Jonathan Dunn - The Forgotten King

“God is a being of mercy and he will work all things together.”

The soldier could not speak through the tears which soaked his beard.

“God’s mercy!” mocked Cybele. “God’s mercy is but the devil’s revenge! Your brother is as dead as my heart, de Garmia, and his death was accomplished by the most depraved means.”

As she spoke, the lieutenant – whom the brown Fardy had knocked unconscious – returned his mind to the room.

“De Garcia?” he moaned in confusion, “Has he been recaptured?”

“What!” and de Garmia grabbed the lieutenant by his uniform, “Speak, man!”

“De Garmia,” he hesitated from disorientation, “Your brother was long a prisoner, though we were forbidden from above to let you know. Montague is a hard master.”

“Yet he has no power here!” the brown Fardy said, stepping forward. “Speak!”

The lieutenant looked at the queen with a fearful expression.

“Fool,” she laughed, “Do I care if you are slain?”

He was silent and thought for a moment. Then, relieved, “Am I Montague’s son, that I follow him through sin and Hades; or am I Gylain’s lover, that I praise him in his evil?” He gave Cybele a sharp glance as he spoke, angering her immensely though she did not show it. “Your brother, de Garmia, is the shaggy prisoner about whom we joked these last ten years.”

De Garmia’s face sunk to the floor. “Go on.”

“He escaped with the rebels, but was left behind, for he shot the catapults. When Gylain emerged from the castle, he saw his old comrade and had compassion. The glory of a great warrior, if only a memory, can save the life of the haggard shadow of the same. With Leggitt, he was sent to a slave ship under Nicholas Montague’s command. It is a terrible mercy, perhaps, but for many it would have been death instead. That is all I know.”

“Come with us, de Garmia,” said the blond Fardy. “Your brother is beyond our help now, though there is yet hope for him. Nicholas is bound for Bordeaux and there are powerful men in that city who are indebted to de Garcia for their lives.”

“I am willing to go, my lords. Only let me fight to avenge my wrongs.”

“All Atiltians will fight, and I would be glad if you were on my side. But, for now, you must be doctored. Huln, take Celestine and de Garmia to the doctor’s room.” Then, turning to Celestine, “God uses the foolish to confound the wise,” and he winked.

“So he does,” she smiled. “As for me, I am not wounded; for de Garmia is a skillful actor. But I will go nonetheless, to bandage his wounds with my own hands.”

When they were gone, the Fardy brothers turned to Cybele, who stood there without a countenance.She said nothing and made no expression to reveal her thoughts.

“Chain her to the rack,” said the black Fardy without hesitation, pointing to the device which had held Celestine. “Do not beat her, but neither set her free. Celestine will no doubt speak with her later. Until then she is to be gagged.”

The bridge, like the captain’s chamber, stretched across the Marin, having windows on either side. A command desk stood before each one, with a myriad of instruments and controls for a variety of purposes. As these things were taking place, Timultin had been by the window overlooking the Floatings, where it was now entirely dark. When the black Fardy finished speaking, Timultin called out to them, “Sirs! The chains are fastened!”

Cybele looked to her own chains in wonder, but the others looked to the window.

“Indeed, and there is the water line, several yards above us,” said the brown Fardy, pointing to the window. “You have planned well, Timultin.”

“Freedom,” is all the blond Fardy said.

As they looked, several dozen chains – immense in proportions – could be seen attached on one end to the Marin, and on the other to the Timber that floated above, on the surface of the Floatings.

“Come, my brothers,” the brown Fardy said, “The Timber’s scheduled excursion must go on: Thunder Bay awaits.” He turned and winked at the imprisoned queen, who could not keep her eyes from flashing at the thought of her defeat. She had not thought of that.

“You are foolish for a queen,” the black Fardy laughed. “For while you waxed and waned, our crew submerged the Marin and chained it to the Timber above us – the wide, docking platforms of which will screen us from those above. And so we go in peace where you would have gone in war: dragged on by an innocent excursion boat.” He could think of nothing to add, so he raised himself on his heels with a flourish, cried “Long live the king!” and left the room, followed closely by his brothers – the simple, foolish Fardy brothers.

Chapter 64

The King of France resided with his court in Paris, during the winter, but he also kept a palace in Bordeaux for the height of summer. For the most part, that city consisted of small, brick buildings condensed into an equally small space, with only narrow lanes to separate them. The roofs were flat and made into patios – giving witness to the influence of the Mediterranean civilizations which were held in such high esteem by those who overthrew them. Yet there was no transcending pattern to which the city conformed – like the circles of Eden or the squares of Rome – and at times even the narrow lanes did not exist, with only a path of connected roofs to serve as inroads to exclusive communities. It was as temporal as it was chaotic, though it was not as fluid as the Floatings.

At this time Bordeaux had two general delineations: the upper city, near the palace and the spacious suburbs; and the lower city, extending from the docks up the slight incline to the upper city. There were few architectural pleasures in the lower city, but for the scattered mansions and royal buildings that formed an oasis in the poverty. Even the upper city was not beautiful, though it was still imposing, for it had been built with an eye to defense by the legendary Charlemagne. But time had passed since then, and the city now advanced to the very walls of the palace: filling the old moat with the homes of peasants. The walls had been converted into the sides of an extended palace – no longer a castle even in name – and the king found himself connected with the citizenry in a way that his Parisian fortifications did not allow. And this king enjoyed it, though his motives were not always political. Three divisions presented themselves in the palace: first, the outer rooms, being only two stories high; second, the inner rooms, being four stories high; third, the royal chambers, being eight stories high.

The royal chambers were in a tower above the rest, but it was square and wide enough inside that it did not seem a tower. Though it was four stories high – for it only began where the rest of the palace ended – it housed only two rooms: the king’s council room, below; and his bedchambers, above. Their floors were of marble and uncarpeted, their walls of precisely cut stone, their windows of a particularly transparent stained-glass. The domed ceiling was made entirely of the latter, through which the king was wont to look when on his bed. At this time, the council room was empty but for the king, sitting at the head of the long table with his head resting on his hands in a rather unkingly manner.

“What beauty,” he said as he minutely studied his surroundings, “What amazing, unadulterated beauty. Yet it is not the sort a man longs for, since it is made my man himself. The beauty that jigs my blood is that which is from above, the beauty of the bosom-bearer.”

He brought his face around to the door, which could be heard opening, followed by a dignified footstep. Yet a pillar stood between his eyes and the intruder.