“That is enough, friends,” and the two lowered their swords.
“Leggitt,” de Garcia bowed as he turned around, “You wish to join us in the fight?”
“A fight, yes, but not this one. We have broken through the storm and Thunder Bay is just ahead. It is held by Gylain’s fleet!”
Meanwhile, in another part of the ship, Patrick and Lydia sat in conversation, on the forward rail overlooking the sea. A deck below kept them from harm.
“You hold our country in your hands,” and Patrick held them in his own.
“Yet I am no warrior.”
“I am, and you hold my heart.”
“Only a fool mortgages that which is indispensable to him.”
“Did I set out to sell myself? Did I intend to be indentured to the flaming sun that holds your face and to the eyes that haunt my dreams? If I did, then yes, I am a fool. But no man is made a fool by fate, for fate the foolish do not understand.”
“When your desire is fulfilled, your passion will subside. Have I not seen it before? Patience is necessary in love: it is becoming more than being.”
“Then am I to become nothing? For this love consumes me. Am I to reap the nihilist’s demise because I cannot but see your beauty? If I see a forest in the distance, I cannot rest until I stroll among its trees and taste its leafy air. If I see the ocean beyond a bluff, I cannot breathe until I swim alongside its waves. And when I see your sunny hair and starry eyes, I cannot live until I walk along your lips and swing your tempered tongue. It is the way of nature.”
“Nature has many ways. Civilization has arisen to thwart them. Should a man kill to fulfill his hatred, or plunder to vanquish his hunger? Trees do not look back and seas have no heart; a woman does, and I am no pleasure cruise.”
Lydia turned her head to the storm and her blue eye to Patrick.
“Damnation drown my wayward heart, the siren cries!” Then, in a whisper, Patrick continued, “I am a vulture in the graveyard and the carrion my own.”
“A siege without a fight is no true tale, a woman without a tale no true bitch. Faith makes love, that when passion has fled desire remains. Let it be this way and it may be.”
“You give me hope!” Patrick cried in joy, “And I am not so foolish as to ask for more. Now, my love, I go to ready my arms, for look: the Atiltian coast approaches.”
He went below deck.At the same time, Willard and Ivona sat together.
“Silence does not suit your countenance, Ivona.”
“Yet it suits my mind. What would you have me say?”
“That you love me and will be my queen when this is over.”
“But I am no liar.”
“Nor am I, to say I love you.”
“I, however, cannot love you. So I will not.”
“All that keeps you is yourself, Ivona!”
“But if your heart keeps you from love, love it may not be.”
“Then you do not love me: your glances originate in my mind and our kiss was but my nocturnal longings? Do you feel nothing?”
“I feel everything, but my heart cannot think and my mind cannot love. If I loved man, I would love you; I love God alone.”
Willard rose and paced the room. It was a closet by land, a cabin by sea: wooden walls, ten foot square and six high, ordained with an empty bookshelf and a paperless desk. There was nothing else, as it was only a sitting room beside the galley. Ivona was silent as he paced, having nothing to say. At length he aroused himself and spoke in a distracted manner.
“I am a man of the forest. By justice I mean strength and power: the ability make your sense of justice enforced. Yet you are something else, Ivona. To you justice is applied by the power of God and not derived from man or beast below. I am a man of the forest and I do not know you, I cannot. For you are a woman of God.”
“Then why do you pursue me? I am of God in spirit, of earth in flesh, and torn asunder by the tides of love against love. One will win and I will make it God. But, by God, why must you love me?”
“Because I am a man only in contrast to a woman. Does not the darkness love the light? For without it, what would darkness be? And do not angels love demons? For without demons, what would angels be? Thus, I love you; for without you I am not man but beast. Only your love keeps me from the forest, gives me heart above the trees.”
“But if an angel loves a demon, does it not fall itself from the light? If the light makes love to darkness, will it not grow dim? If I am yours, I will not take you from the forest; I will join you there. And if I love you, I will no longer be what you love. Thus, I will remain with God. He will be my only master.”
Willard knelt before Ivona, placing his hands together in supplication.
“I beg you, Ivona, forget the realms which cannot be known and give yourself to those which can. I love you and you love me; if God keeps us apart, then let him be forgotten and our love remembered. Even now the storms of love invade your heart. They cannot be defeated. So let it be and let us be one in love.”
Silence came down from above. The timbers creaked; the waves broke against the hull; but there was no longer noise within the room. Ivona looked into Willard’s face with raining eyes and storming lips. Her face was torn apart as he watched with forest eyes. But then, with the virgin glow of passing storm, her storm-cloud lips broke into a rainbow. Her heart was calmed. Its storm had passed.
“As for me, I will serve the Lord.”
Willard fell back with a word through his heart. His face blew foul, his heart trembled with the swell. He returned to his birth and was, once more, a creature of the forest. Time disappeared and only returned when the door opened to reveal Leggitt and de Garcia, with Khalid close behind.
“It is time,” they said, “We have reached Atilta!”
Willard went with them. He did not turn back.
Chapter 94
Thunder Bay had spread across the plain. Now the entire area was underwater. Only the tall trees of the forest stood above it and even those no longer seemed secure. The Hibernian and Atiltian fleets could come within yards of the castle walls. And still the rain showed no signs of slowing.
“Let me go, fools!” cried de Casanova to those who bandaged him. “Let me go, for if we all die what evil will my wound cause? There is much to be done.”
“No, my lord,” the sailors answered, “We have them trapped: if they resist us they cannot resist the water. We need only enjoy the spectacle.”
“Fools, I say again, that you have eyes and cannot see. Look, behind us in the bay proper, what colors do those ships fly? By God, if they are not the French! The fight continues!”
The distant trees blocked the ocean and the bay’s mouth from view, so the sailors had not seen the French coming. Now the trees seemed to vomit them endlessly, each ship lined with soldiers and archers fresh for war. De Casanova jumped from the deck upon which he was stretched and leapt between the ships as he had done before. In a moment he reached The Barber ,passingdirectly to the bow and to his king.
“De Casanova,” Lyndon said without emotion.
The same screwed back, alarmed by the ambiguous tone.
“My lord, the French fleet arrives.”
“I am not blind,” the king returned sullenly.
“Indeed?” de Casanova answered, his voice flush with anger at the other’s languid form. “Indeed? Then why do you not prepare the fleet?”
“What is this war to prove?” the other asked. “We fight on foreign ground for foreign oppression, and for what reason?”
“To destroy the rebellions of freedom, which are connected in spirit if not in force. If the Atiltian rebels fail, so will the Hibernian; and it is better we put down a rebellion without fighting our own country men. Gylain chases his own ends and Cybele is taken: you must command.”
“Gylain! Where has he gone, the fool? He would not care one way or the other, where he is bound.” He paused. “Do we not fight our own country men, even our own kin?”
“Lionel,
perhaps; but it was his folly that destroyed him, not your policies.”
“War is many things and to many it is death. But I am a king, and to me a dead man is judged only by what his death has achieved. If I see a hundred bodies, do I care if they are in the known miseries of life or in the unknown miseries of death? But if I see the body of my own son, war becomes something more, something personal.” In anguish, “Lionel! Am I not his murderer?”
De Casanova turned his head one way and the other, physically pained as the French fleet devoured his own ships and drew near to them. As Lyndon finished his speech, they had reached The Barber and were beginning to board.
“Inaction rots my soul!” de Casanova cried as they came on.
“Does it not?” a familiar voice returned, “Then let me heal your innards with my blade!”
“De Garcia!”
“Then you have not forgotten my face.”
They circled, swords drawn, like vipers on the hunt. De Garcia was the first to strike, uncoiling and springing upon de Casanova with a swirling stroke.
“This is for Tarina,” and his sword played with the thunder, flipping de Casanova’s left, then throwing it right. Still, the other kept a firm wrist and de Garcia lunged forward to unset him.
“To fight for the dead is not a talisman of victory,” and de Casanova caught his lunge and forced it to the side. Then, with a laugh, he took the offensive, thrusting at his enemy’s open chest.
But de Garcia was a quick man. He rolled to the left, then – without apparent effort – jumped into the lower shrouds, climbing to the first yard arm. De Casanova followed. The storm sent a strong wind whipping through the rigging, but neither was displaced. De Garcia stood up on the yard arm, navigating its slender width with ease; and when his enemy was beside him, the duel resumed.
“I will not forget the Battle of Amorou,” de Garcia said.
“Nor will I,” and their swords sang as they spoke.
De Garcia delivered a full swing from the left, then another from the right. De Casanova counter attacked with equal strokes. The yard arm swayed beneath their force. When de Garcia came with a third side stroke, de Casanova dodged beneath it and thrust at his opponent, who could only divert it with a swift upward stroke. De Casanova’s sword was forced up, and then – as he threw himself into it – hurtled down toward the Spaniard’s head.
De Garcia stepped back and fell purposefully from the yard arm. As he did, the other’s sword passed harmlessly by. De Garcia grabbed the yard arm as he came down, channeling his momentum to swing himself forward; and though de Casanova leapt to crush his hands, he had let go again before he could. He flew through the air and into the upper shrouds, pulling himself onto the upper yard arm, the uppermost timber on the ship. It was a foot across and held the top of the main sail to the mast. De Casanova was not slow in following.
“You retreat to the sky,” the Hibernian called through the wind as he gained the upper yard arm. “Yet now that we have reached it, you can retreat only to the ground.”
“I do not mean to retreat until I have avenged my love.”
“Love! You are as much a fool as ever: I did what I did as a favor. You are a warrior and warriors are corrupted by a woman’s fondle. I have fallen to the same trap and only her loss makes me more a man. As for Tarina, her death made you angry, and your anger won the battle.”
“Some battles are better lost.”
“Perhaps you are no more a warrior! To lose is weakness, and that death.”
“Then die, fiend. Look about you, de Casanova. What have you gained?”
“Your hatred, friend of before, and God’s way is as good as my own. You have gained nothing more.”
De Garcia channeled his fury into a side stroke, which the other caught with an angled blade: it skipped off and flew over his head. With his enemy left undefended, de Casanova thrust his blade into his side. The other clutched it with his hand, dropping his sword and falling onto his stomach. He laid on the yard arm and de Casanova stood over him.
“Your weakness is defended. I am proved right. From dust you came, to the bottom of the sea you will go,” and he kicked his foot forward to push de Garcia to his death.
But things did not go as he intended. De Garcia had taken a knife from his sleeve as de Casanova spoke and held it as if he held his wound. When de Casanova’s foot came forward, de Garcia stabbed it through.De Casanova reared back. The knife had severed the nerves in his foot. De Casanova could not hold it against the yard arm, leaving his weight upon his left leg. But that had been wounded by Alfonzo’s arrow and now gave way as well. He tottered and tried to swim through the rain with wild arms. He could not, falling from the yard arm. Four seconds later, his screams were extinguished by a hollow thud. De Garcia leaned slowly over the yard arm and peered through the darkness. De Casanova was dead upon the deck.
“So it comes to an end. Rest in peace, my love,” and de Garcia climbed down to the deck.
Elsewhere, the fight had gone to the French. The Hibernian and Atiltian fleets were caught unaware, with their men deployed or unprepared. Lyndon stood on his command deck, now in the company of the Kings of Atilta and France, as well as Patrick and Leggitt. The others remained aboard the French flagship during the battle and were just boarding the far end of The Barber .
“You are taken,” Willard said, parrying Lyndon’s quick glance to a sword laying on the table. “You are taken; but unless you resist, your life will not be.”
“It is not the taking of my own life that ruins me,” the king mumbled.
Willard ignored him, “We offer these terms of surrender: your family retains Hibernia, in the person of Lydia. Saxony and England are taken from Cybele and given to the rebel leader, Patrick McConnell. And, first, you must remove your fleet from Atilta.”
Lyndon looked about him, “There is little Atilta left to retreat from.”
“Even so, you must withdraw what fleet we will leave you. Those we keep are lost to you.”
“I have lost too much already.”
He stepped toward the railing of the ship.
“Lionel,” he moaned in a whisper. “Lionel, where are you hiding?”
He convulsed slightly, in pain. “My God, is this how you torment me? I hear your voice even now, ‘Have I not given my own son?’ But you are a fool to do it! A fool! What cruel being would sacrifice his own son? Not I – not I! I will save him, wretched Jehovah, I will save him by my own strength,” and Lyndon spun around, deranged and staring into the sky. “He is mine, I say, and you cannot have him!”
He laughed wildly and jumped over the railing, falling fifty feet into the churning seas. He landed feet first and he sank like an anchor, then came sputtering up in confusion. His face was a nightmare, his nightmare a face: Lionel’s. He could not swim, and as his arms beat the waves, he wildly searched for something to hold onto, something to keep himself afloat. Yet all that floated were the corpses of the dead. He sank, yelping, desperate, mad.
“You will not vanquish, child-killer!” he shouted to the sky, and he reached out to the nearest body, grabbing ahold to save himself.
His weight pulled down the dead man’s side, then it rolled over and its face was exposed to the sky. Lyndon bobbed beneath the water, panicking, and grabbed wildly at the body. His slender fingers grabbed its chest. He pulled himself from the water. But the corpse rolled again, face to face with Lyndon as he grabbed its chest. His face was eaten by the pall of death. Silence, and he gasped for air. He struggled, vainly, then began to sink beneath the waves. As he went, a word escaped his lips, “Lionel!” Then it was doused by the water. He was seen no more.
Silence ruled the ship, until broken by Patrick. “Sailors, take Lionel’s body aboard. We will bury it with honors in Hibernia,” and they retrieved it.
“There is more that will be buried than him,” Vahan Lee came to the bridge, “For if we delay any longer, the castle will be lost.”
The others turned to the south, where the castle
was almost entirely submerged. Both the inner and outer walls and the first floor of the castle were underwater. A great crowd of people clung to the towers and upper stories and even more floated on makeshift rafts nearby.
“Set course for the castle!” and Captain Koon filled the air with his unsettling laughter. How he came to be aboard, none could tell. But somehow he made himself Admiral of the fleet, and, as he ordered, the others followed.
TheBarber was not foremost in the fleet, for the other ships had surrendered and been taken by the French. With Willard, the King of Atilta, aboard, the sailors cheered as they made way for them to pass through. ‘Hail Willard Plantagenet,’ the men roared, ‘Rightful King of Atilta.’ Willard stood on the bow as they went, his figure that of a king. His limbs were Atiltian trees, girded with the golden armor of a king. His hair had surrendered to civilization and his beard no longer obscured his beautiful face. His countenance was tempered steel, his eyes inured to emotion. He was once a wild man; he was now a king. He was a king by birth, by strength, by merit. Above all, he was a king in the hearts of men.
Ivona stood beside him, but her eyes were not his. She had passed the test of lust and was left to God alone. Horatio took his other side, standing freely as a bear. Patrick stood behind. He was still a youth, but his passion was doused and only desire remained. Beside him, Lydia shared his arm. And she was beautiful.
Vahan Lee and the King of France sat underneath the canvas shelter. The king watched Willard’s homecoming with a leaking eye, but Vahan busied himself with several pieces of paper. He was careful lest anything won by battle be lost by diplomacy and he crafted treaties before the armies had even dispersed.
De Garcia and Leggitt stood uneasy at the victory which they had finally won. De Garcia was bandaged already and his wound found to be harmless. They were men of war. When the war was finished they had little left. Their lives had been consumed in the conflict of the age, the great power struggle of the Dark Ages, and when it was complete, they were men without a country. For they were citizens of war.
The foremost ships reached the castle. In the rising water they could come alongside the highest towers. Everything else had been consumed by the tide. The survivors were taken aboard, almost twenty thousand men. As each ship was filled, it turned to the open sea while another took its place loading the survivors. The Barber was the last to come. By then only the central tower remained aloft. All had been evacuated but the last handful.
The Forgotten King Page 53
