Jonathan Dunn - The Forgotten King

“Would you deprive a poor hermit of his daily bread?” asked Ivona, her voice a hermit’s.

“A poor hermit, indeed, to think a bear provides bread. And perhaps a hungry night would not deplete your stores,” and he pushed his sword against the padding beneath her frock. Looking away, he called to the bear, “Come, Horatio, and show this hermit you are not the bread he seeks.” He mumbled to himself, though purely for Ivona’s profit, “This hermit who has been caught in our hunting press.”

Ivona smiled, thinking she had come across a true hermit. Horatio came up at that moment, looking over Ivona closely.

“Horatio does not resent you, for bears do not take revenge like men.”

“Like men other than yourself, you mean?”

“I am more beast than man; and if you ask forgiveness, there is none in the forest. Still, as I have watched you, I have seen a skilled hunter – for a man among men. For that, you have my respect and friendship. I know of a willow grove where we can make camp, within five minutes of this place. There are plants to eat there, which you may find are better than meat, especially that of bear.”

“I should introduce myself: Eglebert, of the Franciscan order,” Ivona lied.

“I am Willard and this Horatio, my blood brother. We are not churchmen, though we wear their robes.”

“What are you, then?”

“A prince.”

Ivona’s heart stopped, recalling the wild man who saved her father.

“In truth?”

“No, in falsehood,” he laughed, “But it sounds better than the truth, for I am no one.”

Ivona looked him over closely, but let it pass. If Willard was no prince, he was at least a king. Yet neither knew it. At this point, they reached the willow grove. It consisted of a small ring of trees with a clearing in the center, large enough for several people to rest comfortably. Around the outside, the willow branches drooped to the ground, forming a curtain that blocked the forest from view. Willard made a fire in the center of the clearing with firewood he had collected along the way, and Ivona filled their canteens from the stream that ran several feet to the south of the camp. Horatio gathered a hard fruit that grew from a tall, thorny tree, which his claws rendered an easy task. They ate. When they were done Willard began the conversation.

“How long have you been a hermit, Eglebert?”

“I cannot say; time means little in the forest.”

“True, there is only day and night. I am surprised we have not met before.”

“This is a vast forest.”

“Indeed.”

“And you, how long have you spent here?”

“My life, mostly. What else I have done, I cannot remember. For now, however, I am traveling to Eden.”

“The road is to the south.”

“Yes, and I will come across it again as it heads to Eden. I am in a hurry, and the road is too indirect a path for haste.”

“Why are you in haste?”

“I am a forest man, and thus know little about the politics of the city and the coup. But whether Gylain is right or wrong, he has moved against the forest and I will defend it.”

“Then you are connected with the loyalists, the rebels?”

“Some would say by blood. I have come across Alfonzo and Montague, and between the two Montague was my enemy and Alfonzo my ally. He aided the Fardys and me against Montague.”

“The Fardys? It would seem you truly are a rebel, with such friends. I have been long in the forest, and far from news. Can you tell me of a certain rebel, Milada of Erlich?”

“I have spoken to him once; but as it is, I cannot claim to know him. He was frightened by the forest, and I by a nobleman. Neither of us spoke candidly, and I would think myself dishonest to repeat his words, spoken in fear. You could say, however, that my present journey is for his faction.”

“How so?” Ivona watched him in interest.

“I happened to travel with an ecclesiastic from his abbey, and we came across the Elite Guard burning a monastery. He could not be controlled and charged the soldiers: now he is taken to the castle dungeons. We attacked, but they fled on horseback and the monks held us back in our chase. That is where I go now, to free Oren Lorenzo.”

“Oren Lorenzo!” she cried, forgetting herself. Her hood fell down, revealing her beautiful face in the firelight, and her voice was left undisguised. “Oren Lorenzo? What devilry is this?”

“What devilry, indeed!” cried Willard, jumping to his feet. “What treachery is this? A female monk? A nun dressed as a man?”

Ivona lowered her head in shame, “I am no monk. I wished to escape notice, even as yourself. Yet, while you revealed yourself, I was too wary to do the same.”

“And for good reason, for the forest is a treacherous place. You have wisdom, at least, as well as wit. To me, that is enough justification for a lie.”

She looked at him with entreating eyes, as if wishing to trust him.

“You need not be afraid, for I have no evil intentions toward you,” he answered her unspoken fears.

She smiled and sat back, fearless beside her newfound friends.

He continued, “Then, Eglebert, what are your plans?”

“First, I am not Eglebert, but Ivona.”

“Ivona Milada?”

“The same.”

“Then that is well, for there are less things to be anxious about. You will come with me? Lorenzo was traveling to search for you, fearing you were kidnapped by Gylain.”

“I was kidnapped, but only by my heart. I ran away, for my father wished me to marry some foreign prince, for political purposes.”

Willard looked down at his pack, pretending to readjust it. “Then you despise this foreign prince?”

“I have not met him.”

“But what you have heard?”

“I despise the prince, as a prince. As the man whom he is, I respect him for saving my father. Yet I will not be in bondage to such a man, and to his duties.”

“Whom would you love? Every man has his duties.”

“I would love no man. It is God alone who has my affections, and to marry I must first forsake him. My father does not have ears for such things, and I could do nothing but flee, even as Joseph from Pottifer’s wife.”

“Yet you are the beauty.”

Silence came. After a moment, Willard broke it: “Tomorrow we head south. We will take the road for a time, and then turn south again to look for Blaine Griffith and the rebel forces. We will need their assistance to free Lorenzo.”

“So it will be. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” and they went to sleep on the forest ground.

Chapter 22

The distance from the willow grove to the road was a few miles. As the canopy overhead blocked most of the sun, the forest underworld was left in constant twilight. At dawn, however, when the sun was still low on the horizon, it pierced the canopy and came through with little splashes of color. Thick mosses grew where the light struck the trees, joining the palette of wildflowers that crowned the ground. On the whole, they presented a uniform appearance; but upon closer inspection they were infinitely varied, each with its own living patterns and intonations.

The early mornings were the time of song, when the nocturnal birds had not yet turned in and the day birds were already about. The song of the forest was not written in an artificial time scale invented by men, nor was it played on the artificial wave lengths designated by men as notes. Rather, it was played to the rhythm of life, and its only notes were those of nature. It was a symphony in its progression, a waltz in its simplicity; a ballad in its meaning, a sonnet in its sweetness.

In an hour, the three travelers reached the road. The sobriety of the forest weighed heavily on them, and they could not bring themselves to break the silence. It was another hour, therefore, before they were disturbed from their inward reflections. The day was getting on, and they approached a bend in the road, around which they heard the sound of travelers.