Jonathan Dunn - The Forgotten King

“You misjudge mother,” Celestine said at last, almost in a whisper. “She was an angel.”

“The finest angels make the cruelest demons,” and Cybele smiled slowly, her lips rising until they parted.

“Yet still they give witness to the light, if only by contrast. Mother was no demon.”

“She sat in front of father as he was strapped to the block and beaten. Gylain scourged him with the flail and she with her loveless eyes. Tell me, which was crueler?” Cybele grew more animated.

“Which was more loving?”

“So you play the fool? Then I have only to prove your foolishness to you? We will see how it is soon enough. Godfrey, enter!” A tall man came in from the bridge, three others following.

“Your majesty,” he bowed.

“Chain her to the block.” The men obeyed. They took Celestine by the arms and led her to the bridge. Under Cybele’s direction, some took a bench from the wall and transformed it into a whipping block. The others chained Celestine, her arms in front and her back undefended. Yet she did not resist. Cybele took a seat directly before her, holding her lips tightly together.

“You can do what you wish,” Celestine said, “For I will not resist one whom I love.”

“Then you are a fool. Who will save you, fate?”

“I name it God and call him my father. But yes, that is who will deliver me.”

“Fate! You are as foolish as Gylain! If fate is so strong, then let it rescue you.”

“If you challenge God, he will not be mocked.”

“Indeed?” and she looked about the bridge, her eyes lighting upon a portrait of the Fardy brothers, the Marin’s previous owners. “Indeed! Then let your God rescue you, and do so through the Fardy brothers.”

“Very well, I have faith that he will do so.”

“Begin the whipping!” Cybele cried, her face a stormy sea.

They began, using a leather strap from the bench.

“Where is fate, now?” Cybele laughed.

“Where it has always been.”

“On its way, you mean? Foolish woman! Harder men, for she does not yet cry.”

“God will redeem me: I have faith.”

“Faith is wasted on a God who does not exist.”

“If not he, than why we? I will be delivered.”

“You amuse me, Celestine!” Cybele laughed in her throat.

She began to say something else, but her words were left to rot in her mouth. For, just at that moment, the door was kicked open and several men charged into the room with drawn swords in their hands.

“The devil!” their leader cried. “We have come, fair Celestine, and will not leave you to your torturers! Forward, brothers, forward, and let us end the curse of Saxony forever!”

Chapter 63

“Fear not, Celestine: we have come to deliver you!” the Fardy brothers shouted in unison.

The brown Fardy was foremost among them, running toward the tall lieutenant with his sword whirling over his head. As he drew near enough to strike the man, he released the blade from its circuit around his head, sending it flying toward the lieutenant’s. The latter – overcome with surprise at their arrival – did not move, and the sword bashed broadside against his helmet. The force knocked the man to the ground in a stupor and the brown Fardy stepped backwards with a trembling arm.

The blond Fardy fell upon the second soldier – who was whipping Celestine – and brought a furious downward blow upon him. Yet he came on with an unsteady foot and the sprightly soldier was able to dodge to the sword’s left. Thus without anything to hinder its course, it continued downward in the direction of Celestine’s back – over which the mini-melee was taking place. Its momentum was too great to be recalled mid-flight. The blond Fardy cried out in agony as he saw what must inevitably happen in the next instant of time.

Cybele’s other followers had been easily overcome by the surge of crewmen who followed the Fardys. All of them stood by motionless as fate played out before them. There was a single, narrow piece of time in which to spare Celestine’s life and none had the presence of mind to take the chance. None, that is, but the soldier for whom the blow had been intended. His quick eye let him dodge it, yet when he saw what was happening, he reached out his hand and caught the blade mid-air. He groaned slightly as the sword came down, but his dark, Spanish face with its hooked nose did not grimace. For a second, the sword continued its course toward Celestine, then – just before it struck – the soldier’s hand brought it safely to a stop, hitting her back with a harmless thud.

Nothing was heard over the man’s breathing. He did not move his hand, though all the eyes were fixed upon it like a ship upon the water. His fingers remained tightly clenched around the blade and a small stream of blood flowed from his hand onto the back of Celestine’s peasant cloak, which soaked it up like a sponge.

“Well?” Cybele was the first to speak, “Remove your hand, or are you a dramatist?” Failure prodded her to anger.

“Madam, I cannot.”

“You must, fool! Can you not see we are taken? The crew has risen and the Marin is the Fardys’ once more, so release the sword and be bound. Perhaps the crew will show mercy for your sacrifice, or perhaps they will despise you for scourging her beforehand.”

The soldier bowed his head in submission and lifted his arm from Celestine’s back. The palm of the hand rose with it, but the portion from the knuckles upward remained grasping the sword. Around him, the crew was still silent, awed by his quick response to the badly aimed blow. Ten of the crew were in the room by this time – along with the Fardy brothers, Cybele and Celestine, and several of Cybele’s officers. Some had gone around behind the Saxons so they could not flee.

For a moment, the blond Fardy and the fingerless soldier looked closely at one another. The former was the first to speak: “In the heat of battle one can see into the heart of a man; yet in the stupors of peace a man may be forced into cruel wrongs. When your actions were your own, you have shown yourself to be noble hearted. Therefore, the guilt rests on your commanders and the honor on yourself. You are free to go,” and he stepped aside, making way for him to leave.

“My lord!” the soldier said hoarsely, “Do you think my master would be pleased in that? I have lost my fingers for this woman’s sake, am I to lose my head for Gylain’s?”

“What would you have, then?”

“I have served in the royal battalion for twenty years: half my life; first in the service of the king, then in the service of Gylain. For the king I served with honor through respect and for Gylain I served with guilt through authority; for I am a soldier, and bred to follow my orders. My brother served alongside me in the guards and gained great renown in the foreign wars. When our captains joined Gylain, he deserted to the forest rebels. To my shame I did not join him. I can make no excuses. But now – at last – I can plead for my life and beg forgiveness, that I might rejoin my brother and my conscience.”

The rebels were endeared to the man from this speech, especially the Fardy brothers. The black brother asked, “What is your brother’s name? I will reunite you myself.”

“I am called de Garmia, and he de Garcia.”

The men stepped backwards in surprise. Even the Fardys could say nothing for moment.

“So my fears are not unfounded,” the man hung his head. “Tell me, what fate has met my brother?”

“It was he who gave himself to save us, when Gylain had us all within his castle,” the black Fardy whispered. “It was he who cut loose the catapults but was left behind to face the wrath of Gylain.”

The soldier fell to his knees and tore open the doublet that covered his armor. Celestine, having been untied during the preceding dialog, comforted him with a maternal demeanor.