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 passed along the way bowed to the knight, saying, “My Lord . . . My Lord . . .”
Following, Chris nudged Kate. “That’s 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 dashing exemplar of chivalry—to whom they now owed their lives.
Kate said, “What about André?”
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-Mère 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 bastard 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 bloody shoe on his jerkin. Then he nodded to Chris and Kate.
And they entered the church of Sainte-Mère.
:
The interior was hazy with smoke. The ground floor was a large open space; 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 balustrade. 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 passive, 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 assistants.”
“Eh? What do you say? Assistants?”
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 assistants, Raimondo?”
“Yes, my Lord. The assistants 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 unsurpassed. You know their old king? The second Edward? You know how they chose to assassinate 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 he was beheaded! Eh? 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 chevauchées, 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.” Speak again.
Chris paused, thinking, then said, “Magister Edwardus . . .”
“Yes. . ..”
“. . . is prisoner.”
“Priz-un-ner?” The handsome knight frowned, puzzled. “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 coenobio sanctae Mariae.” He hoped that meant “He was captured from Sainte-Mère yestermorn.”
The knight raised his eyebrows. “Invite?” 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?” Yet you were not taken?
Chris paused again. “Uh, we . . .”
“Oui?”
“No, no, my Lord,” Chris said hastily. “Uh, non. We escaped. Uh, 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. . ..”
“You escaped from Castelgard yesterday?”
“Etiam, mi domine.” Yes, my Lord.
Arnaut stared at him, said nothing for a long time. On the second-floor balcony, the men had ropes put around their necks and then were pushed over. The fall did not break their necks, and so they hung there, making gargling sounds and writhing as they slowly died.
Arnaut looked up at them as if annoyed to be interrupted by their death gasps. “A few ropes remain,” he said. He looked back at them. “I will have the truth from you.”
Chris said, “I tell you sooth, my Lord.”
Arnaut spun on his heel. “Did you speak to the monk Marcel before he died?”
“Marcel?” Chris did his best to appear confused. “Marcel, my Lord?”
“Yes, yes. Marcel. Cognovistine fratrem Marcellum?” Do you know Brother Marcel?
“No, my Lord.”
“Transitum ad Roccam cognitum habesne?” For this Chris didn’t need to wait for the translation: The passage to La Roque, you know it?
“The passage . . . transitum. . .” Chris shrugged again, feigning lack of knowledge. “Passage? . . . To La Roque? No, my Lord.”
Arnaut looked frankly unbelieving. “It seems you know nothing at all.” He peered closely at them, his nose twitching, giving the impression that he was smelling them. “I doubt you. In fact, you are liars.”
He turned to the handsome knight. “Hang one, so the other talks.”
“Which one, my Lord?”
“Him,” Arnaut said, pointing to Chris. He looked at Kate, pinched her cheek, then caressed her. “Because this fair boy touches my heart. I will entertain him in my tent tonight. I would not waste him before.”
“Very well, my Lord.” The handsome knight barked an order, and from the second floor, men began to string another rope. Other men grabbed Chris’s wrists and tied them swiftly behind his back.
Chris thought, Jesus, they’re going to do it. He looked at Kate, whose eyes were wide with horror. The men started to drag Chris off.
“My Lord,” came a voice from the side of the church. “If you please.” The knot of waiting soldiers opened, and the Lady Claire emerged.
:
Claire said softly, “My Lord, I beg you, a word in private.”
“Eh? Of course, as you wish.” Arnaut walked over to her, and she whispered in his ear. He paused, shrugged. She whispered again, more intently.
After a moment, he said, “Eh? What will that serve?”
More whispering. Chris could not hear any of it.
Arnaut said, “Good Lady, I have already decided.”
Still more whispering.
Finally, shaking his head, Arnaut came back to them. “The Lady seeks safe passage from me to Bordeaux. She says that she knows you, and that you are honest men.” He paused. “She says that I should release you.”
Claire said, “Only if it please you, my Lord. For it is well known the English are indiscriminate in killing, while the French are not. The French show the mercy that comes of intelligence and breeding.”
“This is so,” he said. “It is true that we French are civilized men. And if these two know nothing of Brother Marcel and the passage, then I have no further use of them. And so I say, give them horses and food and send them on their way. I would be in the good graces of your Magister Edwardus, and so I commend myself to him, and wish God grant you safe journey to join him at his side. And so depart.”
Lady Claire bowed.
Chris and Kate bowed.
The handsome knight cut Chris’s bonds and led them back outside. Chris and Kate were so stunned by this reversal that they said nothing at all as they walked back toward the river. Chris was feeling wobbly and lightheaded. Kate kept rubbing her face, as if she were trying to wake up.
Finally, the knight said, “You owe your lives to a clever lady.”
Chris said, “Certes. . ..”
The handsome knight smiled thinly.
“God smiles upon you,” he said.
He didn’t sound happy about it.
:
The scene at the river was entirely transformed. Arnaut’s men had taken the mill bridge, which now flew the green-and-black banner from the battlements. Both sides of the river were occupied by Arnaut’s mounted knights. And now a river of men and matériel marched up the road toward La Roque, raising clouds of dust. There were men with horse-drawn wagons laden with supplies, carts of chattering women, ragtag children, and other wagons loaded with enormous wooden beams—disassembled giant catapults, to fling stones and burning pitch over the castle walls.
The knight had found a pair of horses for them—two ragged nags, bearing marks of the plow collar. Leading the animals, he guided them past the toll checkpoint.
A sudden commotion on the river made Chris look back. He saw a dozen men knee-deep in the water, struggling with a breech-loading cannon, cast of iron, with a wooden block as a mount. Chris stared, fascinated. No cannon this early had survived, or even been described.
Everyone knew primitive artillery had been used at this time; archaeologists had dug up cannonballs from the site of the Battle of Poitiers. But historians believed that cannon were rare, and primarily for show—a matter of prestige. But as Chris watched the men struggling in the river to lift the cylinder and hoist it back on a cart, it was clear to him that such effort would never be wasted on a purely symbolic device. The cannon was heavy; it slowed the progress of the entire army, which surely wanted to reach the walls of La Roque by nightfall; there was no reason why the cannon could not be brought up later. The present effort could only mean the cannon would be important in the attack.
But in what way? He wondered. The walls of La Roque were ten feet thick. A cannonball would never penetrate them.
The handsome knight gave a brief salute and said, “God bring you grace and safety.”
“God bless you and grant you increase,” Chris replied, and then the knight slapped the horses on their rumps, and they were riding off, toward La Roque.
:
As they rode, Kate told him about what they had found in
Marcel’s room, and about the green chapel.
“Do you know where this chapel is?” Chris said.
“Yes. I saw it on one of the survey maps. It’s about half a mile east of La Roque. There’s a path through the forest that takes you there.”
Chris sighed. “So we know where the passage is,” he said, “but André had the ceramic, and now he’s dead, which means we can’t ever leave, anyway.”
“No,” she said. “I have the ceramic.”
“You do?”
“André gave it to me, on the bridge. I think he knew he’d never get out alive. He could have run and saved himself. But he didn’t. He stayed and saved me instead.”
She started to cry softly.
Chris rode in silence, saying nothing. He remembered how Marek’s intensity had always amused the other graduate students—”Can you imagine? He really believes this chivalry shit!”—and how they had assumed his behavior was some kind of weird posturing. A role he was playing, an affectation. Because in the late twentieth century, you couldn’t seriously ask other people to think that you believed in honor and truth, and the purity of the body, the defense of women, the sanctity of true love, and all the rest of it.
But apparently, André really had believed it.
:
They moved through a nightmare landscape. The sun was weak and pale in the dust and smoke. Here there were vineyards, but all the vines were burned, leaving gnarled gnome stumps, with smoke rising into the air. The orchards, too, were black and desolate, skeletal trees. Everything had been burned.
All around them, they heard the pitiful cries of wounded soldiers. Many retreating soldiers had fallen beside the road itself. Some were still breathing; others were gray with death.
Chris had paused to take weapons from one of the dead men, when a nearby soldier raised his hand and cried pitifully, “Secors, secors!” Chris went over to him. He had an arrow embedded deep in his abdomen, and another in his chest. The soldier was in his early twenties, and he seemed to know he was dying. As he lay on his back, he looked pleadingly at Chris, saying words Chris couldn’t understand. Finally, the soldier began to point to his mouth, saying, “Aquam. Da mihi aquam.” He was thirsty; he wanted water. Chris shrugged helplessly. He had no water. The man looked angry, winced, closed his eyes, turned away. Chris moved off. Later, when they passed men crying for help, he continued on without stopping. There was nothing he could do.