The Forgotten King

by Jonathan Dunn

  “Gylain assembled you?” she asked.

  “Yes, your majesty.”

  “Very well, prepare the headquarters as you will.”

  They stood back, surprised she did not superintend them, for she was normally an energetic leader. She saw their hesitation and added, as she turned to enter her room, “I have seen something while I passed through Eden, and I cannot remove her face from my mind.”

  With that, she closed the door and took a seat in the far corner of her room. An expansive window graced the outer wall, looking over the inner circle of the Marin. From that side, the room tapered into a narrow way and reached across to the outer wall, where another window – albeit smaller – opened onto the Floatings beyond. The room was weighted toward the inner side and could only be reached by passing through the bridge.

  “What will I do about her ?” she whispered in a violent agitation, “She has tainted me thus far, in mind if not in body. The conscience is a dangerous foe.” She was interrupted by a sharp knock on the door.

  “The someone has come,” one of the officers said from the other side.

  Cybele shot up and looked about the room with a wild expression. Her face was the shadows cast by a candle: once shaded, then bright; once light, then dark. Her expressions changed like water flowing over a bed of rocks.

  “Is it her ?” she asked at last and her voice trickled with power – synthetic hatred.

  “It is I,” Celestine’s voice returned.

  Silence nestled down on either side.

  At last, “Enter, my sister: enter and be mine!”

  Chapter 62

  Cybele jumped from her seat as she told Celestine to enter, then she regained her stolid outsides and returned to her seat. A table stood beside her, bolted to the floor with a chart of soundings spread upon it. She leaned over under the pretense of examining it.

  “Come in,” and she did not look up as Celestine entered, still covered in the peasant’s cloak. For a moment she pretended preoccupation, then stood, kissed her sister’s hand, and seated her at the table. Celestine faced the window overlooking the inner Marin.

  “Your highness,” and Celestine lowered her head.

  “Cybele; for I am your sister.”

  “Cybele,” a pause, “Cybele, who are you?” Her voice wavered with sorrow’s vibrato.

  “I am the one you remember, as a child.”

  Celestine took heart, “Yet she was innocent and you are not.” In a lower voice, “But neither are you wholly guilty.”

  “Am I not, Celestine? I have a bosom, but also a crown.”

  “Crowns can be beaten into plow shears as easily as swords. Treaties can be forgotten, when they are made with tyranny.”

  “Not when they have been signed in blood and that blood is not your own.”

  “But blood can wash away sin as well as conceive it.”

  “Can it?” Cybele laughed quietly, withdrawn for a moment. Then, “Is that why you have come, to turn me?”

  Celestine did not answer, so Cybele continued, “I am not a reed, blown easily by the wind. Do not waste your love on me, for I am a dry sponge that will only soak and never splash.”

  “No! You would not do evil, if you did not force yourself to do it.”

  Cybele stood, “And neither would you do good, if you did not force yourself to do it. I only walk the paths of evil because I am evil: I revel in it because I revel in pain. When I am gently caressed, I feel it and am pleased: but the feeling is weak. When I am beaten, I feel it in same way as the caress: but the feeling is overpowering.” She drew closer to Celestine. “When I give others the joy of pain, I am gratified still more: for a pained conscience has a stronger pulse than purity. Let us pray there truly is a Hades, for I look forward to it with longing.” She reached out and struck Celestine.

  “Do you know why mother did what she did?” Cybele asked in a furry, “Do you know why her love transmuted into hatred?”

  Celestine did not answer, but sat weeping at the table.

  “Her love increased the pain her hatred caused, and thus the intensity of her pleasure. She shook, her limbs quivered, she could not breath for all the weight upon her chest. Her heart burned, at God and man; her nose tickled enough to drive her passions to a flame. Damnation!” she cried out in a fury. “You speak of righteousness, but what hope do the righteous have: that they may be good enough to enter heaven? With God there is doubt, for none can be good enough. But with the devil, there is only damnation. Blessed damnation! Oh, blessed damnation!”

  “Yet none are brought to paradise by their own works, but only by the works of another. The wedding feast is prepared and he awaits only the arrival of his guests.”

  “If none are deserving, then why are not the evil invited as well? If it is truly not based on works, then the devil has as much chance as the pope.”

  “All are invited, but few are chosen.”

  “A change of words, but not of meaning.” Cybele continued in a gentler voice, “And you are one of the chosen? I am glad your life has been so blessed, thus far. But what of your husband, or have you not chosen him?”

  “He knows why I have come, as do you.”

  “I see: you wish to turn me to your side, and have my armies behind your walls?”

  “I do not care for your armies, only for you. Your armies are made of men, and to be loved as such. But as armies they are mere drones of darkness, and as their leader you are no different. But I come to you as a sister and a woman, not as a diplomat.”

  Cybele released herself into her chair. It was dark outside, since the sun was no longer high enough to shine over the sides of the Marin to the central courtyard. Celestine sat in the chair opposite Cybele. Her hair was as black as Cybele’s was white. Though their faces were formed the same, their expressions were different: the one content without power, the other lusting for more. Celestine’s features were loosely held together, her mouth almost open and her cheeks relaxed. Her skin was not as fair as Cybele’s – nor as young – but her age gave it a pleasant texture. It was beautiful, and the difference between them was that between a lake in full calm and lake rippled by a slight breeze. In either lake, the water is equally pure.

  “You misjudge mother,” Celestine said at last, almost in a whisper. “She was an angel.”

  “The finest angels make the cruelest demons,” and Cybele smiled slowly, her lips rising until they parted.

  “Yet still they give witness to the light, if only by contrast. Mother was no demon.”

  “She sat in front of father as he was strapped to the block and beaten. Gylain scourged him with the flail and she with her loveless eyes. Tell me, which was crueler?” Cybele grew more animated.

  “Which was more loving?”

  “So you play the fool? Then I have only to prove your foolishness to you? We will see how it is soon enough. Godfrey, enter!” A tall man came in from the bridge, three others following.

  “Your majesty,” he bowed.

  “Chain her to the block.” The men obeyed. They took Celestine by the arms and led her to the bridge. Under Cybele’s direction, some took a bench from the wall and transformed it into a whipping block. The others chained Celestine, her arms in front and her back undefended. Yet she did not resist. Cybele took a seat directly before her, holding her lips tightly together.

  “You can do what you wish,” Celestine said, “For I will not resist one whom I love.”

  “Then you are a fool. Who will save you, fate?”

  “I name it God and call him my father. But yes, that is who will deliver me.”

  “Fate! You are as foolish as Gylain! If fate is so strong, then let it rescue you.”

  “If you challenge God, he will not be mocked.”

  “Indeed?” and she looked about the bridge, her eyes lighting upon a portrait of the Fardy brothers, the Marin’s previous owners. “Indeed! Then let your God rescue you, and do so through the Fardy brothers.”

  “Very well, I have faith th
at he will do so.”

  “Begin the whipping!” Cybele cried, her face a stormy sea.

  They began, using a leather strap from the bench.

  “Where is fate, now?” Cybele laughed.

  “Where it has always been.”

  “On its way, you mean? Foolish woman! Harder men, for she does not yet cry.”

  “God will redeem me: I have faith.”

  “Faith is wasted on a God who does not exist.”

  “If not he, than why we? I will be delivered.”

  “You amuse me, Celestine!” Cybele laughed in her throat.

  She began to say something else, but her words were left to rot in her mouth. For, just at that moment, the door was kicked open and several men charged into the room with drawn swords in their hands.

  “The devil!” their leader cried. “We have come, fair Celestine, and will not leave you to your torturers! Forward, brothers, forward, and let us end the curse of Saxony forever!”

  Chapter 63

  “Fear not, Celestine: we have come to deliver you!” the Fardy brothers shouted in unison.

  The brown Fardy was foremost among them, running toward the tall lieutenant with his sword whirling over his head. As he drew near enough to strike the man, he released the blade from its circuit around his head, sending it flying toward the lieutenant’s. The latter – overcome with surprise at their arrival – did not move, and the sword bashed broadside against his helmet. The force knocked the man to the ground in a stupor and the brown Fardy stepped backwards with a trembling arm.

  The blond Fardy fell upon the second soldier – who was whipping Celestine – and brought a furious downward blow upon him. Yet he came on with an unsteady foot and the sprightly soldier was able to dodge to the sword’s left. Thus without anything to hinder its course, it continued downward in the direction of Celestine’s back – over which the mini-melee was taking place. Its momentum was too great to be recalled mid-flight. The blond Fardy cried out in agony as he saw what must inevitably happen in the next instant of time.

  Cybele’s other followers had been easily overcome by the surge of crewmen who followed the Fardys. All of them stood by motionless as fate played out before them. There was a single, narrow piece of time in which to spare Celestine’s life and none had the presence of mind to take the chance. None, that is, but the soldier for whom the blow had been intended. His quick eye let him dodge it, yet when he saw what was happening, he reached out his hand and caught the blade mid-air. He groaned slightly as the sword came down, but his dark, Spanish face with its hooked nose did not grimace. For a second, the sword continued its course toward Celestine, then – just before it struck – the soldier’s hand brought it safely to a stop, hitting her back with a harmless thud.

  Nothing was heard over the man’s breathing. He did not move his hand, though all the eyes were fixed upon it like a ship upon the water. His fingers remained tightly clenched around the blade and a small stream of blood flowed from his hand onto the back of Celestine’s peasant cloak, which soaked it up like a sponge.

  “Well?” Cybele was the first to speak, “Remove your hand, or are you a dramatist?” Failure prodded her to anger.

  “Madam, I cannot.”

  “You must, fool! Can you not see we are taken? The crew has risen and the Marin is the Fardys’ once more, so release the sword and be bound. Perhaps the crew will show mercy for your sacrifice, or perhaps they will despise you for scourging her beforehand.”

  The soldier bowed his head in submission and lifted his arm from Celestine’s back. The palm of the hand rose with it, but the portion from the knuckles upward remained grasping the sword. Around him, the crew was still silent, awed by his quick response to the badly aimed blow. Ten of the crew were in the room by this time – along with the Fardy brothers, Cybele and Celestine, and several of Cybele’s officers. Some had gone around behind the Saxons so they could not flee.

  For a moment, the blond Fardy and the fingerless soldier looked closely at one another. The former was the first to speak: “In the heat of battle one can see into the heart of a man; yet in the stupors of peace a man may be forced into cruel wrongs. When your actions were your own, you have shown yourself to be noble hearted. Therefore, the guilt rests on your commanders and the honor on yourself. You are free to go,” and he stepped aside, making way for him to leave.

  “My lord!” the soldier said hoarsely, “Do you think my master would be pleased in that? I have lost my fingers for this woman’s sake, am I to lose my head for Gylain’s?”

  “What would you have, then?”

  “I have served in the royal battalion for twenty years: half my life; first in the service of the king, then in the service of Gylain. For the king I served with honor through respect and for Gylain I served with guilt through authority; for I am a soldier, and bred to follow my orders. My brother served alongside me in the guards and gained great renown in the foreign wars. When our captains joined Gylain, he deserted to the forest rebels. To my shame I did not join him. I can make no excuses. But now – at last – I can plead for my life and beg forgiveness, that I might rejoin my brother and my conscience.”

  The rebels were endeared to the man from this speech, especially the Fardy brothers. The black brother asked, “What is your brother’s name? I will reunite you myself.”

  “I am called de Garmia, and he de Garcia.”

  The men stepped backwards in surprise. Even the Fardys could say nothing for moment.

  “So my fears are not unfounded,” the man hung his head. “Tell me, what fate has met my brother?”

  “It was he who gave himself to save us, when Gylain had us all within his castle,” the black Fardy whispered. “It was he who cut loose the catapults but was left behind to face the wrath of Gylain.”

  The soldier fell to his knees and tore open the doublet that covered his armor. Celestine, having been untied during the preceding dialog, comforted him with a maternal demeanor.

  “God is a being of mercy and he will work all things together.”

  The soldier could not speak through the tears which soaked his beard.

  “God’s mercy!” mocked Cybele. “God’s mercy is but the devil’s revenge! Your brother is as dead as my heart, de Garmia, and his death was accomplished by the most depraved means.”

  As she spoke, the lieutenant – whom the brown Fardy had knocked unconscious – returned his mind to the room.

  “De Garcia?” he moaned in confusion, “Has he been recaptured?”

  “What!” and de Garmia grabbed the lieutenant by his uniform, “Speak, man!”

  “De Garmia,” he hesitated from disorientation, “Your brother was long a prisoner, though we were forbidden from above to let you know. Montague is a hard master.”

  “Yet he has no power here!” the brown Fardy said, stepping forward. “Speak!”

  The lieutenant looked at the queen with a fearful expression.

  “Fool,” she laughed, “Do I care if you are slain?”

  He was silent and thought for a moment. Then, relieved, “Am I Montague’s son, that I follow him through sin and Hades; or am I Gylain’s lover, that I praise him in his evil?” He gave Cybele a sharp glance as he spoke, angering her immensely though she did not show it. “Your brother, de Garmia, is the shaggy prisoner about whom we joked these last ten years.”

  De Garmia’s face sunk to the floor. “Go on.”

  “He escaped with the rebels, but was left behind, for he shot the catapults. When Gylain emerged from the castle, he saw his old comrade and had compassion. The glory of a great warrior, if only a memory, can save the life of the haggard shadow of the same. With Leggitt, he was sent to a slave ship under Nicholas Montague’s command. It is a terrible mercy, perhaps, but for many it would have been death instead. That is all I know.”

  “Come with us, de Garmia,” said the blond Fardy. “Your brother is beyond our help now, though there is yet hope for him. Nicholas is bound for Bordeaux and there are powe
rful men in that city who are indebted to de Garcia for their lives.”

  “I am willing to go, my lords. Only let me fight to avenge my wrongs.”

  “All Atiltians will fight, and I would be glad if you were on my side. But, for now, you must be doctored. Huln, take Celestine and de Garmia to the doctor’s room.” Then, turning to Celestine, “God uses the foolish to confound the wise,” and he winked.

  “So he does,” she smiled. “As for me, I am not wounded; for de Garmia is a skillful actor. But I will go nonetheless, to bandage his wounds with my own hands.”

  When they were gone, the Fardy brothers turned to Cybele, who stood there without a countenance.She said nothing and made no expression to reveal her thoughts.

  “Chain her to the rack,” said the black Fardy without hesitation, pointing to the device which had held Celestine. “Do not beat her, but neither set her free. Celestine will no doubt speak with her later. Until then she is to be gagged.”

  The bridge, like the captain’s chamber, stretched across the Marin, having windows on either side. A command desk stood before each one, with a myriad of instruments and controls for a variety of purposes. As these things were taking place, Timultin had been by the window overlooking the Floatings, where it was now entirely dark. When the black Fardy finished speaking, Timultin called out to them, “Sirs! The chains are fastened!”

  Cybele looked to her own chains in wonder, but the others looked to the window.

  “Indeed, and there is the water line, several yards above us,” said the brown Fardy, pointing to the window. “You have planned well, Timultin.”

  “Freedom,” is all the blond Fardy said.

  As they looked, several dozen chains – immense in proportions – could be seen attached on one end to the Marin, and on the other to the Timber that floated above, on the surface of the Floatings.

  “Come, my brothers,” the brown Fardy said, “The Timber’s scheduled excursion must go on: Thunder Bay awaits.” He turned and winked at the imprisoned queen, who could not keep her eyes from flashing at the thought of her defeat. She had not thought of that.