Timeline (33 page)

“Then de Kere whispered to a soldier. . . . And I couldn’t hear what he said.”

“Right. Because he didn’t have an earpiece. If he had an earpiece, you would have heard everything, including whispers. But he didn’t. It’s Sir Guy. Who cut Gomez’s head off? Sir Guy and his men. Who was most likely to go back to the body and retrieve the earpiece? Sir Guy. The other men were terrified of the flashing machine. Only Sir Guy was not afraid. Because he knew what it was. He’s from our century.”

“I don’t think Guy was there,” Chris said, “when the machine was flashing.”

“But the clincher that it is Sir Guy,” Marek said, “is that his Occitan is terrible. He sounds like a New Yorker, speaking through his nose.”

“Well, isn’t he from Middlesex? And I don’t think he’s well-born. I get the impression he was knighted for bravery, not family.”

“He wasn’t a good-enough jouster to take you out with the first lance,” Marek said. “He wasn’t a good-enough swordsman to kill me hand-to-hand. I’m telling you. It’s Guy de Malegant.”

“Well,” Chris said, “whoever it is, now they know we’re going to the monastery.”

“That’s right,” Marek said, stepping away from Kate and looking at her hair appraisingly. “So let’s go.”

Kate touched her hair cautiously. She said, “Should I be glad I don’t have a mirror?”

Marek nodded. “Probably.”

“Do I look like a guy?”

Chris and Marek exchanged glances. Chris said, “Kind of.”

“Kind of?”

“Yes. You do. You look like a guy.”

“Close enough, anyway,” Marek said.

They got to their feet.

15:12:09

The heavy wooden door opened a crack. From the darkness inside, a shadowed face in a white cowl peered out at them. “God grant you growth and increase,” the monk said solemnly.

“God grant you health and wisdom,” Marek replied in Occitan.

“What is your business?”

“We come to see Brother Marcel.”

The monk nodded, almost as if he had been expecting them. “Certes, you may enter,” the monk said. “You are in good time, for he is still here.” He opened the door a little wider, so they were able to pass through, one at a time.

They found themselves in a small stone anteroom, very dark. They smelled a fragrant odor of roses and oranges. From within the monastery itself, they heard the soft sound of chanting.

“You may leave your weapons there,” the monk said, pointing to the corner of the room.

“Good brother, I fear we cannot,” Marek said.

“You have nothing to fear here,” he said. “Disarm, or depart.”

Marek started to protest, then unbuckled his sword.

:

The monk glided ahead of them down a quiet hallway. The walls were bare stone. They turned a corner and went down another hallway. The monastery was very large, and mazelike.

This was a Cistercian monastery; the monks wore white robes of plain cloth. The austerity of the Cistercian order stood as a deliberate reproach to the more corrupt orders of Benedictines and Dominicans. Cistercian monks were expected to keep rigid discipline, in an atmosphere of severe asceticism. For centuries, the Cistercians did not permit any carved decoration on their plain buildings, nor any decorative illustrations to their manuscripts. Their diet consisted of vegetables, bread and water, with no meats or sauces. Cots were hard; rooms were bare and cold. Every aspect of their monastic life was determinedly Spartan. But, in fact, this quality of rigid discipline had—

Thwock!

Marek turned toward the sound. They were coming into a cloister — an open court within the monastery, surrounded by arched passages on three sides, intended as a place of reading and contemplation.

Thwock!

Now they heard laughter. Noisy shouts of men.

Thwock! Thwock!

As they came into the cloister, Marek saw that the fountain and garden in the center had been removed. The ground was bare, hard-packed dirt. Four men, sweating in linen smocks, were standing in the dirt, playing a kind of handball.

Thwock!

The ball rolled on the ground, and the men pushed and shoved each other, letting it roll. When it stopped, one man picked it up, cried, “Tenez!” and served the ball overhand, smacking it with his flat palm. The ball bounced off the side wall of the cloisters. The men yelled and jostled one another for position. Beneath the arches, monks and nobles shouted encouragement, clinking bags of gambling money in their hands.

There was a long wooden board attached to one wall, and every time a ball hit that board — making a loud bonk! — there were extra shouts of encouragement from the gamblers in the galleries.

It took Marek a moment to realize what he was looking at: the earliest form of tennis.

Tenez — from the server’s shout, meaning, “Receive it!” — was a new game, invented just twenty-five years earlier, and it had become the instant rage of the period. Racquets and nets would come centuries later; for now, the game was a variety of handball, played by all classes of society. Children played in the streets. Among the nobility, the game was so popular that it provoked a trend to build new monasteries — which were abandoned unfinished, once the cloisters had been constructed. Royal families worried that princes neglected their instruction as knights in favor of long hours on the tennis court, often playing by torchlight far into the night. Gambling was ubiquitous. King John II of France, now captive in England, had, over the years, spent a small fortune to pay his tennis debts. (King John was known as John the Good, but it was said that whatever John was good at, it was certainly not tennis.)

Marek said, “Do you play here often?”

“Exercise invigorates the body and sharpens the mind,” the monk replied immediately. “We play in two cloisters here.”

As they passed through the cloister, Marek noticed that several of the gamblers wore robes of green, trimmed in black. They were rough, grizzled men with the manner of bandits.

Then they left the cloister behind, and went up a flight of stairs. Marek said to the monk, “It appears the order makes welcome the men of Arnaut de Cervole.”

“That is sooth,” the monk said, “for they shall do us a boon and return the mill to us.”

“Was it taken?” Marek asked.

“In a manner of speaking.” The monk walked to the window, which overlooked the Dordogne, and the mill bridge, a quarter mile upstream.

“With their own hands, the monks of Sainte-Mère have built the mill, at the bidding of our revered architect, Brother Marcel. Marcel is much venerated in the monastery. As you know, he was architect for the former Abbot, Bishop Laon. So the mill that he designed, and we built, is the property of this monastery, as are its fees.

“Yet Sir Oliver demands a mill tax to himself, though he has no just cause for it, except that his army controls this territory. Therefore my Lord Abbot is well pleased that Arnaut should vow to return the mill to the monastery, and end the tax. And thus are we friendly to the men of Arnaut.”

Chris listened to all this, thinking, My thesis! It was all exactly as his research had shown. Although some people still thought of the Middle Ages as a backward time, Chris knew it had actually been a period of intense technological development, and in that sense, not so different from our own. In fact, the industrial mechanization that became a characteristic feature of the West first began in the Middle Ages. The greatest source of power available at the time — water power — was aggressively developed, and employed to do ever more kinds of work: not only grinding grain but fulling cloth, blacksmithing, beer mashing, woodworking, mixing mortar and cement, papermaking, rope making, oil pressing, preparing dyes for cloth, and powering bellows to heat blast furnaces for steel. All over Europe, rivers were dammed, and dammed again half a mile downstream; mill boats were tethered beneath every bridge. In some places, cascades of mills, one after another, successively used the energy of flowing water.

Mills were generally operated as a monopoly, and they provided a major source of income — and of conflict. Lawsuits, murders and battles were the constant accompaniment of mill activity. And here was an example that showed—

“And yet,” Marek was saying, “I see the mill is still in the hands of Lord Oliver, for his pennant flies from the towers and his archers man the battlements.”

“Oliver holds the mill bridge,” the monk said, “because the bridge is close to the road to La Roque, and whoever controls the mill controls the road. But Arnaut will soon take the mill from them.”

“And return it to you.”

“Indeed.”

“And what will the monastery do for Arnaut in return?”

“We will bless him, of course,” the monk said. And after a moment, he added, “And we will pay him handsomely, too.”

:

They passed through a scriptorium, where monks sat in rows at their easels, silently copying manuscripts. But to Marek, it looked all wrong; instead of a meditative chant, their work was accompanied by the shouts and banging of the game in the cloister. And despite the old Cistercian proscription against illustration, many monks were painting illustrations in the corners and along the margins of manuscripts. The painters sat with an array of brushes and stone dishes of different colors. Some of the illustrations were brilliantly ornate.

“This way,” the monk said, and led them down a staircase and into a small sunlit courtyard. To one side, Marek saw eight soldiers in the colors of Arnaut, standing in the sun. He noticed that they wore their swords.

The monk led them toward a small house at the edge of the courtyard, and then through a door. They heard the trickle of running water and saw a fountain with a large basin. They heard chanted prayers, in Latin. In the center of the room, two robed monks washed a naked, pale body lying on a table.

“Frater Marcellus,” the monk whispered, giving a slight bow.

Marek stared. It took him a moment to realize what he was seeing.

Brother Marcel was dead.

14:52:07

Their reaction gave them away. The monk could clearly see that they had not known Marcel was dead. Frowning, he took Marek by the arm, and said, “Why are you here?”

“We had hoped to speak with Brother Marcel.”

“He died last night.”

“How did he die?” Marek said.

“We do not know. But as you can see, he was old.”

“Our request of him was urgent,” Marek said. “Perhaps if I could see his private effects—”

“He had no private effects.”

“But surely some personal articles—”

“He lived very simply.”

Marek said, “May I see his room?”

“I am sorry, that is not possible.”

“But I would greatly appreciate it if—”

“Brother Marcel lived in the mill. His room has been there for many years.”

“Ah.” The mill was now under control of Oliver’s troops. They could not go there, at least not at the moment.

“But perhaps I can help you. Tell me, what was your urgent request?” the monk asked. He spoke casually, but Marek was immediately cautious.

“It was a private matter,” Marek said. “I cannot speak of it.”

“There is nothing private here,” the monk said. He was edging toward the door. Marek had the distinct feeling that he was going to raise an alarm.

“It was a request from Magister Edwardus.”

“Magister Edwardus!” The monk’s manner completely changed. “Why did you not say so? And what are you to Magister Edwardus?”

“Faith, we are his assistants.”

“Certes?”

“In deed, it is so.”

“Why did you not say it? Magister Edwardus is welcome here, for he was performing a service for the Abbot when he was taken by Oliver.”

“Ah.”

“Come with me now at once,” he said. “The Abbot will wish to see you.”

“But we have—”

“The Abbot will wish it. Come!”

:

Back in the sunlight, Marek noticed how many more soldiers in green and black were now in the monastery courtyards. And these soldiers were not lounging; they were watchful, battle-ready.

The Abbot’s house was small, made of ornately carved wood, and located in a far corner of the monastery. They were led inside to a small wood-paneled anteroom, where an older monk, hunched and heavy as a toad, sat before a closed door.

“Is my Lord Abbot within?”

“Faith, he is advising a penitent now.”

From the adjacent room, they heard a rhythmic creaking sound.

“How long will he keep her at her prayers?” the monk asked.

“It may be a goodly while,” the toad said. “She is recidive. And her sins are oft repeated.”

“I would you make known these worthy men to our Lord Abbot,” the monk said, “for they bring news of Edwardus de Johnes.”

“Be assured I shall tell him,” the toad said in a bored tone. But Marek caught the gleam of sudden interest in the old man’s eyes. Some meaning had registered.

“It is nigh on terce,” the toad said, glancing up at the sun. “Will your guests dine on our simple fare?”

“Many thanks, but no, we shall—” Chris coughed. Kate poked Marek in the back. Marek said, “We shall, if it is not a great trouble.”

“By the grace of God, you are welcome.”

They were starting to leave for the dining room when a young monk ran breathlessly into the room. “My Lord Arnaut is coming! He will see the Abbot at once!”

The toad jumped to his feet and said to them, “Be you gone now.” And he opened a side door.

:

Which was how they found themselves in a small, plain room adjacent to the Abbot’s quarters. The squeaking of the bed stopped; they heard the low murmur of the toad, who was speaking urgently to the Abbot.

A moment later, another door opened and a woman came in, bare-legged, hastily adjusting her clothes, her face flushed. She was extremely beautiful. When she turned, Chris saw with astonishment that it was the Lady Claire.

She caught his look and said, “Why stare you thus?”

“Uh, my Lady . . .”

“Squire, your countenance is most unjust. How dare you judge me? I am a gentle woman, alone in a foreign part, with no one to champion me, to protect or guide me. Yet I must make my way to Bordeaux, eighty leagues distant, and thence to England if I am to claim my husband’s lands. That is my duty as a widow, and in this time of war and tumult, I shall without hesitation do all that may be required to accomplish it.”