“Which is?” and Montague fingered his sword.
“McConnell, Leggitt, and de Garcia have escaped.”
“Indeed?” and he grasped his sword. He paused. “Tell me, are you married?”
“I serve Gylain, not the bosom.”
“That is well. For there will be none to mourn you here,” and Montague drew his blade, thrusting it into the unsuspecting soldier.
“That is the price of failure,” he turned to the others. “You would do best to succeed.”
******
A day before this, it was a calm on the Atlantic ocean. The sky was empty and the wind blew fairly from the east; the waves were soft, as was the roll of the sea. Yet it was still strong enough to rock the lone ship that made its way between the horizon and the waters. It was a ship of war: triple-masted with decks standing ten feet above the water line. The sails were rigged in the fashion of the Mediterranean, for the customs of the Romans were still fresh in the minds of all, though the Empire’s power had already been forgotten. The sails were set out as if to dry, and each ballooned forward, kept tight by the sailors manning the ropes. Below the deck, ten long, wooden oars reached out in unison from the ship’s sides, then were pulled back against the water, using its resistance to force the boat forward. Together, the wind and the oars propelled them at ten and a half knots.
The ship itself was two hundred feet long and fifty wide. The figurine of a fierce sea god formed the bowsprit; its eyes were filled with two sapphires that caught the sun and glowed in anger. Nearly a hundred sailors walked the deck or were perched amid the rigging, trying to avoid the gaze of the captain who paced the starboard bow. He was a man of middle age – no more than forty-five – and was strongly built. He muttered to himself as he walked the command deck, each pass taking him but three long steps. His hair was of the deepest black, cut short and combed backward at the temples and forehead, giving him the look of a powerful noble. He wore a doublet, tied at the waist with a dark, leather belt that also held his bare sword, and a black cape streamed behind him, flapping in the breeze. Though he was the captain, he was not dressed as a sea-faring man, but as a man of the forest.
He seemed lost in thought and his rambling could not be understood, for it was but pieces of words and phrases that floated chaotically through his mind. Every few moments his features would compress, as his mind flexed itself into anger. His eyes narrowed and his lips pressed together until they grew pale.
“Alfonzo!” he whispered to his thoughts. “Alfonzo, I will contrast you with death. But one more moment and William would have been my master’s plaything. Yet no matter, for the dogs enjoy the chase, as do the gods.”
After he repeated this several times, the officer of the watch timidly approached him, coughing loudly to draw his attention. But it did not work, and at length the officer took courage and bowed before the captain. “Sir, may I have a word with you.”
The other raised his face from the ground, looking at him blankly for a moment before answering. “Out with it, Vladimir. If it is important, do not delay. If it is not, then begone.”
“Yes, sir. I come to tell you the coast is in view.”
“And we are directly across from Bordeaux?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, then prepare some of the crew to disembark. I will take them with me until we reach the forest, then send them back to you. You will await my return in the harbor.”
“Very well, sir. But are the prisoners to be left with a small guard?”
“Can you not handle petty prisoners, Vladimir? Or is it Patrick that worries you?” Nicholas Montague paused. “De Casanova has requested him, and he is now in Bordeaux. The young rebel will not be with you long. De Garcia will be taken with him. As for Leggitt, he is but a man of weakness, of inaction: he knew of the rebel plans and yet he did nothing.”
“A weak man, indeed. I will take warning.”
“Good. Do not let the men carouse in my absence. It is unfitting for a man of war to also make love.”
“Yes, sir,” and the officer saluted Montague, then turned and carried out his orders. Nicholas returned to his former thoughts and continued to pace around the deck with his long, limber strides.
Meanwhile, below deck in the airless rowing room, twenty desperate looking men continued to heave and ho to the beat of the timer’s drum, which still kept double pace from the night before. They were all shirtless and many were scarred by the jailer's whip. Most of them were beasts of men, marked by years of captivity. There were some, however, who looked as though they had but recently been imprisoned. Each man was chained to the floor, and his wrists to an oar. These chains chinked together to the rhythm of the beating drum and to the rhythm of the moaning boards around them. It was the rhythm of death.
There was a row of men on either side of the ship – each with his own oar – and they were separated by a narrow aisle, with beams every few yards that obstructed the view from front to rear. The officer in charge had strolled down this aisle for the first hour of his watch, to see the prisoners behind the pillars, but then he grew tired and sat down in the front. As far from him as possible, in the rear of the room and chained to the last oar, was a particularly unkempt man. He looked to be of middle age, though worn by many hardships. His hair came down to his shoulders, as did his untrimmed beard, but his body was in the peak of physical perfection. In front of him sat a youth: no more than nineteen, but already endowed with a strong form and a fiery spirit. His hair was no less fiery, for it was orange and left to wave and wrap about his head however it would. His nose was short, his lips thin, and his skin freckled and not yet hardened by the beatings he was given. In front of the youth sat another man. Contrary to the others, his hair was kempt and his beard perfectly trimmed. These three men talked among themselves as they rowed, to keep their minds from despair.
“Leggitt,” said the dark-haired man, his voice clouded with a Spanish accent, “Observe the wrath of your master, and the justice of mine.”
“Perhaps, de Garcia,” the other responded calmly, “But I have also observed your own wrath, in relation to your merciful master.”
De Garcia’s face was a shrouded with his shame for a moment. Then he looked up and answered Gylain’s former chief guard. “I pay my penance and I do not complain. For this fate is mine by choice.”
“We both see the errors of our past,” Leggitt said as an apology. “Yet let us remember them no more. Perhaps we will escape and atone for it, but lift your countenance, for the past is gone and will come no more.”
“If it were not gone, would it be the past?” de Garcia’s answered. “Yet the eyes of Nicholas Montague are never passed. There is no escape.”
“Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” the red-haired youth said, “And I will escape this evening, alone or with you two at my side.”
“You bleed the exuberance of youth,” de Garcia said. “Still, you do not look like a criminal. How is it that you join us here, for we are but the swine of the people. What crime of hatred have you committed?”
“Hatred is not a punished crime where I am from; only to love, truly and freely. For that I am condemned.” The young man’s lips pressed together tightly.
“A lover’s angst,” de Garcia said. “But do you have any more reason to weep than the other broken-hearted children of the world?”
“If I am a child than you are an old man.”
“I do not deny it,” the Spaniard laughed quietly as he rowed. A moment later, he went on, “I am called de Garcia.”
“I am not deaf.”
“Hearing is not understanding. Will you not introduce yourself?”
“I am Patrick McConnell, an English peasant.”
“Indeed? I have heard more,” Leggitt said from the row in front of them. “But the pleasure is mine, of course.”
“What of our escape, then?” asked Patrick McConnell.
“I will make no attempt to disguise myself,” Leggitt answered. “Until yesterday I was the
captain of Gylain’s guards. It was I who planned the layout of this vessel.”
Patrick trembled. “Then you are here to spy for the beasts of power?”
“I do not know why he is here,” de Garcia said gravely, “But I was for nine years a prisoner in the castle dungeons, under the authority of a man named Leggitt. I was in the trenches, in the second lowest level. I was starved and beaten without mercy. Though I had deserted to Gylain and the Montague brothers and had betrayed my comrades to them, my only rewarded was torture. It was only this Leggitt that eased my sufferings and kept the guards from killing me. I have not forgotten the table scraps I was brought, nor the ale to soothe my madness. If you lead us in escape, Leggitt, I will follow.”
Leggitt turned completely forward and rowed with vigor, as if to disguise the tremors of emotion that shook through him. “If a devil gives some small reprieve, is he not still a devil?” he whispered to himself.
Aloud, he said, “All the chains which Gylain employs use the same variety of lock. To each of the lesser guards there is given a key which will open only a certain group of locks; but to the master guards – Gylain, the Montague brothers, and myself – is given the master key, which opens them all. When I realized the rebels would escape the castle, I hid the master key upon my person, knowing the fierce anger of my master. I have it with me.” At this point an iron key – no more than three inches long – was slid under the benches to de Garcia, who retrieved it from the floor without altering his rowing rhythm.
“Very good, Leggitt.”
“Unlatch your fetters, but do not open them. When we reach Bordeaux, and the main body departs, we will slip away between the watches. I have a friend who will give us supplies and send us on our way.”
“A friend from Gylain’s service?”
“Yes, but I can fool him. I can continue the charade.”
“And if he reports us to the authorities?”
“Gylain is quick to anger, but quicker to wisdom. Do you think I was arrested without cause?” Leggitt asked in a whisper.
“What? Do you mean that you were—”
“Yes, it is as you say. Long live the King of Atilta!”
Chapter 49
In the harbor at Bordeaux, the sea was mild. The water was a cloudy green, with little humps of waves jostling between the ships and the docks. Overhead, the sky was open and sharply blue, with wispy holes here and there that gave a glimpse of the great whiteness beyond. Though there were many ships about the harbor, one in particular rose above the others. It was a Romanesque trireme, flying the colors of Gylain – the colors of the beast, as the French said. The ship had three masts, each with as many sails; but at this time they were tied down, as it was moored with both port and starboard anchors.
Its only visible crew were a half dozen soldiers lounging on the deck, and they gave little attention to the harbor around them. Three played a game of tittle-fritz while the others sat on the stern deck, enjoying the serenity of the scene. Despite their easy ways, however, each was fully uniformed: their breastplates were of iron and covered only their mid-sections; their arms were covered with a ring mail sleeve stretched over a leather jerkin; their upper legs wore greaves similar to their breastplates; and their lower legs wore leather and ring mail similar to their arms. The sides of their helmets came to their shoulders, open in the front. A single plume came out of the top, but it was nothing more than a small hole in the helmet, through which the soldier’s own hair was taken up.
“This station is not so bad as I had feared,” one of the lounging soldiers said to his companions. “I worried Montague would take me to my death, but without him there is only life,” and he sipped the wine he held in his hand.
“No death, perhaps, but neither a chance for honor. Will we not waste away to mere guardsmen, without the chance for battle? Soldiers grow with blood, not wine!” He clenched his fist and spit at the sun. But breeze from the ocean was too strong and his spit was blown against his comrade’s helmet.
“To Hades with your bloody honor,” grumbled the soldier, and he wiped his helmet.
“Do not mock Hades,” a third soldier said, “For you are his spitting image.”
The two laughed at the disgraced.
“Laugh if you will, but I would rather my head were hit by a crude spit, than by a shafted spit upon the archer’s bow.” He snarled and rose to go below.
“Wait, Rebus,” said the first, “You need not go in anger, for I did not mean to spit on you. But as I did, it was better to laugh than to remember the reason for my anger.”
“I would have done the same, but I am in a wretched mood.”
“Then drink to happiness,” Petros answered. “What is your burden?”
“I am payed to murder and oppress my countrymen. Is that not reason enough?”
“But that is duty, and duty needs no reason.”
“None is given,” Rebus laughed. “But if it is our duty, to whom are we beholden?”
“Our commander.”
“But who does he serve, when he orders us to kill?”
“Gylain, the King of Atilta.”
“Still, Petros, who does Gylain serve? Who is it that I serve by proxy? If it is my duty, and it is not wrong because I am commanded; and if it is not wrong for my commander because he himself does not kill, then with whom does the circle commence?”
“It begins with Gylain, and it ends with Gylain,” said a stern voice behind them. The soldiers turned and saw Vladimir, their commander. “Do not question, for that is not your duty. You are to serve your country without doubting, without emotion. Go, relieve the guards at the rowing blocks.”
“Yes, sir!” the three soldiers chorused as they stood and saluted Vladimir. Then they hurried below deck, leaving the commander alone on the stern of the ship.
When they were out of sight, Vladimir sighed to himself. “Duty! Am I truly so deceived? No, but each of us knows whom Gylain serves, and whom we each serve by proxy.” He paused. “Yet I fear Gylain more than him, for at least he does not disobey God.” With that his eyes changed into a soldier’s eyes: a mirror that lets no weakness escape.
Meanwhile, below deck, the three prisoners were preparing their escape.
“When the watch changes, we will slip away,” Patrick said.
“Is that all?” Leggitt laughed.
“They will not expect an attack and we have only to gain the city streets to be free. There is a row boat on the port side, adjacent to the stairs. We can take it to the shore without those above deck seeing us.”
“Your eyes are sharp,” de Garcia said, “For the boat escaped my notice.”
“You are old; I am young.”
“So you see: youth is an unpleasant commodity, for it is gone before its true value is known.”
“Yet life is contrary to young and old alike,” Patrick compressed his mouth.
“At times, perhaps, but there are as many joys as sorrows. Have you never seen a French woman?”
“I have not, but I do not ail because of it.”
“So you think, though you have never seen one. Let us hope God is not so cruel as to let you die before you have tasted the fruits of Eden.” He paused and looked to the ceiling, but kept his rowing rhythm. “I, myself, am too old for those things. For a thing is only a pleasure while it is new, and to an old man there is nothing new under the sun. But twenty years ago, when I was renowned for my swordsmanship,” de Garcia laughed and did not finish.
“Be silent, old fool,” Leggitt joined him. “When did you became a connoisseur of women? When did you last make love to anything but the stray hairs of your beard?”
“Bah!” Patrick scowled and ceased their merriment. “A woman is but a serpent: a faithless merchant who buys from all and sells to none. I will have none of them.”
“Your Hibernian women, perhaps, but not the French.”
“All women,” he stood and charged the front of the room.
The guards had just left to call the next
watch and there was no one to stop Patrick at the moment. Leggitt and de Garcia were right behind him; neither stopped to unchain the other prisoners. Instead, they dashed into an armory that was just outside the room, on the hallway that led to the stairs. They each grabbed a halberd and waited within the room, ready to ambush the soldiers, who could not see into the small armory until they were past it.
“Am I no more than a beast, that it is my duty to kill without thought?” one of the soldiers was saying. “But what choice is there?”
“None,” another answered, “For duty is duty: it is to be done.”
“Yet it will bring my death. I can feel it coming, growing stronger even as we walk,” Rebus said.
“Feelings lie, though you will die sometime,” Petros laughed with a soldier’s guffaw.
“You have such bravado now, Petros, but will you when the time comes?”
“Am I a diviner, that I can tell the future? Death is death, I say. Let it come.”
As he spoke, they crossed the threshold of the armory door. Rebus came first, then Petros and a third guard. As his helmet passed by, de Garcia swung his halberd down hard upon him. The knob on the bottom passed through the small hole in the helmet, and Rebus fell silently to the ground. The next instant Leggitt did the same to Petros and Patrick to the third soldier.
“Come,” Patrick was the first out of the room and up the stairs. He turned when he was half way to the top and looked at de Garcia, who still stood at the armory door. “What keeps you?” he asked.
“I was thinking how easily we kill. I have been a man of the sword since my childhood; death is nothing to me. Still, I wonder that I feel nothing whatsoever.”
“You are a man of wisdom,” Leggitt said, “For when death is inevitable, it is best if it is not your own.”
“Inevitable?” de Garcia smiled.
Patrick turned to the stairs once more. “To Hades with fate,” he said when his back was turned. “But at least it was not her .”
“Who is she ?”
“She is no one. Not to me; not any more,” and Patrick leapt up the stairs, this time followed by the two others.
The Forgotten King Page 29