Jonathan Dunn - The Forgotten King

“And there we differ, old friend” a third said, “For I would not sin as hard, if the beatings hit my own back, and neither would our king. If he was beaten for my sin, I would court the devil; no one would gladly bear the beatings of another.”

“There is one, that I have heard of,” the priest Lorenzo began gravely. “He takes the beatings of criminals, even as they mock him for it.”

“I would call him a fool, myself,” and they laughed.

“As do others,” Lorenzo smiled, “But who is the greater fool: the man who is beaten for another, or the man who insists he be beaten as well as the first? It is given if it is taken.”

“So where is this man to take the beatings of this bloody war? If it is already given, then why do we masquerade as if it has not and fight as if we had to earn our peace with blood?”

“We are given this life as a mirror to the spiritual, a parable to the truth. For, unless he has been poor, a rich man does not know what he has to enjoy; and if a man has never drunk he cannot be thirsty. In the same way, we cannot know God to be good, unless we first know our ourselves to be wicked.”

“I can think of easier ways than murdering my countrymen! As we fought an hour ago, I saw a man I know with my arrow through his throat; and last week I ate dinner at his father’s table. I saw him and at once I understood what I have heard in a thousand stuffy sermons by a thousand pond-scum preachers: we are children of our evil father; but he is God, not the devil. So maybe you are right; but if God made us as you say, he made us to be evil and to do these things. If I cut off my son’s arms that I would be strong by comparison, what would I be? And if I scarred my wife’s face that I would be comely in contrast, what would I become? In the same way, God can go to hell.”

“What was that?” Lorenzo gasped.

“God can go to hell, and the devil with him.”

“Not that, fool. By Beelzebub, I heard footsteps to the left!” and Lorenzo dashed through the fog and water, splashing like a waterfall. What he saw caused his tongue to throw aside his lips and he cried out, “To arms, men! Disregard philosophy and fight, for we have met the devil!”

Some time before this, in the forest adjacent to Thunder Bay, William Stuart strode alone through the flooded forest. He wore a longsword at his side, attached to his belt by two simple metal hooks upon which the handle rested. The blade was bare. A doublet covered his body, tied about the waist with the same belt that held his sword; beneath he wore leather armor. His hands were bare, his face clothed with a rye grass beard.

“Who goes there?” he boomed, “Show yourself at once, or I will assume you hostile and dispose of you accordingly.”

There was silence, and the splashing footsteps that caused his outbreak could not be heard. Then, a voice came through, “William?”

“Meredith! As I thought, you have not abandoned ship! Come, friend, follow me.”

The martial monk passed through the mist. He still wore his frock, not dissimilar to William’s doublet, but that it was brown and coarse. He wore armor beneath as well.

“Meredith, old friend, I hoped to see you. Has Gylain passed through here?”

“Indeed, and bruised my head upon his way,” and the monk rubbed his nude scalp.

“Then come, and let us bite his heel,” and the two ran into the forest.

“Who was with him?” the Admiral asked as they went.

“Jonathan Montague and a dozen men, though four were killed by the rangers.”

“We are outnumbered, then.”

“Yes, but it does not matter with Gylain. Montague, perhaps, would fight us full force and take the day; but Gylain will not let his men fight unless there are equal numbers on every side.”

“He does so now, perhaps, but I remember a time when his morals were not so refined,” the Admiral scowled. “But revenge has come, and not without its allies death and damnation.”

“You speak grimly, friend.”

“And yet I speak truth. Listen! What is that noise?”

“The splashes of many men. This rain has done us that good, at least.”

“It will do us worse, I fear,” and the two suddenly came through the fog to a large body of men.

On one side were Gylain and Montague with their men, on the other Oren Lorenzo and half a dozen rangers.

“At last!” the Admiral’s eyes smoked, “At last we reach the end!”

Chapter 91

Alfonzo was the last to pass through the castle gates, having waited for the last of the fleeing rebels to safely enter. The gates closed and the steel bars were run through its latches. Behind them, a dozen stout poles were dug into the ground and a vertical wall of boards inserted, leaving a four foot gap between the first gate and the second. Dirt and debris from the town had been collected onto the walls above, and the gap was filled until it was thicker than the walls beside it. They were buried within their fortress: none could come in or go out.

The plain extended for a mile in each direction. The castle sat in the center of a wide basin, collecting the surrounding water. De Casanova and his men were arriving, encircling the castle and forming ranks. Yet the rebels had dismantled the town, and there was no shelter to keep them from the falling water or the raining arrows. They could not charge the castle outright, for the water ringed around it like a moat, several feet deep around the walls. The castle, however, was waterproof, so the water did not penetrate inside. The water came in rivers. It collected the debris of the battles around the walls of the castle.

“Alfonzo, you are well?” Milada greeted him in the tunnel that ran through the inner walls.

“I am, if not by the greatest margin. The worst has passed, though, for the storm aides us now as it aided them before. They can easily transport their siege weapons, perhaps, but it is not so easy to shoot catapults from a raft. Nor can they bring in their towers, for the wind would overturn them. Their only weapon, then, is starvation; but with Lionel’s courage it will only be their own.” Pause. “Where has he gone? He joined the fight but not the retreat.”

“I have stood beside the entrance, hailing the returning warriors; he has not passed,” and he writhed in an excited jig as his zeal overflowed his mind to his body.

As they spoke, de Garmia came up to them with a squadron of his fellow deserters.

“De Garmia!” Alfonzo called, “Come here and tell me what you have seen.”

The other came meekly, fully aware of his time in Gylain’s horde. Alfonzo, however, did not seem to remember.

“De Garmia, where is Lionel? Was he not with you?”

“Indeed, he was ; but that verb is purely past tense, my lord. I left him on the battlefield.”

“And have you seen de Casanova?”

“I have, as they charged, but he disappeared soon after.”

“He went away to duel a man,” a soldier returned, “I saw them as they left the ramparts.”

“Whom did he duel?” and de Garmia drew his tongue as if a sword.

“Lionel.”

De Garmia fell back, as did his face. He wept.

“Fool! De Casanova will devour him, as he would anyone. Even my brother, the famed de Garcia, could not withstand him.”

“Perhaps,” Alfonzo hesitated. “But many have fallen today, on either side; and most were as innocent and courageous as Lionel. If we pay him greater dividends of homage, we can only take it from the plate; and all that fills the tithe box is the blood of martyrs.”

They fell into a reverie, each to his own remorse. It was broken only after a moment, as the Fardy brothers stormed through the tunnel at a pace that belied their oddly-shaped bodies.

“Patience killed the porcupine!” yelled the black brother as he approached.