Vahan smiled to himself.
“Haven’t you a serious thought, Vahan?”
“I do, I do – as they say,” and he chuckled like an old rabbit.
“Of course,” Willard replied. “I will go see to her and Horatio.”
“We will soon reach the harbor, for I can see the coast even now. I will send word when we enter.”
“Very well.” Willard went below deck, leaving Vahan Lee to enjoy the solitude.
Below deck, the cutter was rather spacious – at least it seemed so, for besides the four passengers there were only four crewmen. The two cabins were given to the four: one to Willard and Vahan, and the other to Horatio and Ivona. A narrow stairway led down from the deck and opened into a hallway that went in either direction: in the front were the crew and cargo, and in the rear the passengers. Willard took the rear hallway – walking slowly, for it was lit by only a single, swaying lantern – and when he reached Ivona’s cabin, he tapped his finger against it. A deep grunt came from the other side, telling him to enter, and he opened the door to see Horatio standing before him. Horatio gave him a half-human grin and returned to the bed where he was sitting. His time as a monk had somehow imparted to him the demeanor of a monk.
Ivona sat in the corner, reading an ancient leather-bound tome. As Willard entered, she turned to him with a slight smile, her every feature perfectly under her control. Her emerald eyes contrasted with her midnight hair, and together the two left her face invisible – though it was lovely, one could not look beyond her eyes. She wore a dark cloak like the others, but it could not hide the charms of her person.
“Have we reached Bordeaux?” she asked as her eyes returned to the tome.
“No, though it is in sight. I came to see if you were well.”
“I am, not least because I have rediscovered sleep. It has been too long.”
“The ground is not the best of bedfellows,” he smiled.
“Have you known any other?” and she laughed, though without reason. Still, beauty cannot be considered foolish and Willard laughed with her. “However,” she continued, “I slept on the ground. Horatio took the bed: it seems you have made a man of him.”
“That he enjoyed luxury, or that he put himself first?”
“The former, for I insisted. I have become used to a hard bed and now it has a certain fondness for me. It is youth and freedom, since it has no boundaries; and it is always new, since no matter which way you lay you will awake somewhere else. Besides, I do not think men are selfish. I have known you, have I not?”
“Am I selfless?”
She looked at him closely. “Do you think otherwise? I have seen you risk death for a man of a day’s acquaintance.”
“Perhaps I only enjoy the adventure, or make love with death?”
“No,” she continued looking at him, “No, for I was there, and I saw. You are the king now and you were then as well, even before you knew it. You were predestined for your place, as I was to mine.”
“Which is?” He paused. “A king must have a queen.”
“And you will find one,” she returned to her book, though she did not read. “I am betrothed to another king, and he is a jealous God.”
They were silent, having reached an impasse in their insinuations which neither dared to confront. Horatio laid on the bed. Willard took a seat beside him. If the bear bore himself like a man, Willard was still the master and he the beast. Yet even among men it is the same with kings. After a moment, Ivona closed the book and placed it on the table beside her.
“I have heard that there is a certain man in France,” she began, “Who we may come across before we return home. What do you know of de Casanova?”
Willard returned to his feet and paced to the side of the cabin. “You have heard of de Casanova, then?”
“Could I not have? I am Lord Milada’s daughter.”
“And so you know he is in France,” Willard hesitated. “I have been warned about him, first by de Garcia, then by Vahan Lee.”
“Then let me add my warning,” and she lowered her head to hide her face.
“You know what he has done? I have not heard, except that he is the agent of the King of Hibernia, even as the Montague brothers are the agents of Gylain. Beyond that, no one would speak, but rather lower their heads as you have done, assuring me he is debased.”
“Does that not suffice?”
“Not for a king.”
Ivona’s lip trembled slightly, and even her composure could not keep a tear from escaping her eyes and fleeing down her cheek. “He did many things in Hibernia.”
“But I am not Hibernian,” Willard insisted. “I have heard that he helped Gylain in the revolt, but beyond that I cannot gather. I should know, if I am to come across him.”
“He is the man who planned the murder of my mother.” She trembled, not in wrath but in terror – in fear of the terrible punishment that God would inflict on him. Such was her compassion. Such was her revenge.
Willard put his hand on her shoulder. It was not the touch of a friend or of a lover, but of a king. She raised her head again and continued her story:
“When Gylain took power, the king’s loyal followers were assassinated or weakened. My father was too powerful to be harmed personally, but my mother was away when news of the revolt came. De Casanova saw his chance and had a great warrior sent to dispatch her. When my father heard what had happened, he broke and did as Gylain wanted. We retreated to the Western Marches, given us by Gylain as a haven, far from the center of power. But look at us, Willard: for you comfort me for the loss of my mother, while you lost both parents in the same insurrection. Does no one comfort you?”
“I am the king,” he answered. “There is no comfort for a king.”
“I would comfort you,” she whispered, without realizing what she said. When she heard herself, she grabbed the book and pretended to read. But she could not; she was trembling that she said what she had not wanted to say. “I will follow only God,” she whispered, as if she could sermonize herself to piety. “The love of men is not what I desire.”
Willard, meanwhile, stood by with a closed countenance. She looked up. For a moment their eyes held a secret rendezvous.
“As a friend,” she said in monotone, “As a friend; I could not love a man.”
At that moment, Vahan Lee entered.
“We have arrived, my friends,” he said. “Do not doubt my loyalty to Atilta, your majesty, for what I keep to myself I do only for your best interest. It is better that you be unknown in France, or else everyone will know of your journey to the Cervennes mountains. Above all, court politics could be hindered if you did not see the king first, yet you have no time to see him. So we must keep your identity from being known. As for the court, I will handle them.”
“You have served us well in this,” Willard said, “And your advice will be followed.”
With that, the party went above deck. The sun was now full in the sky and the waters within the harbor were smooth. Triremes and galleons – after both the Phoenician and Roman models – filled the docks. Their small cutter received little attention. Vahan led them to a longboat that was prepared for their departure and in five minutes they were ashore, landing opposite a long, low building with an entrance in both the harbor and the city. It was the customs house.
“We are safe in France,” Vahan said, “But Bordeaux is still dangerous. Are you armed?”
“I have the sword of my fathers at my side and their armor beneath my cloak,” said Willard, and he lifted his hood to show the gold helmet that covered his head.
“I have my bow and arrows,” Ivona said. “I need nothing more.”
Horatio growled lowly and showed his gigantic claws.
“Then we depart.”
With that, they entered the building. Barrels and crates lined the walls and merchants were set up in small booths to deal in pre-customs merchandise: some had fish, others jewelery, and another wines – or honey of grapes. It only diffe
red from other markets of the day in that it was deathly silent.
Vahan passed the merchants without stopping and went directly to a great desk in the center of the room, fifty yards from either door. A stuffy young magistrate sat behind it, wearing an abominable, bureaucratic wig. He, himself, seemed an interesting man. But his job required a pedantic, inhuman veneer, so he made himself inhuman.
“Vahanlee, sir,” he bowed, “You have returned.”
“I have, Carleton. These are my companions.”
“You can pass, sir.”
“Good day, then, Carleton.”
“Same to you, your highness.”
Vahan walked gracefully forward, indwelled with the superiority of his importance. He continued silently until they reached the far door, when he turned to them and spoke in a confidential voice:
“I will get you whatever you need for the journey: men or supplies – nothing is beyond my reach. And I will have it by dawn tomorrow. Fear not, for France is mine.”
Without waiting for their reply, Vahan opened the door and led them into the city. But they did not go far, for there – standing in a ring before them – were de Casanova, Vladimir, Leggitt, de Garcia, and a half dozen mounted soldiers.
“We are betrayed!” Vahan whispered, “De Garcia is against us!”
Then – in his deep, kingly voice – Willard spoke: “Silence, there! By whose right do you lift your sword, vagabond? By king or by tyrant? If by the first, I command you to heave away and flee to your den. But if by the second, then I command you to turn your face to me, for I dislike to strike down a man from behind!”
It was as if the riders had not expected them, for Vladimir’s horse reared in fright and even de Casanova fell back. De Garcia and Leggitt, however, seemed to take courage at their arrival and drew their swords with a spirited relish.
“Forgive me,” Vahan whispered, “I spoke before I saw, and that is a sin in politics.”
He did not hesitate, but threw off his hood and stepped forward, laughing at de Casanova.
“I am loyal, without a doubt,” he said, “But you are dead!”
Chapter 55
For an instant, de Casanova could not move. He stood there dazed, raising his sword to a defensive position. Then, in the next instant, he regained his composure and bravado, and by his example his men did the same. He leapt forward with his sword above his head and struck at Willard. Yet before the blow had fallen, Willard had also drawn his sword and held it above him at an upward angle. The blow dispersed into his tree-like arm. He stepped forward to thrust his sword at his undefended adversary. De Casanova recovered his blade enough to knock the thrust aside, but in his haste he hit it downwards and it pierced into his leg. He fell back several strides from the others and awaited Willard’s advance in a crouching position.
Willard rushed him with a calm fury – zealous in his swing, yet cautious in his stride. Their swords met above their heads and they grappled for moment. Neither could force the other down, but de Casanova surrendered the match by using his sword to kick himself into Willard, who stumbled. And though it took de Casanova a moment to recall himself from his forward momentum, it took Willard longer to raise himself from the ground. While he held the advantage, therefore, de Casanova fell upon Willard with a series of down swings, made stronger by his anger at being surprised. Yet Willard was as stalwart as the trees of his youth. As de Casanova loaded him with vicious downward swings, Willard skillfully caught his blade and diverted them to the ground without weakening himself. After ten such blows, de Casanova grew weary.
Willard leapt up as de Casanova slowed, rolling to his right. The other’s blade plowed forward into the open air and could not be stopped until it ran into the ground. Willard, meanwhile, came up behind him and held his sword to the back of his neck.
“So you see,” Willard said, “The side of right prevails.”
“Perhaps,” returned the other, “But I am not always in the wrong.”
“You have done many things, I am told.”
“But what have you seen ? A wise man does not judge without witnesses.”
“Yet I do not claim to be wise. Still, have you not attacked de Garcia, my comrade?”
De Casanova laughed and looked to the others, who were still engaged in a thick melee. The ringing of blades was such that their conversation could not be overheard.
“De Garcia, your comrade?” he asked with an innocent, unaffected laugh. “I must confess, until you came forward there was no battle. I thought him to be my comrade.”
Willard hesitated, “Is Leggitt your comrade as well?”
“I thought so, but enemies will be friends and friends will be enemies.”
“You speak in riddles.”
“Only to those who refuse the truth,” said de Casanova, having only a vague understanding of what had taken place in Castle Plantagenet.
“Go on.”
“Would Gylain let you escape only to plant a spy in your midst?”
“For little purpose, since he was not with us,” Willard said. “De Garcia left Atilta as Gylain’s prisoner.”
“Convincing evidence, to be sure,” and de Casanova pretended to be confused. “I never thought Gylain to be a merciful man, to let live those who thwart him as de Garcia has.”
“And you, I suppose, are merciful? I have heard of Lady Milada’s murder.”
“We have all heard many things, I am sure,” de Casanova smiled. “Did you not hear who carried out that murder?”
“No, only that it was of your devising.”
“Then I will not be the one to tell you,” and de Casanova looked at the others who still fought, focusing his eyes on de Garcia. “No, I will not be the one to tell you of your comrades .”
“Very well,” Willard said quietly. He waited, then added, “My friends are still in battle: will you give me your word of honor to stay here, as a conquered man?”
“Of course, my lord.”
“So it will be,” Willard withdrew his sword from de Casanova’s neck. “Be here when I return and we will speak more of this.”
Willard turned his back to de Casanova and his face to the battle. The latter, when he was free, crept into the side-street and was seen no more.
The others had been close to defeating the soldiers already and with Willard’s help the end came at once. Only two of the soldiers were yet alive, along with their commander, Vladimir.
“It is done,” Willard said as he sheathed his sword.
“But de Casanova is not,” de Garcia answered.
Willard turned to where he had left his prisoner. He was not there. Willard laughed to himself, smiling.
“A strange way to mourn the escape of an enemy,” de Garcia said.
“Perhaps, but it is the return of a friend that I celebrate.”
“Since my redemption I have never left your service, my lord.”
“But de Casanova insisted otherwise; he insinuated things to your dishonor. But he, himself, has now proved the veracity of his claims, and it is he who is the liar,” Willard said.
“Not every insinuation is a lie, even from a liar’s tongue,” de Garcia hung his head.
“Yet the past will not return. Now, as to Leggitt?”
“The past will not return, my lord.”
“True, and if Leggitt is with us now, I will say no more.”
“He is not only with us now,” Ivona said, “But he was with us before. My father has for many years received secret reports from Leggitt, the head of Gylain’s guards. They have been of the greatest value to the rebellion. Though your service has been unknown until now, Leggitt, I thank you for it nonetheless. You are a valiant man.” She bowed lowly to Leggitt, with such sincerity that the battle-hardened spy felt a foreign emotion: a tear glided down his terse cheek.
“My life is nothing,” he answered softly, and the others turned their heads in respect.
“We must part at last, Vahan,” Willard said through the silent spell.
“Remember that I am loyal to Atilta as much as to France,” he said. “De Casanova knows of your arrival, however, so you can no longer wait to be equipped. I will send a battalion after Montague – with orders to take him to the gallows without question – but you must equip yourself with this,” and he handed Willard a large bag of gold coins. Then, leading the three bound prisoners before him, Vahan Lee entered the customs house.
The peasants who had watched the battle returned to their business, as unmindful of the struggles of their superiors as their superiors were unmindful of them. Still, they would take the tale to heart, and repeat it fervently whenever conversations seemed to lull. During the battle, the cart’s owner had fled, abandoning his possessions for fear of his life. As he went he had snatched the purse of de Casanova, and found that it contained one hundred crowns – an immense sum. So he took the money as due compensation and went off to Paris, where he made himself into a wealthy prince.
“We must be off as well,” said Willard as he took the soldier’s two remaining horses (the others had fled in the battle, and the old, hairy horse could not move for want of breath) and fastened them to the cart. The wagon’s harness was of an ingenious design that allowed it to accommodate either one or two horses. Willard and de Garcia soon had the two horses harnessed and they mounted the driver’s bench when they finished: de Garcia with the reigns and Willard with the watch. The others, meanwhile, had made the wagon itself suitable for a long journey by disposing some of its cargo of hay and installing themselves. With that, they drove off through the crowded streets of Bordeaux: Willard and de Garcia telling each other what had taken place since their escape from Castle Plantagenet, and those in the back doing the same.
“Vahan has left a letter of passage,” Willard said later, as he looked through the bag given him by Vahan Lee, “As well as a hundred crowns. Ivona, Horatio, and myself need nothing more, but we must arm you and the others. You are familiar with Bordeaux, are you not?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Then I leave you in charge of the supplies, for I must become acquainted with Leggitt and this Patrick McConnell, about whom I have heard much and seen little.” He handed de Garcia the bag of money.
The Forgotten King Page 33
