“Yet none are brought to paradise by their own works, but only by the works of another. The wedding feast is prepared and he awaits only the arrival of his guests.”
“If none are deserving, then why are not the evil invited as well? If it is truly not based on works, then the devil has as much chance as the pope.”
“All are invited, but few are chosen.”
“A change of words, but not of meaning.” Cybele continued in a gentler voice, “And you are one of the chosen? I am glad your life has been so blessed, thus far. But what of your husband, or have you not chosen him?”
“He knows why I have come, as do you.”
“I see: you wish to turn me to your side, and have my armies behind your walls?”
“I do not care for your armies, only for you. Your armies are made of men, and to be loved as such. But as armies they are mere drones of darkness, and as their leader you are no different. But I come to you as a sister and a woman, not as a diplomat.”
Cybele released herself into her chair. It was dark outside, since the sun was no longer high enough to shine over the sides of the Marin to the central courtyard. Celestine sat in the chair opposite Cybele. Her hair was as black as Cybele’s was white. Though their faces were formed the same, their expressions were different: the one content without power, the other lusting for more. Celestine’s features were loosely held together, her mouth almost open and her cheeks relaxed. Her skin was not as fair as Cybele’s – nor as young – but her age gave it a pleasant texture. It was beautiful, and the difference between them was that between a lake in full calm and lake rippled by a slight breeze. In either lake, the water is equally pure.
“You misjudge mother,” Celestine said at last, almost in a whisper. “She was an angel.”
“The finest angels make the cruelest demons,” and Cybele smiled slowly, her lips rising until they parted.
“Yet still they give witness to the light, if only by contrast. Mother was no demon.”
“She sat in front of father as he was strapped to the block and beaten. Gylain scourged him with the flail and she with her loveless eyes. Tell me, which was crueler?” Cybele grew more animated.
“Which was more loving?”
“So you play the fool? Then I have only to prove your foolishness to you? We will see how it is soon enough. Godfrey, enter!” A tall man came in from the bridge, three others following.
“Your majesty,” he bowed.
“Chain her to the block.” The men obeyed. They took Celestine by the arms and led her to the bridge. Under Cybele’s direction, some took a bench from the wall and transformed it into a whipping block. The others chained Celestine, her arms in front and her back undefended. Yet she did not resist. Cybele took a seat directly before her, holding her lips tightly together.
“You can do what you wish,” Celestine said, “For I will not resist one whom I love.”
“Then you are a fool. Who will save you, fate?”
“I name it God and call him my father. But yes, that is who will deliver me.”
“Fate! You are as foolish as Gylain! If fate is so strong, then let it rescue you.”
“If you challenge God, he will not be mocked.”
“Indeed?” and she looked about the bridge, her eyes lighting upon a portrait of the Fardy brothers, the Marin’s previous owners. “Indeed! Then let your God rescue you, and do so through the Fardy brothers.”
“Very well, I have faith that he will do so.”
“Begin the whipping!” Cybele cried, her face a stormy sea.
They began, using a leather strap from the bench.
“Where is fate, now?” Cybele laughed.
“Where it has always been.”
“On its way, you mean? Foolish woman! Harder men, for she does not yet cry.”
“God will redeem me: I have faith.”
“Faith is wasted on a God who does not exist.”
“If not he, than why we? I will be delivered.”
“You amuse me, Celestine!” Cybele laughed in her throat.
She began to say something else, but her words were left to rot in her mouth. For, just at that moment, the door was kicked open and several men charged into the room with drawn swords in their hands.
“The devil!” their leader cried. “We have come, fair Celestine, and will not leave you to your torturers! Forward, brothers, forward, and let us end the curse of Saxony forever!”
Chapter 63
“Fear not, Celestine: we have come to deliver you!” the Fardy brothers shouted in unison.
The brown Fardy was foremost among them, running toward the tall lieutenant with his sword whirling over his head. As he drew near enough to strike the man, he released the blade from its circuit around his head, sending it flying toward the lieutenant’s. The latter – overcome with surprise at their arrival – did not move, and the sword bashed broadside against his helmet. The force knocked the man to the ground in a stupor and the brown Fardy stepped backwards with a trembling arm.
The blond Fardy fell upon the second soldier – who was whipping Celestine – and brought a furious downward blow upon him. Yet he came on with an unsteady foot and the sprightly soldier was able to dodge to the sword’s left. Thus without anything to hinder its course, it continued downward in the direction of Celestine’s back – over which the mini-melee was taking place. Its momentum was too great to be recalled mid-flight. The blond Fardy cried out in agony as he saw what must inevitably happen in the next instant of time.
Cybele’s other followers had been easily overcome by the surge of crewmen who followed the Fardys. All of them stood by motionless as fate played out before them. There was a single, narrow piece of time in which to spare Celestine’s life and none had the presence of mind to take the chance. None, that is, but the soldier for whom the blow had been intended. His quick eye let him dodge it, yet when he saw what was happening, he reached out his hand and caught the blade mid-air. He groaned slightly as the sword came down, but his dark, Spanish face with its hooked nose did not grimace. For a second, the sword continued its course toward Celestine, then – just before it struck – the soldier’s hand brought it safely to a stop, hitting her back with a harmless thud.
Nothing was heard over the man’s breathing. He did not move his hand, though all the eyes were fixed upon it like a ship upon the water. His fingers remained tightly clenched around the blade and a small stream of blood flowed from his hand onto the back of Celestine’s peasant cloak, which soaked it up like a sponge.
“Well?” Cybele was the first to speak, “Remove your hand, or are you a dramatist?” Failure prodded her to anger.
“Madam, I cannot.”
“You must, fool! Can you not see we are taken? The crew has risen and the Marin is the Fardys’ once more, so release the sword and be bound. Perhaps the crew will show mercy for your sacrifice, or perhaps they will despise you for scourging her beforehand.”
The soldier bowed his head in submission and lifted his arm from Celestine’s back. The palm of the hand rose with it, but the portion from the knuckles upward remained grasping the sword. Around him, the crew was still silent, awed by his quick response to the badly aimed blow. Ten of the crew were in the room by this time – along with the Fardy brothers, Cybele and Celestine, and several of Cybele’s officers. Some had gone around behind the Saxons so they could not flee.