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 Andrй 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?'
'Andrй 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, Andrй 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.
They could see La Roque in the distance, standing high and impregnable atop the Dordogne cliffs. And they would reach the fortress in less than an hour.
In a dark corner of the church of Sainte-Mиre, the handsome knight helped Andrй Marek to his feet. He said, 'Your friends have departed.'
Marek coughed, and grabbed the knight's arm to steady himself as a wave of pain shot up his leg. The handsome knight smiled. He had captured Marek just after the explosion at the mill.
When Marek had climbed out the mill window, by sheer luck he fell into a small pool so deep that he did not hurt himself. And when he came to the surface again, he found he was still beneath the bridge. The pool produced a swirling eddy, so the current hadn't taken him downstream.
Marek had stripped off his monk's habit and thrown it downstream when the flour mill exploded, timbers and bodies flying in all directions. A soldier splashed into the water near him, his body turning in the eddy. Marek started to scramble up onto the bank - and a handsome knight put a sword point at his throat and beckoned for him to come forward. Marek was still wearing the maroon and gray colors of Oliver, and he began to babble in Occitan, pleading innocence, begging for mercy.
The knight said simply, 'Be silent. I saw you.' He had seen Marek climb out the window, and discard his monk's garb. He took Marek to the church, where he found Claire and Arnaut. The Archpriest was in a sullen and dangerous mood, but Claire seemed to have some ability to influence him, if only by contradiction. It was Claire who had ordered Marek to sit silently in the darkness when Chris and Kate came in. 'If Arnaut can set you against the other two, he may yet spare you and your friends. If you are three united before him, he will in rage kill you all.' Claire had stage-managed the subsequent events. And all had turned out reasonably well.
So far.
Now Arnaut eyed him skeptically. 'So: your friends know the location of this passage?'
'They do,' Marek said. 'I swear it.'
'On your word, I have spared their lives,' Arnaut said. 'Yours, and the word of this Lady, who vouches for you.' He gave a small nod to the Lady Claire, who allowed a faint smile to cross her lips.
'My Lord, you are wise,' Claire said, 'for to hang one man may loosen the tongue of his friend who watches. But as often, it may harden his resolve, so that the friend takes his secret to the grave. And this secret is so important that I would your Lordship have it for certain in his grasp.'
'Then we will follow those two, and see where they lead.' He nodded to Marek. 'Raimondo, see to this poor man's mount. And provide him as escort two of your best chevaliers, as you follow behind.'
The handsome knight bowed. 'My Lord, if it please you, I will accompany him myself.'
'Do so,' Arnaut said, 'for there may yet be some mischief here.' And he gave the knight a significant look.
Meanwhile, Lady Claire had gone up to Marek and was pressing his hand warmly in both of hers. He felt something cool in her fingers, and realized it was a tiny dagger, barely four inches long. He said, 'My Lady, I am greatly in your debt.'
'Then see you repay this debt, knight,' she said, looking into his eyes.
'I shall, as God is my witness.' He slipped the dagger under his robes.
'And I will pray to God for you, knight,' she said. She leaned over to kiss his cheek chastely. As she did, she whispered, 'Your escort is Raimondo of Narbonne. He likes to cut throats. When he knows the secret, have a care he does not cut yours, and those of your friends, as well.' She stepped away, smiling.
Marek said, 'Lady, you are too kind. I shall take your kind wishes to heart.'
'Good knight, God speed you safe and true.'
'Lady, you are always in my thoughts.'
'Good sir knight, I would wish-'
'Enough, enough,' Arnaut said in a disgusted voice. He turned to Raimondo. 'Go now, Raimondo, for this surfeit of sentiment makes my stomach heave.'
'My Lord.' The handsome knight bowed. He led Marek to the door and out into the sunlight.
07:34:49
'I'll tell you what the goddamn problem is,' Robert Doniger said, glaring at the visitors. 'The problem is to bring the past alive. To make it real.'
There were two young men and a young woman, all slouching on the couch in his office. They were dressed entirely in black, wearing those pinch-shoulder jackets that looked like they'd shrunk in the wash. The men had long hair and the woman had a buzz cut. These were the media people that Kramer had hired. But Doniger noticed that today Kramer was sitting opposite them, subtly divorcing herself from them. He wondered if she had already seen their material.
It made Doniger irritable. He didn't like media people anyway. And this was his second meeting with the breed today. He'd had the PR dipshits in the morning, now these dipshits.
