Jonathan Dunn - The Forgotten King

“Yield or be slain,” was once again spoken. Yet this time it did not come from Montague’s lips. Surprised, the chief bandit turned his head in the direction of the voice and saw, to his utmost dismay, that it came from none other than Alfonzo of Melborough, his rival of the forest. One represented the forces of the true king, and the other of the impostor Gylain. “You are surrounded, Jonathan Montague; yield or be slain.”

“I will do neither.”

“Defiant to the end, yet the end it is indeed.”

“Hold your tongue, misguided Alfonzo. You would do better to join Gylain’s forces, for the battle is not as proportioned everywhere as it is here.”

“You know my answer already, Montague, and it is no, a thousand times over.”

“Your loss, Alfonzo the tutor, slave to the child of the king. Your time has passed away even as he has.”

Here Alfonzo came forward a step, before Montague cried out, “Halt, or this monk’s life – and that of all the others gathered here – is forfeit. Give us your word to let us depart in peace and we will let them do the same.”

Alfonzo was silent, but he soon yielded and answered, “So be it, but let not you nor your men be found within a hundred miles of this place, or it will go badly with you.”

“As you wish, my master,” Montague mocked, sheathing his sword and motioning for his men to do the same. He walked toward the edge of the forest, his stride as steady as ever, and his hair remaining perfectly combed forward at the temples. His face was flushed, however, as were his eyes. Before disappearing into the vast forest, he turned to taunt his rival one last time.

“I will not forget this, Alfonzo – until death do us part.” And with that, he was gone.

Chapter 10

Alfonzo watched the treacherous Montague until he was of sight, then sent Osbert to follow and see that he did not return. This done, he went forward to where the stalwart defenders were sitting down in exhaustion and pain. He sent two of his followers to drag the bodies of the fallen bandits a little way into the forest, where nature would soon dispose of them.

“I was tempted to think you were not the king of the forest after all, Alfonzo,” said the blond Fardy, holding his hand to his aching shoulder.

“I was searching for you, friend. But I had no idea you had been already found,” he turned his eyes to Willard, who met his look as if nothing were amiss. “Your hermitage has made you at ease in the forest, since you found what I was searching for before I even knew you had escaped my prison.”

“I suppose it has,” was Willard’s only answer.

“And it has left you a master swordsman as well, has it? Come now, do you take me for a fool, that I will believe this pretense of being a monk?”

Willard was silent, thinking of an adequate reply, but before he could respond the brown Fardy broke in.

“Alfonzo!” he said, “Have you taken Willard and Horatio prisoner? You are greatly mistaken in this, my friend, for these are two of the finest fellows ever. They filled their front sides with us this morning, and saved our back sides this evening.”

“That I see,” Alfonzo returned, “And for that I am grateful. Yet Willard’s suspicious facade shows his falseness, if not in character than in presentation. You have used a move in your fighting that I have only seen used by the royal house of Plantagenet,” he turned to Willard, “And you execute it with the royal family’s own sword! You must reveal yourself to me.”

“I cannot,” was the only reply.

“And why is that? Your secret is safe with us, but we must know,” was the firm answer.

“I cannot tell you because I am nothing more than I appear,” Willard hesitated, “A monk and a hermit. Your suspicions are unfounded.”

Alfonzo stroked his pointed goatee and held Willard in a penetrating look. The latter yielded to the probing.

At last, Alfonzo let his eyes wander and whispered to himself, “Can it be true?”

Aloud, he said, “What of Horatio? Who is he, and what?”

Willard winked at the bear, who mumbled some inaudible remarks.

“He speaks only Latin,” Willard said, “But he says that he, too, is but a monk, though his flesh sometimes consumes more than a monk is entitled to.”

“Indeed?” the blond Fardy laughed, “I would think him an enormous animal, myself, with all that he eats. He is a hairy man, as well, though that never made a beast of anyone. Too much ale will do such things to a man,” and he sighed.

A faint smile flickered across Alfonzo’s lips, “ Vincitneveritas peric’lum , Horatio?”

The bear mumbled something else unintelligible, but it did not fool Alfonzo.

“Perhaps he speaks French, Willard, but that is no Latin.”

“It does not seem like Latin to the untrained ear, perhaps, but you must remember that he and I have been hermits for many years. His Latin has decayed during that time.”

“And your Atiltian has not, I see? But you forget: I taught the crown prince Latin, so I would not say my ear is untrained.”

“In fifteen years, his vocabulary has become a new dialect of Latin, the forest Latin,” and Willard donned an ecclesiastical look.

“Then you would not mind if I took a closer look at Horatio’s face, that I might be aided by his eyes in understanding his speech?”

“He is mostly blind, and his eyes show little emotion. Furthermore, he has taken a vow to conceal his skin from the sun.”

“He moves deftly for a blind man. Yet, I cannot rightly break his vow.”

Willard sighed with relief, though almost imperceptibly.

Alfonzo saw it, however, and continued with a slight smile. “Osbert, Archibald, bring some oak branches to shade Horatio’s skin from the sun.”

They obeyed and in a moment Horatio’s body was in a thick shade, with the two men holding branches above his head. Every eye in the camp was fixed intently on his head as Alfonzo’s hand slowly reached to pull back the hood. Willard sweated and turned his head. Every inch that the hand drew closer, they heads of the others advanced a foot. In a moment there was a small, tight circle of curious faces around the impostor monk.

Alfonzo pulled the hood back with a quick jerk, revealing Horatio’s hairy head. His snout was half open with his tongue sticking out, and his eyes had a curious glaze on them. Nothing was said, though every mouth was opened and every eye strained itself to see the trick. But there was none: Horatio was fully a bear.

“Yet another piece of trickery on your part, Willard,” he said. “Have you said anything we can believe?”

“I never said Horatio was a monk, I merely communicated his own words. And as for his Latin, it sounded good enough to me,” Willard grinned.

Alfonzo was reassured by his easy attitude, and it calmed his suspicions.

“Very well,” he said. “I do not accuse you of lying for malicious reasons, for if we had known that Horatio was a bear, it would have alarmed us, had we not already known his easy temperament. But it proves that you have indeed been lying, and that you are no monk. Listen, we know of a prince who appeared during the attack on Lord Milada. Hismoni tells me he was the attacker, though I have yet to speak with Milada himself. A few days later, you appear from nowhere. You fight like a prince, you speak like a prince, and you wield a prince’s sword. Who are you Willard? Know before you answer that I will not judge you for the attack, before all is known. You have shown yourself to be fair, with Vahan, with the Fardy brothers, and with me. Therefore, you are innocent. But you must tell me now who you are.”

Willard paused. “I cannot tell you,” he hesitated, “Because I do not know myself who I rightly am.”