was the prior of a church, for his robes were richer than a monk’s, yet simpler than a bishop’s.
“Greetings stranger,” Willard called out as he drew near, “Would you care to make your way with us? The forest is a grim place for the lone ecclesiastic, these days.”
“With pleasure, my fellow churchmen. But let me make my positions known, for there are many of Judas’ companions among us,” the prior answered with a grave, animated countenance. “I am on the side of freedom, against the usurper Gylain, the most wretched and tyrannical ruler since the purloined rib – that is to say, from the creation itself. And if you be of those putrid, pale-hearted churchmen who – for love of money and power – forsake the commands of the Holy Scriptures to follow this Gylain – and who declare that his reign be just – then I have more contempt for you than for the devil himself, and may he take your souls!” He finished his monologue with a flush and a little jump on his heels that, while not lifting him from the ground, elevated him enough to display his zeal for freedom.
“We are faithful to the true king, friend,” Willard began, not realizing the irony in his statement. “But what type of Christian would wish the souls of his enemies to the devil? Does it not say to love your enemies more than yourself?”
“Of course, and I am rightly convicted. Thank you for your rebuke, most learned monk. You have proved yourself true, in my eyes, and in the most telling way possible: not only to our earthly king but to our heavenly one as well. Tell me then, friends, what are you called?” asked the man.
“I am Willard, and this is Horatio. We have only recently come from a long hermitage in the forest, and he has yet to regain a decent knowledge of any language but Latin, yet I will translate his speech.”
“No need, I know Latin well.”
“Yes, but fifteen years make a strange vocabulary, and it is perhaps more gibberish than Latin. What is your name, good sir?”
“I am Oren Lorenzo, prior of the Western March and good friend of Milada of Erlich.” He gave Willard a close look as he said this, to detect any feelings he had in connection with that name. Willard remembered him as a great leader of the forces of freedom, and his face showed it.
“Perhaps you have heard the tragedy that has befallen his house of late?” Oren offered.
“Yes, indeed, that his daughter Ivona is missing. A sad event, I am told.”
“By whom?”
“By Alfonzo of Melborough and the Fardy brothers. I left them not four hours ago.”
The prior’s face lit to a glow upon hearing this, and he said with feeling, “At last, they are on their way. They come to help, I am sure?”
“The Fardy brothers, yes, with several of Alfonzo’s men. But he himself is off on another task.”
“That is good to hear, friend, for I was beginning to lose hope in her being recovered. It is a sad situation, as well as a dangerous one.”
“Your journey, then, is to gather news about her?”
“Yes, as well as a certain Erwin Meredith, a monk under me. He went out to gather information, but has not yet returned. What, may I ask, is the purpose of your journey?”
“I do not know yet, though I hope to discover it before long.”
“What faith in providence! You are a most extraordinary monk, dear Willard.”
“Yes, faith. Or perhaps just acknowledgment that I can do little to control my destiny.”
“Destiny is an odd, phantom word, I always say, so let us leave it behind.”
“Very well.”
With that, the three walked on, looking like innocent, peaceful churchmen – though two of them were far from that, and the third had his own secrets. From noon, when the party met, until eight o’clock they walked through the forest. The great limbs from the trees on either side of the road clasped hands overhead to give them shade, and a gentle wind traveled along the road with them, refreshing them as it went by.
It was at the time of evening when the shadows begin to deepen that they came to a clearing in the forest, stretching from the side of the road to the end of a long meadow. Between were fields of wheat, oats, and hay, the later in its highest, richest shade of gold, so that it twinkled as it wrinkled in the breeze. Ten yards from the road stood a short building, made of roughly hewn boards and whatever bricks could be hauled from the city. It was long and narrow, in the middle, with a larger section at either side.
The forest in this area was rather highly elevated, with the meadow sloping down from the road. Through this landscape the ocean could be seen, shining sweetly beyond the wooden barrier. Beer-froth clouds filled the sky, illuminated underneath by the drowning sun. The rigid forms of the forest trees contrasted this heavenly panorama with their earthly roots, and the result was the natural mixture of the romantic and the mathematical. It was, in a word, paradise.
“That is my destination, friend,” said Oren Lorenzo, his fiery mustache bent upwards by his grin. “It is one of the monasteries in my district, and I would be pleased if you would join us here this evening. This is, perhaps, a beautiful place, but the food trumps it nicely. The abbot hails from Italy, and his pasta and bread are unsurpassed. I can taste it even now.” The prior kissed the ends of his fingers and twirled around, excited by the thought of good food amidst the good scenery.
“They must be preparing quite a feast,” Willard replied, “For look, the smoke pours from the building.”
As he said this the smoke became more and more evident, increasing rapidly until it was suddenly replaced by the flames that caused it, moving swiftly to the outside of the building.
“Good heavens above us!” shouted Lorenzo, “The abbey is on fire!”
He dashed off toward the blaze, not heeding Willard’s request that he remain. It would have been better if he had. For at that moment a half dozen horsemen came around from the back of the building. They were dressed in black, with the insignia of Gylain on their shields. With them came a dozen monks, swarming around their burning monastery like ants around a broken ant hill. Before Willard and Horatio were able to get half way to the burning building, Oren Lorenzo was already there, shouting at the horsemen.
“You wretched vermin! I have never witnessed a more hideous, debauched act in my long life – and who can doubt but that the good lord hasn’t either? What is the meaning of this – of setting fire to the house of God? And of those loyal to the country? By Goliath and the Queen of Sheba, who slew him with the braids of bondage!”
The leading horseman reared his steed. “We are soldiers of Gylain,” he answered harshly, “Under orders to punish this house of heathenism for treason to the crown, for plotting to overthrow the king, and for aiding rebel bandits. We act under the law, so step back!”
“A plundering law is worse than anarchy. This is no lawful deed – this is arson and you will be punished.”
“By whom?” laughed the horsemen.
“By me!” roared the prior, his face becoming as red and as fiery as his mustache. He held his staff in the air and swung it at the speaker, knocking him from his saddle. His eyes flashed and he turned to the next in an attempt to repeat the performance, raising his staff to strike. But just as he hurled it toward the horseman, the leader, stretched out on the ground, kicked Lorenzo’s legs from beneath him. He fell out of balance and tumbled to the earth. In an instant the leader was on his feet once more, quickly binding Lorenzo’s wrists.
“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
