Timeline - Crichton Michael - Страница 46

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Marek shook his head. "He should never have left us in the first place."

The creak of a door behind them made Marek turn. He saw the familiar figure of Professor Edward Johnston coming through the side door of the monastery wall and stepping into sunlight. He was alone.

Edward Johnston was wearing a doublet of dark blue, and black hose; the clothes were plain, with little decoration or embroidery, lending him a conservative, scholarly air. He could indeed pass for a London clerk on a pilgrimage, Marek thought. Probably that was the way Geoffrey Chaucer, another clerk of the time, had dressed on his own pilgrimage.

The Professor stepped carelessly into the morning sun, and then staggered a little. They rushed up to his side and saw that he was panting. His first words were, "Do you have a marker?"

"Yes," Marek said.

"It's just the two of you?"

"No. Chris also. But he's not here.

Johnston shook his head in quick irritation. "All right. Quickly, this is how it is. Oliver's in Castelgard" - he nodded to the town across the river - "but he wants to move to La Roque, before Arnaut arrives. His great fear is that secret passage that goes into La Roque. Oliver wants to know where it is. Everyone around here is mad to discover it, because both Oliver and Arnaut want it so badly. It's the key to everything. People here think I'm wise. The Abbot asked me to search the old documents, and I found-"

The door behind them opened and soldiers in maroon-and-gray surcoats rushed them. The soldiers cuffed Marek and Kate, knocking them away roughly, and Kate nearly lost her wig. But they were careful with the Professor, never touching him, walking on either side of him. The soldiers seemed respectful, as if they were a protective escort. Getting to his feet and dusting himself off, Marek had the feeling they had been instructed not to injure him.

Marek watched in silence as Johnston and the soldiers mounted up and set off on the road.

"What do we do?" Kate whispered.

The Professor tapped the side of his head. They heard him say in a singsong, as if praying, "Follow me. I'll try to get us all together. You get Chris."

Following the boy, Chris came to the entrance to Castelgard: double wooden doors, heavily reinforced with iron braces. The doors now stood open, guarded by a soldier in a surcoat of burgundy and gray. The guard greeted them by saying, "Setting a tent? Laying a ground cloth? It is five sols to sell in the market on tournament day."

"Non sumus mercatores," the boy said. "We are not merchants."

Chris heard the guard reply, "Anthoubeest, ye schule payen. Quinquesols maintenant, aut decem postea." But the translation did not follow immediately in his ear; he realized the guard was speaking an odd mixture of English, French and Latin Then he heard, "If you are, you must pay. Five sols now, or ten later."

The boy shook his head. "Do you see merchant wares?"

"Herkle, non." In the earpiece: "By Hercules, I do not."

"Then you are answered."

Despite his youth the boy spoke sharply, as if accustomed to commanding. The guard merely shrugged and turned away. The boy and Chris passed through the doors and entered the village.

Immediately inside the walls were several farmhouses and fenced plots. This area smelled strongly of swine. They made their way past thatched houses and pens of grunting pigs, then climbed steps to a winding cobblestone street with stone buildings on both sides. Now they were in the town itself.

The street was narrow and busy, and the buildings two stories high, with the second story overhanging, so no sunlight reached the ground. The buildings were all open shops on the ground floor: a blacksmith, a carpenter who also made barrels, a tailor and a butcher. The butcher, wearing a spattered oilskin apron, was slaughtering a squealing pig on the cobblestones in front of his shop; they stepped around the flowing blood and coils of pale intestine.

The street was noisy and crowded, the odor almost overpowering to Chris, as the boy led him onward. They emerged in a cobbled square with a covered market in the center. Back at their excavations, this was just a field. He paused, looking around, trying to match what he knew with what he now saw.

Across the square, a well-dressed young girl, carrying a basket of vegetables, hurried over to the boy and said with concern, "My dear sir, your long absence does vex Sir Daniel sorely."

The boy looked annoyed to see her. He replied irritably, "Then tell my uncle I will attend him in good time."

"He will be most glad of it," the girl said, and hurried away down a narrow passage.

The boy led Chris in another direction. He made no reference to his conversation, just walked onward, muttering to himself.

They came now to an open ground, directly in front of the castle. It was a bright and colorful place, with knights parading on horses, carrying rippling banners.

"Many visitors today," the boy said, "for the tournament."

Directly ahead was the drawbridge leading into the castle. Chris looked up at the looming walls, the high turrets. Soldiers walked the ramparts, staring down at the crowds. The boy led him forward without hesitation. Chris heard his feet thump hollowly on the wood of the drawbridge. There were two guards at the gate. He felt his body tense as he came closer.

But the guards paid no attention at all. One nodded to them absently; the other had his back turned and was scraping mud from his shoe.

Chris was surprised at their indifference. "They do not guard the entry?"

"Why should they?" the boy said. "It is daytime. And we are not under attack."

Three women, their heads wrapped in white cloth, so that only their faces showed, walked out of the castle, carrying baskets. The guards again hardly noticed. Chattering and laughing, the women walked out - unchallenged.

Chris realized that he was confronted by one of those historical anachronisms so deeply ingrained no one ever thought to question it. Castles were strongholds strongholds, and they always had a defensible entrance - a moat, drawbridge, and so on. And everybody assumed that the entrance was fiercely guarded at all times.

But, as the boy had said, why should it be? In times of peace, the castle was a busy social center, people coming and going to see the lord, to deliver goods. There was no reason to guard it. Especially, as the boy said, during daytime.

Chris found himself thinking of modern office buildings, which had guards only at night; during the day, the guards were present, but only to give information. And that was probably what these guards did, too.

On the other hand…

As he walked through the entrance, he glanced up at the spikes of the portcullis - the large iron grate now raised above his head. That grate could be lowered in a moment, he knew. And if it was, there would be no entry into the castle. And no escape.

He had entered the castle easily enough. But he was not sure it would be as easy to leave.

They entered a large courtyard, stone on all sides. There were many horses here; soldiers wearing maroon-and-gray tunics sat in small groups, eating their midday meal. He saw passageways of wood high above him, running the length of the walls. Directly ahead he saw another building, with three-story-high stone walls, and turrets above. It was a castle within the castle. The boy led him toward it.

To one side, a door stood open. A single guard munched a piece of chicken. The boy said, "We are to the Lady Claire. She wishes this Irisher to do her service."

"So be it," the guard grunted, uninterested; they went inside. Chris saw an archway directly ahead, leading to the great hall, where a crowd of men and women stood talking. Everyone seemed richly dressed; their voices echoed off the stone walls.

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