The Forgotten King

by Jonathan Dunn

  “Perhaps,” suggested the black Fardy, “Perhaps we should prove our patience before we preach it. Remove the plank from our own eyes, so to say.”

  “Prove before we preach? By my mother’s left arm! Brother, what sort of a humble, forbearing remark was that? Am I to understand that you would feign to question your own patience? Well, then, let me prove it to you. Only be glad that I have no plank in my eye, or else I would pull it and use it as an instrument of learning upon your head,” and the blond Fardy grabbed an ancient, handwritten manuscript from the bookshelf beside him and struck his black brother firmly on the head.

  Upon seeing this, the brown Fardy’s eyes opened wide and he leapt to his feet.

  “The Fardys are a virtuous bunch,” he said, “My brother here showing his patience, and my brother there showing his zeal. Yet I would count myself a sinner, if I did not step forward and protect the patience of my brother.”

  “You will do no such thing, or else someone might think you impatient! I strike him that he may see his own patience, his own superior cheek-turning morals. Perhaps it is best that I show you your patience as well!” The blond Fardy gave his brown-haired relative a quick smack with the ancient manuscript.

  “By the hand that rests on my mother’s left arm! I will not let you show yourself impatient while showing me patient. For that would make me your superior, and I will not suffer myself to harbor such pride!” The brown-haired Fardy returned his brother’s blow with a punch to the face that knocked him backwards onto the floor with a resounding thud.

  “By the dainty mole that rests upon the hand that rests upon my mother’s left arm! I will not allow you to put yourself last here on earth, for I know as well as any that he who is first will be last, and he who is last will be first .” With that the blond Fardy raised the ancient manuscript in preparation to hit his brother with it. But his other kin – the black Fardy – arrested his arm in mid-swing. The sudden, jolting stop causing the book to fly across the room at great speed.

  Just then, Milada was aroused from his melancholy meditations and looked across the room to where the Fardy brothers were quarreling. As he opened his mouth to bid them cease, the book crashed squarely into his nose and tumbled down to his lap. It landed open, facing upward. The impact brought him to the alert, and, as he regained his composure, he looked down at the book. It was open to a page that held a sketch of the Kings Plantagenet of many generations ago, with this text written beneath it:

  In ancient times, the Plantagenets were rulers of the Holy Roman Empire. As it broke apart, they moved their capital to France, and from there to Atilta. Their purest line reigns there, and they have reigned with mercy and compassion. The people love them dearly.

  Upon reading this, Milada was filled with rage at the thought of the king’s murder. He thought of his duty to the people of Atilta and to history. The Fardy brothers saw the resolve written on his face and hoped to keep him engaged; the blond Fardy was the first to speak.

  “Perhaps it is time to consult on the situation of the rebellion, Milada?”

  “Yes, it is time,” he answered. “How are things in Eden and in the forest?”

  “Jonathan Montague is about in the forest, kidnapping and attacking. The Queen of Saxony will arrive in Eden within the week, and the policy of France is soon to be decided. Above all, there are traitors among us. The end is coming, whether or not we are ready for it.”

  “The nobles are neutral,” Milada said. “My trip found them inclined to the rebellion, because of Gylain’s increasing tyranny. We would do better with them on our side, but, as long as they are not for Gylain, we can survive. If we can make them question Gylain’s strength with a victory – more symbolic than strategic – we can count on their help. But if we fail to move forward in the coming weeks, they will commit to his banner.”

  “Then our hope lies in Eden. If only we were there to help our comrades.”

  “And yet we are not, brother. So let us be patient with our friend Milada, and keep guard over him – for if harm comes to him, all is lost as well.”

  “True, my brother, but do you think that I would not be patient?”

  “I said no such thing. You, above all others, are clothed with gentleness and self-control,” said the brown-haired Fardy.

  “Once again, you put others before yourself, brother, and I will not allow it! If I am more peaceful than you, you must be one brute of a man.” He struck his brother across the face.

  “My conscience will not allow me to allow you to put yourself down in such a manner, brother. Do not take this personally, for it must be done,” and the brown brother returned the blow heavily.

  By this time, both the blond and brown Fardys had arisen from their chairs and were facing each other. There was but one stairway leading to the second floor, a stone stairway that wound around the outside of the castle. The glass panels behind the bookshelves overlooked this stair.

  Once the brown brother defied his blond kin to show himself less self-controlled, the latter prepared to show that he was, indeed, far his inferior in that regard. The black Fardy, always desirous of a peaceful solution, jumped from his chair to his brown brother’s side. Yet just as he did so, the blond Fardy reached down and pulled the rug from beneath them. The two brothers flew backwards and crashed into one of the bookshelves. It tilted precariously backward, then wobbled three times. It slowed slightly, until it became evident the shelf would not fall through the wall. The blond Fardy, however, feeling he had proved his inferiority, leapt forward to help his brothers. He tripped on one of the chairs as he came, falling headlong into the shelf. The added force was too strong: with a final wobble, it crashed through the glass behind it and onto the stairway below.

  “Look out below!” cried the brown Fardy. But it was too late.

  “They are throwing shelves at us!” roared out the voice of Hismoni, the captain of the guards.

  A resounding crash was heard, as the shelves hit the stone stairway. A horrible scream followed: someone had come between the shelves and the stair.

  The Fardy brothers rose and peered over the edge for a second, before chorusing in a hoarse whisper, “Dear God! What have we done!”

  Chapter 30

  An hour before this, there had been a clandestine meeting in the basement of the castle, in a room used as an armory. Twelve men were present, among them Hismoni, the captain of Milada’s guard; Thurston, Selmar, and Fritz of Alfonzo’s band, and several of the soldiers under Hismoni. Noticeably absent was Osbert.

  “Now is the time, gentlemen,” said Hismoni, “The hour draws near.”

  “Yes, when darkness falls, so will our lord,” added Thurston.

  “He is not my lord,” Selmar said, “I serve only Gylain and I will not call that fool Alfonzo master any longer, in truth or in deception. The game is up.”

  “But when do we get our reward?” Fritz asked a cloaked man who sat on a stool in the corner. His face was shrouded by the shadows of the low-burning candles.

  “You will be paid,” answered the spy, “When my master receives Milada’s severed head. For the heads of any of the Fardy brothers that are taken, the price will be doubled.”

  Hismoni rose to his feet. “What treachery is this? Are we to carry the heads through the forest, without a strong guard? If Alfonzo finds us it will mark our deaths, to be sure.”

  “An assassin fears assassination, and a mercenary fears the same. If your party is not a strong enough guard, then you will have proved yourselves too weak for my master’s service. Besides, Alfonzo is this very moment deep in the dungeons of Castle Plantagenet.”

  “Can it be?” Fritz exclaimed, “That he has finally been captured? Woe be unto us!”

  “Bind your tongue, Fritz,” said Selmar, “It was his fate, and it is ours to make our fortune in his downfall. Do you still have a conscience? Of what are you afraid, of God or of man? Of God there can be no fear, for do not his self-proclaimed servants lead the way of wickedness? Of men, th
ere is only Gylain to be feared.”

  Thurston sat down beside his doubting companion, “Fritz, do not repent now, for your judgment will still come, but your reward will not – you will lose what you had before as well as what is yet to come. Think of the seeds we have sown. Think of poor Casper, who was chosen by yourself to take the blame for our actions. Do you not remember that it was you who soiled his boots that fateful night? He was innocent and still he lost his head. Blood is already upon your hands; it can only be washed off by more blood. Such is the way of the sword.”

  “Perhaps you are right,” Fritz acquiesced, and he spoke against the plan no more. Such is the way of man, silence in wickedness and speeches in righteousness.

  Hismoni rose and took charge, hoping to bolster the courage of his fellow traitors, that his fortune might be secured. Gylain knew Milada’s death would end the rebellion and he could well afford to make it happen.

  “Arm yourselves,” the captain of the guards ordered. They did, each taking a sword in his hand.

  “If you fail, you will find safety with Gylain, but not favor,” the gruff-voiced spy said. “I will be ready with horses at the rendezvous. When the deed is done, meet me there and we will flee together. But wait, you are sure that Osbert is safely away? If he returns in the midst of the action the tide may turn against you.”

  “He has gone to the forest,” Hismoni replied, “We told him Admiral William Stuart was coming to the castle, and that he should meet him upon the forest road. He set off this afternoon, going toward Eden. He is a simpleton, and will reach it before he realizes our fraud.”

  The shrouded man gave Hismoni a sharp look, and though only his eyes showed, they cut Hismoni deeply.

  “Fear not,” Hismoni answered, “The Admiral is far from here: there is no way that Osbert could meet him upon the road.”

  The shadowy man said nothing, only grunted to himself and fled the room, going to the point of the secret rendezvous.

  From the castle basement the traitorous party made their way to the ground floor. Hismoni had used his power as the captain of the guard to ensure none would come across them. Once on the ground floor, they took the stone stairway that wrapped around the outside of the castle.

  “Will we feign friendliness or merely attack?” asked Selmar.

  “We will try to put their guard down, and say we heard they were in danger. But if they hesitate, waste no time in dispatching them. The force of the guard is small, but with the townsmen alarmed it will be hard for us to escape.”

  “Yes, but luck and fate are with us,” said Selmar.

  “I doubt it,” replied Fritz, “For our deeds are dark, and fate does not smile on such as us.”

  “The only thing dark about us are your spirits, Fritz, so be of good cheer. Are you still afraid that God will rain down punishment from the sky and kill us at once? What a fool you are, my friend.”

  At that moment, a loud crash was heard directly above them: the sound of breaking glass. They looked upwards, and Hismoni was the first to speak.

  Just as the glass broke, he cried, “They are throwing shelves at us!”

  Fritz looked up to see a heavy shelf falling at him. He screamed in panic. “Judgment!” he yelled. But then he was silenced. The shelf crushed him into the stairway.

  “They know our intentions, men, so let us charge while we yet have time!”

  Hismoni charged forward up the stairs, followed closely by his men. Each had his sword raised for combat.

  Above, the Fardy brothers looked over the edge of the wall, their heads extended through the gap the shelf had made. When they heard Hismoni yell the charge, the blond Fardy said, “Brothers, they are attacking! We must have angered them intensely.”

  “If only men were all as patient as ourselves,” answered the brown Fardy.

  “No,” whispered the black Fardy in something slightly resembling fear. “No, they are the traitors.”

  “Yes,” the blond Fardy returned, “And that shelf was the reward of our virtue!”

  “What providence you knocked that shelf on them,” Milada said, growing excited, his limbs throwing themselves around. “Come, to the keep!”

  With that, Milada dashed to the pillar in the center of the room. The door to the keep was a massive stone slab, positioned nearest to the stairway. The four pulled on it frantically, but it was slow to open, for its size. At last, just as Hismoni and the assassins came in, it flew open. Once it was outside the frame, it opened easily.

  “Hurry! Pull the door closed!” cried Milada, as the Fardy brothers struggled to close it.

  “Hurry! Before they pull the door closed!” cried Hismoni, as he raced to the door, hoping to keep it from shutting.

  It was a long second, each party straining themselves.

  “We have them!” roared Hismoni, and he grabbed the edge of the stone door with his extended fingers.

  But it was not to be. For just as he did so, the momentum of the door swung it shut. It sealed with a thud and a bang, taking Hismoni’s fingers with it. He cried out in pain. From the inside came the sound of slamming wood: the door was locked. The keep was made to be impenetrable.

  “So it comes to this,” Hismoni groaned. “Thurston, go and keep watch through the windows. Selmar, go to the storage room. The battering ram we trained with yesterday is still there,” he glanced down at his left hand, now devoid of its fingers.“By coincidence,” and he laughed, but it was strained by the pain.

  “So it was you, Hismoni,” Milada called through the door. “I trusted you as my own son, and I am given this in return. I wondered that the bandits did not slay you in the forest. Yet now it is explained.”

  “Yes, but do not lie, for you have never trusted me as your own son. If it were not for the prince, I would have had you before. Yet revenge is only sweetened by delay.”

  “I am a fool, perhaps,” Milada’s muffled voice returned, “But I am no liar. I have given you everything that is mine to give.”

  “Everything, you mean, but that which I have most desired.”

  “You had merely to ask it, and it would have been given.”

  “No, not this. For I desire Ivona.”

  “Hismoni!” Thurston cried from the windows. “Hismoni, come quick!”

  “What is it?”

  “A group of riders gallops across the plain.”

  Hismoni rushed to the window. There, just leaving the forest, six riders could barely be made out, riding wildly for castle.

  “Hurry!” Hismoni whispered, for fear of letting those within the keep overhear. “Hurry! They will reach us before ten minutes have passed!”

  Chapter 31

  By early evening the forest had already fallen into darkness. As the trees stretched into the distance, they converged into a continuous wall, and nothing could be seen through them. A fog came up from the ground which, together with the winding road, rendered the blindness almost complete. This only made the forest more beautiful, however, for while darkness filled the forest, there was light above. The sun was still in the sky, though below the tree line, and the colored light shone through the canopy. It was as if the forest slept while the sunset still came through the bedroom window.

  It was in this paradox that the Admiral, the Innkeeper, Barnes, Meredith, and the messenger from the ship found themselves. They had been traveling all day, making a quick passage through the forest. By this time they were growing weary, though they had set their wills upon reaching the castle before resting.

  “My legs grow heavier with each step I take,” said Meredith.

  “Be glad your heart does not, friend, for that is my ailment,” answered the Admiral. “I have a feeling of urgency about reaching the castle. Doubtless it is only my fears, yet it will not pass from me.”

  “A darkened heart will not impart tidings blessed or good, it will merely start to tear apart the hope which time has stood,” rhymed the Innkeeper.

  “Yes, yet a heart jolly may be destroyed by its own folly,�
� said the Admiral, “But look, who is that over there, turning the bend? He is familiar to me, yet I cannot place him.”

  The others looked closely for a moment, but the darkness of the forest was hard to pierce. At length, Meredith plunged his eyes through it and recognized the man.

  “It is Osbert,” he said. “Perhaps he brings news of Milada.”

  They quickened their pace, though it was unnecessary. Osbert broke into a run when he saw them.

  “Hail, Admiral, I have been expecting you,” he said as he reached them.

  “Osbert, what faith and patience! Fifteen years I have been gone, and still you are expecting me?”

  “No,” the simple man laughed, “For I was told you were arriving today. I was sent into the forest to meet you.”

  “Who could have known?”

  “Hismoni told me. Why do you ask?”

  “Hismoni?” Meredith raised his eyebrow.

  “He could not have known, for we hurried here straight from port,” William said.

  “Yet they knew. You must be mistaken.”

  “Hismoni must have wanted to get rid of you this evening,” Meredith said slowly, “And used William’s name as an excuse, not knowing he had indeed returned.”

  “But why? There is no need to fool me. Unless they mean to,” and Osbert said no more.

  “Harm the Lord Milada,” Meredith finished his thought. “To your heels, friends! There is evil and treachery abroad tonight!”

  They set off on a mad dash forward, hoping to reach the castle before it was too late; hoping to save Milada. Yet, at the same time, they knew that on foot it was too far to run. If they did make it, somehow, they would be too exhausted to fight. Still, they had hope. They believed their cause was just and that fate would intervene.

  A moment passed before they came to the bend ahead. As they turned it, they ran into a cloaked man, dressed in a black robe with a hood shadowing his face. He carried the reigns of six horses, strung out on a rope. Yet when he saw them, he dropped the rope and ran. Osbert intersected his retreat into the forest, however, plunging his sword into the man’s stomach. The party stopped and mounted the horses.