The Forgotten King

by Jonathan Dunn

  “Will she be guilty, then? One can be both innocent and seasoned. Do not curse yourself, Milada, for she is pure – and God, in his justice, will reward her in full.”

  “God? You are as naive as my daughter, Alfonzo. If God were so mighty and just, would we not but trust in him and be saved? If so, then why do you fight? Look around you, man! Where is the greatness of God? Is he in the children who starve in the villages, or in the broken women who sell their souls to the rich men? Is he in the murderous soldiers who keep the peace (from existing), or in the fat priests who confess all sins but their own? God, you say; but I know of no God.”

  Alfonzo smiled, but in pity rather than amusement. “God is in the back of our eyelids. We will not see until we forsake the physical, and draw our sight from another source.”

  “Yet I am already overdrawn.”

  “You always will be, on your own account. But I say it is good that de Casanova has come to Atilta, for Willard has sent him running away. Victory is already with us.” He paused, then added, “But the diplomat must ask: where is Patrick McConnell? I do not know of his intent, but he has raised the English against their oppressors; and if the nobles are too interested in the current regimes to join us, the peasants will not be. It would be good if he were in France, and if the king befriended him.”

  “It would grow to be good in the future, you mean, yet we need allies in the present. The yoke of Charlemagne has finally been broken and Rome no longer rules the seas. Venice is not a military power. The way is open to freedom. The people will be free, in the end; but will it be worth the price? Is freedom what we think it is? We will see, for the precipice is past and the ground will come whether we desire it or not. When the tide breaks, what will be written in the sands? Nothing, I should think. Therefore, let us forget the philosophical and spend our energies on the military.” Milada sighed. “But our energies must mean your own, for I have none.”

  “I will not be alone. Blaine is here and can organize the forest resistance with Osbert’s assistance. With a few forest rangers, they can delay Gylain’s land force. And with the time gained, Lorenzo and myself will have constructed a fortification to prevent a forced landing. If the fleet cannot land, they cannot besiege the castle. As for the soldiers,” Alfonzo continued, “More will come from all across Atilta, as the messengers reach them. Let us hope the entire forest rises up to join us. Even now our blacksmiths are toiling away, night and day, to make weapons for the host. Let us hope there are men to wield them.”

  “For a man who claims God, you are surprisingly reliant on the instruments of war.”

  Alfonzo looked out the window for a moment, then replied, “Yes, I am. And even as I am, I know they will not redeem us. Yet I cannot see what will .”

  Chapter 58

  “Patrick McConnell rescued by Willard Plantagenet? It would be better for you if you lied to me, than if what you have said is true!” Gylain was furious with de Casanova’s report.

  Three men – Gylain, de Casanova, and Jonathan Montague – stood in the unfurnished cathedral that served as Gylain’s quarters. The sun came right at the stained-glass window and its colorful diffusion made the room bright like the sky before a storm. De Casanova had arrived only moments before, followed by Blaine until he entered the castle gates.

  The lofty ceiling – a hundred feet above them – subdued the character of the room, strengthened by the utter lack of furniture other than the rough writing desk. Gylain sat behind it and Jonathan in front, both on slight stools. De Casanova paced in front of the window, his face condensed and dripping. He had not slept or eaten since his defeat, but his main ailment was terror. He was not used to being bested in a melee in which he held the advantage.

  “Yet what could I have done?” he thought in the silence. “They were men of power, each my equal in combat. Together they were unstoppable.” Aloud, he said, “I swear to you Gylain, by all that you hold sacred.”

  “Then you swear in vain, for I hold nothing sacred. I am a beast, as is the God who created me. Yet I believe you, so continue.”

  “I make no excuses, for all that can be said is that their strength exceeded my own. Still, this is much against us: the King of Atilta, the rebel of England, the second man of France, and your own deputy, allied together. And who bore swords with them, but the great de Garcia. This is an omen of ill for us!”

  “It was not planned, de Casanova,” said Jonathan. “It was merely chance, the fortunes of war, as they say.”

  “But even then: can we battle the fortunes of war as well as our enemies?”

  “The fortune of war only fights those who first fight it, and destiny rules only those who make it supreme,” Montague said.

  “Silence!” cried Gylain, “Do not speak of what you do not know.”

  “I am wrong, my lord,” Montague bowed in humility. “I spoke idly, forgive me.”

  There was a brief silence, broken by de Casanova. “How do you know it is but fate that favors them? Do you divine their thoughts, Montague?”

  “No, though I bedevil them. What I meant to say is this: it was only a spontaneous decision that put Leggitt on the galley, where he met Patrick and de Garcia. It was chance, and chance may favor us as well – if we allow it,” and he looked cautiously at Gylain. Yet Gylain was staring absently at the window.

  The following silence was only shattered by a loud knock from the door to the secret passage. Gylain awoke and darted up from his desk. “Enter,” and it was evident he was eager to receive an expected communication.

  The door swung open and Gylain’s page came in with a brisk, assured step.

  “I have word,” the young man said.

  “Of the brothers?” Gylain hesitated.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “And?”

  “The answer is affirmative.”

  “Then we have them,” cried Gylain, and he rushed back to the desk, grabbing his sword from its top, where he kept it while he sat.

  “My lord,” the youth hesitated, “The Fardy brothers have been found, in theory, but I fear they will not be so easily taken.”He stammered as Gylain looked on him, his eyes as bare and cutting as the sword he held. “I do not doubt the strength of the army, or the cunning of its officers, but the Fardy brothers have something on their side.”

  “Which is what?” Gylain grew angry, and the page’s words stumbled on his lips and fell forward disorganized.

  At last, he conjured the courage to blurt, “They have stolen the Marins!”

  Disbelief struck them on the head and left them stupid. Gylain fell backwards a step, physically distraught at the news. Yet his was a dynamic evil, not by passion but by plan, and carried out systematically. In an instant, his plans were revised and he turned his maniac vigor toward their fulfillment.

  “Arm yourselves, for we ride!” and he put his own sword into his belt.

  Montague and de Casanova were already at the passage and when Gylain reached them the three men dashed headlong down the narrow stairwell. Soon they reached the outer courtyard. Gylain signaled the Elite Guard, who mounted their horses as the three did the same. The drawbridge was lowered by the time they were in the saddle. The troop galloped over it and toward the Floatings.

  They soon reached it and the three of them dashed into a lighthouse that bordered the harbor. It was used mainly by guards and customs officers observing the business of the bizarre bazaar. The tower was made from a white marble – mined from the mountains to the north and cut into wide, cubic blocks. Its insides were narrow and empty, with nothing more than a winding stairway that led to the top. There, however, a circular room was built with a deck or extended platform that overlooked the harbor. Three telescopes were mounted on the wall that skirted the platform, equipped with swiveling bases that allowed a close inspection of the traders below. Gylain took the middle and his companions the flanking telescopes.

  The three were silent for a moment as they scanned the horizon, but it was clearly evident that the
massive Marins were missing. Montague was the first to break the silence, “So it is: they are gone,” and he looked up from the glass to see the others, and the captain of the post who stood solemnly behind them.

  De Casanova also looked up, “Did you not see them to be missing? For they could not be removed but with an hour’s hard work.”

  “Both of them were gone at daybreak, yet that is not unusual,” the captain said. “They sometimes leave the harbor to mine beyond its reaches.”

  At this Gylain also looked up, “And yet you sent word in relation to my orders? I said to remain silent, but to watch for the Fardy brothers.”

  “The harbor fleet was sent to find their coordinates, but they could not be found. As this is unusual, and the Marins connected with the Fardys, I sent word. More than that I do not know.”

  Gylain looked out over the watery market, his thoughts disguised by his firm and unchanging countenance. “The crews of the Marins have been replaced, as I ordered when they were seized, have they not?”

  “The captains were, sir, but it is not possible to replace an entire crew in two day’s time. We were working on training replacements when the Marins disappeared.”

  The tyrant smiled slightly, looking over the harbor once more with his naked eye. “Close the Floatings,” he said, “Allowing no one in and no one out; and do the same for the city. We are now at war.” He paused. “Bring me the harbor’s depth chart.”

  The captain disappeared into the room, returning with a map in hand. Gylain took it and spread it out on the table to the left, with de Casanova and Montague at his side. He looked it over and the others looked him over as he did, until his extended finger came to rest above the section of the harbor that was shaded the darkest – the deepest point in the Floatings.

  “If the Marins are not in the Western March, they are there,” he said, to the surprise of the others, “And where they are, so are the Fardy brothers. Come, we will soon see!” and he dashed down the stairs with the same vigor with which he had dashed up them.

  Chapter 59

  “I have never met a man who denied my patience,” said the brown Fardy, “But I threaten to cease my virtuous life altogether, if those guards do not cease to stand there, preventing our entrance! While they loaf here, there are criminals fancying mischief elsewhere in the city.”

  “Yet we are those criminals fancying mischief,” returned Clifford, “And it is only their loitering that prevents us.”

  “True, but still I would punish them, for I dislike their look. What type of man raises his arms against his fellow countryman?”

  “A soldier is a soldier. Besides, what is the difference between an Atiltian and a Frencher?”

  “A bed and a good meal, these days. But look, they are moving. My patience is proved!”

  As he spoke, the small company of guards standing atop the city wall began to walk southward. The four rebels – the Fardy brothers and Clifford – were sitting at the edge of the forest, hidden by the shadows of a monstrous tree. With the guards out of sight, they crept to the wall and knocked: thrice loud and once quiet. A section of the wall swung open – along cracks cleverly hidden in the pattern of the bricks – and revealed a narrow tunnel, which led in turn to a small chamber under a stairway in a house adjacent to the wall. The black Fardy carefully resealed the door behind them, while in front of them a gaunt man with a week’s beard lifted the staircase and peered into the chamber. His head pushed into the hole. When he opened his eyes he found himself nose-to-nose with the blond Fardy.

  “At last!” he said with out removing his face, “What held you?” He continued without pausing to breath, “We are ready, but the night is short. Follow me,” and he turned, stepping onto the stairway above. The others joined him. The stair was closed behind them.

  The house was narrow and long, since it was squeezed between the crown’s road and the crown’s wall. It was, therefore, only the next room over that opened onto the crowded streets. The house itself was also a brewer’s shop, with all the associated equipment – even a wagon with a giant barrel mounted on the rear for the purpose of transporting the wares. The windows were covered with heavy curtains and the room dimly lit by a lantern on the table beside the wagon. A stable stood to the left of the room, connected to the brewing hall by a large, wooden door.

  “Get in: we are late already,” said the gaunt brewer, pointing to the wagon.

  “A giant beer barrel?” cried the blond Fardy. “My brothers – as patient as they are – have seen enough of the insides of barrels. Could you think of nothing else?”

  “I am a brewer, so I have a brewer’s wagon. As for your beer barrel, I do not make it, only Atiltian Scotch. Here,” and the man opened a trap door on the wagon’s bottom, large enough for a man to enter. It was triggered by pulling on the tap which was mounted on the rear of the barrel.

  “What if someone tries to turn on the tap?” Clifford asked.

  “There is a latch on the inside, and the trap door cannot be opened against its will,” the other returned.

  “I did not mean that,” and the old man smiled, looking to the shadowed corners with a probing eye. “I have heard it said that guards do not let a brewer’s wares pass, without ensuring its quality. What if they should try this tap while we are inside?”

  He followed Clifford’s eyes to the wall, where a dozen bottles of Atiltian Scotch were stacked. He sighed, “Very well,” and Clifford hurried to the shelf, returning with each of them cradled like an infant in his arms.

  “If a soldier should try the tap, it will flow as if it were full.”

  “But what soldier needs twelve bottles to inspect?”

  “A thirsty one,” Clifford winked, and was inside the barrel before the brewer could respond. The man closed and sealed the trap door, then jumped into the driver’s seat and was off, nodding to the servant boy who stood by to open the door.

  The moon was rising and its brightness cast a shadow over the streets, kept away from them by the tall buildings. These rose up a hundred feet or more, covered in thick vines and a beautifully grained wood. The lower portions of the houses were made of brick, with square windows covering most of the first floor. The tall portions sat several feet from the street, while the windowed porch or sitting room extended to its edge. The people of Eden were friendly and if one saw an acquaintance sitting in the front room while they passed, he would stop for a moment. Indeed, the forward rooms were open to the public at all hours and the richer citizens left meals out for the poor to eat during the night. Atiltians were known for their vigorous pursuit of whatever struck their fancy. They worked obsessively at things that they loved and were up before dawn without turning in until midnight or later. Yet when they did turn to sleep, they proceeded with the same vigor that characterized their waking hours.

  As the ale wagon drew nearer to the Floatings, the guards became more numerous and more vigilant. Just as they came into the Floatings, in the final circle before it began, they were stopped by a company of six soldiers. The circle was lit by several lamp posts, with a fountain in its center and a garden around its edge. The captain of the guard had just returned from foreign duty, as evidenced by his plumed helm and the deep tan on his face – both testifying to a man of French persuasions; though his accent pointed to Hibernia.

  “Stop there, man,” commanded the captain as the brewer entered the circle. The wagon came to halt beside the fountain.

  “What is your business at this hour?” the captain asked.

  “A delivery, sir,” was the answer. “A broken valve delayed the brewing, but the delivery cannot wait until morning.”

  The captain was satisfied with his answer, but thought such an easy passing to be lax. “What is your cargo? There is no need to deliver it at night.”

  “I have Atiltian Scotch,” the brewer paused, “And it is precisely for the darkness that I hurry, for sailors can only be kept from carousing about the shore if the shore is brought to them . If you do not want d
runkards laying about the city, let them drink where they cannot safely fall over.”

  “Very well,” it was the captain’s turn to pause while he sought something to say. “I am just from Hibernia and already I miss their ale. Beside it, Atiltian Scotch is but Atiltian barrel scum. But as we are not in Hibernia, and as my men are thirsty, it will have to do.”

  The brewer grew flustered by the captain’s insult and only barely kept his temper – a fact those within the barrel could surmise by the wavering tone of his voice. “Go on, then, but not so much; for I have a wife to support.”

  “Then you will need extra for yourself?”

  The soldiers enjoyed their captain’s answer, laughing as they congregated around the tap. Having heard the conversation, those inside were prepared, and when the soldiers cupped their hands beneath the spigot, Atiltian Scotch poured out readily. Yet the soldiers were wastrels and much of it overflowed onto the ground. At last, they were finished, and there could not have been much left within the massive keg.Yet the captain had not tasted it. He walked briskly to the tap with that in mind.

  “My men enjoyed your Atiltian Scotch,” he said, “But my tongue is sharper than theirs, having tasted the Hibernian best. We will see how it fits my taste.”

  “It is cold going down and warm once within,” the brewer boasted. But to himself he worried, “There can be nothing left for them to pour!”

  The captain cupped his hands beneath the tap as one of his soldiers pulled back on it. A trickle of liquid came out, slower than before and a different shade in the moonlight.

  “Indeed, you have just brewed this,” the captain said as he prepared to drink, “For it is yet warm.” The brewer sat up straight.

  “I must confess,” he continued, “That its smell is not altogether pleasurable; for it is sharply tinged and stabs itself into my nostrils.”

  After letting it flow over his hands and onto his boots for a moment, the captain raised his hands to his lips and drunk deeply of the warm Atiltian Scotch. His face collapsed as he swallowed and his eyes snapped shut in revulsion.