His castle was made of stone, strong and impregnable, standing in the center of a meadow that stretched for a mile in every direction. The plain was bordered on every side by the ancient forest, except to the north, where Thunder Bay licked its shores a mile away. The outer walls of the castle were twenty feet tall and five thick, with towers every hundred yards and a massive iron gate in the front. Within those walls were the inner walls, twice their height. Between the two sets of walls was a covered courtyard, not unlike a separate castle within itself. The only way to enter the castle proper was to take this covered courtyard to the far side of the castle, where the inner gate was located. Within it was the castle itself, a mountain amidst the plains, impressive even by the greatest standards.
The first floor was covered by the great hall, flanked on every side by rooms for the servants – kitchens, pantries, and the like. The second floor held an armory with training rooms for the soldiers, an extensive library, and a bright sitting room that Milada had put in – contrary to all the customs of the time – in order to have a pleasant, airy room. This would have been derided had he lived nearer civilization, but as there were no other towns or villages within a hundred miles, he was left to his own whims.
Above the second level were several towers, one at each corner and an especially tall one in the center, which served as both the lord’s chambers and the keep, the last defense in times of war. Of the smaller towers, one belonged to Ivona Milada, his beautiful daughter; one to the prior of the church, Oren Lorenzo; and the two others to the chief servants of the castle, the doctor and the captain of the guards – Hismoni, by name.
It was at this time early evening, and the towers were empty and dark, for all the house was still feasting in the main hall. All that is, except for Ivona’s tower; for she was already in her room, having retired early when her father did not arrive before dinner. She was indeed a lovely woman: moonlight skin and midnight hair, with emerald eyes sprinkled with the sun. Her nose was slender and aquiline: large enough to be respected, and small enough to be lovely. Her lips showed her emotion as brilliantly as her eyes, holding themselves with as much poise as she herself. Her form was supple, neither overwrought into indecency nor underwrought into shapelessness.
At this time she was reclining on the cushiony platform that her indulgent father gave her as a bed, her eyes beseeching the ceiling and her lips God, to whom she spoke:
“He will arrive soon, but how can I tell him? This time, he will understand and not do as usual. Yet no matter how he reacts, I must tell him soon – no, the moment he returns. I cannot have him searching for my husband in all the earldoms loyal to the true king, even while my fate has been decided.” A few tears escaped her eyes, falling to her parted lips, where their saltiness brought a half-hearted smile to the surface. “Yes, I will pledge my life to God, who will never leave nor forsake me: he will be my groom and I his bride. What should I profit if I gained the whole world – and even the undying love of one man – and yet in so doing lost my own soul? No, he who wishes to save his life will lose it, but he who gives up his life for God’s sake will find it. It must be so, I only hope that father will understand I have no other choice but that to which my conscience leads me: serving the church as a nun.”
Before she could say more, her maidservant burst into the room and cried out, “Ivona, the master is back!”
She was surprised, however, to see Ivona apprehensive at the news, as if guilty and bound for punishment. It was that day her twentieth year upon the earth, marking her entry into adulthood by the customs of Atilta, and so a feast was to be held as soon as Lord Milada returned. She went, unwillingly, but her beauty masked her emotion.
It was a short walk down the tower stairs, through the family rooms and into the main hall. There she found the whole household assembled together, waiting only her arrival to begin the celebration feast. The main hall was twenty yards by forty, and the ceiling fifteen feet from the floor; both were made from massive blocks of stone. The walls were also stone, ordained with rich tapestries, arms and armor; bronze candle holders allied with several rude chandeliers to light the room like twilight sun. Raised on a dais, the head table stood perpendicular to the others, with Lord Milada at its head and an open chair beside him, meant for Ivona.
Milada stood, his tall, lanky figure swaying in an involuntary dance, as was his wont when things excited him. Like an inverted rainbow, his smile broke on his face, and his eyes danced along with his arms as they played to the jig the fiddler wove. He was a different man here than in the forest, for here he had authority and there weakness.
“My daughter, I have returned at last!” He threw his arms around her as she reached the dais.
Her composure had returned, and once more she was gently joyful. “Father, it is time!” was all she could say before her tears broke through once more.
“Tears of joy, and what joy it is, to be here at last. And on your birthday, the day you become an adult, a woman, the lady of the castle!”
“Yes, father. I am a woman now, and I have decided what I will become.”
“A flower cannot keep itself closed; yet I have a special present for you, a present that you cannot imagine!”
The people assembled in the hall gave a loud cheer. Over a hundred people stood there, everyone from the village and the castle household. They venerated Milada for many reasons, and in that time of oppression, he was on firm footing domestically. After a moment, the crowd began to hush, and Milada stood once more: this time on the sturdy oaken table before him.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered together to celebrate the birthday of my blooming and beautiful child, marking her entry into womanhood. It is also the day of my return from a long and troubling journey, one giving me many pains and stresses. Indeed, I am not lying when I say that I barely returned home at all!”
He paused here and delivered the last phrase with emphasis. The audience gasped and waited for him to continue.
“I was traveling from Horam on the forest road, the last leg of my trip, and had not met a soul for three days. Things grew tedious and I fell asleep, leaving Hismoni and his guards to steer the way. Then, at noon today, I was awoken by a loud cry. I jumped from my seat and saw a half dozen ruffians battling with my three guards. They were the fiercest, toughest men I have ever seen: seven feet tall and stronger than a dozen horses. In a moment, they had wiped Hismoni and his men to the ground without being injured themselves. Then they rushed toward me, with an evil light in their eyes that left me sure they would leave me dead. The leader, a humongous brute with a face like a dragon, reached in through the window and grabbed my shirt, pulling me up and throwing me back down with a low growl. I was terrified.
“But then, from nowhere, came a deep and commanding voice – the very voice of God – booming as thunder and roaring as a thousand lions in full rage. It spoke these words, ‘You ruffians and heartless brutes! Release him at once or I will make you suffer the wrath of the heavens and the earth!’ They turned to see who spoke, and as they did their ranks opened and I was able to see him as well. It was a man, of normal height, but with a strong build and a fearsome face. His hair was dark and low, as was his beard. Both were uncombed, and he himself was dirty and clothed in a soiled rag that reached neither his feet nor hands. This wild man was the one who had spoken, but his appearance was at odds with his intelligent speech, and even more so with the marvelous sword that hung from his side, glittering in the sun like a lightning bolt. ‘Surely,’ I thought to myself, ‘This is Zeus, and that his weapon of fire!’”
Again the crowd gasped, and Ivona herself was amazed and frightened: appalled at what her beloved father went through, yet thankful for the strange man’s courage. The nobleman went on:
“The bandits were at first frightened, but then – seeing they outnumbered him six-to-one – they charged, and I put my head into my hands, hiding my face in shame at the thought that he would lose his life for my sake. I could hear the clash
of swords and cries of pain – like men being killed – and a fierce roar that no doubt came from the wild man, though it sounded like a bear. Suddenly, all was silent and I looked up, expecting to see him slain; but he stood there alive, all by himself. Around him were the bodies of his opponents, everyone of them as dead as death itself. The guards were beginning to wake, and he came closer that I might hail him. ‘My lord,’ I said, ‘What man are you that you do such mighty deeds?’ He looked at me solemnly and said, ‘I am Prince Willard, heir to the throne of Bombay, making my hermitage here to gain wisdom and love before my reign begins.’ I was once more astonished, for Bombay is well known to be one of the richest and most powerful nations in the world!”
This last part Milada greatly embellished, for it did not exist, as far as he knew. But Willard had told him and he believed, because of the latter’s heroic deeds. He went on:
“I bowed and offered him all he could want. But he declined, saying he had come to deny himself. I then asked him if he was indeed looking for love, as he had implied. He said yes, and I told him of Ivona. This, then, is the wondrous present I have brought you, my daughter: the heroic Prince Willard of Bombay is to be your husband!”
The crowd cheered again, a smile playing on every lip, for each respected Milada and loved his daughter. But then something happened that they did not expect: just as he announced the marriage, Ivona fainted and fell down at his feet.
Chapter 13
It was in her bedroom that Ivona awoke, in the company of her father and of none other. She had been unconscious for ten minutes, during which time Milada was very anxious to know the cause of her fainting. His lean figure paced the room and he muttered to himself, in distress once more. His outward bravado at dinner had given way to his writhing at the forest melee. His worries soon came to a head, either way, for Ivona’s fair features began to awaken from their involuntary slumber. She looked about, confused until her eyes lit upon her father. Then her face fell to the ground, and she remembered what had been said.
“Tell me you were merely jesting, father.”
“No, it was all truth,” his thin limbs wiggled in a half-hearted dance, “But for the bit about the dragon heads, which I embellished for the sake of the tale.” He seemed proud of his attempt at humor and began his natural jigging movements again, to which Ivona could do nothing but laugh and sigh inwardly at the apparent simplicity of her beloved father.
“Father, tell me, am I so false to you that you promise my heart to a wild man before you had even conversed with him for half an hour? Am I, the jewel of your heart, given at half price to an unknown merchant – or even, for all you know, to a pawnbroker?”
His dancing stopped. “Would you, then, be an old maiden all your days? The man is a crown prince and a valiant warrior, articulate and of honorable morals. He defended an old man whom he had never met before at the risk of his life, and would take no reward for it. Ivona, listen to me and heed my words – this life is as hard as it is fleeting, as uncaring as it is meaningless. And you must live it by its own rules. You cannot sit here and hide yourself away behind the vale of the vast forest, nor can you ignore the truths which crown this existence as frail and empty, coloring them with thoughts of God and religion, thoughts of service over authority and humility over pride. You chase after all that is not seen and is not known in hopes of gaining wisdom, not realizing wisdom is the cessation of such pursuits. Look about you, my daughter, look about you and see: do not the evil flourish and the righteous fade away? Do not the lawless defeat the law, and the haters conquer the lovers?”
Ivona arose, her spirited eyes blowing with the spirit of the forest. “And if what you say is true, father, then why live at all? If all the joys of life are ill-gotten, and all happiness bought with the price of another’s suffering, then why feel love for any? Yes, father, this life is fleeting; and all is forgotten, without love or hope in all the earth. Those who have gone before us have no meaning here, nor do those who toil along with us, for all is selfish and made to serve its owner. And so my heart longs to serve its owner, though it is not myself who owns it, but God. While all else is torn down and ridiculed by men, while all that is good is proclaimed by the wise to be wicked, and all that is wicked is proclaimed by the good to be wise, there is one who remains steadfast, whose message does not change: love your neighbor more than yourself, and do to others what you would have them do to you, for that is the law and the prophets!”
“I have had enough of your spiritual delusions and metaphysical masquerades! There is nothing but what can be seen and felt, there is nothing beyond the here and now, so do not sacrifice yourself to divine apparitions; instead, marry a man who is strong and powerful. For your supreme beauty will bring you riches and power, if you allow it.”
“Father, how can such blasphemies flow from your mouth as freely as water from a fountain? If I am made powerful by my beauty, what will I have when it fades? And if I am made rich by it, what will it leave me?”
“Enough, I will hear no more about it: you are to be married to Prince Willard, and that is that!” and Milada roared in his anger, his habitual dancing movements becoming as infuriated as his voice, writhing like a fly in a spider’s web. Ivona warmed as well, but had the strength to hide its effects. Yet all she could do to prevent an outbreak was to flee from the room. And that she did, passing through the empty second story rooms and the main hall, where the festivities continued. She passed the castle gate and entered the village which encircled it, coming to a stop before the church, always open by the vow of its pious prior, Oren Lorenzo.
It was a quaint stone church, with its sharp roof and its lofty steeple, and especially with the wooden door that graced its front like the humble mouth of an otherwise noble countenance. It was there that she went to seek shelter, as much from the driving rain as from the disfavor of her father. The entrance brought her into the open sanctuary, supported by ornate stone pillars and arches made of wood. A few resident clergy prayed at the altar, and – hoping to escape their notice – Ivona climbed the stairs to the tall belfry upon which the steeple rested. One of the priests saw her, but turned his mustached face back to his prayers.
The belfry or tower atop the church was uncovered, though to its right the steeple shielded it from the view of the castle, blotting out all light but the sky. Ivona was run through by the water; the rain was warm with the spring and only refreshed her. Overhead the clouds were thick, though still the stars and moon shone brightly through the various breaks, illumined with their own joys and sorrows – whatever they may be – and exhibiting their faceless gaze to all who sought respite from life. Among them was Ivona, and as she looked over the rain-clothed forests from her lofty observatory, she could feel the comfort of night and hear its whispered hopes.
She was happy then, without the burdens of existence, until she heard footsteps coming up the belfry. She turned to the opening and saw a head of thick red hair coming toward her, bowing reverently as it approached. The figure wore the robes of a humble priest, and on his Bible-beaten face was written a countenance at odds with his lowly attire. His nose was long and straight, his lips hidden by a protruding mustache that ran from ear to ear like a streak of fire.
“If my opinion is desired,” he humbly began, “I would say you have had words with your father once again, and that they were neither gentle nor loving. Ivona Milada, you must learn to obey, even as the scriptures say.”
“Yet I am no longer a child.”
“Nor yet a woman, little one; though closer than most to that lofty ideal.”
Ivona sighed, “He wishes me to marry, Father Lorenzo: a man whom I have never met and who has never met me.”
“That is of no consideration, child, for the wisdom of a father should rule the daughter. He is more capable of judging a man’s character than you, for he is old and veteran in such things.”
“He is more capable to find a husband of strength, perhaps, but not of heart. And if his judgments of chara
cter are so refined, how does he reject God, himself?”
The priest evaded, “No mortal is flawless, child, and no husband is immortal. Love is more action than feeling, more labor than romance. With patience and faith love can be built on a firm foundation, while one formed on mere romance is doomed to pass away. When your father chooses your husband, there is not the mixing of romance into the decision.”
“A marriage without romance may sound good in theology, Lorenzo, but can a celibate priest set the standard of the love between man and woman from experience or practicality?”
“You are right, but it is the will of God that you should do as your father desires. Your course has been predestined to you, and should you refuse to marry him now you will only marry him later. Such is the will of God, and you cannot escape it.”
“Your words are wise, if it were God’s will; but how can you know so easily? If marriage is a symbol of the covenant between God and his children, still I would forgo the symbolic and enter into the practical. You know that it has long been my desire to give my life to the church, to forsake the symbolic for a direct covenant with God. I would not rebel against him, but I hear his calling differently.”
“But God has many voices, and foremost among them is the voice of your father, the authority put over you.”
“Then should I travel to Eden, to inquire as to Gylain’s wishes on the matter?” She sighed and looked at the priest while a smile spread across her face. It grew until she laughed outright.
The Forgotten King Page 8