same actions. But why must
GYLAIN [in a whisper]: To hell with destiny – to hell with me!
Chapter 20
Meanwhile, far below the tower where these things were taking place, something else of importance was happening. The dungeon occupied the same tower as the rooms above, though it was as far below the ground as they were above it.
There was a layer of grime and mold along the walls that obscured the stones and left only a black, formless mass in their stead. Since it was a continuation of the massive stone tower above, the dungeon was circular, and only a narrow stairway led from level to level, cell to cell. It came down through the middle of each room, while the prisoners were chained to the sides. There were doors between these levels: barred, not solid.
The last of these levels was called the Devil’s Door, because no one in it ever survived to be released. To the superstitious prisoners, this was the devil’s doing – for those in the bottommost cell did not simply die, but rather, disappeared. Whenever a prisoner was released, he first passed through each of the cells above his own, traveling up the central, winding stairway. Those prisoners in the Devil’s Door never passed upwards again, whether living or dead.
At this particular time the only prisoners kept in the lowest cell were rebels. It was their special punishment to be subjected to such horrible conditions. The room itself was circular, as were the others. On one side the stairway came down, and on the opposite there was a statue of a strong, thick-bearded man holding a golden sword, with intricate pictures carved into its blade and handle. In his hands he held two rings, to which the chains of the prisoners were connected.
“There never was a more loyal citizen of Atilta than myself,” said the first prisoner, in his heavy French accent. “To charge me with treason is most preposterous; for I was, at the time of my arrest, actively serving my country.”
“Yes, but is that country Atilta or France?” boomed the other. “I would chance that your French accent is heavier than my mother, may she rest in peace.” The speaker’s face was covered by a lightning bolt mustache, which twisted when he spoke as if it were another feature of his face. Some say that it was.
Vahan Lee, the first prisoner, was distracted by the flopping mustache of the second, Oren Lorenzo, and could only manage to mutter, half to himself, “Surely, that is not so.”
“If it is not, then I wish I may be hanged.”
“Be careful what you wish for, friend.”
The last remark was made by a scrunched, small-boned old man who had come quietly into the room while the prisoners were conversing.
“By Saint Simon, the mother of Jesus!” exclaimed Lorenzo, “If it isn’t Jack Clifford! How can it be? In the flesh?”
“Yes, in the flesh. Or rather, half out of it, for age has besieged my body. I do believe that I am quite as old as Saint Simon, though I doubt he is the mother of Jesus. Lorenzo, you could be a Calvinist, for all of your mistaken doctrine. What do you know of your companion?” and he looked at Vahan Lee.
“Nothing, particularly, but that he is here. And there are no friends of Gylain this deep.”
“Yes, of course. I forget the others are afraid of the Devil’s Door,” he chuckled.
Vahan answered Clifford’s questions about him: “To the Plantagenets, of Atilta and of France, is my loyalty given.”
“The latter being your home country? Why do they not send help?” Jack Clifford questioned.
“In body it is my homeland, yet not in spirit. As for the rest, I am not sure, but perhaps they are scouting the situation.”
“Is that so, Thomas Vahanlee?” replied the old man Clifford.
Vahan’s leg leapt up – though his body did not follow – at the surprise of hearing his true name spoken, for he had not given it to the guards.
The old man turned to the other prisoner and said, “He is safe, Lorenzo, old friend. I was just with Alfonzo of Melborough, and he praised him highly to me, asking me to see to him.”
“Alfonzo is here? By the devil’s mother and the Queen of Saxony!” Oren Lorenzo jumped to his feet as he said this, forgetting the chain around his wrist, which pulled him back sharply to the ground and made him sit once more.
“Be careful,” laughed Clifford, “And mind your curses, for every idle and useless word will be judged we are told, dear prior. And do you not know that the devil’s mother and the Queen of Saxony are one and the same? But yes, Alfonzo was taken.”
“What woe is this!” moaned the other, “Has hope deserted us after all these years?”
“No, hope has just returned, old partisan.”
“I cannot see how.”
“The king has returned!”
Oren Lorenzo was once more so filled with passion that he leapt to his feet, and once more the chain pulled him back to the stone floor with a hollow thud.
“By Daniel’s staff and Moses in the Lion’s Den!”
“There is hope, my friends. Yet I must go and work on your escape.”
“There is a way safely out of this dungeon?” Lorenzo asked. “But I would not have you risk your cover as the court jester on my account. I can scare away the devil, friend, so there is nothing to fear about that matter. Have I not walked half a day with him myself? Even he has had enough of Gylain!” Oren did the sign of the cross and muttered holy things to himself. “He scared the hell out of those soldiers, crying ‘Homeward bound!’ all the way, and the fools ran like tomorrow was today, and yesterday was lost two weeks back.”
Even the court jester could not top this outburst by the red faced, red mustached Lorenzo. So he answered calmly and soberly:
“Have no fears about my cover,” he said, “For there is a way out of this dungeon, and not past the guards. Indeed, you are chained to it – the statue is the door to a secret passage!”
Oren once more leapt to his feet, and again he was thrown to the floor.
“Let us be gone, then. The countryside needs revived. There is work to be done!”
Lorenzo’s mind was too focused to have any memory of what he had just done. He leapt up again, and was pulled sharply back.
“There is a – uh – slight obstacle,” muttered Clifford.
“Then out with it, for there is no time left unused within my pockets. We are hard pressed.”
“I have lost the key.”
“By Peter’s wife and Pottifer’s denial, what else can equal the distress caused by a single person!”
There were, of course, many more oaths that flowed from the mouth of Oren Lorenzo, priest and rebel soldier, after he learned of this, but it would not be useful to record them here. Let it suffice to say that the three loyal souls parted with hope and encouragement, along with a fascination with the statue for one; very sore wrists and bottom for another; and a stinging inward rebuke to remember where it was he had put the key, for the third.
Chapter 21
Ivona traveled five days through the forest, avoiding the roads for fear of being discovered – although she still wore the stolen monk’s frock. For in the wilderness, men would have different ideas with a crusty hermit than a young enchantress. She gruffed her voice until she seemed an old man, and padded the frock to conceal her form. She traveled as a hermit, and a hermit she became. The quiver was strapped to her back and the sword to her waist, and she held the bow in readiness for an ambush. Such was the way of the forest.
At this time, it was evening and the sun had already retreated from the forest floor, although the canopy still burned. The larger animals were coming out, and Ivona crept along from tree to tree, concealing herself beneath their gnarled roots as she began her nightly hunt. After a moment she came to a stream, and the roots of a nearby tree were exposed, spread like toes several feet above the ground. There was a crevice between them at one point,
