Timeline. Part 50

"Yes, Mr. Doniger, no one's ever heard Lincoln's voice before, but that is his actual-"

"Are you out of your f.u.c.king minds?"

"No, Mr. Doniger-"

"Oh, for Christ's sake, I can't use this," Doniger said. "No one wants Abraham Lincoln to sound like Betty Boop. What else have you got?"

"It's right here, Mr. Doniger." Unruffled, the young man changed the tapes, saying, "For the second video, we adopted a different premise. We wanted a good action sequence, but again, a famous event that everybody would know. So this is Christmas Day, 1778, on the Delaware River, where-"

"I can't see s.h.i.+t," Doniger said.

"Yes, I'm afraid it is is a bit dark. It's a night crossing. But we thought George Was.h.i.+ngton crossing the Delaware would be a good-" a bit dark. It's a night crossing. But we thought George Was.h.i.+ngton crossing the Delaware would be a good-"

"George Was.h.i.+ngton? Where is George Was.h.i.+ngton?"

"He's right there," the kid said, pointing to the screen.

"Where?"

"There."

"He's that guy huddled in the back of the boat?"

"That's correct, and-"

"No, no, no," Doniger said. "He has to be standing in the bow, like a general."

"I know that's the way the paintings portray him, but it's not what actually happened. Here you see the real George Was.h.i.+ngton as he actually crossed the-"

"He looks seasick," Doniger said. "You want me to show a video of George Was.h.i.+ngton looking seasick?"

"But this is reality."

"f.u.c.k reality," Doniger said, throwing one of their videotapes across the room. "What's the matter matter with you people? I don't care about reality. I want something intriguing, something s.e.xy. You're showing me a walking corpse and a drowned rat." with you people? I don't care about reality. I want something intriguing, something s.e.xy. You're showing me a walking corpse and a drowned rat."

"Well, we can go back to the drawing board-"

"My talk is tomorrow," Doniger said. "I have three major executives coming here. And I have already told them they would see something very special." He threw up his hands. "Jesus Christ."

Kramer cleared her throat. "What about using stills?"

"Stills?"

"Yes, Bob. You could take single frames from these videos, and that might be quite effective," Kramer said.

"Uh-huh, yes, that would work," the media woman said, head bobbing.

Doniger said, "Lincoln would still look wrinkled."

"We'll take the wrinkles out with Photoshop."

Doniger considered that. "Maybe," he said finally.

"Anyway," Kramer said, "you don't want to show them too much. Less is more."

"All right," Doniger said. "Make the stills up, and show them to me in an hour."

The media people filed out. Doniger was alone with Kramer. He went behind his desk, shuffled through his presentation. Then he said, "Do you think it should be 'The Promise of the Past,' or 'The Future of the Past'?"

"'The Promise of the Past,'" Kramer said. "Definitely 'The Promise.'"

07:34:49.

Accompanied by two knights, Marek rode in the dust of the baggage carts, moving toward the head of the column. He could not see Chris or Kate yet, but his little group was moving swiftly. He would catch up to them soon.

He looked at the knights on either side of him. Raimondo on his left, erect, in full armor, with his thin smile. On his right, a grizzled warrior in armor, clearly tough and competent. Neither man paid him much attention, so secure were they in their control over him. Especially since his hands were bound together by ropes, with a six-inch gap between the wrists.

He rode along, coughing in the dust. Eventually he managed to slip his small dagger from beneath his coat, and palm it beneath his hand as he gripped the wooden pommel of the saddle in front of him. He tried to position the knife so the gentle movement of the horse up and down would slowly fray the rope at his wrists. But this was easier said than done; the knife seemed to be always in the wrong position, and his bonds were not cut. Marek glanced at his wristband counter; it read 07:31:02. There were still more than seven hours left before the batteries ran out.

Soon they had left the riverside trail behind and started to climb the twisting road up through the village of La Roque. The village was built into the cliffs above the river, the houses almost entirely of stone, giving the town a unified, somber appearance, especially now, when every door and window was boarded shut in antic.i.p.ation of war.

Now they moved among the lead companies of Arnaut's soldiers, more knights in armor, each with their retinues following. Men and horses climbed the steep cobbled streets, horses snorting, baggage carts slipping as they went up. These knights in the lead had a sense of urgency; many of the carts carried pieces of disa.s.sembled siege engines. Evidently, they planned to begin the siege before nightfall.

They were still within the town when Marek caught sight of Chris and Kate, riding side by side on sagging mounts. They were perhaps a hundred yards ahead, alternately visible and hidden as the road twisted up. Raimondo put his hand on Marek's arm. "We approach no closer."

In the dust ahead, a banner flapped too near a horse's face. The horse reared, whinnying; a cart turned over, spilling cannonb.a.l.l.s, which began to roll down the hill. This was the moment of confusion Marek had been waiting for, and he acted on it. He spurred his horse, which refused to go. Then he saw the grizzled knight had deftly grabbed the reins.

"My friend," Raimondo said calmly, riding beside him. "Do not make me kill you. At least, not yet." He nodded to Marek's hands. "And put that foolish little blade away, before you hurt yourself."

Marek felt his cheeks burn. But he did as he was told; he put the small dagger back beneath his robes. They rode on in silence.

From behind the stone houses, they heard the cry of a bird, repeated twice. Raimondo's head snapped around when he heard it; so did his companion's on the other side. Evidently it was not a bird.

The men listened, and soon there was an answering cry from farther up the hill. Raimondo rested his hand on his sword, but did nothing else.

"What is it?" Marek said.

"No wise your affair."

And they said nothing else.

The soldiers were busy and no one paid them any attention, especially since their saddles had Arnaut's colors of green and black. Eventually, they arrived at the top of the cliff and came out into an open field with the castle on their right. The forest was close by on their left, and the broad, sloping, gra.s.sy plain was to the north.

With Arnaut's soldiers all around them, Marek did not particularly think about the fact that they were pa.s.sing some fifty yards from the outer moat and the gatehouses of the castle entrance. Chris and Kate were still about a hundred yards ahead, up the column.

The attack came with stunning swiftness. Five mounted knights charged from the woods to their left, shouting battle cries and swinging their swords over their heads. They ran right for Marek and the others. It was an ambush.

With a howl, Raimondo and the grizzled knight drew their swords to fight. The horses wheeled; blades clanged. Arnaut himself galloped up and joined the fray, fighting furiously. Marek was momentarily ignored.

Looking up the column, he saw that another group had attacked Kate and Chris. Marek glimpsed the black plume of Sir Guy, and then the hors.e.m.e.n had surrounded the two. Marek spurred his mount and began galloping up the line.

Ahead, he saw one knight grab Chris by his coat and try to pull him from his horse; another grabbed the reins of Kate's horse, which whinnied and turned. Another knight had taken Chris's reins, but he kicked his horse so that it reared; the knight let go, but Chris was suddenly covered in blood, and he cried out in shock. Chris lost control of his horse, which whinnied and galloped away into the woods while he slid sideways in the saddle, hanging on weakly. In a moment, he had vanished among the trees.

Kate was still trying to pull her reins free from the knight who held them. All around them was pandemonium; Arnaut's men shouting and circling, running for their weapons, jabbing at the attacking knights with their pikes. One stabbed at the knight holding her horse, and the knight dropped the reins. Marek, though unarmed, charged into the middle of the fight, separating Kate from her attacker. She cried, "Andre!" but he said to her, "Go! Go! Go!" and then Marek cried, "Malegant!" "Malegant!" and Sir Guy turned to face him. and Sir Guy turned to face him.

Marek immediately rode his own horse away from the fray, galloping directly toward La Roque. The other knights wheeled and broke free of the soldiers, thundering across the open field after Marek. Down the line, Marek saw Raimondo and Arnaut fighting in a great cloud of dust.

Kate kicked her horse, spurring him toward the woods to the north. Looking behind her as she rode, she saw Marek ride over the drawbridge of La Roque, into the castle, and out of sight. The pursuing riders followed him. Then the heavy grill of the portcullis gate came rumbling down. And the drawbridge raised up.

Marek was gone. Chris was gone. Either or both of them might be dead. But one thing was clear. She was the only one still free.

It was up to her now.

07:24:33.

Surrounded on all sides by soldiers, she spent the next half hour threading her way through Arnaut's baggage train of horses and carts, trying to reach the northern woods. Arnaut's men were setting up a vast tented camp at the edge of the woods, facing the great gra.s.sy plain that sloped up to the castle.

Men shouted to her to come and help them, but she could only wave in what she hoped was a manly greeting, and keep moving. At length she reached the edge of the forest, and followed it until she saw the narrow trail leading into darkness and isolation. Here she paused a few moments to let the horse rest, and to let her own pounding heart slow down, before she went into the woods.

Back on the plain, the trebuchets were being swiftly a.s.sembled by groups of engineers. The trebuchets looked ungainly-oversized slingshots with heavy wooden beams bracing the armature for the firing paddle, which was winched back by stout hemp ropes, then released to snap upward, flinging its payload over the castle walls. The entire contraption appeared to weigh five hundred pounds, but the men constructed it swiftly, working in quick coordination, then going on to the next engine. But at least she understood now how, in some instances, a church or a castle could be built in a couple of years. The workers were so skilled, so self-effacing, they hardly needed direction.

[image]

She turned the horse away and entered the dense woods north of the castle.

The path was a narrow track through the forest, which rapidly grew dark as she went deeper. It felt spooky to be alone here; she heard the hooting of owls and the distant cries of strange birds. She pa.s.sed one tree with a dozen ravens sitting on branches. She counted them, wondering if it was an omen, and what it might portend.

Riding slowly through the forest, she had the sense of slipping backward in time, of taking on more primitive ways of thought. The trees closed over her; the ground was as dark as evening. She had a sense of confinement, of oppression.

After twenty minutes, she was relieved to come into a clearing with tall gra.s.s in sunlight. She saw a break in the trees on the far side, where the path resumed. She was riding through the clearing when she saw a castle off to her left. She didn't remember any sort of structure from her charts, but it was here nevertheless. The castle was small-almost a manor house-and whitewashed, so that it shone brightly in the sun. It had four small turrets and a blue slate roof. At first glance, it looked cheerful, but then she noticed all the windows were barred; part of the slate roof had fallen in, leaving a ragged hole; the outbuildings were crumbling and in disrepair. This clearing had once been a mown field in front of the castle, now grown wild from neglect. She had a strong sense of stagnation and decay.

She s.h.i.+vered and spurred the horse on. She noticed that the gra.s.s ahead had recently been trampled down-by the footprints of another horse, moving in the same direction as she. As she looked, she saw the long blades of gra.s.s slowly rising upward, returning to their original position.

Someone had been here very recently. Perhaps only a few minutes before. Cautiously, she proceeded toward the far end of the clearing.

Darkness closed around her again as she slipped back into the forest. The trail ahead was becoming muddy, and she could see distinct hoofprints going forward.

From time to time, she paused and listened intently. But she heard nothing at all up ahead. Either the rider was far in front of her or he was very quiet. Once or twice, she thought she heard the sound of a horse, but she couldn't be sure.

It was probably her imagination.

She pushed on, toward the green chapel. To what had been called, on her maps, la chapelle verte morte la chapelle verte morte. The chapel of green death.

In the darkness of the forest, she came upon a figure leaning wearily against a fallen tree. He was a wizened old man, wearing a hood and carrying a woodsman's ax. As she rode by, he said, "I beg you, good master, I beg you." His voice was thin, rasping. "Give me some small thing to eat, for I am poor, and have no food."

Kate did not think she had any food, but then she remembered the knight had given them a small bundle, tied behind her saddle. She reached back, found a crust of bread and a piece of dried beef. It didn't look appetizing, particularly since it now smelled strongly of horse sweat. She held the food out to him.

Eagerly, the man came forward, reached a bony hand for the food-but instead he grabbed her outstretched arm at the wrist with a surprisingly strong grip and, with a swift yank, tried to pull her from the horse. He cackled with delight, a nasty sound; as he struggled with her, his hood fell back, and she saw that he was younger than she had thought. Now, three other men ran forward from the shadows on both sides of the path, and she realized that they were G.o.dins G.o.dins, the peasant bandits. Kate was still in the saddle, but clearly not for long. She kicked the horse, but it was tired and unresponsive. The older man continued tugging at her arm, all the while muttering, "Foolish boy! You silly boy!"

Not knowing what else to do, she screamed for help, screaming at the top of her lungs, and this seemed to startle the men, so that they paused for a moment before resuming their attack. But then they heard the sound of a galloping horse coming toward them, and the roar of a warrior's battle cry, and the G.o.dins G.o.dins looked at one another and scattered. All except the wizened man, who refused to release Kate and now threatened her with his ax, which he raised in his other hand. looked at one another and scattered. All except the wizened man, who refused to release Kate and now threatened her with his ax, which he raised in his other hand.

But in that moment an apparition, a bloodred knight on horseback, came cras.h.i.+ng down the trail, his horse snorting, flinging clops of mud, the knight himself so fierce and b.l.o.o.d.y that the last man ran for his life, plunging into the darkness of the forest.

Chris reined up and circled around her. She felt a huge wave of relief flood through her; she had been badly frightened. Chris was smiling, clearly pleased with himself.

"Are you all right, ma'am?" he said.

"Are you you?" Kate asked, amazed. Chris was literally drenched in blood; it had dried all over his face and body, and when he smiled, it cracked at the sides of his mouth, revealing the pink skin beneath. He looked as if he had fallen in a vat of red.

"I'm fine," Chris said. "Somebody hacked the horse next to me, cut an artery or something. I was soaked in a second. Blood is hot hot, did you know that?"

Kate was still staring at him, amazed to see anyone who looked like that making jokes, and then he took her horse's reins and led her quickly away. "I think," Chris said, "we won't wait for them to regroup. Didn't your mother tell you not to talk to strangers, Kate? Especially when you meet them in the woods?"

"Actually, I thought you were supposed to give them food and they helped you."

"Only in fairy tales," he said. "In the real world, if you stop to help the poor man in the woods, he and his friends steal your horse and kill you. That's why n.o.body does it."

Chris was still grinning, and he seemed so confident and amused, and she had the feeling that she had never noticed, never been aware, that he was quite an attractive man, that he had a certain genuine appeal. But of course, she thought, he had saved her life. She was just grateful.

"What were you doing, anyway?" she said.

He laughed. "Trying to catch up to you. I thought you were way ahead of me."

The path divided. The main path appeared to go off to the right, beginning a slow descent. A much narrower track went to the left, on flat ground. But it seemed much less used.

"What do you think?" Kate said.

"Take the main road," Chris said. He led the way forward, and Kate was quite happy to follow him. The forest around them grew more lush, the ground ferns six feet high, like huge elephant ears, obscuring her view ahead. She heard a distant roar of water. The land began to slope downward more sharply, and she couldn't see her footing because of the ferns. They both dismounted and tied their horses loosely to a tree. They proceeded on foot.

The land sloped steeply downward now, and the path turned into a muddy track. Chris slipped, grasping at branches and shrubs to break his slide. She watched as he slipped and slid, and then with a yell, he was gone.

She waited. "Chris?"

No answer.

She tapped her earpiece. "Chris?"

Nothing.

She was not sure what to do, whether to go forward or retrace her steps backward. She decided to follow him, but cautiously, now that she knew how slippery the path was, and what had happened to him. Yet after only a few careful steps, her feet shot out from beneath her, and she was sliding helplessly in the mud, banging against tree trunks, getting the wind knocked out of her.

The terrain grew steeper. Kate fell backward in the mud and slid down on her backside, trying to use her feet to push off tree trunks as they rushed up. Branches scratched her face, tore at her hands as she reached for them. She didn't seem able to stop her headlong rush down.