Timeline. Part 33

Marek realized his situation was now worse than before. He attacked fiercely, but Guy backed up easily, his footwork practiced and quick. Marek was gasping and wheezing inside his helmet; he was sure Guy could hear it, and would know what it meant.

Marek was wearing down.

All Sir Guy had to do was keep backing away, until Marek exhausted himself.

Unless ...

Off to the left, Chris obediently still lay flat on his back.

Marek swung at Guy, moving to the right with every stroke. Guy continued to move lightly away. But now Marek was driving him back-toward Chris.

Chris awoke slowly to the clang of swords. Groggy, he took stock. He was lying on his back, staring at blue sky. But he was alive. What had happened? He turned his head inside his black helmet. With just a narrow slit for vision, it was hot and stuffy and claustrophobic.

He began to feel sick.

The sensation of nausea built quickly. He didn't want to throw up inside the helmet. It was too tight around his head; he would drown in his own puke. He had to get his helmet off. Still lying there, he reached up and grabbed the helmet with both hands.

He tugged at it.

It didn't budge. Why? Had they tied it on him? Was it because he was lying down?

He was going to throw up. In the d.a.m.n helmet.

Jesus.

Frantic, he rolled on the ground.

Marek swung his sword desperately. Behind Sir Guy, he saw Chris begin to move. Marek would have shouted to him to stay where he was, but he had no breath to speak.

Marek swung again, and again.

Now Chris was pulling at his helmet, trying to get it off. Guy was still ten yards from Chris. Dancing backward, enjoying himself, parrying Marek's blows easily.

Marek knew he was almost at the limits of his strength now. His swings were increasingly weak. Guy was still strong, still smooth. Just backing and parrying. Waiting for his chance.

Five yards.

Chris had rolled over on his stomach, and he was now getting up. He was on all fours. Hanging his head. Then there was a loud retching sound.

Guy heard it, too, turned his head a little to look- Marek charged, b.u.t.ted him in the breastplate with his head, and Guy staggered backward, fell over Chris, and went down.

Malegant rolled quickly on the ground, but Marek was on him, stamping on Guy's right hand to pin the sword down, then swinging his other leg over to pin the opposite shoulder. Marek held his sword high, ready to plunge it down.

The crowd fell silent.

Guy did not move.

Slowly, Marek lowered his sword, cut the laces to Guy's helmet, and pushed it back with the tip of his blade. Guy's head was now exposed. Marek saw he was bleeding freely from his left ear.

Guy glared at him, and spat.

Marek raised his sword again. He was filled with rage, stinging sweat, burning arms, vision red with fury and exhaustion. He tightened his hands, prepared to swing down and cut the head from the body.

Guy saw it.

"Mercy!"

He shouted, so everyone would hear.

"I beg mercy!" he cried. "In the name of the Holy Trinity and the Virgin Mary! Mercy! Mercy!"

The crowd was silent.

Waiting.

Marek was not sure what to do. In the back of his mind, a voice said, Kill this b.a.s.t.a.r.d or you will regret it later Kill this b.a.s.t.a.r.d or you will regret it later. He knew that he must decide quickly; the longer he stood here, straddling Sir Guy, the more certain he would lose his nerve.

He looked at the crowd lining the railing. No one moved; they just stared. He looked at the stands, where Lord Oliver sat with the ladies. Everyone was motionless. Lord Oliver seemed frozen. Marek looked back at the cl.u.s.ter of pages standing by the railing. They, too, were frozen. Then, in a move that was almost subliminal, one page raised a hand to midchest and made a flicking wrist motion: cut it off.

He's giving you good advice, Marek thought.

But Marek hesitated. There was absolute silence in the field, except for the retches and groans of Chris. In the end, it was those retches that broke the moment. Marek stepped away from Sir Guy and extended a hand to help him up.

Sir Guy took his hand, got to his feet in front of Marek. He said, "You b.a.s.t.a.r.d, I'll see you in h.e.l.l," and turned on his heel and walked away.

31:15:58.

The little stream wound through mossy gra.s.s and wild-flowers. Chris was on his knees, plunging his face into the water. He came back sputtering, coughing. He looked at Marek, who was squatting beside him, staring off into s.p.a.ce.

"I've had it," Chris said. "I've had had it." it."

"I imagine you have."

"I could have been killed," Chris said. "That's supposed to be a sport? You know what that is? It's a game of chicken on horses. Those people are insane insane." He dunked his head in the water again.

"Chris."

"I hate to throw up. I hate hate it." it."

"Chris."

"What? What is it now? You going to tell me I'll rust my armor? Because I don't give a s.h.i.+t, Andre."

"No," Marek said, "I'm going to tell you your felt unders.h.i.+rt will swell, and it'll be difficult to take the armor off."

"Is that right? Well, I don't care. Those pages will come and get it off me." Chris sat back in the moss and coughed. "Jesus, I can't get rid of that smell. I need to take a bath or something."

Marek sat beside him, said nothing. He just let him unwind. Chris's hands were shaking as he talked. It was better for him to get it out, he thought.

In the field below them, archers in maroon and gray were practicing. Ignoring the excitement of the nearby tournament, they patiently fired at targets, moved backward, fired again. It was just as the old texts said: the English archers were highly disciplined, and they practiced every day.

"Those men are the new military power," Marek said. "They decide battles now. Look at them."

Chris propped himself on his elbow. "You're kidding," he said. The archers were now more than two hundred yards from their circular targets-the length of two football fields. So far away, they were small figures, and yet they were confidently drawing their bows toward the sky. "Are they serious?"

The sky was black with whistling arrows. They struck the targets, or landed close by, sticking up in the gra.s.s.

"No kidding," Chris said.

Almost immediately, another thick volley filled the air. And another, and another. Marek was counting to himself. Three seconds between volleys. So it was true, he thought: English archers really could fire twenty rounds a minute. By now, the targets bristled with arrows.

"Charging knights can't stand up under that kind of attack," Marek said. "It kills the riders, and it kills the horses. That's why the English knights dismount to fight. The French still charge in the traditional way-and they're just slaughtered, before they ever get close to the English. Four thousand knights dead at Crecy, even more in Poitiers. Large numbers for this time."

"Why don't the French change tactics? Can't they see what's happening?"

"They do, but it means the end of a whole way of life-a whole culture, really," Marek said. "Knights are all n.o.bility; their way of life is too expensive for commoners. A knight has to buy his armor and at least three warhorses, and he has to support his retinue of pages and aides. And these n.o.ble knights have been the determining factor in warfare, until now. Now it's over." He pointed to the archers in the field. "Those men are commoners. They win by coordination and discipline. There's no personal valor. They're paid a wage; they do a job. But they're the future of warfare-paid, disciplined, faceless troops. The knights are finished."

"Except for tournaments," Chris said sourly.

"Pretty much. And even there-all that plate armor, over the chain mail-that's all because of arrows. Arrows will go clean through an unprotected man, and they'll penetrate chain mail. So knights need plate armor. Horses need armor. But with a volley like that ..." Marek pointed to the whistling rainfall of arrows and shrugged. "It's over."

Chris looked back at the tournament grounds. And then he said, "Well, it's about time!"

Marek turned and saw five liveried pages walking toward them, along with two guards in red-and-black surcoats. "Finally I'm going to get out of this d.a.m.ned metal."

Chris and Marek stood as the men came up. One of the guards said, "You have broken the rules of tourney, disgraced the chivalrous knight Guy Malegant, and the good offices of Lord Oliver. You are made arrest, and will come with us."

"Wait a minute," Chris said. "We disgraced disgraced him him?"

"You will come with us."

"Wait a minute," Chris said.

The soldier cuffed him hard on the side of the head, and pushed him forward. Marek fell into step beside him. Surrounded by guards, they headed toward the castle.

Kate was still at the tournament, looking for Chris and Andre. At first, she thought to look in the tents ranged beyond the field, but there were only men-knights and squires and pages-in that area, and she decided against it. This was a different world, violence was in the air, and she felt a constant sense of risk. Nearly everyone in this world was young; the knights who swaggered about the field were in their twenties or early thirties, and the squires mere teenagers. She was dressed in ordinary fas.h.i.+on, and clearly not a member of the n.o.bility. She had the feeling that if she were dragged off and raped, no one would take much notice.

Even though it was midday, she found herself behaving the way she did in New Haven at night. She tried never to be alone, but to move with a group; she skirted around the cl.u.s.ters of males, giving them wide berth.

She made her way behind the bleachers, hearing the cheers of the crowd as the next pair of knights began to fight. She looked into the area of tents to her left. She did not see Marek or Chris anywhere. Yet they had left the field only minutes before. Were they inside one of the tents? She had heard nothing in her earpiece for the last hour; she a.s.sumed it was because Marek and Chris had worn helmets, which blocked transmission. But surely their helmets were off now.

Then she saw them, a short distance down the hill, sitting by a meandering stream.

She headed down the hill. Her wig was hot and itchy in the sun. Perhaps she could get rid of the wig and just put her hair up under a cap. Or if she cut her hair a little shorter, she could pa.s.s for a young man, even without a cap.

It might be interesting, she thought, to be a man for a while.

She was thinking about where to get scissors when she saw the soldiers approaching Marek. She slowed her pace. She still heard nothing in her earpiece, but she was so close, she knew she should.

Was it turned off? She tapped her ear.

Immediately, she heard Chris say, "We disgraced disgraced him him?" and then something garbled. She saw the soldiers push Chris toward the castle. Marek walked alongside him.

Kate waited a moment, then followed.

Castelgard was deserted, shops and storefronts locked, its streets echoing and empty. Everyone had gone to the tournament, which made it more difficult for her to follow Marek and Chris and the soldiers. She had to drop farther back, waiting until they had gone out of a street before she could follow them, hurrying ahead at a near run until she caught sight of them again, then duck back around a corner.

She knew her behavior looked suspicious. But there was no one to see it. High in one window, she saw an old woman sitting in the sun, eyes closed. But she never looked down. Perhaps she was asleep.

She came to the open field in front of the castle. It, too, was now deserted. The knights on prancing horses, the mock combats, the flying banners were all gone. The soldiers crossed the drawbridge. As she followed after them, she heard the crowd roar from the field beyond the walls. The guards turned and shouted to soldiers on the ramparts, asking what was happening. The soldiers above could see down to the field; they shouted answers. All this was accompanied by much swearing; apparently, bets had been made.

In all the excitement, she walked through, into the castle.

She stood in the small courtyard known as the outer bailey. She saw horses there, tied to a post and unattended. But there were no soldiers in the bailey; everyone was up in the ramparts, watching the tournament.

She looked around for Marek and Chris but did not see them. Not knowing what else to do, she went through the door to the great hall. She heard footsteps echoing in the spiral staircase to her left.

She started up the stairs, going round and round, but the footsteps diminished.

They must have gone down, not up.

Quickly, she retraced her steps. The stairs spiraled downward, ending in a low-ceilinged stone pa.s.sage, damp and moldy, with cells along one side. The cell doors were open; no one inside. Somewhere ahead, beyond a bend in the corridor, she heard echoing voices, and the clang of metal.

She moved cautiously forward. She must be beneath the great hall, she thought. In her mind she tried to reconstruct the area, from her memory of the ruined castle she had explored so carefully a few weeks earlier. But she did not remember ever seeing this pa.s.sageway. Perhaps it had collapsed centuries before.

Another metal clang, and echoing laughter.

Then footsteps.

It took her a moment to realize they were coming toward her.