Timeline. Part 48

How much time?

De Kere was like a bulldog, hanging on, never letting go. Another plank in the floor broke, and he lurched sideways. If another broke, he would fall through alongside her.

And he didn't care. He would hang on to the end.

How much time?

With her free hand, she grabbed a pa.s.sing paddle and used the force of the wheel to drag her body downward against de Kere's restraining grip. Her arms burned with the tension, but it worked-the boards cracked-de Kere was falling through-he released her-and she fell the final few feet toward boiling white water around the wheel.

And then there was a flash of yellow light, and the wooden building above her vanished in a hot roar. She glimpsed boards flying in all directions, and then she upended and plunged head first into the icy water. She saw stars, briefly, and then she lost consciousness beneath the churning water.

Chris was awakened by the shouts of soldiers. He looked up, to see soldiers running across the mill bridge in great confusion. He saw a monk in a white robe climb out a window from the larger building, then he realized it was Marek, hacking at someone inside with his sword. Marek slid down on vines until he was low enough to risk jumping, then dropped into the river. Chris didn't see Marek come to the surface.

He was still watching when the flour mill exploded in a blast of light and flying timbers. Soldiers, thrown into the air by the force of the explosion, tumbled like dolls from the battlements. As the smoke and dust cleared, he saw that the flour mill was gone-all that remained were a few wooden timbers, now burning. Dead soldiers floated in the river below, which was thick with boards from the shattered mill.

He still didn't see Marek anywhere, and he didn't see Kate, either. A white monk's robe drifted past him, carried by the current, and he had the sudden sick feeling that she was dead.

If so, then he was alone. Risking communication, he tapped his earpiece and said softly, "Kate. Andre."

There was no response.

"Kate, are you there? Andre?"

He heard nothing in his earpiece, not even static.

He saw a man's body floating face down in the river, and it looked like Marek. Was it? Yes, Chris was sure: dark-haired, big, strong, wearing a linen unders.h.i.+rt. Chris groaned. Soldiers farther up the bank were shouting; he turned to see how close they were. When he looked back at the river again, the body had floated away.

Chris dropped back down behind the bushes and tried to figure out what to do next.

Kate broke the surface, lying on her back. She floated helplessly downstream with the current. All around her, beams of jagged wood were smas.h.i.+ng down into the water like missiles. The pain in her neck was so severe it made her gasp for breath, and with each breath, electric shocks streaked down her arms and legs. She couldn't move her body at all, and she thought she was paralyzed, until she slowly realized that she could move the very tips of her fingers, and her toes. The pain began to withdraw, moving up her limbs, localizing now in her neck, where it was very severe. But she could breathe a little better, and she could move all her limbs. She did it again: yes, she could move her limbs.

So she wasn't paralyzed. Was her neck broken? She tried a small movement, turning ever so slightly to the left, then to the right. It was painful as h.e.l.l, but it seemed okay. She drifted. Something thick was dripping into her eye, making it hard to see. She wiped it away, saw blood on her fingertips. It must be coming from somewhere on her head. Her forehead burned. She touched it with the flat of her hand. Her palm was bright red with blood.

She drifted downstream, still on her back. The pain was still so strong, she didn't feel confident to roll over and swim. For the moment, she drifted. She wondered why the soldiers hadn't seen her.

Then she heard shouts from the sh.o.r.e, and realized that they had.

Chris peered over the bushes just in time to see Kate floating on her back downstream. She was injured; the whole left side of her face was covered in blood, flowing from her scalp. And she wasn't moving much. She might be paralyzed.

For a moment, their eyes met. She smiled slightly. He knew if he revealed himself now he would be captured, but he didn't hesitate. Now that Marek was gone, he had nothing to lose; they might as well stay together to the end. He splashed into the water, wading out to her. Only then did he realize his mistake.

He was within bowshot of the archers still on the remaining bridge tower, and they began firing at him, arrows hissing into the water.

Almost immediately, a knight in full armor splashed out on horseback into the river from Arnaut's side. The knight wore his helmet, and it was impossible to see his face, but he evidently feared nothing, for he placed his body and horse in a position to block the archers. His horse sank deeper as it came forward, and it was eventually swimming, the knight waist-deep in the water when he hauled Kate across his saddle like a wet sack and then grabbed Chris by the arm, saying, "Allons!" "Allons!" as he turned back to sh.o.r.e. as he turned back to sh.o.r.e.

Kate slid off the saddle and onto the ground. The knight barked an order, and a man carrying a flag with diagonal red-and-white stripes came running up. He examined Kate's head injury, cleaned it and stanched the bleeding, then bandaged it with linen.

Meanwhile, the knight dismounted, unlaced his helm, and removed it. He was a tall and powerful man, extraordinarily handsome and das.h.i.+ng, with dark wavy hair, dark eyes, a full, sensuous mouth, and a twinkle in his eyes that suggested amus.e.m.e.nt at the foolish ways of the world. His complexion was dark, and he looked Spanish.

When Kate had been bandaged the knight smiled, showing perfect white teeth. "If you will do me the great honor to accompany me." He led them back toward the monastery and its church. At the side door to the church stood a group of soldiers, and another on horseback, carrying the green-and-black banner of Arnaut de Cervole.

As they walked toward the church, every soldier they pa.s.sed along the way bowed to the knight, saying, "My Lord ... My Lord ..."

Following, Chris nudged Kate. "That's him him."

"Who?"

"Arnaut."

"That knight? You're kidding."

"Look how the soldiers behave."

"Arnaut saved our lives," Kate said.

Chris was aware of the irony. In twentieth-century historical accounts of this time, Sir Oliver was portrayed as something close to a soldier-saint, while de Cervole was a black figure, "one of the great evildoers of his age," in the words of one historian. Yet apparently the truth was just the opposite of the histories. Oliver was a despicable rogue, and Cervole a das.h.i.+ng exemplar of chivalry-to whom they now owed their lives.

Kate said, "What about Andre?"

Chris shook his head.

"Are you sure?"

"I think so. I think I saw him in the river."

Kate said nothing.

Outside the church of Sainte-Mere were long rows of men, standing with their hands bound behind their backs, waiting to go inside. They were mostly soldiers of Oliver in maroon and gray, with a few peasants in rough garb. Chris guessed there were forty or fifty men in all. As they went past, the men stared sullenly at them. Some of them were wounded; they all seemed weary.

One man, a soldier in maroon, said sarcastically to another, "There goes the b.a.s.t.a.r.d lord of Narbonne. He does the work too dirty even for Arnaut."

Chris was still trying to understand this when the handsome knight whirled. "Say you so?" he cried, and he grabbed a fistful of the man's hair, jerked his head up, and with his other hand slashed his throat with a dagger. Blood gushed down the man's chest. The man remained standing for a moment, making a kind of rasping sound.

"You have made your last insult," the handsome knight said. He stood, smiling at the man, watching as the blood flowed, grinning as the man's eyes widened in horror. Still the man remained standing. To Chris, he seemed to stand forever, but it must have been thirty or forty seconds. The handsome knight just watched silently, never moving, the smile never leaving his face.

Finally the man fell to his knees, head bowed, as if in prayer. The knight calmly put his foot under the man's chin and kicked him so he fell backward. He continued to watch the man's death gasps, which continued for another minute or so. At last he died.

The handsome knight bent over, wiped his blade on the man's hose, and wiped his b.l.o.o.d.y shoe on his jerkin. Then he nodded to Chris and Kate.

And they entered the church of Sainte-Mere.

The interior was hazy with smoke. The ground floor was a large open s.p.a.ce; there would be no benches or pews for another two hundred years. They stood at the back, with the handsome knight, who seemed content to wait. Off to one side, they saw several soldiers in a tight, whispering knot.

A solitary knight in armor was down on his knees in the center of the church, praying.

Chris turned back to look at the other knights. They seemed to be in the middle of some intense dispute; their whispers were furious. But he could not imagine what it was about.

While they waited, Chris felt something drip on his shoulder. Looking up, he saw a man hanging directly above him, twisting slowly on a rope. Urine dribbled down his leg. Chris stepped away from the wall and saw half a dozen bodies, hands tied behind their backs, hanging from ropes tied to the second-floor bal.u.s.trade. Three wore the red surcoat of Oliver. Two others had peasant garb, and the last wore the white habit of a monk. Two more men sat on the floor, watching silently as more ropes were tied above; they were pa.s.sive, apparently resigned to their fate.

In the center of the room, the man in armor crossed himself and got to his feet. The handsome knight said, "My Lord Arnaut, here are the a.s.sistants."

"Eh? What do you say? a.s.sistants?"

The knight turned. Arnaut de Cervole was about thirty-five years old and wiry, with a narrow, unpleasant, cunning face. He had a facial tic that made his nose twitch and gave him the appearance of a sniffing rat. His armor was streaked with blood. He looked at them with bored, lazy eyes. "You say they are a.s.sistants, Raimondo?"

"Yes, my Lord. The a.s.sistants of Magister Edwardus."

"Ah." Arnaut walked around them. "Why are they wet?"

"We pulled them from the river, my Lord," Raimondo said. "They were in the mill and escaped at the last minute."

"Oh so?" Arnaut was bored no longer. His eyes gleamed with interest. "I pray you tell me, how did you destroy the mill?"

Chris cleared his throat and said, "My Lord, we did not."

"Oh?" Arnaut frowned. He looked at the other knight. "What speech is this? He is incomprehensible."

"My Lord, they are Irishers, or perhaps Hebrideans."

"Oh? Then they are not English. That is something in their favor." He circled them, then stared at their faces. "Do you understand me?"

Chris said, "Yea, my Lord." That seemed to be understood.

"Are you English?"

"No, my Lord."

"Faith, you do not appear it. You look too mild and unwarlike." He looked at Kate. "He is as fresh as a young girl. And this one ..." He squeezed Chris's biceps. "He is a clerk or a scribe. Certes he is not English." Arnaut shook his head, his nose twitching.

"Because the English are savages," he said loudly, his voice echoing in the smoky church. "You agree?"

"We do, my Lord," Chris said.

"The English know no way of life except endless dissatisfaction and interminable strife. They are always murdering their own kings; it is their savage custom. Our Norman brethren conquered them and tried to teach them civilized ways, but of course they failed. Saxon blood is too deeply barbaric. The English delight in destruction, death and torture. Not content to fight among themselves on their wretched chilly island, they bring their armies here, to this peaceful and prosperous land, and wreak havoc on a simple people. You agree?"

Kate nodded, gave a bow.

"As you should," Arnaut said. "Their cruelty is unsurpa.s.sed. You know their old king? The second Edward? You know how they chose to a.s.sa.s.sinate him, with a red-hot poker? And that, to a king! Little wonder they treat our countryside with even greater savagery."

He strode back and forth. Then turned again to them.

"And the man who next took power, Hugh Despenser. According to the English custom, in due course he too must be killed. You know how? He was tied to a ladder in a public square, and his privates were cut off his body and burned in front of his face. And that was before before he was beheaded! Eh? he was beheaded! Eh? Charmant. Charmant."

Again he looked at them for agreement. Again, they nodded.

"And now the latest king, Edward III, has learned the lesson of his forebears-that he must perpetually lead a war, or risk death at the hands of his own subjects. Thus he and his dastard son, the Prince of Wales, bring their barbarian ways to France, a country that knew not savage war until they came to our soil with their chevauchees chevauchees, murdered our commoners, raped our women, slaughtered our animals, ruined our crops, destroyed our cities and ended our trade. For what? So that bloodthirsty English spirits may be occupied abroad. So that they can steal fortunes from a more honorable land. So that every English Lady can serve her guests from French plates. So that they can claim to be honorable knights, when they do nothing more valiant than hack children to death."

Arnaut paused in his tirade and looked back and forth between their faces, his eyes restless, suspicious. "And that is why," he said, "I cannot understand why you have joined the side of the English swine, Oliver."

Chris said quickly, "Not true, my Lord."

"I am not patient. Say sooth: you aid Oliver, for your Magister is in his employ."

"No, my Lord. The Magister is taken against his will."

"Against ... his ..." Arnaut threw up his hands in disgust. "Who can tell me what this drowned rascal says?"

The handsome knight approached them. "My English is good," he said. To Chris: "Spek ayain." "Spek ayain." Speak again. Speak again.

Chris paused, thinking, then said, "Magister Edwardus ..."

"Yes...."

"... is prisoner."

"Priz-un-ner?" The handsome knight frowned, puzzled. The handsome knight frowned, puzzled. "Pris-ouner?" "Pris-ouner?"

Chris had the feeling that the knight's English was not as good as he thought. He decided to try his Latin again, poor and archaic as it was. "Est in carcere-captus-heri captus est de coen.o.bio sanctae Mariae." "Est in carcere-captus-heri captus est de coen.o.bio sanctae Mariae." He hoped that meant "He was captured from Sainte-Mere yestermorn." He hoped that meant "He was captured from Sainte-Mere yestermorn."

The knight raised his eyebrows. "Invite?" "Invite?" Against his will? Against his will?

"Sooth, my Lord."

The knight said to Arnaut, "They say Magister Edwardus was taken from the monastery yesterday against his will and is now Oliver's prisoner."

Arnaut turned quickly, peered closely at their faces. In a low, threatening voice: "Sed vos non capti estis. Nonne?" "Sed vos non capti estis. Nonne?" Yet you were not taken? Yet you were not taken?

Chris paused again. "Uh, we ..."

"Oui?"

"No, no, my Lord," Chris said hastily. "Uh, non non. We escaped. Uh, ef-effugi-i-imus. Effugimus ef-effugi-i-imus. Effugimus." Was that the right word? He was sweating with tension.

Apparently it was good enough, because the handsome knight nodded. "They say they escaped."

Arnaut snapped, "Escaped? From where?"

Chris: "Ex Castelgard heri...." "Ex Castelgard heri...."