outrages committed against us by that infamous lowlife are enough to boil my blood and cook my virtuous side like a cony in a cook’s pot. Read my words, you loyal Atiltian of a Frencher – for such is your accent – if we fall into his hands it will be more than a cony that’s cooked!”
Willard laughed amid the danger, “Yes, and if I remember rightly your patience was tried just as harshly by my silent brother Horatio, the monk. But come now, they charge from the front, and look, there,” he pointed across the stream, “A few creep around to the back. You, brown and black Fardys, keep them occupied, even if you have to cook their goose.”
“Cook their goose and cut ‘em loose!” cried the brown Fardy, brandishing his quarterstaff – as the stout sticks were called in those days when used as weapons – and spinning it round his head to display his zeal. It was, however, too zealous for the blond Fardy, to whom he gave a good whack on the head on the second swirl, having misjudged the distance.
“Patience is a virtue,” he said, “But so is vengeance, and if I must choose, I choose the latter!” With that he returned his brother’s blow two-fold, with a down stroke to the shoulders and a thrust to the ribs.
“Perhaps patience is the more dominant virtue, though,” said the black Fardy.
“I agree with you there, brother of mine,” bellowed the brown Fardy, “Yet I will give no one a chance to call me more virtuous than my brother, so I must choose vengeance myself.”
He gave his brother another full swing with his quarterstaff, but the blond Fardy ducked and it passed right over his head with a swoosh. It was not a vain swing, however, for just at that moment the two bandits whom Willard had warned of reached the camp walls, unseen in the commotion. They stooped as they came, and were just standing up to attack. But the brown Fardy’s quarterstaff made sure they did no such thing, and as their heads rose above the pickets it swung by and smashed the one on the right, driving his head into his partner’s, and knocking them both down cold.
“The Lord has rewarded my virtue!” exclaimed the brown-haired brother.
Willard was about to say something, but before he could the rest of the bandits reached the walls, and he had to focus his attention in their direction. There were eight in the front, two having gone to the back, and two to the left. The pickets only reached chest-high, leaving the defenders to grapple with the bandits over top of it, their quarterstaffs against the others’ swords.
Two of the attackers raised their swords above their heads and drove them down hard on the blond Fardy, but he grasped both ends of his quarterstaff and blocked them both, pushing forward with great strength until his opponents were tired. He then slid his left hand down the length of his staff and swung it fiercely at the midsection of the first bandit. Upon receiving the blow, the latter fell to the ground, but his companion took the opening that the blond Fardy left and drove his sword at his right shoulder with a strong down stroke. The blond Fardy was able to position his staff so as to block the blow, but his grip was not firm and the sword pushed it sharply into him, knocking him back and giving his shoulder a resounding blow. It was not as bad, however, as it would have been if he had not partially blocked it. Seeing his brother in danger’s way, the black Fardy gave his opponent a quick thrust to the face and diverted his attention to his brother’s rival, giving him a full blow to the back.
Meanwhile, on the other side, Willard and Horatio were charged by three of the bandits. Horatio had no weapon but his paws, which gave the bandits the idea he would be an easy prey. They were dead wrong, of course. The bear dodged to the left as the first thrust his sword toward his chest. Missing his mark, the bandit was pulled forward by the sheer force of his blow and was left open to Horatio’s built-in cleaver, which sent him down to the ground in a hurry. Seeing the fate of his partner, the other bandit who was heading toward Horatio decided against it at the last instant, instead diverting his sword in Vahan’s direction. That worthy gentleman was panic struck at the sight and followed his first impulse, which was to hold his quarterstaff out toward the oncoming bandit in the same manner as the latter’s sword was pointed toward him. The suddenness of the move left the bandit without the time to stop himself, and as the quarterstaff was a good two feet longer than his sword, he hurled himself headlong into it, putting an end to himself, and sending Vahan flying backwards, as he was not prepared for such a collision.
As he flew back, Vahan bumped into the brown Fardy, who was grappling with a bandit directly behind that loyal Atiltian. They were both pushing as hard as they could against the other, their heads being less than a foot apart in their determination to gain as much leverage as possible. When Vahan hit the brown Fardy, his head flew forward and bashed into the bandit’s, sending him to the ground.
Willard, at the same time, was contending with Montague in a battle of sword against sword. Both of them were very skilled with that weapon, and it was a spectacular sight to behold. They sparred with one another ferociously, parrying here and thrusting there, and the clang of their weapons could be heard over the din of the rest of the battle. At last, however, Montague caught Willard’s blow with his sword and turned his blade so swiftly as to twist Willard’s. This gave him an instant in which to place the point of his longsword against the other’s neck.
“Yield or be slain.” Montague’s demand was spoken in a silent battlefield, for all the other fighting had stopped as well. The defenders had bravely stood their ground, but in the end superior numbers took the day. The blond Fardy was disabled in his shoulder and held by one of the bandits. His black brother had turned his back to his assailant to help him, and had been rendered unconscious by a hard blow to the back of his head. The brown Fardy, meanwhile, was left with a dazed feeling after the blow between his head and his opponent’s, although the latter lay dead on the ground. Vahan likewise was disoriented by the collision. Horatio alone had not been bested by his adversary, yet he was no match for the half dozen bandits that remained standing.
“Yield or be slain,” was once again spoken. Yet this time it did not come from Montague’s lips. Surprised, the chief bandit turned his head in the direction of the voice and saw, to his utmost dismay, that it came from none other than Alfonzo of Melborough, his rival of the forest. One represented the forces of the true king, and the other of the impostor Gylain. “You are surrounded, Jonathan Montague; yield or be slain.”
“I will do neither.”
“Defiant to the end, yet the end it is indeed.”
“Hold your tongue, misguided Alfonzo. You would do better to join Gylain’s forces, for the battle is not as proportioned everywhere as it is here.”
“You know my answer already, Montague, and it is no, a thousand times over.”
“Your loss, Alfonzo the tutor, slave to the child of the king. Your time has passed away even as he has.”
Here Alfonzo came forward a step, before Montague cried out, “Halt, or this monk’s life – and that of all the others gathered here – is forfeit. Give us your word to let us depart in peace and we will let them do the same.”
Alfonzo was silent, but he soon yielded and answered, “So be it, but let not you nor your men be found within a hundred miles of this place, or it will go badly with you.”
“As you wish, my master,” Montague mocked, sheathing his sword and motioning for his men to do the same. He walked toward the edge of the forest, his stride as steady as ever, and his hair remaining perfectly combed forward at the temples. His face was flushed, however, as were his eyes. Before disappearing into the vast forest, he turned to taunt his rival one last time.
“I will not forget this, Alfonzo – until death do us part.” And with that, he was gone.
Chapter 10
Alfonzo watched the treacherous Montague until he was of sight, then sent Osbert to follow and see that he did not return. This done, he went forward to where the stalwart defenders were sitting down in exhaustion and pain. He sent two of his followers to drag the bodies of the fallen bandits a little way into the forest, where nature would soon dispose of them.
“I was tempted to think you were not the king of the forest after all, Alfonzo,” said the blond Fardy, holding his hand to his aching shoulder.
“I was searching for you, friend. But I had no idea you had been already found,” he turned his eyes to Willard, who met his look as if nothing were amiss. “Your hermitage has made you at ease in the forest, since you found what I was searching for before I even knew you had escaped my prison.”
“I suppose it has,” was Willard’s only answer.
“And it has left you a master swordsman as well, has it? Come now, do you take me for a fool, that I will believe this pretense of being a monk?”
Willard was silent, thinking of an adequate reply, but before he could respond the brown Fardy broke in.
“Alfonzo!” he said, “Have you taken Willard and Horatio prisoner? You are greatly mistaken in this, my friend, for these are two of the finest fellows ever. They filled their front sides with us this morning, and saved our back
