Vahan smiled to himself.
“Haven’t you a serious thought, Vahan?”
“I do, I do – as they say,” and he chuckled like an old rabbit.
“Of course,” Willard replied. “I will go see to her and Horatio.”
“We will soon reach the harbor, for I can see the coast even now. I will send word when we enter.”
“Very well.” Willard went below deck, leaving Vahan Lee to enjoy the solitude.
Below deck, the cutter was rather spacious – at least it seemed so, for besides the four passengers there were only four crewmen. The two cabins were given to the four: one to Willard and Vahan, and the other to Horatio and Ivona. A narrow stairway led down from the deck and opened into a hallway that went in either direction: in the front were the crew and cargo, and in the rear the passengers. Willard took the rear hallway – walking slowly, for it was lit by only a single, swaying lantern – and when he reached Ivona’s cabin, he tapped his finger against it. A deep grunt came from the other side, telling him to enter, and he opened the door to see Horatio standing before him. Horatio gave him a half-human grin and returned to the bed where he was sitting. His time as a monk had somehow imparted to him the demeanor of a monk.
Ivona sat in the corner, reading an ancient leather-bound tome. As Willard entered, she turned to him with a slight smile, her every feature perfectly under her control. Her emerald eyes contrasted with her midnight hair, and together the two left her face invisible – though it was lovely, one could not look beyond her eyes. She wore a dark cloak like the others, but it could not hide the charms of her person.
“Have we reached Bordeaux?” she asked as her eyes returned to the tome.
“No, though it is in sight. I came to see if you were well.”
“I am, not least because I have rediscovered sleep. It has been too long.”
“The ground is not the best of bedfellows,” he smiled.
“Have you known any other?” and she laughed, though without reason. Still, beauty cannot be considered foolish and Willard laughed with her. “However,” she continued, “I slept on the ground. Horatio took the bed: it seems you have made a man of him.”
“That he enjoyed luxury, or that he put himself first?”
“The former, for I insisted. I have become used to a hard bed and now it has a certain fondness for me. It is youth and freedom, since it has no boundaries; and it is always new, since no matter which way you lay you will awake somewhere else. Besides, I do not think men are selfish. I have known you, have I not?”
“Am I selfless?”
She looked at him closely. “Do you think otherwise? I have seen you risk death for a man of a day’s acquaintance.”
“Perhaps I only enjoy the adventure, or make love with death?”
“No,” she continued looking at him, “No, for I was there, and I saw. You are the king now and you were then as well, even before you knew it. You were predestined for your place, as I was to mine.”
“Which is?” He paused. “A king must have a queen.”
“And you will find one,” she returned to her book, though she did not read. “I am betrothed to another king, and he is a jealous God.”
They were silent, having reached an impasse in their insinuations which neither dared to confront. Horatio laid on the bed. Willard took a seat beside him. If the bear bore himself like a man, Willard was still the master and he the beast. Yet even among men it is the same with kings. After a moment, Ivona closed the book and placed it on the table beside her.
“I have heard that there is a certain man in France,” she began, “Who we may come across before we return home. What do you know of de Casanova?”
Willard returned to his feet and paced to the side of the cabin. “You have heard of de Casanova, then?”
“Could I not have? I am Lord Milada’s daughter.”
“And so you know he is in France,” Willard hesitated. “I have been warned about him, first by de Garcia, then by Vahan Lee.”
“Then let me add my warning,” and she lowered her head to hide her face.
“You know what he has done? I have not heard, except that he is the agent of the King of Hibernia, even as the Montague brothers are the agents of Gylain. Beyond that, no one would speak, but rather lower their heads as you have done, assuring me he is debased.”
“Does that not suffice?”
“Not for a king.”
Ivona’s lip trembled slightly, and even her composure could not keep a tear from escaping her eyes and fleeing down her cheek. “He did many things in Hibernia.”
“But I am not Hibernian,” Willard insisted. “I have heard that he helped Gylain in the revolt, but beyond that I cannot gather. I should know, if I am to come across him.”
“He is the man who planned the murder of my mother.” She trembled, not in wrath but in terror – in fear of the terrible punishment that God would inflict on him. Such was her compassion. Such was her revenge.
Willard put his hand on her shoulder. It was not the touch of a friend or of a lover, but of a king. She raised her head again and continued her story:
“When Gylain took power, the king’s loyal followers were assassinated or weakened. My father was too powerful to be harmed personally, but my mother was away when news of the revolt came. De Casanova saw his chance and had a great warrior sent to dispatch her. When my father heard what had happened, he broke and did as Gylain wanted. We retreated to the Western Marches, given us by Gylain as a haven, far from the center of power. But look at us, Willard: for you comfort me for the loss of my mother, while you lost both parents in the same insurrection. Does no one comfort you?”
“I am the king,” he answered. “There is no comfort for a king.”
“I would comfort you,” she whispered, without realizing what she said. When she heard herself, she grabbed the book and pretended to read. But she could not; she was trembling that she said what she had not wanted to say. “I will follow only God,” she whispered, as if she could sermonize herself to piety. “The love of men is not what I desire.”
Willard, meanwhile, stood by with a closed countenance. She looked up. For a moment their eyes held a secret rendezvous.
“As a friend,” she said in monotone, “As a friend; I could not love a man.”
At that moment, Vahan Lee entered.
“We have arrived, my friends,” he said. “Do not doubt my loyalty to Atilta, your majesty, for what I keep to myself I do only for your best interest. It is better that you be unknown in France, or else everyone will know of your journey to the Cervennes mountains. Above all, court politics could be hindered if you did not see the king first, yet you have no time to see him. So we must keep your identity from being known. As for the court, I will handle them.”
“You have served us well in this,” Willard said, “And your advice will be followed.”
With that, the party went above deck. The sun was now full in the sky and the waters within the harbor were smooth. Triremes and galleons – after both the Phoenician and Roman models – filled the docks. Their small cutter received little attention. Vahan led them to a longboat that was prepared for their departure and in five minutes they were ashore, landing opposite a long, low building with an entrance in both the harbor and the city. It was the customs house.
“We are safe in France,” Vahan said, “But Bordeaux is still dangerous. Are you armed?”
“I have the sword of my fathers at my side and their armor beneath my cloak,” said Willard, and he lifted his hood to show the gold helmet that covered his head.
“I have my bow and arrows,” Ivona said. “I need nothing more.”
Horatio growled lowly and showed his gigantic claws.
“Then we depart.”
With that, they entered the building. Barrels and crates lined the walls and merchants were set up in small booths to deal in pre-customs merchandise: some had fish, others jewelery, and another wines – or honey of grapes. It only differed from other markets of the day in that it was deathly silent.
Vahan passed the merchants without stopping and went directly to a great desk in the center of the room, fifty yards from either door. A stuffy young magistrate sat behind it, wearing an abominable, bureaucratic wig. He,
