was not as elite as before. Their weakened ranks broke easily from the assault of the fresh combatants and they were scattered throughout the plain. Thus separated, the forest rangers began to hunt them down, one at a time.
The rebels were clothed in unmatching outfits and had no formal training or official support. Yet they were quick and efficient. The leader of the band swaggered up to the four, who were still on the ground: no longer under the shields, but too exhausted to stand.
“The men say if we were any later, you would not have survived.” He laughed, “Why, if it isn’t good old Jack Clifford!”
“Well, Blaine Griffith, who else would it be?” the old man said. “But do not stand there like a mindless woodsman – bow to your king!”
Chapter 24
“The men tell me things went badly for you, Clifford,” Blaine said as the rangers finished off the remaining soldiers and brought their equipment – which the rebels badly needed – to the center of the meadow.
“Not at all, we were just playing a rousing game of hide and seek – with my head, mind you, but rousing nonetheless. Just like the time old Stevenson had a statue built around himself, so he could surprise his wife when she returned from France,” and Clifford proceeded to spin a long tale, much to the amusement of his listeners. He gave a long pause after finishing his story before concluding, “That is just about how I feel right now, myself.”
Those present who knew Clifford merely shook their heads and laughed at his old antics. His was a peculiar character: when time was pressing, he was a man of action; but when things were carefree, he would begin to blow his wind about, until he ended with a hurricane. He was a rambler, and his long life as a jester had given him enough to ramble about.
Seeing there was at last a break in Clifford’s monologue, one of the rangers came forward.
“Blaine, we have taken care of them. The horses and armor are ready to go.”
“Good job, men,” replied Blaine, “To the Great Goliaths, then.”
“Yes, sir,” was the reply, and within a moment the two dozen woodsman were ready. Some led the horses, piled with equipment, and others obscured their tracks in case they were followed. It was a solemn procession, if a victorious one.
At length, they reached the rebel city, the Great Goliaths. In the Atiltian forest, the trees were massive, often rising several hundred feet from the ground, with diameters of twenty to thirty feet. The rebel city, however, was built within and around what were called the Great Goliaths. The trees and plants there were by far the purest of the island, for it was the center of the forest. Four trees composed the centerpiece of this place, each over a thousand feet tall, and a hundred and fifty in diameter. They were arranged in a square, each corner pointing to one of the cardinal points.
For a square mile surrounding these four trees, the ground was only covered with wild grasses and flo
wers, and a thick shade from the canopy. Their trunks were hollow, and inside the rebels made their city – in little rooms connected by a spiral stairway made of rope that wound around the outside of each tree. The four main sections of the city were connected by underground tunnels, and, above the ground, by several bridges that crossed between them. These bridges were hollow trunks of Atiltian trees – several hundred feet long – stretched from each tree into the center, where they met. Every hundred feet of altitude these bridges were repeated.
The party arrived at the base of this magnificent city, yet from the ground it could not be seen, for it was only in the upper canopy that it truly blossomed. Rather, it looked like an open plain, except shaded by the four giant trees, and with their massive trunks rising from the floor. In the ground in their center, however, stood a small stump which had once been a tree.
“I see no city,” Ivona said, “Though I have often heard of its wonders.”
“Indeed, because the city is above us,” Blaine said. “The men say you are a man of the forest Willard. Is it true?”
“I am.”
“Then let us put you to the test. How would you say we reach the city above? You must remember that even these horses can find their way to the top.”
“I would expect nothing less,” Willard answered. “But it is obvious: that stump is the entrance.”
“What?” Blaine said, giving Willard a close look. “Perhaps the men are right. But I am not so easily convinced, so tell me how you know it.”
“He knows because he is the king!” the old man Clifford exclaimed, but the others gave him no heed.
“The stairways along the outside of the trees begin only several hundred feet from the ground, and they serve only to connect the city to itself, not to the ground,” Willard said. “We are left to reason that the roadway to the city is built within the trees themselves, for rope ladders would not be practical in this instance. As for the stump, there is a thick moss growing on it, the Hebicor moss. Yet, in the wild, it grows only on the northern and western portions of a tree, and here it grows even on the southern side. It is evident that someone has carefully cultivated it. But to what end? To disguise the tunnel leading to the pathway within the trees.”
Ivona smiled – having heard the same explanation from her father, who had helped plan the city – and Clifford whistled in amazement.
“That is my king and I expected nothing less from him.”
Blaine gave Willard a knowing look, as if understanding that Clifford’s age and recent trouble made him lose his once piercing wit.
“By the devil, you will see,” Clifford exclaimed, “I am right, Blaine Griffith. You will see. Does not Alfonzo have the same opinion of Willard? We both know he does not think such things lightly.”
“Yet you have not spoken to Alfonzo, Clifford. He is far to the west.”
“No, but to the southeast.”
“Where, in Eden? The men have said you are a silly old man, and I am prepared to believe them after this.”
“Yes, in Eden, foolish young boy. He was in the Castle tower when I left him, with Celestine.”
“Then why have you waited this long to tell me?” Blaine tried to show him his mistake.
“You have come to rescue him, have you not? I feel no need to tell you things you already know.”
“Not I,” replied Blaine, “Merely ask the men to find that we are here to prevent an attack, not to make our own.”
“I have come to rescue Oren Lorenzo,” Willard said, “Yet if Alfonzo is there, we will free him while we are in.”
“Oren Lorenzo is captured?” Blaine asked incredulously. “How can that be?”
“It can be because it is,” answered Clifford, “He and Thomas Vahanlee are in the Devil’s Door.”
“Vahan Lee, too?” asked Willard, “Poor fellow.”
“This is an impossible mission,” Blaine said, “And I will not send my men to death on the rambling memories of an insane old man.”
“Insane?” Clifford paused. “Have you not read the letter I gave you, written by Alfonzo himself?”
“You’ve given me no letter.”
Clifford paused again, his face condensed into the act of remembering.
“Perhaps I have forgotten to hand it over, let me check,” and he slipped his hand into a secret pocket on the inside of his shirt.
A small, metallic key fell to the ground, and Clifford bent to pick it up.
“What is this?” he mumbled to himself. “I have never seen it before.”
As he bent down, a letter fell from the same hidden pocket. He snatched it up and handed it to Blaine.
“So you see, I am not so crazy. Am I, your majesty?” and he winked at Willard.
Blaine looked it over carefully for a moment, moving his lips as he read.
“It is Alfonzo’s handwriting,” he said, “And the secret password we use when things might be intercepted is encoded into the message.” He looked up at Clifford. “I am wrong to have doubted. But listen, I will read it for us all to hear.”
Blaine, I have been captured, along with Vahan Lee, who is truly loyal to Atilta. I am with Celestine, and we are safe at present. Yet you need not fear for us, but for Lord Milada; for I know you care more about my safety than do I. Casper was true to the cause, though Montague tried to condemn him before me, and – as you have tested your own men – the traitors must be with Lord Milada, within his own castle’s wall. Yet this is why I write: our friend Willard is no mere forest man, but Willarinus, returned to us at last. Take joy, Blaine, for once more there is a King of Atilta.
—Signed, Alfonzo of Melborough
There was silence for a time, broken at length by Willard.
“I do not see how it can be true. Alfonzo must be wrong.”
“I have seen it in your face,” Clifford answered, “For I knew you as a child.”
“Yes, and Alfonzo has his own proofs. Yet I have no such memories, and it will take more than one man to convince me. If another recognized me, I would believe. That you saw Willarinus in me, after you were told, is not enough.”
“Then we will have a second opinion,” Clifford said.
There was an old maid sitting on a log a few yards from them, enjoying the feel of the earth beneath her feet. Clifford called to her to come, in a loud voice as she was mostly deaf. She was withered with the burdens of age, her step short and slow. Nevertheless, Blaine and Clifford lowered their heads in reverence as she came.
“This is Heiden,” Clifford said, “Nurse to the last three generations of Plantagenets. She was Willarinus’ nurse, just as Alfonzo was his tutor. If they both recognize Willard,” but he did not finish.
The old woman stepped forward slowly. She raised her frail hands to feel Willard’s face, moving the tough skin and thick beard to get a glimpse of what was veiled behind all the dirt, the years, and the pain which it had seen. She looked long and hard at him, going back in her head through memories of years gone by, going back to the memories of Willarinus as a child.
Then she fell to her knees without warning, lowered her shriveled face to the ground, and said in a high, clear voice, “Long live the king.”
The others joined her, first Blaine and Clifford, than Ivona, and finally the woodsmen around them. All those on the ground below the city stopped and knelt, joining in the chorus to the true King of Atilta, Willard Plantagenet.
Willard could do nothing but stand and listen to them, almost unable to understand what it was they were saying. He did not look like a king. His black hair was long and uncut; though it was clean and combed, it fell wildly around his head and onto his shoulders. His beard reached his chest, and seemed like that of an old philosopher, not a king. Beneath these things, though, he was a noble looking man.
“Friends,” he said, “If fate calls, then I will answer. Gylain must be overthrown, and freedom restored. Let us prepare for the battle.”
There was something different in his voice, something that had
come out before only when he was in an impossible situation – when he defeated the bandits, when he fought Montague, when he battled the Elite Guards. There was something in his voice that dwelt there in the shadows all along, only coming out when the end seemed near: power and authority. This was the fate for which he had been waiting. This was the purpose for which he had been summoned from the forest. His time had come.
“Perhaps I know a way to rescue them,” began Clifford. “You see, the Queen of Saxony is coming to Eden in a few weeks.”
Chapter 25
In the central tower of Castle Plantagenet, at ground level, was the Great Hall. Far above were Gylain’s quarters and far below the dungeon. Due to the circular nature of the tower, the room itself was also circular. Yet it was much larger than the other portions of the tower, for it tapered off as it grew higher and lower.
The Great Hall was used as both the dining hall and the throne room. The throne sat on a platform on the wall opposite the gate, and the remainder of the room was furnished with oak tables. The ceiling rose two hundred feet, spiraling to a point; three chandeliers hung down and a hallway wrapped around the top, with windows overlooking the room below. Behind the throne was an anteroom: Gylain’s private closet, connected directly to his quarters – he could come or go without passing through the crowd. It was only large enough for its function, equipped with a simple chair and a long mirror. Gylain sat on the chair with his head lowered to the floor.
“Destiny,” he muttered to himself, “Why must I be the wicked despot? What a foul hand fate has fed me. But then again, how much better is that given to any other? And how can I reject what is mine, when I have no choice in the matter?”
He raised his head and leaned back, sighing, “All of life is pain, for there is no hope, no purpose. What is today is gone tomorrow, and forgotten forever. Pain is all that is left, to prod us with its pangs and lure us with the promise of its absence. Is it not pain that motivates us? To inflict it on others and remove it from ourselves? Are not emotions judged by their contrast to pain, and the human perception started from pain upwards? Woe to us, that it is so. Yet I wish that my road had been another, for inflicting pain – the elixir of life – is not enjoyable. To see children standing hopelessly beside their parent’s shriveled bodies is poignant to the heart. But to have caused it is worse. To see parents, broken and forlorn, beside their children’s corpses is painful to the morals. But to have done it yourself brings a cold shiver to the heart.
The Forgotten King Page 14
