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-Mиre 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 matйriel 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
