“Yet we will only arrive when God desires,” said Ivona, “And we need not sin to change his timing.”
“Nonsense,” de Garcia said, “For I trust only my sword,” and he drew it from its scabbard, flashing the sun with its steel to show his fluency. “As for God, he can help us if he so desires.”
“No, Ivona is right, de Garcia,” Willard said, and his regal voice put an end to contrary thoughts. “She is right, for we cannot help the people of Atilta by taking from the people of France.” He dared a look at Ivona, who at the same time dared a look at him.
Her heart was tempted to weakness. Lorenzo’s words became her earrings: “You will marry this prince, whether now or later. It is your fate, and cannot be escaped.” Her pulse quickened and for an instant her heart made war against itself. But it was in vain; for she loved him in spite of herself.
“I am of de Garcia’s opinion, though I suspect you both think vainly,” Patrick said. “For I see a body of metal approaching from the forest: it glitters, as if armor.” He pointed to the forest. The others strained their eyes to see as well.
It was late morning and the sky was already bright with rib-cage clouds. Beyond the blue, only green surrounded them; yet the green of the forest and the green of the grass were hardly the same color, for one was a blond and the other a brunette. The party was left in a vacuum, both of colors and shapes. The meadow was an arena, the trees were as spectators, and the clouds were distant buildings. And they were the gladiators. Yet the opponents were missing, though only for a moment. For the glowing steel that Patrick saw became clearly visible as it emerged from the forest: a battalion of French troops. They marched in perfect order, even through the forest, under the command of a valiant looking man. Their pace did not fall off as they approached.
“Sheath your sword,” Willard said to de Garcia, who still wielded his blade. “We will not run nor fight, for they are our allies.”
The French soldiers saw they did not flee and wondered who they might be. But Captain Khalid, remembering Vahan’s warning about Montague, did not slow his pace. In a moment the two groups met, and the battalion circled around them until there was no escape. Only then did Khalid speak.
“In the name of the King of France, I take you prisoner. Resistance is death.”
“For what reason,” Willard asked him, taking a step forward and rearing himself to his full stature. He looked and sounded every bit a king, which set the captain the wrong way. The man was not used to ordering those above him in rank.
“For reasons of the crown,” he answered.
“In his territory, the king is privileged to arrest whom he will,” Willard returned. “I do not resist, yet take me to him, for I need to speak with him on an urgent matter.”
“He does not meet with commoners.”
“Indeed? But I am none other than the King of Atilta.”
“The king?” the captain tried to fill his voice with mockery, but it came out respect. “I have been warned of your guiles, Nicholas Montague. So, knowing they will not work, do not attempt them.”
“He is not Montague!” cried Ivona, “For his lips do not lie.”
“It is not the lips that are defiled,” Khalid answered. “If his lips do not lie, it is his heart.”
“No, I am not Montague,” Willard said. “Do I even look like him?”
“I have never met him, so I cannot say. But I have heard of him, and he is you .”
“You have heard of him and of his deeds? Then tell me, if I were Montague, do I look to be fifty years of age? Is my beard not the richest black and my skin as tight as youth? But if I am not fifty, could I have been in France at the late king’s demise? Or at Saxony in the heat of battle? You see, I am not Montague.”
“Your words are coherent, but my orders are more so,” the captain said. “I am here to protect the interests of France and of Atilta, by order of Sir Vahan Lee.” They smiled when they heard the name with its illustrious prefix. “I am told that you are Montague, that you are not to be trusted nor given the slightest leeway, and that I am to hang you immediately upon return to the fortress outside of Bordeaux. And I do as I am told. Now turn yourself, surrender your weapons, and let us be off.”
De Garcia made as if to draw his sword, but Willard stopped him. “Is it better to die possibly in the future, or for sure in the present? Vahan will not let us be executed.”
“No, good sir,” Khalid said, influenced by Willard’s kingly stature, “I will do as I am commanded, and you will hang. But to live another day is still a blessing. Men, take their arms.” The soldiers disarmed the captives, bound their hands, and spread them throughout their ranks.
“Bring the women to the front,” Khalid commanded. “They will walk at my side.”
“If you harm them, I will eat your rotting flesh,” Patrick growled.
“Would you not?” laughed the blue-eyed Lydia.
“It is not I who would harm them,” answered the captain, “And I only bring them to the front that they may enjoy the lovely day without a hundred metal boots clanging before them. It will be only a short walk, for the river is nearby.” With that, Khalid turned and began marching, followed by the others. He was a hard man. His pace was a double march.
They reached the river within the hour, finding the battalion’s river boat under guard on the bank. It was fifty feet long and fifteen across, though its bottom was flat and sat only a foot below the water. Some sat on barrels and crates full of provisions, others on the sides, and still others were left standing. Khalid, however, gave this pleasure to his soldiers rather than to the prisoners. It had taken three days to reach the Cervennes mountains by wagon; by ship, they reached the fortress by the evening of the next day. On the evening of the second day, Willard and Ivona were seated together on a large crate on the rear of the boat, close beside Khalid’s own seat.
“Were you treated well during the march, Ivona?” Willard asked.
“As well as any prisoner. I am aware of my beauty, for though it is nothing to me, it is much to others. It inspires a passion in men: some to possess it by love and others by force. But the captain is a man of honor: it only inspired his respect.”
“You are aware, then, of the powers you have over men?”
“I am,” Ivona did not look away, but met Willard’s eyes with her own.
“And yet you do not yield in favor of any man?”
“And why would I? What I have is only mine because I have been given it, and I cannot give what is another’s.”
“You are strange, for a woman.”
“Because I do not revel in my beauty?”
“Yes, and because you do not try to increase it with ornaments.”
“Perhaps I know that my beauty is best served alone.”
“So it is. Your countenance is your beauty, and that is formed by your mind and your thoughts.”
“Have you studied me so?” she asked with a smile. Then, quietly, “There are better things to be studied.”
“But Ivona, a flower must grow to the sun, and a man to beauty. For you I feel many things.”
“Do not say it,” Ivona turned her head, “For I cannot return it, as I am not meant for it.”
“Would God create such beauty only to leave it beyond the touch of man?”
“The finest things he consecrates to himself.”
“Perhaps, but I have seen how you are, and you have seen how I am.”
“I have feelings, you mean, but they do not govern me. If my heart is yours, my soul is not.”
“You speak, and I see your lovely lips moving, and I see their expressions that delight me unto weariness. Yet I cannot comprehend their words.”
“My love is the folly of youth.”
“If youth is folly, then age is wisdom; let us grow old together.”
“Foolish man!” she faltered, losing the strength of her voice. “I cannot love you!”
“Foolish woman!” he returned in the same whisper, “I cannot but love
you!”
In the fading light Ivona’s hair grew darker and her eyes deeper. The moon hid behind a cloud for a moment. In the darkness, gravity drew them together. He kissed her. She did not recuse herself. Then, with a brilliant twinkle, the moon returned. Ivona broke away and turned to the night to conceal her happiness. Only the silence thought back to what had been: heavy, foggy silence.
“Vanity, vanity, all is vanity,” she whispered, but she could not mean it.
The air was broken by a laughing call from close beside them. “Make love, Montague! For now come the gallows!” It was Captain Khalid.
Chapter 78
The fortress was just ahead on the river, twenty yards from the shore with a paved path passing from its gate to the docks, where several other ships were loading men and cargo. The gates of the complex were left open for the moving of cargo and in the courtyard – though it could not be seen from the river – was a gallows, a raised platform for the purpose of hanging.
Khalid disembarked his men. With a rock-hard countenance he took Willard by the arm as he led them to be hung. “The end has come, Montague. Do you have any confessions to bring your soul to peace?”
“Only this,” answered Willard, “That I am not Montague.”
“Stubborn and stout-hearted before the end. But that is well, for I would have thought less of you, if you groveled after all the tales which have been told of your motionless heart.”
“Does a dead man care for a living man’s opinion?”
“While he lives, he does; and you are yet alive.”
“Still, I am a king, and kings cannot care for the opinions of men; for they forge them with their fiery eyes and shape them with their outstretched arms. But, for conscience’s sake, know that I do not hold you in contempt; for you do your duty and nothing more. The soldier cannot be swayed by the personal, and you are a soldier.” To Willard, a man of the forest, this was the highest degree of praise. “Vahan is a strange man and doubtless forgot to include in his orders that you spare the king you were sent to save. I did not think of it, myself,” and Willard laughed for a moment. “No, he is not to blame: he is too good a friend for that.”
“I am not so foolish, though I still admire your persistence, Montague. A lesser man would have growled and sworn long ago, throwing the jest aside. But to do so, I tell you that if there were indeed a King of Atilta, Vahan would be as dear to him as you say.”
As the captain spoke they reached the gates of the tunnel. Khalid bellowed through the stone corridor to those beyond, “Prepare the gallows!” A crowd began to stir, as the soldiers came out to greet their comrades and witness the execution. Willard looked about him for some sign of Ivona, but she could not be spied.
“It is not until the end,” he moaned, “That the beginning is even known! Woe to me, in life and love.”
Khalid turned his head in the darkness and did not answer. If even his foot was human, he did not let it know; but as for his heart, it was a species of the order officius . He did not stop as they were absorbed into the courtyard, but led the battalion forward until they stood before the gallows. It rose ten feet from the ground, with ten separate nooses hanging from the upper section, while below each sat a trap door. These were the blocks. When the execution was ordered, they would be pushed open and the prisoners left out to dry.Khalid led Willard directly to the platform, raising his hands as if to tie the noose himself.
“Have you any final words, Montague.”
“Not yet,” Willard said.
“What?” But the captain could say no more, for at that moment a massive, hairy arm swiped his head to the side with such force that he fell over unconscious. Before his body hit the platform, Willard had taken his sword from his belt and held it out before him. Behind them, another soldier led de Garcia. Willard turned before the soldier could react and struck him down. De Garcia reclaimed his sword from the soldier – who had taken it as his own – and held it before him, his prayer and salvation.
“My faith is renewed!” and he held the long, cylindrical blade in his hands while flourishing it in the air: a skillful move with bound hands.
The other soldiers, however, saw what was up and pushed the other prisoners back into the circle of soldiers that had formed around the gallows. They drew their weapons and formed ranks, leaving the rebellious prisoners no where to flee. Thus, Willard, Horatio, and de Garcia stood by themselves on the high platform, their wrists still bound. They stood in an outward circle and looked over the legions. It was clear they could not escape.
“We cannot win,” de Garcia said.
“Yet we can keep from losing,” and Willard flicked his sword at a soldier who thought to approach them. He fell back, and Willard went on, “Can you see the road that stretches off into the distance?” Willard nodded his head to the southwest, toward Bordeaux. From the height of the gallows they could see over the surrounding fortress at one point, and thus the road beyond. A solitary carriage raced along, shooting dust behind it.“Vahan comes to our rescue. We need only delay a few moments.”
Just then, Khalid came to his senses at Willard’s feet.
“A desperate attempt,” he said.
“Give us half an hour to prepare ourselves for death,” de Garcia said in a French heavily influenced by his native Spanish. “We will yield if you give us but one half hour.”
“I have orders; duty renders me unable.” De Garcia whipped his sword down and smote the captain with the blunt sides. He fell unconscious once more.
“Deliver our comrades to us and we will deliver the captain to you,” Willard called to the soldiers, his voice a symbol of authority.
Rather than answer, the soldiers charged the platform. It was a terrible onslaught. The stairs were narrow and allowed only one man to cross at a time; yet the sides were too steep to be climbed while anyone stood on top to stop the advance. A whole horde of soldiers surrounded them, but only one at a time could attack. The first struck at Willard’s head with a downward blow; Willard dodged to the left and the blade passed innocently beside him. By this time a second soldier had come up and lashed his weapon sideways at Willard’s chest. With his wrists bound, the latter could not parry it correctly, so he diverted it by holding his sword before him at a gentle angle. When the two swords met, Willard’s tree-limb arms did not give way and the soldier’s sword was forced away like water down a hill. The first soldier, meanwhile, was still recovering from his missed strike. Willard lunged forward at him, running him through the center and throwing him from the platform. But by this move he left the circle, and thus the protection which de Garcia and Horatio had of his back. A third soldier came just at this instant and thought to dispatch the foreign king for good. Yet the second soldier’s blade still hung in the air and it came to a stop against the new soldier’s head, piercing his forehead and dropping him to the ground. These things happened in the same second of time.
In the same instant, de Garcia was fencing three French soldiers who had scaled the far side of the gallows. His sword flew in every direction as it parried and returned each blow with his fluid agility. His wrists were bound, yet as always he found a way to use it for his advantage: with his right hand he held the sword and with his left he held his right wrist, supporting its weight and freeing his other wrist for swordplay. The soldiers swung with their arms, thus making their strokes stronger and slower. But de Garcia whipped his blade and it sang as it rebuked each of the stronger strokes. He could deal three parries by the time the first soldier had regained his balance to strike again. It did not last, however, for as the soldiers grew tired, others took their places. De Garcia, however, had no reserve.
“It is time we ended this,” he called to Willard over the clash of steel. “For if we go down fighting, we are dead; but if we surrender, they will have to hang us.”
“How so?”
“The rules of war. If we yield, they cannot kill us by sword but by execution. This Khalid is a hard man when it comes to duty – like many m
en I have met as a warrior – so let us play him in our hand.”
“The laws of men are strange. But we are among men and the carriage will arrive any moment. We have delayed long enough.”
With that, the two dropped their swords and gestured for parley, while Horatio lowered his paws to the same effect. Khalid was beginning to regain himself a second time. When he saw them yield he called to his men, “Do not attack them! They have surrendered.”
He stood – unsteadily for a moment – and faced Willard. The platform was empty but for a few soldiers. The other captives were once more brought to the front.
“Well done, Montague,” Khalid said, “But to no avail: you are still caught.”
“We will see. The future brings hope and every delay brings it closer.”
“I see. Then we will have no more delays, if you expect a rescue of some sort. Men, place the nooses,” and he led Willard to the furthest noose, looped it around his neck, and left him standing on the trap door. As he did this, the soldiers did the same to the other six comrades.
Horatio was placed next to Willard, still wearing his monk’s frock. The noose had been placed around his neck outside the hood and the soldiers did not know he was not human. In their minds, perhaps, no monk was fully human, so they did not trouble their consciences over his portly figure. Horatio silently allowed them to do what they would, for he followed Willard and Willard allowed it. After a week of feigning humanity Horatio was beginning to feel human. As he stood there, he had a very human thought, “What of the forest creatures? Who will they follow?”
Next was de Garcia. His hair was long and unruly, his face unshaven. On the outside his thoughts could not be pierced, for his face was immutable, fearless. He wondered, at that last moment, where a different path would have led. “If I had not betrayed Alfonzo,” he thought, “I would have been able to stop Montague long before he could lead us to France. But look, what have I become? Before, I was a zealous man – an honorable man – because of my fighting glory. Yet now those same talents have brought me to ruin. And what will my brother, de Garmia, think when we are never reunited? On his deathbed, what will he tell his children of me, that I was a traitor to my cause, a coward? Oh, but that I had not listened to de Casanova and his foul-mouthed advice! Oh, but that I had slain him when I had him, all those years ago!”
The Forgotten King Page 44
