Jonathan Dunn - The Forgotten King

“The north.”

“Have no fear, then, Cybele. I send the harbor fleet now, to destroy them.” He stood and beckoned for Leggitt, who had just returned from taking the queen’s horses to the livery. When he came up, Gylain said to him, “Send the harbor fleet to the northern coast. The queen was attacked from that quarter.”

“Yes, my lord,” Leggitt carefully replied, “But the northern coast is uninhabited.”

“Of course, the Vikings made sure of that years ago. Jonathan Montague should return soon; send him out again as he comes in.”

“Very well, my lord.” Leggitt turned and left the Great Hall, still famished from his vigorous preparations.

Gylain turned to the queen once more. “And Lord Milada welcomed you, I am sure?” Gylain smiled slyly, thinking of what Milada would soon become.

“He did, and his beautiful daughter,” Ivona smiled back.

“Is she indeed beautiful? I have heard but never seen.”

“She was the gem of the forest, as they say.”

“Truly? Yet I cannot imagine her beauty surpassing your own.”

“We were equal.”

“What does your knight say about this: are they equal?”

“No,” Willard returned bluntly. “Ivona is much the victor.”

Gylain raised his eyebrow at the hooded man. Ivona laughed outright, much to his surprise.

“I thank you for your concern for my safety, Gylain. I did not bring a large fleet, but I will send for them upon my return. Still, I am glad to see that my interests are important to you,” Ivona said with a smile, though Gylain did not then realize its true purport.

“Your interests are my interests,” he answered.

“Yes. I suppose I am like a child to you, am I not?”

“Something much more than that, something closer and more important.”

“More important than a child? Your allies are truly allies,” she laughed. “I have heard that my sister still lives in Atilta,” she made the conversation come about. “I would like to meet her, if you would tell me where she is.”

Gylain turned his face from her for a moment, torn between his desire to deal honestly with her and his desire to please her. He compromised, saying, “I do not believe that she is living in Atilta any longer, I am sorry. As for her present whereabouts, it is anybody’s guess.”

Ivona saw his discomfort, and – not wishing to play her hand of gathering intelligence too heavily – graciously changed the subject.

“I have often wondered,” she said, “How you manage such a large maritime economy, without any substantial native production?”

This question put Gylain on more secure footing: his answer was long and detailed. It was also irrelevant. Meanwhile, Montague conversed with Willard.

“You are the queen’s knight?” he asked Willard.

“Perhaps, and you are Gylain’s?”

“No, I am only his servant. He needs no knight.”

“It is the same with the queen,” Willard growled back, looking fierce in his dark robe. Horatio sat beside him, his face unveiled and frightening to those who opposed his blood brother. Montague was visibly shaken by the bear’s presence, though he soon recovered himself. In his lifetime he had encountered many terrible beasts, not least among them his own younger brother.

“An interesting mount, to be sure,” Montague said. “What are you called?”

“Willarinus of Saxony,” he watched for Montague’s reaction.

“I am Nicholas Montague,” he answered, remaining unmoved. “As I was saying,” and he looked at Horatio fearlessly, “You have a most unusual steed.”

Horatio growled lowly, as if sensing he was derided.

“Better an unusual steed,” Willard answered, “Than an unusable creed.”

“I use my creed quite well,” Montague laughed.

“That is the rumor in the countryside. Your infamous deeds inflame the hearts of many.”

“Perhaps,” Montague said politely, “But I am sure you are far more infamous than I.”

“Not nearly, for I could never aspire to that lofty ideal. But tell me, Montague, what comes first, the creed or the deed?”

“Does it matter? As long as there is rotten wood, to Hades with the fruits and the roots.”

“Eloquently put,” Willard answered, subduing his flaming heart. “Eloquently put, indeed.”

He would have said more, but he was interrupted. The doors of the Great Hall were flung open and a tall, beautiful woman stood in their stead. She was beautiful, but it was of a different source than Ivona’s, though equal. It was the beauty of power, rather than of gentleness; of fear, rather than of love; of demons, rather than of angels. Her hair hung down her back, perfectly white though she could have been no more than twenty. Her eyes were gray like the fogs that cover the forest coasts and glaring like the moon that comes down through them. Her features were similar to Celestine’s and Casandra’s, but written over with a different demeanor. She wore a black cape and an iron crown, plainly cast and adorned. To those with true power, its symbols are not necessary.

Behind her stood her entourage of two dozen soldiers, each armed with a double-sided battle ax. At her side, moreover, were seven men – to the left were the Fardy brothers and to the right was the Admiral, Osbert, Barnes, and one of his sailors.

“What is this?” the lady said through the silence that had come over the hall. “Another guest of honor?”

Gylain stood and called to her in his own commanding voice.

“Who are you, there, to enter this castle so brazenly?”

“The Queen of Saxony!”

Gylain stood silently, his face unmoved. He turned and glanced briefly at Ivona, then at Cybele, the queen. He reached his hand to his sword and opened his mouth to command his men.

Yet whatever his command was, it could not be heard, for it was preempted by a shout from the other side of the room. The brown Fardy – seeing the situation they were in – acted quickly.

“Charge!” he cried, “Gylain is upon us!” and he run straight toward Gylain, flourishing his sword wildly above his head.

Chapter 40

The moon shone down on the forest road, illuminating the shadows with its silvery garnish. It came down through the cracks in the canopy above, slicing its way through the darkness of the forest. Yet it was not silent in the dark – for the forest was a nocturnal beast. Owls and cicadas joined together in a lonely dirge, kept steady by the constant rut-tut tut-tut of galloping horses.

There were seven riders coming down the forest road in the greatest hurry. They rode two abreast, with the odd rider in front, leading the way. It was evident from his careful and dexterous riding that he was well acquainted with both the forest and the horses. He was dressed in a green frock – the clothes of a forest ranger – and his hair was cropped short. His face was that of an honest man: unlearned in letters, yet fully literate in the hearts of man. Behind Osbert rode the Admiral, the Fardys, Barnes, and the sailor, Forsmil.

“This world has never seen a more patient family than my own,” the brown Fardy said. “But I would venture to say that our patience is ill-shown with all this bustling hurry. Perhaps my kin would think of resting, that we may manifest our patience before the world?” He spoke in a slow and deliberate manner, as if he were out of breath.

“I will not allow my brother to humble himself below me, and to claim that I am more patient than him. The first will be last and the last will be first: I would not dare let you be above me here!” answered the blond Fardy, who rode beside him.

“Silence! There will be no stopping, for we must ride through the night,” Admiral Stuart said. “Above all, there will be no displays of patience by the Fardy brothers – we are in far too much of a hurry!”