The prisoners were stacked on top of each other according to the various degrees of their offenses. It was an earthly Hades, where the tormented souls are stacked in various degrees of suffering. Those suffering less could peer between the bars of the door and jeer at those below them, who did likewise to those below them. Even in their horrid situation the prisoners found joy in mocking those in worse straights than themselves.
In preparation for the arrival of the queen, all prisoners were chained to their walls to prevent outbursts with the few guards on duty. Blaine came forward and unlocked the cell door with a small pick. The group continued to the cell above them. There were several desperate looking men chained heavily to the wall. One of them – a dirty fellow with a wild beard and muscled frame – looked at them as if recalling events through the mists of time. Just as Alfonzo reached the stairs to continue upward, the prisoner called out, “Master Alfonzo, have mercy.”
Alfonzo turned to look at him, his goatee untrimmed and his face haggard from the torture. For a moment, Alfonzo could not recognize him through the troubles of the years. Then, with a mystified look, he left the stairwell and walked over to him.
“Not all who say to me, ‘Alfonzo, Alfonzo,’ will be forgiven. I remember clearly what you have done, de Garcia. I do not forget traitors, least of all those who betrayed my dearest friends.”
“You speak the truth, master,” the prisoner moaned, his face fallen and his spirit broken. “Yet have mercy upon me, for I am wretched and perverse. I have fallen from your trust, and therefore I cannot ask you to release me. All that I ask is your forgiveness, that I might die in peace.”
“Arise,” Alfonzo said to him, “Take off your chains and follow me.”
“Thank you, master!” cried the man, and he bounded up as one of the men released his chains. It was evident that he had worked himself hard during his prison stay, for he was still in the same physical perfection of his youth.
Next to de Garcia sat another prisoner, equally dirty and forsaken.
“Master, have mercy upon me, too,” he called out.
Alfonzo turned to him and he continued.
“I am not as wicked as de Garcia, Alfonzo. For while he betrayed, I only deserted with small, useless intelligence. If you released de Garcia, surely you will release me?”
“Which is easier to say,” Alfonzo asked, “‘Take off your chains and follow me’, or ‘Your sins are forgiven?’ Yet how can the sins of a man be forgiven when he will not even ask for it?” He turned to his men, “Come, let us go. De Garcia, follow behind.”
They continued to the next cell with the cries of the prisoner following their ears. Yet not one of them turned to look at him: he was entirely forsaken. The next dozen cells were populated with prisoners of treachery and violence. They did not release them, though the prisoners clamored after them with cries for mercy. At length, they stopped to collect themselves in the cell below the guard room.
“When they brought me down,” Alfonzo whispered to his followers, “This was the greatest concentration of guards: between the lesser and the greater criminals. Prepare yourselves for action.”
Alfonzo crept up the stairs, the others behind him. Even the prisoners kept silent and did not warn the guards – though revenge was their only motive. Alfonzo came to the door and put his hands silently to the bars, trying to push them open.
“Locked,” he whispered and he turned to the prisoners below them. “You,” he called out to the nearest, the one directly below the ledge of the stairway, “Call the guards.”
Hoping to receive clemency, he did as he was told.
“Guards!” he cried, “The wall is on fire!”
He was a veteran liar and his plea for help convinced the guards. The door was thrown open and a guard came out to investigate the strange report. But before he could see what was truly about him, Alfonzo was upon him, plunging his sword into the guard’s stomach. The luckless man fell lifelessly from ledge of the stairway, his sword pointing downward. His limp body fell upon the man who had cried ‘fire,’ and his sword pierced the man’s chest.
“The fate of a liar,” said Lorenzo, but he could say no more, for another guard rushed out to see what was happening.
The second guard suspected nothing, but ran into Alfonzo and met the same fate as his comrade. The third, however, was not so foolish. He pulled back into the room with the other guards, to await the attack. Ten guards were left in the room, with orders were to hold the post at all costs. Therefore, they stayed in the room.
“We are saved,” Alfonzo said, turning to those behind him “They do not flee. But they have the advantage, for we can enter only one at a time.”
“Allow me,” said de Garcia in his thick Spanish accent.
He stood across the room, looking into the guard room over the ledge of the stairs. He stepped forward to the fallen guards and picked up the topmost one, hugging him closely so that the dead man’s body covered the living man’s. Thus equipped, he walked slowly up the stairs and through the doorway. The guards came at him, but the armor of the dead man protected him, for their blades had to pass through the armor twice, as well as the body. They could not attack his sides, for Alfonzo and Blaine had stepped forward and were guarding his flanks. Thus prevented from blocking their entry, the guards retreated to the back of the room, pushing over the tables and chests to form a rude blockade.
By this time Lorenzo and one of the rebels had carried up the two other bodies: the first guard and the prisoner. Lorenzo held the guard’s sword, for de Garcia to use.
“Those who live by a sword die by a sword,” Lorenzo said. “But what will those who live by a dead body die by?”
“A sword, no doubt,” de Garcia answered his old comrade. “And so will you, for your body armor is wearing no armor but his meager skin and bones!”
“Then what will we do?”
“Throw it at them,” de Garcia answered. “It will throw them off if we bombard them with their fallen comrades.”
“Always the warrior, de Garcia,” Alfonzo said, “A fighter before a man. But in this you may be right. Are we ready?”
“As ready as death,” was the answer.
This dialog was whispered: the guards across the room could not hear them. Without warning, the bodies were flung at the unsuspecting guards. They hit lengthwise, knocking the guards to the ground. The rebels closely followed the bodies and fell upon the guards with their swords. The guards, however, were defeated by the sight of their comrades. Their mortality was paraded before them and they surrendered as soon as they were free from the bodies. Alfonzo led them out of their barricade and had them bound with the irons used for prisoners.
“What should we do with them? We have little time,” he said.
“If I may suggest something, master,” said de Garcia. “We should strip them of their uniforms, and chain them down below – in the lower levels – as if they were but common killers. If we dirty their hair and ruin their beards, they will not be recognized. It is time they saw what it is that they have done.”
Alfonzo nodded his head. “Perhaps it would be best, that they may repent. Make it so, de Garcia, take two with you,” and he pointed to two of Blaine’s men. They set to their work at once, preparing the guards for their imprisonment.
“We will be above,” Alfonzo continued, “These are the upper levels, and you should have no trouble following us when you are finished.”
“Yes, but now we must hurry,” Blaine answered, “Already I can faintly hear the rumblings of the catapults above. The impersonators have arrived and the escape is prepared. Now it is our turn.”
“To do what?” Alfonzo asked.
“You will see soon enough,” and they split: Alfonzo and the rest going upward; de Garcia and two of the men downward.
The upper levels of the dungeon were cleaner and brighter than the lower. Hurrying on, they reached the top of the dungeon in a few moments. The main part of the castle was all contained in the same m
assive tower: the dungeon below the ground and the Great Hall on it, with its adjacent kitchen and store rooms. It covered all of the first floor except a small entry room to the dungeon that opened into the courtyard. This was directly below the large window of the Great Hall, where the catapults had been placed.
There were only two guards in the entrance room, and they were preoccupied with a game of chance. Alfonzo and Blaine stole up behind them, slitting their throats before they could raise the alarm. Then, they were out of the dungeon and into the courtyard.
There, standing before them, were twenty catapults: each twenty feet long and five wide. The buckets were five feet in diameter. These were Gylain’s catapults, built to his own design. It was on them that he based the security of his castle. A few men guarded the catapults, but they were more interested in the clamor coming from the Great Hall, than in their duty. Thus, they sat in a group with their backs to the dungeon door. Alfonzo motioned to the others and crept up to their backs. He raised his sword and his hand, the latter as a signal. He brought them both down at once, and with a single motion the careless guards were put to sleep.
“I see your plans now,” Alfonzo said to Blaine, pointing to the buckets of the catapults. They were directly below the Great Hall’s window, facing the high outer wall.
“We must still aim them,” Blaine answered, and immediately they set to work correcting the catapults’ angles and direction.
“Surely, you do not mean for us to land softly on the ground?” Lorenzo asked.
“Of course, not. We have spread a heavy net between a circle on the other side of the wall. It can hold a hundred men and we do not have nearly that number.”
“A well-planned rescue, perhaps. Yet we cannot see the houses over the wall to aim at them, and a misfire here marks the end of us.”
“There are yellow streaks along the wall, if you look closely. Our men marked it earlier, while they were disposing of the wall and gate guards to delay the chase.”
“Ah, so there is! Good work, old friend.”
“No praises just yet, Lorenzo, for we have yet to escape.”
In a moment, the catapults were aimed correctly and loaded with the spring and lever that would release their loads into the air.
“This is not good, Blaine,” Alfonzo said, “For these catapults must be set off by a human hand, and whoever releases them will be stranded within the castle walls.”
“Someone will have to remain,” was the answer.
“But whom?”
“I will,” said a deep voice, shrouded with a thick Spanish accent. “I will remain behind.”
“De Garcia,” Alfonzo said. “I will not let you be captured again, to be brought back to your hellish prison.”
“I will not be told no in this, master. I am not worthy to even sacrifice myself for you. How much less am I to be sacrificed for?”
“I have misjudged you, de Garcia.”
“Perhaps; but only on the side of mercy.”
They had been out of the dungeon for ten minutes but had not yet heard the clamor coming from the Great Hall. Now that they were silent, they listened.
“What? Are they fighting inside?”
“They must have been discovered,” Alfonzo cried, “Quick, into the catapults!”
They scrambled into the buckets of the catapults – except for de Garcia, who remained on the ground. Then, just as the last of them came over the edge, the sound of breaking glass came from above.
“Look out below!” roared the voice of the blond Fardy, and an instant later some thirty people came crashing down, landing upon the buckets of the catapults.
Chapter 39
“Come, your highness,” Gylain was saying to the impostor Queen of Saxony, “The catapults will be here soon, but we must feast before we inspect them. The food is now ready, I believe.”
“Yes, sir, the feast is prepared,” Leggitt answered his subtle question.
“Then to the Great Hall we go,” and Gylain turned and led the way to the castle door, where the party dismounted.
“Leggitt will take your horses to the stables for you,” Gylain told them.
“I would not impose upon you the care of our mounts, so we have secured the use of a livery in the southern section of the city. If you would take them there I would be most grateful,” Ivona said. Then, glancing over to Willard, she added, “All of our mounts, that is, except the knight’s. He does not part from his.”
“Very well, we would be pleased to serve you in this. Leggitt, make it so.”
“Yes, my lord, it will be done.” Leggitt took the white mare by its reigns and led it toward the outer gate. The other horses were led by the stable hands. “This is the last Gylain will see his horses,” he whispered to himself.
Behind him, Gylain and Nicholas Montague led the queen’s entourage into the Great Hall.
“Where would you like your soldiers to dine?” he asked the queen.
“At my side, and I should like to sit at the window that over looks the catapults, if I may.”
“So it will be written, so it will be done,” and now they were within the Great Hall and saw the feast spread before them. It was no less luxurious for its hastened preparation.
The castle was made of a single tower, and at its base – where stood the Great Hall – its diameter was three hundred yards. The hall itself was not this wide, for there were rooms on all sides except the wall nearest the outer gate. Its ceiling reached upward two hundred feet, growing narrower as it rose. There were three chandeliers hanging above, each thirty feet across. Just as there were servants’ quarters along the outside of the lower level of the Great Hall, so there were royal quarters along its upper level. A hallway connected these rooms together and overlooked the Great Hall through a long window that stretched around the room.
Gylain’s throne was directly opposite the outer gate and thereby directly opposite the window the queen sat by. He abandoned his custom of eating from the throne, therefore, and took his place at her table. He sat down across from the queen, with Montague at his left side, across from Willard and Horatio. Horatio sat as upright as any man. It startled Nicholas Montague.
“I trust your journey was enjoyable?” Gylain asked the queen.
“Mostly, but I will not complain about those parts which were not so.”
“No, please do. I will have them taken care of.”
“How kind,” Ivona smiled. “The worst was when we were chased by pirates between the coasts of France and Atilta. I do not know who they were, but they had six well-built frigates. They forced us from our planned course. Instead, we landed in Thunder Bay.”
Gylain was incensed at this, for in spite of his precautions, the rebels had found a way to harass the queen. “I will have my navy look into it,” he answered. “Where did they come from?”
“The north.”
“Have no fear, then, Cybele. I send the harbor fleet now, to destroy them.” He stood and beckoned for Leggitt, who had just returned from taking the queen’s horses to the livery. When he came up, Gylain said to him, “Send the harbor fleet to the northern coast. The queen was attacked from that quarter.”
“Yes, my lord,” Leggitt carefully replied, “But the northern coast is uninhabited.”
“Of course, the Vikings made sure of that years ago. Jonathan Montague should return soon; send him out again as he comes in.”
“Very well, my lord.” Leggitt turned and left the Great Hall, still famished from his vigorous preparations.
Gylain turned to the queen once more. “And Lord Milada welcomed you, I am sure?” Gylain smiled slyly, thinking of what Milada would soon become.
“He did, and his beautiful daughter,” Ivona smiled back.
“Is she indeed beautiful? I have heard but never seen.”
“She was the gem of the forest, as they say.”
“Truly? Yet I cannot imagine her beauty surpassing your own.”
“We were equal.”
“What
does your knight say about this: are they equal?”
“No,” Willard returned bluntly. “Ivona is much the victor.”
Gylain raised his eyebrow at the hooded man. Ivona laughed outright, much to his surprise.
“I thank you for your concern for my safety, Gylain. I did not bring a large fleet, but I will send for them upon my return. Still, I am glad to see that my interests are important to you,” Ivona said with a smile, though Gylain did not then realize its true purport.
“Your interests are my interests,” he answered.
“Yes. I suppose I am like a child to you, am I not?”
“Something much more than that, something closer and more important.”
“More important than a child? Your allies are truly allies,” she laughed. “I have heard that my sister still lives in Atilta,” she made the conversation come about. “I would like to meet her, if you would tell me where she is.”
Gylain turned his face from her for a moment, torn between his desire to deal honestly with her and his desire to please her. He compromised, saying, “I do not believe that she is living in Atilta any longer, I am sorry. As for her present whereabouts, it is anybody’s guess.”
Ivona saw his discomfort, and – not wishing to play her hand of gathering intelligence too heavily – graciously changed the subject.
“I have often wondered,” she said, “How you manage such a large maritime economy, without any substantial native production?”
This question put Gylain on more secure footing: his answer was long and detailed. It was also irrelevant. Meanwhile, Montague conversed with Willard.
“You are the queen’s knight?” he asked Willard.
“Perhaps, and you are Gylain’s?”
“No, I am only his servant. He needs no knight.”
The Forgotten King Page 22
