King Peter of Monastero was truly a simple man; light-hearted and amicable, he rarely, if ever, got upset, for it was not in his nature. Since Monastero was a relatively peaceful country, most of King Peter’s time was spent playing cards, attending performances, and patronizing festivals. His wife had died some six years ago, when he was only fifty-two, and he had been a widower ever since. The only child that the two had ever had was a boy that they had named Jacob, who was still-born, and the attempt left both the King and Queen shattered at the time.
Despite his tragic experiences, the King usually managed to cope quite well, and when there was a difficult decision to make, he usually had no trouble making it. For this reason, and for his likable, though quirky personality, the people loved him. Never, though, did they suspect that their king might himself be depressed, which, unfortunately, he often was. He thought about his wife and his still-born son and all the things he could have been and could have done but hadn’t. He thought about his people, and all people, and whatever suffering there was in the world, and this too brought him down. At times he would try to ease his depression by viewing one of his favorite performers or by playing a game or even by bird watching, which was one of his favorite hobbies. All too often, though, it didn’t work, and he was stuck in the position from which he had begun.
His depression was slowly creeping upon him now, as he sat at the throne watching a jester known as Sam Sam shoot fire out his mouth. Sam Sam was a good performer, one of the finest in the land in fact, but the King evidently was not impressed. He sat with his chin resting over his hand, his elbow propped atop the arm of the throne, waiting for something to take his mind away. Finally, after Sam Sam had juggled six knives, walked across hot coals, and made a chicken out of a bean, the King said that it was enough.
“You may go,” he said.
Sam Sam quietly picked up his materials and left.
King Peter sighed. If only Evelyn was here, he thought. She would rub his chin and tickle his ear, maybe make him laugh with one of the jokes she had heard when conferring with the dukes. She always knew how to make him happy, how to assuage his thoughts with her humor and good nature.
The king slumped upon his hand. Oh, how he missed her.
Suddenly the door burst open and the king jolted up. In raced one of the palace sentries, trying to walk while running.
“Sire!” he cried, his face red and distraught. “Urgent news has just come in from Sarbury this very moment.”
“Speak it then,” the King returned.
“They have been attacked!” the young man reported.
“By whom?” the King demanded.
“By the Dark Duke, Your Highness!”
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Bang, bang, bang! Bang, bang, bang!
Taylor awoke in a start and jolted out of bed.
Bang, bang, bang! Bang, bang –
He heard the sound of the door opening, then a muffled exchange between Brianna and another, a man. He walked out to see what all the commotion was, and spied, to his astonishment, a man by the name of Lazare, whom he knew from The Grand Legion.
Taylor James rubbed his head.
“Lazare?” he said. “What brings you?”
Lazare looked up at Taylor with a faint grimace.
“Bad news, I’m afraid,” he said, his voice gravely serious. “The King of Belsden has attacked Sarbury. We fear he’ll strike at us next. King Peter has requested your presence at the palace immediately.”
Brianna’s worried eyes turned to Taylor.
“I’ll be there,” he said.
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King Peter had quickly summoned all of his aides and military advisors to the palace. The group included all five dukes, Sir Adams, and the head of the Royal Military Force, Sir Matthew, a dignified man with a black goatee.
Taylor and Robert accompanied Sir Roth, whose carriage was the first to arrive. All nine men stood around the King, waiting for him to say his piece.
“I have bad news,” the King finally began. “Yesterday, our neighbor to the west, Sarbury, was attacked by King Harris of Belsden without warning.” There was no moment of surprise; for each man had already been informed of the events. “We knew,” the King continued, “that he had built-up an army, but we didn’t quite realize how large of an army it actually is until now…In fact, we still do not know for sure, although we do know that it outnumbers our own by a far margin. If King Harris were to wish it, he could most-likely conquer us in a matter of days. So I don’t think it’s necessary to explain to you the implications here. We must build-up our army as fast as possible, which means calling on every able-bodied man that we can find and preparing them to hold our ground in case of attack…Are there any suggestions?”
“We attack them first,” Sir Adams opined.
“They’re too strong,” the King retorted.
“Then they’ll over-run us anyway,” Adams countered. “It’s our only chance.”
“We’re better off on defensive ground,” King Peter noted, forcing Adams to resign. “Plus, I don’t know that we could move that fast.”
“Maybe we can negotiate with King Harris…” the portly Duke of Hollis suggested. His dukedom was the largest, but intellectually he was the smallest.
“I may in fact try,” King Peter replied, “though I wonder whether he could be trusted. It would take time, though, and time we may not have. For all we know, King Harris could be planning our demise at this very moment, or may have planned for it already…”
For a moment all were silent.
“What about the Sarburian Army?” Taylor asked at last.
They all turned to him. That boy again, Sir Adams thought. What does he think gives him the right to converse on matters such as these?
“What about it?” the King asked.
“Well,” said Taylor, “they’re fleeing, are they not?”
“They are,” the King confirmed.
“And where are they going?”
King Peter hadn’t thought much about this. He had been too concerned over the welfare of his own country to concentrate much on such matters.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “To the woods, I suppose, or wherever else they might go to try and save their own hides.”
“Then may I offer this as a suggestion?” Taylor returned. “What if we were to offer aide to the Army of Sarbury by letting them enter into Monastero, under the condition that they join our own army and help us in preventing any further aggression by the Dark Duke?”
Sir Roth almost smiled, and had not the situation been as grim as it was, he most definitely would have. Here was the boy that he had trained and given his military texts, suddenly becoming a man before his very eyes. He was sharp this one, very sharp, and all in the room knew it. Even Robert had to admire his advanced intellect.
The King rubbed his chin.
“How would this be done?” he asked.
“We could send out word through messenger,” Taylor explained, “then open up the border between us and Sarbury just long enough for those interested to get through. We would have to be careful, though; for the Dark Duke may have travel ideas of his own.”
The King’s finger grazed ever more roughly upon his chin. Finally, he spoke:
“It seems logical enough,” he said, “and for now it seems about all we can do.” He turned to Sir Matthew. “See to it.”
The old soldier nodded.
“Thank you,” the King said. “You are all dismissed so that you may see to your military duties.”
Slowly they began to file out, with Taylor and Robert tailing the end.
“Ah, Taylor,” the King called out, causing our young hero to pause in his tracks, “come here a moment, will you?”
Robert nodded and walked out, as Taylor receded back to the King’s throne.
“Yes, Sire?”
The King stood and placed his hands on Taylor’s shoulders. “Y
ou are wise beyond your years,” he said, “and I am grateful to have you.”
Taylor bowed.
“I won’t let you down, Your Highness.”
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Even Courage could sense that something was wrong. The way Taylor rode him, the way he sat – with his body back instead of forward and eager as usual – it told of bad things. But they rode the same route as always, around the green glen and over the hill to the Cooper house, where Tibbie and Brianna sat by the kitchen table waiting.
“Have you heard the news, Father?” Taylor asked upon entering.
Tibbie gave a slow nod of the head.
“Don’t worry,” Taylor said, sensing concern. “I’m sure everything will be all right. The King is a fine and wise man with fine and wise men supporting him. He’ll get us through. Until then, though, I’ll have to be on call.” He turned and started toward his room, but Tibbie’s voice halted him.
“Taylor,” he said, his eyes down upon the table. “Come sit for a moment. Me and your mother have something to tell you…”
Taylor knew the look on his father’s face; it was the same look he got when one of the villagers died; the same look as when business was slow and they would have to make do with less for a while. That look told of important news, and he sat down without question, his eyes focused on those of the little big man.
For a full minute not a word was said, as Tibbie fumbled with his hands atop the table, as if they themselves were struggling for the words.
“What is it?” Taylor asked at last.
Tibbie looked Taylor in the eye for the first time, and Taylor could see that the news was of even greater import than he had imagined – that this look of his father’s was even more intense than that which he was used to.
“Taylor,” Tibbie said, his voice quivering ever so slightly, “for a long time, me and…” He glanced at Brianna, who sat with her eyes focused down upon the table. “Me and…your mother…have been wanting to tell you something…” Again he folded his hands upon the table. “You see, we…it’s…”
“You can say it, Father,” Taylor comforted. “Whatever it is, it’s all right, I’m sure.”
But this only seemed to make Tibbie even more nervous.
“Taylor…” he said, shaking his head, “…I’m not your father.”
Taylor’s eyebrows knitted.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Well,” Tibbie explained, “I mean, I am your father, but – ” He looked at Brianna, who coughed – “I’m not your real father, you see.”
With all the courage he could muster up, Tibbie gradually brought his head up to look Taylor in the eye. To his surprise, the young man was smiling.
“Is that all?” Taylor asked. “I figured that out a long time ago. Let’s face it, we don’t look much alike.”
Tibbie nodded in agreement.
“I’m afraid there’s more, though,” he said.
Taylor looked over at his mother. Her eyes spoke, but there was nothing he could discern from them.
“The Dark Duke,” Tibbie continued. “The Dark Duke who you now are beginning to learn the ways of…” He paused a moment so that Taylor might interject, but he did not. “The Dark Duke has more to do with you than you know, Taylor.”
Taylor felt something in his chest. He didn’t know what it was, but he felt it just as strong a bucket of water slapping him in the face.
“What are you saying?” he asked, leaning his elbows down upon the table.
Tibbie took a deep breath.
“You’ve heard the stories about the Dark Duke?” he asked. “About how he came to be king?”
“I’ve heard,” Taylor replied. “The Queen Beatrice died. And the baby was still-born.”
Tibbie shook his head.
“The baby was not still-born,” he said, smiling ironically. “The baby was not still-born at all.”
Thoughts raged in and out of Taylor’s mind. He could sense ideas springing into his head that had no place there.
“What are you saying?” he muttered.
Tibbie eyed him peculiarly. His eyes seemed to say, Don’t you get it, son? Don’t you get it?
“I’m saying,” Tibbie replied, “that the Queen Beatrice was your mother, young Taylor…and the King Edmund, whom you are the near identical image of, was your father. The Queen Beatrice died the same day that you came into this world – the same day that I found you in a barrel outside of the saloon I was busy getting drunk in.” Tibbie could see the confusion in Taylor’s face. “A little baby,” he said, “crying…as soldiers rushed past looking for something…Looking for it, to be sure. But they did not find it.”
Taylor’s face lost all expression. For a few seconds he stared blankly into the air, his mind filled with a terrible void. Finally, flabbergasted, he leaned back and looked over at Brianna. Her eyes confirmed his worst fears. She pulled a cloth from beneath the table.
“This is the cloth that we found you in, Taylor,” she explained, “when you were just a little baby. A newborn.”
Taylor took the cloth from her hand and examined it. It was still stained with the blood of his birth. He felt the fine satin, then turned it around to view the other side. There was a gold-emblazoned picture of two opposite-facing lions with a crown behind them: the symbol of the royal family!
“I…I…” Taylor gasped.
The cloth dropped from his hands.
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Later, when he looked into her eyes before departing, he thought about telling her. But what good would it do? It meant nothing to their love, and still the knowledge could put her in danger. It was better not to tell, to forget his past in her eyes. And in her eyes he could forget all.
The eyes brought him in, and the kiss Rosemarie would give he would feel for many days after.
Chapter 12
An Uprising