he will not care.”
“There are many ends.”
“But this will be the end of Atilta, its final battle. I have seen it in my dreams, and what God has dictated no man can turn aside.”
De Casanova replaced his eyes to the window and Gylain paced the floor.
“The end is dictated, de Casanova, and our actions are without consequence. Evil is weakness, and strength righteousness. Thus God is the creator of evil, because it can exist only under his own strength. We are made only to fuel his pride: the contrast, the lone tree that stands against the sunset to give it depth
The air grew heavy. And it was not lightened by the appearance of Jonathan Montague, who at that moment entered the room. His countenance was drenched in sweat and sorrow, his eyes in despair.
“I have seen my brother,” he said without waiting, “I have seen him just now.”
Gylain leapt to action. “He has returned? Where is he and what news does he bring?”
“No, he has not returned and I fear he never will. I have seen him in a vision,” and Montague’s voice was a rainstorm.
“You have come to speak, so speak,” Gylain said.
“He came to me as I washed, having just returned from patrol. I stood by the water bowl and he appeared as a ghost across the room.
“‘Brother, put your finger into the water, and then upon my lips.’
“‘Why only a finger, when you may have it all,’ and I picked up the bowl as if to bring it to him.
“But he commanded me to stop, ‘Do this only for me, brother. Promise me you will do whatever I ask, lest you follow me where I have gone.’
“‘Am I not your brother? When have you needed my promise?’
“‘This is something more than I have asked before. I pray it will be the last I ever see or speak to you.’
“‘You startle me, brother. What is it?’
“‘Repent!’
“‘Of what, my brother? Only ask and it is done.’
“‘Repent!’
“‘My brother, I have done no wrong. Tell me and it will be done.’
“‘Repent!’
“‘How can I answer you, but that I cannot repent of what I have not done.’
“‘Repent! For you have forsaken the ways of God!’
“‘I cannot! Do you not know me, what I have done?’
“He said nothing, but screamed in agony, then disappeared. I came to you at once.”
“And what will you do?” Gylain asked.
Still shaken, Jonathan Montague answered, “I will wait for my brother’s return and ask him. It must have been a delusion.”
“Those who do not have faith in their heart will not have faith in their eyes,” Gylain whispered.
“I cannot hear you,” Montague said.
But Gylain could not answer, for at that very moment a page stomped noisily into the room.
“My lord, I have a message!” the young man said.
“From whom,” and Gylain gave a solemn countenance.
“Peter, the Captain of the Guards.”
“I know who he is,” Gylain said. “But what is his message? Out with it.”
“The queen of Saxony is not to be found.”
“Very well, begone,” and the page hurried out of the room in fear, lest the three men send him on a dangerous mission. When he was gone, Gylain continued, “It is as I thought. Damn those patient fools.”
“But what will we do?” and de Casanova regained his zeal in the presence of action. “Will we trust to fate, to see what course has been planned for us?”
“You learn,” Gylain sighed at the jest. “We will see what is sent.”
“Look!” Montague cried at that instant, “Look: a battle fleet is coming into the bay. Its rear extends beyond my view. They fly the colors of the Three Kingdoms.”
“So it is!” Gylain laughed, “Lyndon has joined our banner, as has victory. By fate’s declaration, we sail today – for war and for revenge!”
Chapter 76
The King of France leaned against the window sill, his elbows bent and his arms folded. He wore a majestic cloak over his clothing and a simple golden crown on his head that named him the king. His hair was a twilight sun – gray and grasping – his face ruddy, his hands womanly, and his stature shapely, though in a manner that denotes an indulgent diet.
The room was small and not as grand as others in the palace at Bordeaux, for it was the king’s private study on the second floor of the western wall. A secret passage connected it to his bedchamber. Since few servants but Vahan and his captain of the guards knew of its existence, he was not disturbed. Through the windows could be seen the streets; the passers-by could be observed in detail. Behind him – in the center of the room – stood a square table, at which Vahan Lee was looking over a pile of papers. The whole palace was in stone, but here it was covered again by maple boards and that by an ornate rug from Istanbul. In all, the study was made up with inviting – if expensive – furnishings.
“What will it be?” the king asked gaily, and his tone was strangely carefree for an old king. “What will I have for dessert, blond or brunette? My tongue is cleared for action, yet I cannot decide. The day is pleasant, the sun radiant, the sky clear – and the mood is set for blond. But in the distance storms approach and the sky darkens – and the mood is set for brunette. With such decisions, I do not now how I manage to stay above it all,” and he sighed, though in a pleasant manner.
“I should say there will be no dessert for your majesty tonight,” and Vahan’s voice ran out with a serious undertow, washing away the light-hearted mood. When in his position, Vahan was not unconscious of his power; and when he knew of it, he did not let it idly sit.
“No dessert? But my health will suffer from such deprivations.”
“I say only this, my lord: there is war ahead. And war is won by hungry men.”
“Perhaps, since we make war, not love. But what trouble it is to be king! I am burdened with decisions and turmoil; without you I would simply dry up and be gone. If only I were someone else.” He sighed. “I sometimes wonder how a tailor makes love. His mind is clear from troubles and his time from burdensome tasks. He must have a good time of it!” He returned his eyes to the window. “I wish I were a tailor.”
“But, my lord, tailors make love but once or twice a lifetime,” and Vahan did not look up from his business.
“Truly? That is the strange, for were I in their position I would make it every day, with no responsibilities hanging over me to keep me dry. I wonder why they do not.”
“Because they cannot afford it.”
“Cannot afford it? I did not mean with the harlots, but with their wives! Truly Vahan, you have such odd ideas on these matters.” He laughed, “Cannot afford it!”
“I insist they cannot,” Vahan grew warm, “For children are formed in the act, and children are expensive. The tailors are fined too heavily to raise children. Thus, they cannot make love. If they do, they must work harder to support them, and so have no more time for it.”
“An abomination,” cried the king. “What scoundrel devised this love making fine? I will have it out with him, to be sure! The audacity!”
“Your majesty, it has been since there were records.”
“I should think not, my dear Vahan, for I have never before heard of it. To fine a tailor’s love making! That is too far, indeed, for a government’s arm to reach.”
“It is not called the love making fine, sire, and it is not for merely tailors.”
“For more than tailors? You mean, it is for all citizens? What a horrid idea! It is no wonder they seem always
