and inexperienced. Influence comes with strength, as does morality. He has nothing in Europe.”
“My lord, I fought him in the forest. He was mighty, and even the trees respected him. I was only able to overcome him when his comrades were defeated and he surrounded.”
“Perhaps; we will see before long. But do what you will: I leave the defenses to you.”
“Very well; we will not be vulnerable. Yet Alfonzo claims he cannot legally be moved without your permission, as he is a prisoner of the crown.”
“Do you now care for legalities, or is it that you do not wish to anger me again? Have I grown so soft, Jonathan? Move them to the Devil’s Door with a heavy guard. Old Lucifer himself will not be able to take them alive.”
“Yes, my lord. As for the castle defenses, I will put men heavily in this hall and on the outer walls, leaving the inner courtyard without more than a watch. They can only sneak in, so we must stop them before they can enter.”
“Any word from the Elite Guards?”
“They seem to have disappeared. It is my belief, however, that they went into the forest after they executed Clifford, as is their wont – to chase the rebels.”
“They will be sorely missed. You may go now, Montague.”
“Farewell, my lord.” Montague bowed once more and left the hall. The servants avoided his fiery eyes as he passed them with his deliberate stride.
Gylain remained silently on his throne for a few moments, playing with his beard. He was broken from his reverie only by the sound of bold, heavy footsteps approaching the raised dais on which his throne stood. He turned his head to cry out at whoever disturbed him. Yet when he saw who it was, he said nothing.
“Yes, Gylain. It is I.”
The speaker was a swarthy man in late middle age, with a thick beard, uncombed hair, and a ghastly scar running down the side of his weather-beaten face. He was dressed in rags, bleeding steadily from the stomach, and still bound with iron shackles on the wrists and ankles. His figure was frightening and his disposition evil, though strictly controlled by the dictates of reason. His laugh was thunder, ringing out across the Great Hall like a flood in the desert.
Gylain almost jumped from his throne.
“Nicholas Montague, you have returned at last.”
“Yes, Gylain: in flesh.”
“And in blood,” Gylain pointed to his bleeding.
“Pain is necessary, death is forever.”
“How true. But what can this mean, Nicholas? That William has returned as well?”
“Yes: I barely escaped, while the others were caught and hung in the forest.”
“They were worthless, anyhow.”
“Yes, but suffering endears men to one another.”
“Forget them, for we have work to do. The arrival of the Admiral is unexpected, yet not uninvited. It is now the end with which we struggle, but let the deluge come, I say: of blood and water. This is the time when God’s tyranny will be overthrown.”
Nicholas smiled with half his mouth and frowned with the other. His eyes opened for an instant, and the flames of revenge which burned within his head leapt out. He slammed his clenched fist into the heavy oak table beside him, unable to control himself. It was only by inflicting pain upon himself that he could control the intense passion which drove him, and retain the mental pedantry which he worshiped. The table cracked loudly, split in two, and fell to the floor.
“I have heard that Alfonzo is captured.”
“By your brother,” Gylain answered.
“Then I will go to him, and rebuke William’s mockings.”
“You will beat him?”
“No,” he paused. “I will do more than that. Where is Jonathan?”
Chapter 26
Meanwhile, Alfonzo was no longer bed-ridden from his severe beating, and was steadily improving. He was still weak, however, and sat across from the window. Celestine joined him, her aging face still retaining the comeliness it had known in youth. This, coupled with the poignant maturity age had given her, made her both wise and beautiful; a siren in beauty, an angel in wisdom. No words passed between them and none were needed. Alfonzo was a patient man, but the present circumstances stretched him to weakness. He could sit for only a few moments before he found himself wandering to the window again, to search the horizon for signals.
Once more he repeated his trip to the window, Celestine watching him closely with overflowing eyes.
“Come quickly, my love!” he cried, “There is a signal from the edge of the forest.”
Celestine arose and ran to him in excitement. He was not mistaken, for there, twenty yards past the wall, rose a puff of smoke. Yet it was not the smoke that was the signal: the rebels were too wary for such a thing. Rather, there was a flashing light – a mirror reflecting the sun – pulsating a hundred yards to the left of the smoke.
“Can you understand them?” she asked.
“Yes, it is from Blaine. Clifford made it safely to the city, almost: he says Clifford was captured by the Elite Guard, but then rescued by,” he paused to wait the signals, “The king and Ivona Milada!” Alfonzo could not look away from the flashing light, for fear of missing the message, but Celestine could see the excitement that flashed across his face.
“They are working on our escape, and hope it will be soon. We should try to be transferred to the Devil’s Door; or, if that is not possible, to Gylain’s quarters and take the passage to the anteroom behind his throne, shortly after we see the Queen of Saxony arriving.”
“What have they to do with her?” Celestine asked, casting her face to the floor as if in shame.
“I do not know, but we must trust them. Blaine can see what we cannot.”
“Ivona is safe now?”
“Yes, though I am uncertain of her. She was a wise counselor to her father, and an anchor amidst passions. She symbolized the cause of the rebellion. But now that Milada’s life is endangered by traitors, she is not there to protect him. Yet I know why she fled, and she is justified.”
“Love is a powerful thing, dear Alfonzo, of man or of God. It is not to be despised.”
“No, nor even the love of woman.” He held her close and kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Celestine, time does not dampen emotions, as I feared. I love you only more.”
“No, time does not bury passion,” rang out a thick voice from the doorway. “For my hatred of you has only grown more intense as the years pass, Alfonzo.”
Alfonzo turned, his figure silhouetted against the window, his stature without sign of weakness.
“Nicholas Montague, you have returned. But love conquers hate, and righteousness wickedness.”
Alfonzo approached the swarthy ruffian with outstretched arms. Nicholas let him come until he was but an arm’s length away. Then he knocked him over the head with the broadside of his sword. Alfonzo fell limply to the ground.
At that moment, a powerful voice yelled to the guards outside the door, “Who gave you permission enter their prison?”
“I did, my brother,” cried Nicholas.
“What? Can it be possible? Nicholas, my long lost brother!”
“Yes, little John. You are well?”
“As good as ever,” Jonathan Montague walked into the room and embraced his brother.
They were affable and friendly. But then Jonathan saw Alfonzo stretched out on the floor. He turned sour, his countenance drowned in hatred. He gave the rebel’s limp body a forceful kick.
“I see you have found my plaything. Will we torture him?” Jonathan laughed to his brother, in high spirits once more.
“Yes, of course, little one. It will be just like the old days.”
“Ah, yes, the old days. Guards, carry him to the game room for us.” Jonathan turned once more to his older brother, “If only father could see us now. I wonder what has happened to him.”
