“We are patient men, Milada,” said the brown Fardy. “But there is a time for peace and a time for rising up. It cannot always be one or the other.”
“Perhaps,” suggested the black Fardy, “Perhaps we should prove our patience before we preach it. Remove the plank from our own eyes, so to say.”
“Prove before we preach? By my mother’s left arm! Brother, what sort of a humble, forbearing remark was that? Am I to understand that you would feign to question your own patience? Well, then, let me prove it to you. Only be glad that I have no plank in my eye, or else I would pull it and use it as an instrument of learning upon your head,” and the blond Fardy grabbed an ancient, handwritten manuscript from the bookshelf beside him and struck his black brother firmly on the head.
Upon seeing this, the brown Fardy’s eyes opened wide and he leapt to his feet.
“The Fardys are a virtuous bunch,” he said, “My brother here showing his patience, and my brother there showing his zeal. Yet I would count myself a sinner, if I did not step forward and protect the patience of my brother.”
“You will do no such thing, or else someone might think you impatient! I strike him that he may see his own patience, his own superior cheek-turning morals. Perhaps it is best that I show you your patience as well!” The blond Fardy gave his brown-haired relative a quick smack with the ancient manuscript.
“By the hand that rests on my mother’s left arm! I will not let you show yourself impatient while showing me patient. For that would make me your superior, and I will not suffer myself to harbor such pride!” The brown-haired Fardy returned his brother’s blow with a punch to the face that knocked him backwards onto the floor with a resounding thud.
“By the dainty mole that rests upon the hand that rests upon my mother’s left arm! I will not allow you to put yourself last here on earth, for I know as well as any that
Just then, Milada was aroused from his melancholy meditations and looked across the room to where the Fardy brothers were quarreling. As he opened his mouth to bid them cease, the book crashed squarely into his nose and tumbled down to his lap. It landed open, facing upward. The impact brought him to the alert, and, as he regained his composure, he looked down at the book. It was open to a page that held a sketch of the Kings Plantagenet of many generations ago, with this text written beneath it:
In ancient times, the Plantagenets were rulers of the Holy Roman Empire. As it broke apart, they moved their capital to France, and from there to Atilta. Their purest line reigns there, and they have reigned with mercy and compassion. The people love them dearly.
Upon reading this, Milada was filled with rage at the thought of the king’s murder. He thought of his duty to the people of Atilta and to history. The Fardy brothers saw the resolve written on his face and hoped to keep him engaged; the blond Fardy was the first to speak.
“Perhaps it is time to consult on the situation of the rebellion, Milada?”
“Yes, it is time,” he answered. “How are things in Eden and in the forest?”
“Jonathan Montague is about in the forest, kidnapping and attacking. The Queen of Saxony will arrive in Eden within the week, and the policy of France is soon to be decided. Above all, there are traitors among us. The end is coming, whether or not we are ready for it.”
“The nobles are neutral,” Milada said. “My trip found them inclined to the rebellion, because of Gylain’s increasing tyranny. We would do better with them on our side, but, as long as they are not for Gylain, we can survive. If we can make them question Gylain’s strength with a victory – more symbolic than strategic – we can count on their help. But if we fail to move forward in the coming weeks, they will commit to his banner.”
“Then our hope lies in Eden. If only we were there to help our comrades.”
“And yet we are not, brother. So let us be patient with our friend Milada, and keep guard over him – for if harm comes to him, all is lost as well.”
“True, my brother, but do you think that I would not be patient?”
“I said no such thing. You, above all others, are clothed with gentleness and self-control,” said the brown- haired Fardy.
“Once again, you put others before yourself, brother, and I will not allow it! If I am more peaceful than you, you must be one brute of a man.” He struck his brother across the face.
“My conscience will not allow me to allow you to put yourself down in such a manner, brother. Do not take this personally, for it must be done,” and the brown brother returned the blow heavily.
By this time, both the blond and brown Fardys had arisen from their chairs and were facing each other. There was but one stairway leading to the second floor, a stone stairway that wound around the outside of the castle. The glass panels behind the bookshelves overlooked this stair.
Once the brown brother defied his blond kin to show himself less self-controlled, the latter prepared to show that he was, indeed, far his inferior in that regard. The black Fardy, always desirous of a peaceful solution, jumped from his chair to his brown brother’s side. Yet just as he did so, the blond Fardy reached down and pulled the rug from beneath them. The two brothers flew backwards and crashed into one of the bookshelves. It tilted precariously backward, then wobbled three times. It slowed slightly, until it became evident the shelf would not fall through the wall. The blond Fardy, however, feeling he had proved his inferiority, leapt forward to help his brothers. He tripped on one of the chairs as he came, falling headlong into the shelf. The added force was too strong: with a final wobble, it crashed through the glass behind it and onto the stairway below.
“Look out below!” cried the brown Fardy. But it was too late.
“They are throwing shelves at us!” roared out the voice of Hismoni, the captain of the guards.
A resounding crash was heard, as the shelves hit the stone stairway. A horrible scream followed: someone had come between the shelves and the stair.
The Fardy brothers rose and peered over the edge for a second, before chorusing in a hoarse whisper, “Dear God! What have we done!”
Chapter 30
An hour before this, there had been a clandestine meeting in the basement of the castle, in a room used as an armory. Twelve men were present, among them Hismoni, the captain of Milada’s guard; Thurston, Selmar, and Fritz of Alfonzo’s band, and several of the soldiers under Hismoni. Noticeably absent was Osbert.
“Now is the time, gentlemen,” said Hismoni, “The hour draws near.”
“Yes, when darkness falls, so will our lord,” added Thurston.
“He is not my lord,” Selmar said, “I serve only Gylain and I will not call that fool Alfonzo master any longer, in truth or in deception. The game is up.”
“But when do we get our reward?” Fritz asked a cloaked man who sat on a stool in the corner. His face was shrouded by the shadows of the low-burning candles.
“You will be paid,” answered the spy, “When my master receives Milada’s severed head. For the heads of any of the Fardy brothers that are taken, the price will be doubled.”
Hismoni rose to his feet. “What treachery is this? Are we to carry the heads through the forest, without a strong guard? If Alfonzo finds us it will mark our deaths, to be sure.”
“An assassin fears assassination, and a mercenary fears the same. If your party is not a strong enough guard, then you will have proved yourselves too weak for my master’s service. Besides, Alfonzo is this very moment deep in the dungeons of Castle Plantagenet.”
“Can it be?” Fritz exclaimed, “That he has finally been captured? Woe be unto us!”
“Bind your tongue, Fritz,” said Selmar, “It was his fate, and it is ours to make our fortune in his downfall. Do you still have a conscience? Of what are you afraid, of God or of man? Of God there can be no fear, for do not his self-proclaimed servants lead the way of wickedness? Of men, there is only Gylain to be feared.”
Thurston sat down beside his doubting companion, “Fritz, do not repent now, for your judgment will still come, but your reward will not – you will lose what you had before as well as what is yet to come. Think of the seeds we have sown. Think of poor Casper, who was chosen by yourself to take the blame for our actions. Do you not remember that it was you who soiled his boots that fateful night? He was innocent and still he lost his head. Blood is already upon your hands; it can only be washed off by more blood. Such is the way of the sword.”
“Perhaps you are right,” Fritz acquiesced, and he spoke against the plan no more. Such is the way of man,
