Timeline

by Michael Crichton

“Oui . . . oui. . . .” The boy seemed confused by this word, as well. Then he brightened. “Ourie? Seyngthou ourie?” and the translation came, “Shabby? Are you saying shabby?”

  Chris shook his head no. “I am saying ‘yes.’” This was getting very confusing.

  “Yezz?” the boy said, speaking it like a hiss.

  “Yes,” Chris said, nodding.

  “Ah. Earisher.” The translation came: “Ah. Irish.”

  “Yes.”

  “Wee sayen yeaso. Oriwis, thousay trew.”

  Chris said, “Thousay trew.” His earpiece translated his own words: “You speak the truth.”

  The boy nodded, satisfied with the answer. They sat in silence a moment. He looked Chris up and down. “So you are gentle.”

  Gentle? Chris shrugged. Of course he was gentle. He certainly wasn’t a fighter. “Thousay trew.”

  The boy nodded judiciously. “I thought as much. Your manner speaks it, even if your attire ill-suits your degree.”

  Chris said nothing in reply. He wasn’t sure what was meant here.

  “How are you called?” the boy asked him.

  “Christopher Hughes.”

  “Ah. Christopher de Hewes,” the boy said, speaking slowly. He seemed to be assessing the name in some way that Chris didn’t understand. “Where is Hewes? In the Irish land?”

  “Thousay trew.”

  Another short silence fell over them while they sat in the sun.

  “Are you a knight?” the boy asked finally.

  “No.”

  “Then you are a squire,” the boy said, nodding to himself. “That will do.” He turned to Chris. “And of what age? Twenty-one year?”

  “Close enough. Twenty-four year.”

  This news caused the boy to blink in surprise. Chris thought, What’s wrong with being twenty-four?

  “Then, good squire, I am very glad of your assistance, for saving me from Sir Guy and his band.” He pointed across the river, where six dark horsemen stood watching them at the water’s edge. They were letting their horses drink from the river, but their eyes were fixed on Chris and the boy.

  “But I didn’t save you,” Chris said. “You saved me.”

  “Didnt?” Another puzzled look.

  Chris sighed. Apparently these people didn’t use contractions. It was so difficult to express even the simplest thought; he found the effort exhausting. But he tried again: “Yet I did not save you, you saved me.”

  “Good squire, you are too humble,” the boy replied. “I am in your debt for my very life, and it shall be my pleasure to see to your needs, once we are to the castle.”

  Chris said, “The castle?”

  :

  Cautiously, Kate and Marek moved out of the woods, heading toward the monastery. They saw no sign of the riders who had galloped down the trail. The scene was peaceful; directly ahead were the monastery’s farm plots, demarcated by low stone walls. At the corner of one plot was a tall hexagonal monument, carved as ornately as the spire of a Gothic church.

  “Is that a montjoie?” she said.

  “Very good,” Marek said. “Yes. It’s a milestone, or a land marker. You see them all over.”

  They moved between the plots, heading toward the ten-foot-high wall that surrounded the entire monastery. The peasants in the field paid no attention to them. On the river, a barge drifted downstream, its cargo bundled in cloth. A boatman standing in the stern sang cheerfully.

  Near the monastery wall were clustered the huts of the peasants who worked in the field. Beyond the huts he saw a small door in the wall. The monastery covered such a large area that it had doors on all four sides. This was not the main entrance, but Marek thought it would be better to try here first.

  They were moving among the huts when he heard the snort of a horse and the soft reassuring voice of a groom. Marek held out his hand, stopping Kate.

  “What?” she whispered.

  He pointed. About twenty yards away, hidden from easy view behind one of the huts, five horses were held by a groom. The horses were richly appointed, with saddles covered in red velvet trimmed with silver. Strips of red cloth ran down the flanks.

  “Those aren’t farm horses,” Marek said. But he didn’t see the riders anywhere.

  “What do we do?” Kate said.

  :

  Chris Hughes was following the boy toward the village of Castelgard when his earpiece suddenly crackled. He heard Kate say, “What do we do?” and Marek answered, “I’m not sure.”

  Chris said, “Have you found the Professor?”

  The boy turned and looked back at him. “Do you speak to me, squire?”

  “No, boy,” Chris said. “Just to myself.”

  “Justo myself?” the boy repeated, shaking his head. “Your speech is difficult to comprehend.”

  In the earpiece, Marek said, “Chris. Where the hell are you?”

  “Going to the castle,” Chris said aloud. “On this lovely day.” He looked up at the sky as he spoke, trying to make it appear as if he was talking to himself.

  He heard Marek say, “Why are you going there? Are you still with the boy?”

  “Yes, very lovely.”

  The boy turned back again, with a worried look on his face. “Do you speak to the air? Are you with sound mind?”

  “Yes,” Chris said. “I am with sound mind. I wish only that my companions might join me in the castle.”

  “Why?” Marek said in his earpiece.

  “I am sure they shall join you in good time,” the boy said. “Tell me of your companions. Are they Irisher, too? Are they gentles like you, or servants?”

  In his ear, Marek said, “Why did you tell him you are gentle?”

  “Because it describes me.”

  “Chris. ‘Gentle’ means you are nobility,” Marek said. “Gentle man, gentle woman. It means of noble birth. You’ll draw attention to yourself and get embarrassing questions about your family, which you can’t answer.”

  “Oh,” Chris said.

  “I am sure it does describe you,” the boy said. “And your copains as well? They are gentles?”

  “You speak true,” Chris said. “My companions are gentles, too.”

  “Chris, goddamn it,” Marek said through the earpiece. “Don’t fool with what you don’t understand. You’re asking for trouble. And if you keep on this way, you will get it.”

  :

  Standing at the edge of the peasant huts, Marek heard Chris say, “You just get the Professor, will you?” and then the boy asked Chris another question, but it was obscured by a burst of static.

  Marek turned and looked across the river toward Castelgard. He could see the boy, walking slightly ahead of Chris.

  “Chris,” Marek said. “I see you. Turn around and come back. Join us here. We have to stay together.”

  “Most difficult.”

  “Why?” Marek said, frustrated.

  Chris didn’t answer him directly. “And who, good sir, may be the horsemen on the far bank?” Apparently, he was talking to the boy.

  Marek shifted his gaze, saw mounted riders at the river’s edge, letting their horses drink, watching them go.

  “That is Sir Guy de Malegant, called ‘Guy Tête Noire.’ He is retained in the service of my Lord Oliver. Sir Guy is a knight of renown—for his many acts of murder and villainy.”

  Listening, Kate said, “He can’t come back to us here, because of the knights on horseback.”

  “You speak true,” Chris said.

  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.

  35:31:11

  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 pilg
rimage, 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.”

  35:25:18

  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, 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.

  But the boy did not give him much opportunity to look. He led Chris up a winding, narrow stair to the second floor, then down a stone corridor, and finally into a suite of rooms.

  Three maids, all dressed in white, rushed forward to the boy and embraced him. They appeared very relieved. “By the grace of God, my Lady, you are returned!”

  Chris said, “My Lady?”

  Even as he said it, the black hat was thrown away, and golden hair tumbled down over her shoulders. She gave a little bow that turned into a curtsy. “I am heartfelt sorry, and beg your forgiveness for this deception.”

  “Who are you?” Chris said, stunned.

  “I am called Claire.”

  She rose from her curtsy and looked directly into
his eyes. He saw that she was older than he had thought, perhaps twenty-two or -three. And very beautiful.

  He gaped and said nothing. He had no idea what to say, or to do. He felt foolish and awkward.

  In the silence, one of the maids came forward, curtsied and said, “If it please you, she is the Lady Claire of Eltham, newly widowed of Sir Geoffrey of Eltham, who holds great estates in Guyenne and Middlesex. Sir Geoffrey died of his wounds from Poitiers, and now Sir Oliver—ruler of this castle—serves as my Lady’s guardian. Sir Oliver feels she must be married again, and he has chosen Sir Guy de Malegant, a nobleman well known in these regions. But this match, my Lady refuses.”

  Claire turned and shot the girl a warning glance. But the girl, oblivious, chattered on. “My Lady says to all the world that Sir Guy lacks the means to defend her estates in France and England. Yet Sir Oliver will have his fee from this match, and Guy has—”

  “Elaine.”

  “My Lady,” the girl said, scurrying backward. She rejoined the other maids, who whispered in the corner, apparently chastising her.

  “Enough talk,” Claire said. “Here is my savior of this day, Squire Christopher of Hewes. He has delivered me from the predations of Sir Guy, who sought to take by force what he could not win freely at court.”

  Chris said, “No, no, that is not what happened at all—”

  He broke off, as he realized that everyone was staring at him, their mouths open, their eyes wide.

  “Sooth, he speaks queerly,” Claire said, “for he comes from some remote part in the lands of Eire. And he is modest, as befits a gentle. He did save me, so I shall today introduce him to my guardian, once Christopher has proper attire.” She turned to one of the ladies. “Is not our horse master, Squire Brandon, of his same length? Go to and fetch me his indigo doublet, his silver belt, and his best white hose.” She handed the girl a purse. “Pay what he asks, but be quick.”

  The girl scurried off. As she left, she passed a gloomy elderly man, standing in the shadows, watching. He wore a rich robe of maroon velvet with silver fleurs-de-lis embroidered on it, and an ermine collar. “How now, my Lady?” he said, coming forward.