they say? That he can make himself appear in a flash of light.' Sir Daniel shook his head. It was impossible to tell whether he believed it or not. 'He must be a skilled Magister of the gunpowder.' He pronounced it gonne-poulder, and spoke the word slowly, as if it were exotic and unfamiliar. 'Did you set eyes upon this Magister?'
'Indeed. I spoke to him.'
'Oh?'
'With the Abbot gone, I sought him out. For they say the Magister has befriended the Abbot, these recent days.'
Chris Hughes was struggling to follow this conversation, and he realized belatedly that they were talking about the Professor. He said, 'Magister?'
Claire said, 'Do you know the Magister? Edward de Johnes?'
He immediately backpedaled. 'Uh… no… no, I don't, and-'
At this, Sir Daniel stared at Chris in open astonishment. He turned to Claire. 'What does he say?'
'He says he does not know the Magister.'
The old man remained astonished. 'In what tongue?'
'A kind of English, Sir Daniel, with some Gaelic, so I believe.'
'No Gaelic as I have ever heard,' he said. He turned to Chris. 'Speak you la Langue-doc? No? Loquerisquide Latine?'
He was asking if he spoke Latin. Chris had an academic knowledge of Latin, a reading knowledge. He'd never tried to speak it. Faltering, he said, 'Non, Senior Danielis, solum perpaululum. Perdoleo.' Only a little. Sorry.
'Per, per… dicendo ille Ciceroni persimilis est.' He speaks like Cicero.
'Perdoleo.' Sorry.
'Then you may profitably be silent.' The old man turned back to Claire. 'What did the Magister say to you?'
'He could not assist me.'
'Did he know the secret we seek?'
'He said he did not.'
'But the Abbot knows,' said Sir Daniel. 'The Abbot must know. It was his predecessor, the Bishop of Laon, who served as architect for the last repairs of La Roque.'
Claire said, 'The Magister said that Laon was not the architect.'
'No?' Sir Daniel frowned. 'And how does the Magister know that?'
'I believe the Abbot told him. Or perhaps he saw it among the old papers. The Magister has undertaken to sort and arrange the parchments of Sainte-Mиre, for the benefit of the monks.'
'Does he,' Sir Daniel said thoughtfully. 'I wonder why.'
'I had no time to ask before Lord Oliver's men broke sanctuary.'
'Well, the Magister will be here soon enough,' Sir Daniel said. 'And Lord Oliver himself will ask these questions…' He frowned, clearly unhappy at this thought.
The old man turned abruptly to a young boy of nine or ten, standing behind him. 'Take Squire Christopher to my chamber, where he may bathe and clean himself.'
At this, Claire shot the old man a hard look. 'Uncle, do not thwart my plans.'
'Have I ever done so?'
'You know that you have tried.'
'Dear child,' he said, 'my sole concern is ever for your safety - and your honor.'
'And my honor, Uncle, is not yet pledged.' With that, Claire walked boldly up to Chris, put her hand around his neck, and looked into his eyes. 'I shall count every moment you are gone, and miss you with all my heart,' she said softly, her eyes liquid. 'Return to me soon.'
She brushed her lips lightly across his mouth, and stepped back, releasing him reluctantly, fingers trailing away from his neck. He felt dazed, staring into her eyes, seeing how beautiful-
Sir Daniel coughed, turned to the boy. 'See to Squire Christopher, and assist him in his bath.'
The boy bowed to Chris. Everyone in the room was silent. This was apparently his cue to leave. He nodded, and said, 'I thank you.' He waited for the astonished looks, but for once, there were none; they seemed to understand what he had said. Sir Daniel gave him a frosty nod, and Chris left the room.
34:25:54
The horses clattered across the drawbridge. The Professor stared straight ahead, ignoring the soldiers who escorted him. The guards at the castle gate barely glanced up as the riders entered the castle. Then the Professor was gone from sight.
Standing near the drawbridge, Kate said, 'What do we do now? Do we follow him?'
Marek didn't answer her. Looking back, she saw that he was staring fixedly at two knights on horseback, fighting with broadswords on the field outside the castle. It appeared to be some kind of demonstration or practice; the knights were surrounded by a circle of young men in livery - some wearing bright green, the others in yellow and gold, apparently the colors of the two knights. And a large crowd of spectators had gathered, laughing and shouting insults and encouragement to one knight or the other. The horses turned in tight circles, almost touching each other, bringing their armored riders face to face. The swords clanged again and again in the morning air.
Marek stared, without moving.
She tapped him on the shoulder. 'Listen, Andrй, the Professor-'
'In a minute.'
'But-'
'In a minute.'
For the first time, Marek felt a twinge of uncertainty. Until now, nothing he had seen in this world had seemed out of place, or unexpected. The monastery was just as he had expected. The peasants in the fields were as he had expected. The tournament being set up was as he had pictured it. And when he entered the town of Castelgard, he again found it exactly as he had thought it would be. Kate had been appalled by the butcher on the cobblestones, and the stench of the tanner's vats, but Marek was not. It was all as he had imagined it, years ago.
But not this, he thought, watching the knights fight.
It was so fast! The swordplay was so swift and continuous, attempting to slash with both downswing and backswing, so that it looked more like fencing than sword fighting. The clangs of impact came only a second or two apart. And the fight proceeded without hesitation or pause.
Marek had always imagined these fights as taking place in slow motion: ungainly armored men wielding swords so heavy that each swing was an effort, carrying dangerous momentum and requiring time to recover and reset before the next swing. He had read accounts of how exhausted men were after battle, and he had assumed it was the result of the extended effort of slow fights, encased in steel.
These warriors were big and powerful in every way. Their horses were enormous, and they themselves appeared to be six feet or more, and extremely strong.
Marek had never been fooled by the small size of the armor in museum display cases - he knew that any armor that found its way into a museum was ceremonial and had never been worn in anything more hazardous hazardous than a medieval parade. Marek also suspected, though he could not prove it, that much of the surviving armor - highly decorated, chiseled and chased - was intended only for display, and had been made at three- quarter scale, the better to show the delicacy of the craftsmen's designs.
Genuine battle armor never survived. And he had read enough accounts to know that the most celebrated warriors of medieval times were invariably big men - tall, muscular and unusually strong. They were from the nobility; they were better fed; and they were big. He had read how they trained, and how they delighted in performing feats of strength for the amusement of the ladies.
And yet, somehow, he had never imagined anything remotely like this. These men fought furiously, swiftly and continuously - and it looked as if they could go all day. Neither gave the least indication of fatigue; if anything, they
