Jonathan Dunn - The Forgotten King

“I did not expect you, Leggitt,” he said, still walking before them with his back to de Garcia and Patrick.

De Garcia walked cautiously, keeping his eyes about him and fingering the dagger he had taken from the armory. Patrick boiled. His face grew more heated with every step as he stared upwards – as if his sharp eyes could pierce the ceiling and see into the tower above.

“It is of no matter, for we will only stay a moment. I am to join Nicholas immediately, but as we left in such haste, we must ask for your support.”

“In gold?”

“Indeed – we must be supplied.”

“Of course; but tell me, when did Nicholas return? I had not heard.”

“It was only days ago.”

Yet, as Leggitt spoke, de Casanova turned as he reached the table and found himself face to face with de Garcia. “De Garcia!” he cried, stepping back against the glass wall and drawing the longsword from his belt.

The untrimmed Spaniard stepped forward, dagger in hand. “So it is – surrender or be slain.”

“He is mine,” Patrick cried from behind de Garcia, and he thrust him aside and onto the floor in his passion. “The Hound of Hibernia is my own prey, de Garcia!”

“Foolish youth!” de Casanova laughed. He raised his wrist and dashed forward at Patrick with his sword extended.

Patrick rolled to the side, standing again only as de Casanova charged past him. There was a suit of armor beside him, standing in the rounded corner. With hardly a glance, Patrick’s hand shot down and disarmed the statue, taking the sword for himself.

“Where is she?” and he jumped forward, putting himself before de Casanova, who had returned from his overzealous charge. “I will have her; as surely as I will have your throat.”

Patrick lunged forward at the stately de Casanova and gave him a sharp downward blow. But the other caught it firmly on his own blade and discarded Patrick’s sword with a quick turn of the wrist. Leggitt and de Garcia stood to the side, unable to help for the moment for lack of swords, though they searched around them for blades for their own use. De Casanova smiled slyly and laughed at Patrick, hoping to anger him to rashness before his friends could deliver him.

“Miserable youth!” he said. “She left you of her own accord.”

“If so, then you have but to let her answer for herself.”

“She does not deserve the pain which your sight will cause her. She has memories.”

“As do I.”

Their parrying stopped and they stood still for a moment, staring at each other: with contempt for the other and passion for the mysterious woman. Then de Casanova came forward and knocked Patrick’s blade to the left. The youth laughed and returned the blow with double force, his feet shuffling forward and his hand resting loosely at his side. He burst forward with a series of successive blows, and with each one de Casanova was forced back until he came against the windowed wall.

“Now will you bring out Lydia, you jailer of the innocent?” asked the heated Englishman.

“No,” and de Casanova returned Patrick’s advance blow for blow until they reached the opposing wall and it was Patrick who found himself caught.

“Now,” continued de Casanova, “Will you withdraw your accusations against my honor?”

“That is not possible, as you have no honor,” Patrick cried, parrying his opponent’s blow.

De Casanova had barely recovered when Patrick struck him again. Yet this time de Casanova dodged by jumping to the left and kicking a chair toward Patrick. The latter stumbled and only raised his sword again in time to stop de Casanova’s fierce blow to his head.

Until this point, Leggitt and de Garcia were only spectators, unable to assist their friend due to a lack of arms. As he searched for something to use as a weapon, Leggitt happened to glance out the window into the garden, which was bounded by the streets of Bordeaux on two sides and a row of houses on the third. He saw a party of soldiers coming up the street, hurrying to the house of de Casanova. Leggitt grabbed de Garcia’s arm and nodded toward the soldiers.

“Am I blind, or is that Vladimir?” he asked.

De Garcia looked for a second, then he fell back and cried out, “It is – he comes to report to de Casanova.”

“The rouse is played,” Leggitt said.

“And we must vanish,” and de Garcia leapt forward into the battle, grabbing the shield from the suit of armor and bashing de Casanova against the glass wall. He crashed through and was knocked unconscious by the fall. While the noise of the crash did not attract the attention of Vladimir and his soldiers, they still came toward the house at a double march.

“Come, follow me,” shouted Patrick as he rushed out of the room. The others followed.

They passed through the round corridor and into the entry hall again, where the butler was just coming in as well, from the left passage. Patrick grabbed him by the collar and demanded, “Where is she?”

The butler was too overcome by surprise to answer, or else too witty to be taken easily. Either way he did not answer and Patrick, in his haste, knocked him upside the head with the broad side of his purloined sword. He fell in a swoon and the zealous Englishman leapt over his body, running down the corridor from which the butler had come. It went ten feet before it ended into three doorways, one in front and one to either side. Patrick first went forward, but the door led only to a dressing chamber beyond. So he took the leftward door, behind which was a steep stairway leading to the second floor. Patrick was halfway up the stairs before Leggitt was upon them at all, and only de Garcia delayed to bar the door, which he did with a plank from the stairway. As he did, the soldiers outside could be heard knocking at the door.

“Hurry,” de Garcia yelled forward, “They are here!”

Those words – however intended – could not give Patrick any greater haste, for by this time he was at the top of the stairs and furiously kicking the door down. The second floor was a single room, beginning as an open chamber and quickly tapering into a narrow spire. There were three vertical divisions of the room, each open to those below by a circular hole in the center. Through these holes the trap door that led to the tower could be seen. That was the highest room of the tower, and was entirely closed off from the lower divisions.

Patrick paused for a moment to wait for his companions, then the three men climbed the ladder that connected the divisions or sub-floors. After a moment they were underneath the trap door. Patrick – full of ardor – pushed a table underneath it, then jumped up and began to push, for it was locked from the inside.

“This door will not be opened,” said a sweet, feminine voice from above, “Not to you or your filthy master, the king.”

“Lydia!” Patrick cried “It is I!”

“Patrick! Have you burned your way through France as well?”

“I would burn my way through Hades, my love. But open, for there are soldiers below.”

Lydia did not hesitate and the trap door was soon removed, opening the passage to the attic. As it was pulled aside, a fair head came down through the opening, searching for Patrick. He was found; she smiled. Lydia was beauty, a true Hibernian divinity. Her hair was the red of a closed eye looking to the sun, and it fell past her shoulders with a slight curl. Her eyes were mismatched – one of hazel and the other azure of a dark blue. Her skin was light, almost pale, and her nose was slightly pinched at the end. Her lips projected from her face, but even with their shape were rather small. They were held with a graceful poise.

“Royalty cannot defeat love,” she smiled, her hazel eye looking at Patrick. She turned her head, then, and her blue eye came to face him. “Yet without love, royalty is but tyranny.” She laughed and disappeared into the tower.