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 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 Andrй?'
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-Mиre 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-Mиre.
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 chevauchйes, 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
