Jonathan Dunn - The Forgotten King

“How much of the army is ready to depart?” he asked.

“Fifteen thousand,” was the answer.

“And they are aboard?”

“On two hundred ships.”

“The whole fleet,” and the king paused. “But let us hope it is enough against our combined enemies. You say de Casanova attacked you?”

“There was an ambush and a melee, but I cannot say who planned it. Patrick McConnell was taken by de Casanova, and de Casanova by us.”

“The King of Atilta will be returning to Bordeaux soon, I should think, if they went to the Cervennes Mountains.”

“They should, or else they will miss the final fight. But they are beyond my gaze.”

“About that we will see, anyway. Captain Khalid took a battalion after Nicholas Montague. They cannot be far, either.”

“I hope to hear word any hour.”

“So I thought, for there is the equipage of the battalion, lined between the fortress and their ship. The crowd overflows the courtyard, in excitement,” and the king pointed to the fortress before them.

“So they are!” cried Vahan. “And what could it be, than that they have Montague and execute him without a trial, as I ordered. For I know the guiles of Montague.”

“Wisely done,” the king said, and he poked his head out the window, calling to the driver, “You there, hurry!” Their speed increased to a gallop.

The fortress was circular, ten thousand feet in diameter, and formed into ten buildings – each of which was entirely self-contained. A courtyard filled much of the center. The only entrances to the individual buildings were stationed behind a moat that circled the interior. Only a narrow, underground passage led to the courtyard, with a dozen gates along its length and murder holes throughout. The buildings themselves had hundred foot walls on the outside, wherein no way was made to enter. And below the whole of the fortress was the King’s Keep, buried deep beneath the ground in a system of caves.At this time, the baggage of a full battalion was spread between the port and the fortress and was slowly being brought through the entrance tunnel. A large crowd of soldiers was standing around, hanging out of the courtyard with an air of the unusual.

The carriage approached the tunnel gates and began to slow. But Vahan, struck by some strange feeling of urgency, stuck his out the window and demanded the guards clear the path for the king. They recognized the powerful minister of state and the tunnel was cleared at once. On the smooth stone, the horses could only stop from falling by pushing forward at full speed and the tunnel passed like a dreamless night. The soldiers in the courtyard were strewn aside from its path. The carriage only came to a stop at the very foot of the gallows, on which stood seven persons on the very verge of being hung. When Vahan saw who they were, he leapt through the window – shattering the glass – and tumbled onto the stairs that led to the raised platform. As he hit the ground, the hangmen opened the trap doors the seven stood upon.

“Stop!” Vahan cried in desperation, “Stop: that is not Nicholas Montague!”

Chapter 77

“We part in friendship and brotherhood,” Zeus told Willard at the edge of the cavern. “But I warn you never to return! It is nothing personal, of course, but we must spend our days in peaceful isolation, lest the gods revoke our pardon. So here we part, for all and ever.” The old king-over-the-mountain bowed low before Willard, then turned and disappeared into the darkness.

Willard and his companions stood silent for a moment, unable to break themselves from the spell of the mountain. Then – with a single, united action – they returned to the world in which strife reigned, and their impatience to return was reborn.

“We must hurry,” Patrick said, “Come, Lydia, it will pass soon enough.”

“Will it?” she asked sweetly.

“Yes, but if it does not, we must drink it. It is our cup to bear.”

“We will be thirsty, indeed, if we do not bind speed to our feet,” de Garcia said. “So let us run, if we can. Our wagon has been taken, no doubt, but we can take another in its stead.”

“The peasants can suffer the loss of a wagon,” Leggitt agreed, “Against the loss of a people.”

“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 .”