“You will be richly rewarded for your trouble, you fool of a friar. The dungeons of Castle Plantagenet will soon remedy your zealous heart.”
He laughed and pushed the friar onto the horse of one of his men. The monks stood by helplessly as their beloved prior was thus imprisoned, prevented by their vows – as well as their incapacity – from saving him.
There were others present whom the horsemen had not yet seen, however. Willard and Horatio began charging at them when they saw what was taking place. At the same moment that the leader remounted his steed to ride off, they came with a charge. The air was thick with their shouts, Willard yelling and Horatio roaring. The bandits quickly spun around to face the newcomers. Willard was a great swordsman, yet even perfection could not have overcome a half-dozen mounted men. It was all he could do to protect himself. He parried first one and then another, dodging a third and making two of them clash their swords together.
While Willard was thus engaged, Horatio was sparring with the leader of the soldiers. The leader succeeded at last in giving the bear a firm kick in the face, but it was only to his horror that he succeeded. As the bear’s head was pushed backwards, his hood slipped off. His anger was aroused at being kicked in the snout, and Horatio let out a death-defying roar. The monks and the soldiers were terrified, thinking the monk had been turned into a bear. They all turned to look at him. They all were silent. All except Oren Lorenzo. His surprise far surpassed that of the others, for he had spent the whole afternoon speaking with the bear, as he thought, and was fully convinced that he had previously been a human being.
“By the hairs on my back and the skin on my head,” he shouted, very confused, “It is the devil himself, and he has come to claim the souls of those who would defile the church. I am against you, Satan. But for now, let loose the flames of Hades!”
The leader of the bandits was hardly phased by this, but his men were panic stricken with the sudden thoughts of death and eternity put into their heads. The leader feared their courage was at an end, and spurred his horse forward. He commanded the others to follow, before they lost their souls – or rather, their courage.
“Onward, men,” he cried, “Onward to Eden and to safety! The only soul that will meet death there is yours, blasted friar!”
And with that, the soldiers of Gylain, with Oren Lorenzo as a prisoner, disappeared from sight around the bend in the road, galloping off at such a speed they could not be caught.
“To Eden,” Willard whispered to himself when they had gone. “You have not seen the last of the devil yet, Gylain.”
Chapter 17
From the meadow where Lorenzo was abducted, it was possible to get a good view of the ocean beyond. Atilta was an island similar in size to Scotland, and it was not more than ten miles from the monastery to the coast. In all the commotion that resulted from the burning of the monastery, Willard did not get a chance to look at the ocean for any length of time. If he had, however, he would have seen a gallant sailing ship, with four stout masts and a carved whale that stuck out from the bowsprit. Its sails where full of the wind, stretched out like clouds and pulling the ship forward.
There were a hundred men on deck, and twenty of them were bound tightly in chains. From their dirty, unshaven appearance, it was evident they had been prisoners for at least several months, and possibly several years. One of the prisoners was especially terrible, for his countenance was one of evil and malice, and his black eyes burned with the watch fires of hate. He sat on a bench beside the wheel, gazing at the shore of Atilta. Beside him stood a tall, muscular man with a flowing white beard and a weather-beaten face. In his hands, the latter held a telescope, carefully examining the area where the monastery was on fire.
“By the depths of the sea,” he grumbled, “There is a church burning up there, and a troop of Gylain’s thugs harassing the clergy.”
The prisoner laughed.
“Yes, but what were you expecting? This is Gylain’s land, and he is the power here, regardless of who owns this ship. You will get no joyful welcome, William, for the rebels are defeated by now. There is none left to greet with open arms the former Admiral of Atilta, least of all his former friend!” He laughed again, mocking the pride of his captor.
“Fifteen years ago I was captured for the second time by Gylain, Nicholas Montague, but you must know that. I was placed upon this ship, to be tortured by you and your heartless men. Do not think that I have forgotten the pain I felt as you hung me from the bowsprit day and night, with the cold waves breaking against my face and the sharp winds devouring my flesh. You left me there for months, and during the fiercest storms you did not do so much as cover me from the elements. Yet I am made stronger by it, and my fever has only grown. No, Montague, I have not forgotten.”
“But what importance does your memory have, William? You have no power for revenge.”
“Against you, I do. You were careless and let the loyal Atiltians catch you in your weakness. We returned to find that Gylain had only increased his power. The navy was his, and it chased us off to India and China, a lonely refugee in this world of pain. You have been chained there ever since, old enemy, and you know your fate: to never again be a free man. That is the reward for your treason. I need take no revenge, for your bitter heart can do more torture than I.”
“Fools will be fools,” Nicholas Montague answered. “Can you think the rebels are any closer to overthrowing Gylain? Have you not just said that Gylain’s men burned down a church building? Even in the forest the rebels have no strength.”
“Yes, Nicholas, the vagrants burnt the building. Yet they were chased away. Two men opposed them, and they fled.” He fell silent for a moment. “Perhaps it was merely the sun,” he hesitated, “But the one wielded a golden sword, the sword of the king. Either way, six against two, and the two prevailed. Is this the omen of our demise? No, but fools will be fools.”
The swarthy prisoner stopped his grin short, angry that his master’s forces were beaten. But he did not let that anger suppress his hatred.
“Do you hope to find Celestine still among the living? If she is, than she is no better than her mother! You must realize that she has long ago consented to marry Gylain, or has been slain. There is no hope for you to rescue your daughter.” The prisoner feigned laughing.
The Admiral, however, was not fooled.
“Alfonzo lives,” he said with conviction, “And he is more a man than Gylain, for he has the hardness of a man and the wisdom of a woman. Celestine still lives, and still retains her honor. Does not the sun still rise? And do not the stars still shine? If she were lost, then even they would hide their faces in disgust.”
A small tear fell down the old man’s rough face, and even the heartless Nicholas could not help but feel jealous of the love of the father, though it had been tried so hard in his younger days.
The ship rocked steadily up and down to the pulse of the water, with the occasional creak of a timber attempting to adjust itself to the change of pressure. With a slow, unstoppable attraction, the sun was being pulled down below the horizon, leaving the world behind for another dark night. The officer of the watch approached the Admiral.
“Sir,” he said, “Should we not turn to the sea, for the night is coming and this is a lee shore.”
“Yes, turn her to the south, Barnes Griffith. We will spend the night between Atilta and France.”
“And tomorrow?” the officer, Barnes Griffith, asked.
“We go ashore to hear news of Alfonzo and his followers. This is war, young one, and I plan to win.”
“We land outside Eden, then?”
“No, for that is too rash. We have no intelligence of their fleet and it is best to avoid it. We will send out the longboat when we are across from the Western March. I know of an Innkeeper on the forest road that runs out of there who will be able to give us the information we need. From there, we will travel to Eden in disguise and see what we can about the fleet. Gylain has no seamen as followers – none
of those who served under me, anyhow – so the navy was full of rebels and lubbers when we last were in these parts. If he has done no better, we have but to overthrow the captains and retain the crew.”
“As you say, sir.”
The Admiral nodded his head and went below, leaving the control of the ship to his trusted officers. His quarters were directly under the bridge, a simple stairway connecting the two. The room was small and cramped, for a land building, but on a ship it was luxurious. There was a cot in one corner, and a grand oak desk on the opposite wall, in front of a large French window that gave a panoramic view of the ocean. A deck jutted out from another wall, projecting itself over the water. Each of the other walls were windowless, one leading to the main deck of the ship, The King’s Arm , and the other to his private bathroom.
Admiral William Stuart sighed heavily and stared at a picture on the wall of a beautiful woman, muttering to himself, “I will not forget, Casandra, nor will Gylain. The love that I have given you, and the hatred that has been returned to me, are too great to be forgotten.”
The old man pulled off his shirt and looked at his reflection in the full-length mirror that rested against the wall, his eyes cold with a smoldering anger. His back was covered with the scars of a hundred lashes, each one slithering along his rough skin like a snake – a very deadly snake.
“I will never forget, Gylain, nor will you. What was taken will yet be avenged.”
With that, he went to bed.
Chapter 18
The capital city of Atilta was Eden, sitting on the southern coast, toward the eastern portion of the island. It was a magnificent city, without blemish on its exterior, though its interior was decaying. At this time, and indeed throughout its entire history, it was a large and important city, for no other reason than that Atilta was a small, wild place, and its only civilized region was Eden. The ancient forest stretched itself out all the way to the coast, even near Eden, and it surrounded the city on three sides, with the ocean on the other. Between the forest and the city a giant stone wall had been built many centuries prior to this time, making a barrier between civilization and nature that still stood after so many years.
Eden was an ancient city, retaining its former grandeur despite the tyranny it had beheld of late. The houses were still built of mighty timbers from the heart of the forest, and still loomed hundreds of feet above the ground. These lofty houses filled most of the city’s interior, interspersed with shops, which, however, were constructed in almost the same manner.
The cornerstone of each building was not a stone at all, but a log. In Atilta, the land of the forest, the products of the forest were used to construct the buildings. The forest was of purer origins than those on the continent, still retaining the strength of the early world. Thus, the trees did not drop their leaves in winter, nor did they rot. The willows truly weeped, shading whole fields, and the oaks truly towered. The firmus , exclusive to Atilta, was composed of strong, almost metallic fibers: as wood, they were used as the cornerstones of buildings; as fiber, rope.
At each of the four points of the compass – the Atiltians were very strict that each corner of a building faced the four cardinal points – a log was secured into the ground, a log little different than the wild tree: the bark was stripped, the branches were removed, but no other preparation was necessary. Tall and wide, these logs were twenty to thirty feet in diameter. Therefore, much of a building was carved into the four pillars that made its spine, encroaching the interior on every side. Generally, the bedrooms and dining rooms were placed on the corners, to soak in the view. The average Atiltian, therefore, woke from a bed of which even the frame was carved from the inside of a tree, and ate his meals looking out from windows of the same. For these reasons, the island was considered magical by the ignorant.
This formed the basic building, excepting only the walls and ceiling. These were supplied by a vine very common in Atilta, the hanging timber: thick, impenetrable, and nourishing. With these vines for walls, the elements could not penetrate the inside of the building, yet neither were stuffiness and stale air imprisoned within. This was the wonder of Atiltian architecture: portions of the house were closed and comfortable, built into giant timbers; while other portions were open and airy, a natural veranda in the center of a vibrant metropolitan area.
In the center of the city was Castle Plantagenet, close enough to the harbor – or rather, the Floatings, as it was called – that the towers and walls overlooked the water. The castle was named after the royal family of Atilta, though it was now the home of Gylain. It was a magnificent castle, reflecting the economic dominance that Atilta enjoyed at this time, as the hub of the world’s trade. Built of stone, with wooden supports on the inside, the entire structure was contained within a single, massive tower, stretching far below the ground to the dungeons, and far above it to the skies. Around this tower stood a set of square walls, and the space between the two was filled with barracks.
At the same time that Willard fought for the monastery, and that Admiral William Stuart laid out his plans aboard The King’s Arm , a lone figure gazed out the window of the highest room in the castle. It was a woman, an older woman, but one who was still in her prime. Her hair was dark, speckled with white, though from birth rather than age. The contrast between the two shades gave her an enchanting charm, but it was the enchantment of nature, of an eagle flying over a field of wheat, rather than one of man, of a structure of stone. Her most striking feature, however, was her eyes, as black as night but as soft as the stars. She was not shapely, in the vulgar sense, but her beauty seemed flawless nonetheless.
A voice called to her from within the tower; she did not turn her head to listen.
“Celestine, my love,” it said, “I have returned.”
Her eyes were as the stars. Yet a star is a peculiar thing: it can be either soft and pleasing as it twinkles in the night sky, or a flaming ball of gas, a spherical hell that burns and blazes with rage.
“Gylain, you wicked impostor, begone. You are not welcome here.” Her voice was firm and resolute, and any but the most deaf or the most stubborn, would have skulked away. Gylain, apparently, was either one or the other.
“Dear Celestine,” he sounded pleased, “Are there no allusions to the devil? You must be feeling well this evening, my love.”
Gylain approached her with a broad smile on his face, which was not altogether evil. In fact, it seemed an open, honest face.
“Your face will not deceive me, fool, for I know your ways,” Celestine said.
“As well as I know yours. Come, let us set aside our quarrels and have supper, will we not?”
“No.”
“Why not.”
“Because you made a wicked woman of my mother! Because you have cruelly put my father to death, and try everyday to do the same to my husband!”
“If it was good enough for David, it is good enough for me,” he laughed, with apparent sincerity. “Besides, can I be blamed for their insurrection?”
“You can be blamed for your own, and damnation is as bad once as twice.”
“True, true. You have convinced me of the errors of my ways. I repent.”
“Repentance is better shown than confessed.”
“I agree, and so I show it. Would you not love to be reunited with your husband, before this evening has faded into the wastelands of history?”
Celestine’s face pulsated at the thought, and her eyes twinkled once more.
“You would be well advised not to play with the love of a woman, Gylain,” she said. “For I will not tolerate your scoffings, your mockings, your lies any longer.”
“I assure you, Celestine: this is no lie. I am convinced of the evil of my ways, and before the sun has crossed into the underworld, I will have you reunited with your beloved husband.”
She turned and removed herself from the window sill, looking closely into his face as he spoke. Experience convinced her some cruel joke dwelt upon his tongue, yet his honest, alm
ost naive, countenance equally convinced her that there was no joke. His face grew only more sincere as they shared a stare; his fierceness seemed to melt away: he was pure.
But then, the moment passed and he turned his head away to the door.
“Destiny,” he moaned, “I cannot go against its impulses, for it is not in my power to resist fate.”
He clapped his hands loudly and turned toward the only door, which led to the stairway.
It was thrown open from the outside, revealing several soldiers standing there with a man hanging limply in their arms. They marched in, throwing him onto the floor.
“Celestine, I give you your husband.”
Gylain said no more, neither laughing nor enjoying the scene. Then, without turning to watch her face in its emotional paradox – incensed at the wrongs done her lover, but joyous to see him nonetheless – Gylain strode from the room, followed by the soldiers. The door shut abruptly and left the two long-estranged lovers alone in the lofty tower.
“Alfonzo!” she cried, rushing toward him as he lay limply on the ground. “Death itself is worth this one moment of fellowship.”
“And it appears to be the price,” he returned. “But where are my thoughts? I have missed you, but my love has not diminished.”
“An odd way to express it,” laughing.
Alfonzo, badly beaten, had not the strength to raise himself; only with the help of his wife could lumber to the bed. She set about nursing him, comforting him in his pain. He watched her movements intently, smiling and sighing when their eyes would meet.
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