“Impressive, indeed,” Willard said, “But I cannot finish this at the moment. You will excuse me, I am sure.”
He pushed a table onto Montague and dashed off to Ivona’s aid. She was being attacked by several soldiers, armed only with a bow and a dagger. She had been forced back, until she abutted the wall beside the throne, which she used as cover. Willard’s cloak was still in place; the soldiers had no idea the King of Atilta was present. Therefore, he was able to slip through them to her side.
The Great Hall was immersed in the battle. Gylain’s forces were a hundred strong, the rebel’s thirty. The Queen of Saxony’s soldiers, however, did not join the fray on either side. The rebels had formed ranks in a tight semi-circle around the windows, while Willard and Montague had been fighting.
Willard came upon the first of Ivona’s attackers without warning and quickly dispatched him. Seeing his comrade thus struck down, the other soldier fled into the anteroom. Willard turned to follow him, but stopped for a moment to speak with Ivona.
“Hurry,” he said, “Join the others, we must stay by the windows or all is lost.”
“And you?”
“I will be there, in time.”
Willard turned again and ran into the anteroom, chasing the soldier. But the soldier, by this time, was no longer in the anteroom. Instead, he had fled into the secret passage, with Willard close behind him. Ivona ran to the window, where she was able to use her bow in relative safety.
Meanwhile, the Fardy brothers, Osbert, Barnes, and the sailor had safely reached the cover of the rebel line, behind the rude barricade of tables that had been set up before their ranks. The rebel soldiers knelt behind the tables with their spears before them, holding the attackers back. There were twenty-eight within the barricade, yet it was small and they could hold it easily – for a time. Behind the soldiers, those who did not have armor were filling the hall with arrows.
“Can we jump?” Osbert cried to Barnes, who was keeping watch on the catapults below.
“Not yet,” Barnes called back. “They are not ready.”
“Nor is Willard here,” said Ivona. “And the Admiral did not come with you.”
“By thunder!” yelled the blond Fardy, looking back to see what came of him. “There he is, stranded in the center of the Hall!”
William Stuart was standing on a table, surrounded by several soldiers. He kept them at a distance with his powerful arms, and the others were too busy to assist them in overcoming him. Montague was preparing siege equipment in the far corner, to drive the the rebels from their barricade. Gylain and the Queen of Saxony were speaking near the door. Their conversation is as follows:
GYLAIN : Have your men join mine in assaulting the rebels. We will conquer them either way, but a greater force will mean fewer casualties.
CYBELE : Your domestic struggles are your own, Gylain. My men are here to guard me and nothing more.
GYLAIN : True, and they can do so with honor. But was it not under your aegis that they gained entrance to the castle?
CYBELE : Not in the least – I did not help them into the castle.
GYLAIN : But was it not for you that the gates were opened?
CYBELE : The guards would have been suspicious, with two Queens demanding entrance. They must have been destroyed and replaced with rebels: they are not so weak as you pretend.
GYLAIN : Perhaps not, but we will see their fate soon enough. Look about you: they have little hope. What have they accomplished, other than present themselves for execution?
CYBELE : As you say, we will see. Did you not expect me so soon?
GYLAIN : Not from the west. The forest is not my own.
CYBELE : But this castle is? Still, if you did not know, then why plan demonstrations of power?
GYLAIN : Demonstrations? There were none planned.
CYBELE : What of the catapults?
GYLAIN : The catapults!
Gylain’s face recoiled as he remembered – in the excitement he had forgotten. He looked across the hall, to the rebel’s makeshift fort that overlooked the catapults. Then he understood. His countenance was transformed from that of the gentleman ruler to that of the beast of passion.
“Montague, come here,” and he drew his sword.
“My lord?” Montague answered as he came. “The siege will begin soon.”
“No, we must attack at once. The catapults!”
Montagueturned his head involuntarily to the rebels and drew his own sword.
“Charge!” Gylain roared in fury, “Charge men, as if hell is upon your heels!”
Chapter 42
“The Admiral will fall, if no one goes to him,” said the brown Fardy. “And I am not the kind of man who stands by while an old friend is in danger.”
“We have got to save him, brothers,” the blond Fardy said.
“Yes, but how?” answered the black Fardy.
“With our swords,” said the brown Fardy. “It is dangerous, yet it must be done.”
His brothers nodded their heads in assent and drew their swords. The Admiral was making his last stand in the center of the Great Hall, surrounded by several soldiers who were making thrusts at him with their swords. They could not draw near, however, for he was a powerful man. Yet his strength could not last forever against such odds.
The rest of the hall was in a giant melee, with the rebels stoutly defending their line until the catapults were ready for their escape. Fifty of Gylain’s soldiers were attacking them along the overturned tables, throwing chairs at them and using spears to wound whoever they could. But their efforts were weak, for the rest of their body – led by Montague – was busy preparing weapons that would easily defeat them. Their only task was to keep the rebels contained.
There was no mischief from the Fardy brothers now, for they were in a serious mood and were prepared to die for their country. Having drawn their swords, they stood abreast of one another and began to run toward the lines of their comrades, from behind. They leapt over the soldiers and into the ranks of the enemy, who scattered as they came down. The Fardy brothers passed the ring of enemy soldiers to the center of the hall.
“Friendly faces in unfriendly places,” the Admiral called out as they reached him.
One of his adversaries tried to thrust at his legs but he countered with a downward slash. A soldier on the other side tried the same thing but the Admiral harnessed the momentum of his downswing and aimed it in his direction, where it clashed with the soldier’s sword and sent him reeling backwards.
“To work, brothers!” yelled the blond Fardy as he engaged the nearest soldier. Their swords met and parried, first to the left, then to the right. The soldier tried to slash the blond Fardy from the left once more, but the latter stepped into the blow with his hands firmly gripping his sword, which absorbed it. Using his right foot as a pivot, he spun around and took the soldier by surprise, breaking the alliance between him and his head with a single, powerful stroke.
Meanwhile, the brown Fardy attacked the next soldier, who was a more able swordsman. First, their swords clashed between them. Then, in quick succession, they parried back and forth with slight, jerky movements – until the soldier’s strength was lessened and the brown Fardy knocked his sword to the side, thrusting his own sword through him in the resulting gap.
The third soldier was dispatched by the black Fardy – the most skilled swordsman of the three – with a simple three stroked move: an upward stroke to the leftward, where their swords met; then a peculiar twist that swung his sword to the other side of the soldier’s; then a swift cut to the throat.
While they were fighting the soldiers around the table, the Admiral jumped down upon the fourth soldier. He was not expecting such a reversal of fortune, and was easily overcome.
“Quick,” the Admiral said, “Back to the lines!”
As he spoke, Gylain called Montague to him and ordered the charge. The four friends left the table just as Gylain reached it and charged full force into the attacking soldi
ers, who were not expecting an attack from the rear. The soldiers scrambled to the sides just long enough for them to leap over the barricade and into the safety of the rebel line. The soldiers charged after them, but were kept back by the defenders’ spears.
“Not a moment too soon,” said the Admiral when they were safely within the walls.
“Yes, and almost a moment too late,” replied the blond Fardy, turning his head to look at his back. His shirt had been cut open by one of the guards.
“There is no time to mend it now, for look: Gylain advances.”
“Barnes,” Osbert called back to the window, “Are the catapults ready?”
“Almost, sir,” he answered, “But not yet. Another minute, at least.”
“Admiral,” Ivona said, coming up to him. “Admiral, Willard is not among us.” Her face was distraught and her large eyes were no longer the green of a meadow in the sun, but of a meadow after the rain.
“He will come in time,” William said.
“And if he does not?”
“Then he does not,” the Admiral said in his commanding voice, its resolve meant to build confidence. “We can only do what can be done.”
“Dear Ivona,” the black Fardy said with a compassionate look, “My brothers and I are the most patient of people, and you must join us in it. I know Willard well and ere long we will find that he is rescuing us .”
Ivona smiled. “I only meant to make sure he was not forgotten,” she said. “Indeed, I am worried. But I do not take my fears to men.” She spoke calmly and her feminine strength reassured the others.
At this point, however, their dialog was interrupted. Gylain – in his towering rage – had rallied his men in the center of the hall, and now they were marching toward the rebels. They came to a stop just beyond their spears. Gylain let the grave silence permeate into the hearts of all who were present before he began to speak. His voice was loud and deep – devoid of the doubting intonations of his private dialogs and the mercy of his peaceful times. He spoke thus:
GYLAIN : For many years you have eluded my grasp. Though my fist was outstretched, you were never overtaken; though my will was set, you were not overcome. Yet now you are mine, and what irony that your own foolish plans bring you here. I will not waste time in vain speeches, nor will I sacrifice the air of my lungs to conversation. I say only this: where have your impostor king and your impostor queen led you? And where are they now, to deliver you into the lands of your fathers?
WILLIAMSTUART : I am reminded of a man I once knew, Gylain. Perhaps you have heard of him. He was handsome: well-formed after the Roman model, with a straight, angular nose, and honest eyes. His stride was long, his anger contained, his desires overcome. In a word, he was a man among men; a man destined for greatness – or for infamy. It was his choice, for his talents gave him the world.
WILLIAMSTUART : This man fought by my side in the Battle of the Beaches, when the Vikings came to plunder and pillage, to take away the freedoms which we have so long enjoyed. They had beaten us back upon the sea, until we could no longer keep them from landing. The army was decimated, not a hundred men still remaining from the thousands there once was. The Vikings were yet two thousand strong, every one of them a well-armed, beast-like man.
WILLIAMSTUART : The beach and the mainland were separated by pathless cliffs, with only a single pass through them. We stationed ourselves in that narrow pass in one last, desperate struggle to defend our homeland. They broke into a furious charge but we held them back, led on by the sword of that one man. Again and again, his sword led us forward, until at last the Vikings retreated in defeat and disgrace. We were victorious. That one man – through his zeal for his people and his king – redeemed our freedoms. So I ask you, Gylain: how did that man become the vessel through which that very king and those very freedoms were destroyed? How was your youth as zealous for your country, as your age is against it? Why, Gylain, do you persecute us?
GYLAIN : Because, William, it is my fate; and I cannot forsake the will of God.
GYLAIN [to his men]: Prepare to charge!
The soldiers raised their swords into the air and let out a horrifying roar, as if they were not men but beasts of the field. They beat their swords wildly against their shields and began to stomp upon the ground until the floor shook beneath them.
GYLAIN : Where is your king now, in your time of need? Is this where you put your faith, in a wild man with no courage; in a mere child of the forest? Where is he? Bring him forth!
“I am here, Gylain!” came a voice from above them. Everyone became silent. There – standing upon the chandeliers that hung a hundred feet above them – was a powerful man, wearing golden armor that shone in the light of the chandeliers like the rays of the sun. In his hand he held a golden sword, sparkling as with flame, and on his head he wore a golden helmet with a single, scarlet plume coming from its top.
“I have come to warn you, Gylain,” the man called out, his voice echoing through the lofty hall. “I am King Willarinus of Atilta, and this your only warning: Let my people go!”
As he spoke, Willard cut the chains which held the chandeliers and they began falling to the ground. Gylain and his men were directly underneath them. They dashed wildly to the far side of the hall. Willard stood upon the center chandelier, riding it like an eagle upon the winds, until it came within five feet of the ground. Then he leapt into the air and the force of his upward motion offset the force of his downward motion. He landed firmly upon his feet within the rebel line.
“Come, friends, now we escape!” he said, and he leapt toward the window, breaking through it and falling toward the catapults below.
“Look out below!” yelled the blond Fardy as he fell.
They fell into the gigantic buckets, each with a thud and the squeak of the catapult wheels. Willard landed and Ivona came after him. He caught her in his arms. Horatio came down a few feet over and the brown Fardy on top of him.
“I am a loyal Atiltian,” Vahan Lee said in his French accent, “But this is too much.”
“What is that?” asked the brown Fardy.
“You have landed on my legs, I fear,” said Vahan, who was partly under them – he had been in the catapult before they jumped.
At that moment, a hairy head popped up over the side of the bucket. It was de Garcia, and in his heavy, Spanish voice, he said, “All is ready? Here you go!”
Willard sat near the edge and de Garcia whispered a short sentence into his ear, such that the others could not overhear. Then, with nothing more, he unlatched the catapult’s arm and sent them flying through the air, over the tall, outer wall. They began to descend as they passed over the moat and they were just high enough to clear the buildings on the other side. Between the five buildings a huge net was spread out. It was there that they landed.
Chapter 43
The net they landed on was made of ropes; those at the edge were two feet thick. It was secured to five houses, connected by a metal ring on the end of each corner rope. As they landed, it was pushed down almost fifty feet, until its elasticity overcame the force of their impact and they shot upwards again. They bounced up and down a dozen times – each with lessening height – until they came to a stop and sat upon the net. Men on the housetops released two of the sides, creating a rope ladder to the ground.
“Hurry, Gylain will be after us,” Willard said as he climbed down, agile even in his heavy armor.
“You’ll be traveling in the French fashion, now,” Clifford said, still dressed as the barrel shepherd. He stood on the porch of the house nearest the river. “Follow!” and he disappeared into the house.
They followed him through the outer door and into a sort of storage basement to the left. It was down several feet – to the level of the ground outside – and was found in all buildings that bordered the river. Several barrels stood upside down on the floor, their bottoms open. Across from the stairs there was a lowered section in the floor, five feet square, with a broad stairway descending to
its bottom. It was filled with water. There was a short tunnel on the outside wall, half filled with water and opening into the river. It was the hole through which the barrels were pushed into the river.
“Into the barrels, friends,” Clifford said.
They crammed themselves hastily into the barrels, for they were still just outside the castle and the pursuit could not be long in coming. When each was safely inside, Clifford went around and sealed the ends. Horatio was given a much larger barrel to fit his much larger size.
“All right, here we go,” and Clifford began rolling them into the tunnel. There was a grating on the far end, which opened from the outside and kept them from floating away. When he was done, Clifford ran around to the riverside and opened it, letting them out. He caught them with his long pole and kept them in a group until the last one floated out.
“Here we go,” he said again, and set off down the river with thirty barrels in tow.
To reach the Floatings, Clifford had to take the barrels past the castle gates and under the drawbridge. He was a strong-willed man, and to even the most careful observer he did not appear worried or guilty, as an ordinary man would have. Still, he was but a man. As he neared the gates, he hummed some ancient ditty to himself, the rhythm kept upbeat by his beating heart. The fate of the rebellion was in his hands – or rather, in the river – and if they were discovered, all was lost. The night had begun to grow old; the moon was past its height. Still, the city was well lit – especially around the castle – by street lamps. The castle gates loomed ahead, but as Clifford neared them with his floating herd, the drawbridge remained closed.
“I do not ask much, God, but I do ask this: do not let the drawbridge be lowered!” he said, as he drew within two dozen feet of the drawbridge. Then, from within the castle walls, he heard a hollow banging – the sound of a great timber being rammed into the drawbridge.
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